Crying in H Mart

by Michelle Zauner

FOOD WAS HOW my mother expressed her love. No matter how critical or cruel she could seem—constantly pushing me to meet her intractable expectations—I could always feel her affection radiating from the lunches she packed and the meals she prepared for me just the way I liked them.

Every single thing my mum has cooked for me, even on her worst days, have been filled with love. That is her love language. From knowing which part of the steak I like, to which part of gailian I eat (the blossoms only), she uplifts and makes me feel seen in the most subtle ways.