My parents and I would sleep over Saturday nights at my grandparents’ house—stone pillars and a maple tree in the yard, six big steps to reach the front door. Sunday morning, my dad’s older brother would show up with his family. We’d save a parking spot for them outside. My dad’s younger brother and his family would come later in the day.

My dad and I would play badminton in the street while we waited for everyone, just the two of us. Sometimes we’d lose the birdie to the nunnery.

For some reason, we never bought ice bars until everyone arrived. My grandmother would ask, "아이스께끼 사올까?" and my dad would slip me ₩20,000. "Get something for everyone," he'd say. "And then some." I’d run down the street with my cousins to the supermarket ten meters away. The freezer door had a smooth glide, like it had been opened a thousand times that summer.

We’d dig through, sorting for the cold quality ones, the ones that hadn’t half-melted and refrozen into something sad. “Do we have at least one for everyone?”, 민관, my younger cousin would ask, but I was already doing the math. Figuring out the optimal distribution based on who liked what, accounting for seconds and thirds. My brain was cooking even then. How many Encho Choco Bars? How many Jaws? My grandfather liked 비비빅, a red bean ice bar with actual 팥 bits that would show up in his teeth. My aunt liked 돼지바, for its pebbly crust, the salty-sweet granules pressed into every surface. The messiest of all the bars. She always ate it carefully, holding her hand underneath to catch what fell. My mom, when she wanted one at all, would take a Bravo cone. Although World Cone was taller, Bravo was her pick.

We'd load everything into the basket. The shop owner would dump all the ice bars in a black plastic bag. Heavy in my hands, heavier the crown. I never ate one on the way back because I wanted to share it with my family, and it was customary to give the first offering to the eldest. My grandfather would go first.

Most of us would gather in the TV room around him while others would drift to where the tall air conditioning unit stood. My younger uncle was usually belly up in his undershirt, taking a nap. The TV murmured, serving as the backdrop to the sound of wrappers peeling and wooden sticks hitting the bottom of the trash can.

No trades. Everyone had their own, at least for the first pick.

My first pick was always 더위사냥, a coffee ice bar. The name translates to "hunting the heat," fitting for its icy coffee texture. My parents didn't want me having too much caffeine, so I'd split it with my dad, peeling off the middle wrapper just enough to expose the midline, then we'd each hold one end and break it in half like a turkey wishbone. The bigger half was always better because I didn’t have to start sucking on cardboard immediately. The top edge would get soggy, and by the end it felt like eating coffee ice cubes with a side of paper straws. My grandfather always took his coffee with milk and sugar. He’d let me have a spoonful or two from his cup. The ice bar tasted exactly like that—milky and smooth.

Then the Encho Choco Bar. Double chocolate, the inside textured like an actual chocolate bar. I’d use my front teeth to crunch through once I got past the outer shell. Even the wooden stick tasted more wooden than the other bars.

Then Jaws, a purple flavor, a layer of red and blue. I didn’t know until recently it was supposed to be orange and strawberry flavors. I’d chip away at the outer casing, working toward the red core, patient and methodical.

And 뽕따, the one I’d nurse on hot days. Pop the cap, suck the top, slowly massage the rest.

Creamier than Glacier Freeze Gatorade, sky blue and sweet. Those were my top four choices and I made sure to get one of each.

Some ice bars had both universal appeal and unwavering structure. 스크류, the group’s second favorite had the longest melting time, staying icy when all others would turn to soup. It was everyone's reliable second choice, so I always grabbed extras.

This was the rhythm of my Sundays. Until it wasn't.

I was nine when we moved from Seoul to Philadelphia.

H Mart was forty minutes from my mom's house. My mom would push the cart through produce while I'd head straight for the freezer aisle. Melona was always there. It was never my favorite, but seeing it felt like an umbilical cord to my childhood. I'd stand there, looking at the vibrant lime green wrapper through the frosted glass. Often Melona would melt on the drive home and the consistency would be all wrong, but we'd buy it anyway.

