Is it a cliche to say food is love?

Wandering in with my too heavy backpack, carefully taking off and placing my shoes in a well mannered fashion, and scrubbing my 3rd grade adolescent hands were the first two things I would do entering my Korean-American home. Cleanliness was always first. Organization and order were key. Delicious meals cooked with love was the second. Wafting through the air would be aromas of spice, tang, earthiness, and love. My fondest memories always revolved around the kitchen table. The key to my heart was the love my mother poured into her home cooked meals. The meals that friends would make fun of for being strange, different, and foreign. The meals that for the longest time I was embarrassed of. The tart smell of spiced fermented cabbage also known as kimchi, was my favorite when fried with fluffy jasmine rice, artfully scrambled eggs, the salty goodness of canned SPAM, and the delicate trace of sesame oil. I would stare with longing for my mother to finish from the dining table while I worked on my Math and English homework. The steam and smoke with fill the air and my stomach would churn knowing in 10 minutes my every craving and desire as a child was about to be fulfilled.

As a child, words of endearment and of love weren’t always spoken out loud; but I knew the love was there due to the time and care that family meals provided. Most people would think, “Food is always made with love” but in my eyes my mother’s food of course had the most. Only the best from my mother! My mother’s strong hands preparing every meal with the upmost care was her love language. Devouring said food was mine back to her.

As the years passed and my maturity grew, that love language changed and my mother thought the time had come for me to learn the love behind my tried and true favorite; my Kimchi Fried Rice. The tricks of the trade and tips to achieve the epitome of deliciousness. The love and bond between us grew. My childlike eagerness to eat the dish turned into the eagerness of learning to make it, with the intentions to one day pass down my love for my favorite meal with another. So the love grew. What once was a relationship between my mother and I blossomed, and what appeared was my love for my culture and the ability to spread my mother’s love to anyone willing to accept it.

Lucky for me, I met the love of my life that not only accepted me but also accepted and loved my culture. My food. My mother’s love. Jajangmyun, which consistes perfectly al dente noodles covered with a rich and flavorful earthy Chinese black bean sauce. Artfully stir fried with succulent chunks of tender beef, stir fried cabbage and onions, and garnished with the cool crisp strips of julienned cucumbers. This was his favorite dish I had introduced to him, but unfortunately, up until I revealed his love for this dish to my mother, the instant variety was the only version he had eaten. Good but not great. The love was there but hadn’t bloomed.

Quickly my mother gathered all ingredients and supplies needed and with great care and time catered to my fiancé and shared her love with him, as she had done so with me. He finally understood the love and compassion pouring out of my mother’s heart and into the never ending bowl of his favorite Korean meal.

I am forever grateful, not just for the nourishment my mother gave me growing up, but also for showing me how to pass her love down through myself and onto others. The story isn’t nearly finished though and is growing everyday, therefore my mother’s love is growing through the world everyday...One plate of Kimchi fried rice at a time.