Every journey starts here.
In the arms of the one who brought us onto this wild rock.
My cultural journey, my cultural experience, my worldview was molded by this woman.
Seonyoung or “Sunny” to her American peers, came to Los Angeles in 1991 as a young Korean woman fresh out of art school. She married the man that she’s known since elementary school and followed him to America to start a new life, a new experience, a new journey.
As a Korean woman, dreams, art, ambitions were all put to the wayside as she found out she was having her first little brat. As tradition goes, she was destined to become a homemaker and a mother. Canvases of abstract oil paints, brushes and easels, creative expression, all buried into her tiny closet in East Los Angeles as she prepared for her new role as a mother.
26 years, three children, many white hairs, wrinkles, trails, tribulations, and four cities later, Sunny continues on to be a steadfast woman.
The only difference is, now I can fully appreciate my mother.
My mother was not a woman of eloquent words or expressions. She was a dichotomy of cultural nuance and story, as many immigrant mothers become. She was an embodiment of a post-Korean war woman. Nothing mattered more than having hot meals at each meal. Nothing mattered more than making sure her rebellious children passed their classes. Nothing mattered more than to see her selfless outpouring one day bear fruit. To know that her sacrifice was not in vain.
She couldn’t express her love in word form well. When she attempted to express how she “felt” she would coyly look away. Breaking the awkwardness with a chuckle and quickly walking away. Brief moments that would leave me in deep gratitude.
Her sparse words are the buttery, peaked, whipped cream on top.
The cake that is hidden below was meticulously made by her actions.
I was a bit of a handful growing up as I constantly pushed her buttons She would whoop my ungrateful and disrespectful ass, berate me as if she was in her own Korean drama, and mumble her disappointments under her breath whenever we would frequently clash.
Yet after ever skirmish, she would begrudgingly call me out of my old-spice musky cave for dinner.
”JIWOO-YA!… BAPMOULA. BAALEE WAH SHEKKI-YA.”
”JIWOO. GET YOUR ASS DOWN HERE AND EAT THIS DAMN DINNER.”
Her apologies, unlike my sparse ones, were never in word form.
Her apologies were set at the dinner table.
Whether it was galbi jiim (braised soy short ribs), ddak dori tang (braised spicy chicken), dwengjang jjigae (fermented soybean soup), or spaghetti and kimchi (Italian store bought tomato sauce with fermented nappa cabbage) she would have a hot meal ready.
In the midst of furious chopping, clanging of pots and pans, and persistent under-breath cursing, she always found a way to apologize (or patronize) and express her unconditional love.
Years later, as I started to cook more myself, professionally and for friends, I realized that I do the same. I love hospitality. I love expressing my love for guests and friends through my food and my service. As my cooking ends and as everyone sits and starts to eat is when I can feel what my mom might have felt whenever she fed our family. A sense of accomplishment, gratitude, love, peace, and a sense of “I am doing a good thing”.
I am proudly a mama’s boy. I love my mother more than any being on this planet. My creativity. My ponderings. My craft. My faith. My life… is the fruit of my mother’s handiwork, prayers, discipline, and love. I thank God for this gift and I launch this site with her in mind.
엄마, 사랑해, 고마워.
Now, go call your mom and tell her that you love her.
-Edmond