One day, Samanco, the fish-shaped wafer, made its way to H Mart. The quality was hit or miss. Sometimes I'd bite into the tail and get only wafer, no vanilla ice cream. Other times both the vanilla and red bean would be packed to the brim. Andrew latched onto it the first time he tried one so my mom still buys it for him when she knows we'll be in Philly, stocking the freezer for his fishing expedition.

Last summer I walked into Little Banchan Shop and found Jaws. I bought it, came back to the car where Andrew was waiting. I peeled it open and told him about my Sunday afternoons, about the freezer with the smooth glide, about being eight years old with ₩20,000 in my pocket and a mission to carry out. I told him what made me feel like the world was my oyster back then—not the ice bars, but being trusted to remember who liked what. To bring back a little bit of joy for my family.

little luxuries in everyday life:

1. An air-conditioned subway car with ample seating available. Bonus points if I’ve entered the car closest to my exit by blending spatial awareness with my obsession with efficiency1.

2. Fully charged headphones, and a curated playlist.

3. One reliable coffee2 spot near the office3.

4. A good friend I can celebrate and commiserate with. The one who says yes to whacky ideas and trust that something interesting will happen on the other side.

5. A no-brainer lunch spot4. Lately it’s Tashkent’s lunch buffet.

   ---

Even with these small rituals that make life smoother, the city has a way of reminding me that not everything bends to efficiency when I miss the Q by mere seconds or when I wait for a latte that somehow takes twice as long when I’m already late. The city hums on small inefficiencies that test my patience. But small inefficiencies hold the richest texture; the unplanned, the slightly delayed, the not-quite-linear. I still think in enumerated lists, but I’m learning to let some thoughts meander.

Maybe it’s the way mathematics has shaped how I see the world. My favorite class in college was Dynamical Systems5, where Rennie taught us to model questions like “Do opposites attract?” not as a metaphor, but as something that evolves in time where every starting point holds its own potential future. The class taught me that systems, whether human or mechanical, can be both patterned and unpredictable. I can model outcomes, assign probabilities, but there’s often noise. Systems drift. Variables shift. Express trains run local. The world resists perfect prediction, and maybe that’s the point?6

Life itself feels like a stochastic system, a mix of calculation and chaos loosely held together and like any nonlinear model, sensitivity to initial conditions can send trajectories diverging wildly with the smallest change. A single input — a late train, a wrong turn, an impromptu coffee date — can alter the path entirely, yet the system keeps moving forward, seeking coherence.

Recipe [base case, this is all you need]

Ingredients:

• Ground turkey

  • can be a mix of whatever ground meat you prefer

  • drier the meat (bison > chicken), the more liquid you shall add

• Diced onions

• Breadcrumbs

  • optional but highly recommended for texture

• Salt

Combine all, don’t over-mix, then gently shape the mixture into balls, whatever size your heart (or mouth) desires. Place them on a baking sheet and bake at 350°F until golden brown. This could be 12–20 minutes depending on meatball size and your oven’s temperament.

If you choose to get fancy with it, you can add: parsley, pecorino, miso, milk, Ritz crackers, Worcestershire sauce, ketchup, garlic powder, other alliums, and/or eggs. I haven’t yet made the Frankenstein’s monster that combines all the ingredients above, but if anyone does, please let me know. Also, I find that they taste best when they’re between golf ball and tennis ball size… or as big or small as your mouth will allow.

So, if you are prioritizing protein and are looking for an easy meal prep, I hope the balls find their way to you. And I hope that you make these balls your own.

Here’s one recipe I’ve liked, but, like granola, it’s hard to fuck up once you’ve mastered the fundamentals:

https://cooking.nytimes.com/recipes/1019762-chicken-miso-meatballs

Pro tip: If you find yourself stuck behind a paywall, you can use archive.ph!

Goodnight and godspeed.

P.S A special shoutout to my readers in Oklahoma—you’re my second largest group of subscribers! I don’t know who you are, but I’m glad you’re here.

