Crying in H Mart

by Michelle Zauner

There was no one in the world that was ever as critical or could make me feel as hideous as my mother, but there was no one, not even Peter, who ever made me feel as beautiful. Deep down I always believed her. That no one would tell me the truth if my hair looked sloppy or if my makeup was overdone. I

Not now, cancer, there’s a wedding! And then a tasting in Napa! Then an anniversary, a birthday. Come back when we’re not so busy.

googled to see if Maangchi, whose recipe I’d followed for soybean stew, had one for pine nut porridge. I was doubtful, since it was a far less popular dish than doenjang jjigae, but sure enough, there it was. The description read: “I can say that pine nut porridge is the queen of all the porridges!…It looks soupy, but I recommend spooning it instead of drinking it, because I want you to enjoy the aftertaste. 1 spoon after, pause! And close your eyes just as I did in the video, to savor the taste. oh yummy oh yummy, then start another spoon! lol.”

Parts of Korean just exist somewhere as a part of my psyche—words imbued with their pure meaning, not their English substitutes.

The Korean soundscape of my infancy and all my years of Hangul Hakkyo had spawned a literate mimic, and the words I knew would fly out of me with the carbon-copied tonality of the women who surrounded me as a baby, but good pronunciation could only get me so far before I became a stumped mute, racking my brain for a basic infinitive.