It began on the annual trip to visit our dead. The drive was always smooth, about an hour and a half outside of Seoul. I’d know we were close when the sign came into view—영락동산 (Yeongrak Dongsan)—marking the entrance to the cemetery. The grounds were well-kept: gravel paths, neatly trimmed grass, and rows of headstones stretching across gentle hills. My mom’s parents led the annual pilgrimage, a ritual that blended reverence and routine. Upon arrival, we’d begin by cutting the overgrown grass and clearing away fallen branches and debris that had accumulated over the year. It was a collective effort, each of us contributing to tidying the resting places of our ancestors. Once the grounds were cleared, we’d gather around the grave holding hands, as my grandmother led us in a short worship before the picnic mat was ever unrolled.

My grandmother was devout. She was the kind of woman who prayed with her whole body. Eyes clenched shut, hands tight in her lap, voice unwavering. Meanwhile, my aunt and I were barely going through the motions. At some point during the prayer, my aunt would nudge me, and I’d crack one eye open, only to meet my grandmother’s stern gaze mid-prayer. She always knew.
After the prayers, we’d gather on the silver mat to share 도시락 (doshirak), a lunchbox meticulously packed. The meal felt like an extension of the ritual, blending sustenance with remembrance.

But the real moment came after. On the ride home we’d stop for galbi, not just any galbi but 숯불갈비, the kind that came glistening off charcoal flame. Sitting cross-legged under the thatched bamboo ceiling, as the smell of sweet smoke and pear drifted through the gentle summer breeze, I’d inhale deeply, eyes fixed on the grill, and ask, “Is it ready yet?” The ribs were tender with zigzag knife cuts, the meat’s interior almost weeping with flavor. Where my grandmother bowed her head in worship, I gave that same solemn devotion to each bite of galbi. And then: one piece tucked into the cheek. Just one. I’d hold it long past when the fibers stopped making structural sense. An hour. Sometimes longer. It was a personal game of how long can I keep this holy object in my mouth?

Nobody told me it was gross. Because I told no one.

Was I unwell? Perhaps. But it wasn’t trauma, or some scarcity-mindset pathology, at least I don’t think so. It was reverence. It was a squirrel’s theology. The act of preserving something glorious not in Tupperware or in memory but in cheek and gum and tooth.

I no longer do this. Mostly out of shame. Or adult self-awareness. The way we outgrow imaginary friends or sucking thumbs.

But if I still did this, if etiquette and digestion and dignity weren’t constraints, I’d do it again here:

• Atomix, where I woke up just in time for the galbi, where Ellia was visibly concerned about my blackout nap, and Andrew, charmingly tipsy, offered to narrate the wine pairing I missed. The dish arrived: lacquered pink squares, little rice balls, and perilla leaves folded like edible origami.

• Jua, where the occasion was a faux-vasectomy celebration (don’t ask), but the Galbi & Chan was anything but a joke. The galbi arrived seared and sliced into thin segments, still rosy in the center. It was accompanied by a ring of miniature banchan, each more sculptural than the last. Everything carefully spaced, every flavor intentional.

• Quatorze, where boeuf bourguignon, slow-braised, glossy, fell apart before the fork even asked. It sat on a cloud of mashed potatoes, flanked by tender carrots and pearl onions that tasted like they’d been napping in red wine all afternoon.

• Up Thai, where the bone-in Beef Short Rib Panang sat in a pool of sauce thick with coconut milk. A few delicate herbs and red chili threads rested on top—more garnish than necessity—because the real centerpiece was the meat: thick, braised, and practically collapsing from its own weight. It’s my regular takeout order, one I’ve had more from a tightly wrapped container than dining in, always arriving perfectly sealed so not a single drop of sauce goes to waste.

• Mapo Korean BBQ, where charcoal arrives first, glowing red and crackling at the edges, then gets lowered into the sunken grill at my table. Within seconds the heat kicks up; the marinated short rib lands on the grate, a soft sizzle. I pick up my chopsticks and hover around the edges. I go in for the banchan as nonchalantly as possible while my eyes narrow in, inspecting the minimum doneness—quietly wondering, is it ready yet? I can smell the moment it’s done, when the marinade releases that thin curl of smoky sweetness. It’s probably the closest in both flavor and texture to the Korean galbi I grew up eating.

These are the places that make me want to revert. To squirrel, to gum, to hold. To let taste overstay its welcome.

Maybe this is all just a strange elegy for a younger self who had no shame in loving things too much. Maybe it’s a long-winded way of saying: I miss the galbi I used to store in my cheek, a secret I wasn’t ready to let go of.

There are snacks. There is soft lighting. It’s cool and comfortable and I’m riding the night.

The undulation, the pulse of what this place is:
It’s a cinema
It’s a bar
It’s a bodega
And it’s a lounge.

“Working girl” —The plum wine picked without hesitation

Pocky and spicy shrimp crackers. Cocktails. Indie Films. Lions & tigers & bears, oh my!
I could watch you forever.

Crying delicately,

Is it all in my head?

Where else can I fall and get up again?

Because it’s too expensive to live here

Stagnation is not an option

Ruthless determination the only way

You taught me that I wasn’t born with a silver platter. But with an ironclad heart

Where else can I be myself? A vessel for memories—Teetering between confidence and hopelessness, a razor thin margin.

A tight rope, the game of sport

Where else can I try all these outfits: Teacher, Server, Raver, Fiancée...

Where else can I ride the wave of The Crudo Movement? Butterfield’s PR to be the next Erewhon?

Anyway I love New York if you can’t tell.

• A letter to myself [Break glass when you feel like moving out of the City]

Alex remains a whisper of humility amid the clamor of accolades. She is the girl crush I never anticipated, unveiled through parasocial tendrils unfurling first from a story I read in Philly Mag. She insists that her success owes much to luck, which seems a statement as humble as it is untrue.

After studying her Instagram, replete with satirical art (fake $100 bills burning in dog shit, sea urchin on a hot dog, and numerous googly eyes), I became apprehensive. Is she female Salt Bae? Why does she have stuffed animals affixed to the walls? Why are there googly eyes in the dessert? Despite my initial hesitation, my night at Roxanne transcended initial expectations, revealing depths beyond the (googly) eye.

An opening salvo, scallop bathed in brown butter and raspberry sauce, crowned with golden osetra caviar. This was no crudo. Then, a salmon melon dish followed, its loosely diced pieces bathed in buttermilk, reminiscent of ocean foam washing ashore, delivering both the cold sweetness and the sea's brininess.

Up next: raw beef, house cheese, pomme rosti. Cloaked in modesty, the house cheese was a revelation in itself, assuming a form unlike any other. A liquid goo, like Velveeta. As the flavors melded in my mouth, a familiar sensation arose, ah a cheesesteak!? I imagine it’s a playful nod to Philly, her latest home. As the meal progressed, meticulously folded edamame dumplings, reminiscent of those found at Trader Joe’s, arrived alongside a piece of halibut, serving as clever utensils, mopping up all accompanying sauce.

Lastly, as the lights dimmed, the aroma of caramel and butter filled the room. A slice of yellow mille crepe lay in a pool of taupe panna cotta, followed by a plate of seared foie gras. This was Alex’s chocolate custard cake where the cool panna cotta was enveloped by the warm, rich fat of foie gras. Asymmetrical pieces of golden pineapple scattered atop echoed the presentation of melons in the salmon dish. Was the asymmetry intentional? Perhaps a subtle rebellion against the rigidity often demanded in fine dining.

As dinner concluded, I sought out Alex in the kitchen, driven by my desire to delve deeper, to get to know her. Curiosity, for me, is not merely an emotion but a pathway. As I navigated this path, I skated on the surface tentatively as to not disturb, but once she welcomed me into her kitchen, I began lobbing questions like hockey pucks. Not everyone is keen to play on this rink of revelations; some find the scrutiny jarring. Yet others, like Alex, engaged with an honesty that is as refreshing as it is rare. Her open and unpretentious responses resonated with sincerity.

Dining at Roxanne felt like peering through the looking glass of Alice in Wonderland, with Alex, revealing more of herself beyond the exterior. Once a solitary, one-night act, her seatings have recently doubled, a testament to her burgeoning legend and resilience. That evening, I found a kinship with a woman I barely knew, a chef who serves a mosaic of her journey, marked by authenticity and unapologetic ambition.

P.S Google ‘Googly Eyes’ and see what happens. What a delight!

It’s Wednesday at noon and I am walking back to my dorm after class. Subconsciously, I decide to take the longer route, which allows me to pass by Corcoran Commons, a lower-campus dining hall. Like Pavlov’s dog, two thoughts immediately come to my head: iced coffee and Pirate’s Booty. This snack is neither buried nor lost, but a coveted treasure nonetheless. The bags of Booty rest on a shelf in “On the Fly”, a Boston College convenience store tucked away in the corner of the second floor of Corcoran Commons. The location is a little bit obscure, but upon arrival, I know that I’ve found my treasure. X marks the spot. These glossy bags sit in the front with their chest puffed. Holding the bag nonchalantly, I saunter home as to not let any desperation escape. After all, Pirate’s Booty is my private indulgence. While walking, I meticulously plan my next move: put pajamas on, get in bed, and open the bag of coveted treasure. What happens next is hazy. 

Anger & Bargaining
Reality and pain reemerge. This was an unfair match! The odds were stacked against me. The bag was only half full, no way that could have been four servings! They must’ve dusted the snacks with traces of cocaine…

Depression
How could I succumb to nothing more than some puffed air dusted with ivory-colored cheese? If I can’t exercise self-control against manufactured flavor, how can I be successful in life? Is this an indication of a larger problem? If I used a bowl to portion control, maybe I wouldn’t have eaten the whole bag. If I hadn’t been so engrossed in Westworld, maybe I wouldn’t have eaten the puffs unconsciously and autonomously. 

Acceptance 
Shortly after I dispose of the empty, guilt-ridden bag in the trashcan in the kitchen, my roommate comes home after crew practice. We make quick eye contact, and she finds me sheepishly grinning.  She knows what happened. I tell her that I’ve considered quitting. She knows that I’ve been in this exact place before. I recognize that this is a losing game but I can’t seem to neatly fold the bag and put it away after a meager 28 ounces. Pirate’s Booty is not substitutable. Trust me, I have tried Skinny Pop and the only reason it’s “Skinny” is because it tastes so bland that I stop eating after the first handful. Pop Secret’s buttered popcorn cannot do it justice either. The consistency is neither as airy nor as puffy. And Popcorn Indiana KettleCorn? Two words: too sweet. In these three weak substitutes, I can’t escape getting the kernels stuck in my teeth. My god the kernels, they test my patience. They all fall flat against my bags of cheese-dusted treasure. I’ve accepted my fate. Puffed to perfection and dusted with aged white cheddar, I inevitably relapse, blacking out until the last piece of puff has been consumed.  

My dad embellishes ramen by adding kimchi, scallions and tteok (Korean rice cake). He heats jeepo (dried filefish) over the stovetop, and despite the high heat, he uses nothing but his hands to tear the snack into edible pieces. There is nothing low fat, light, nor gluten-free about my dad’s recipes. Most of the items are browned, battered, and fried to the touch. But that is his specialty. He cooks what he considers is good tasting, and this usually falls under the category of fried meat. He does not cook healthy, and for sure, he does not cook au courant. Despite my efforts to eat healthier over the years, I am always lured into the kitchen by the smell of spicy ramen and the crackling sound of jeepo roasting over the fire. And almost instinctively, I grab a fork and sit down next to my dad, asking if I can have “just one bite”, as my hand reaches for his bowl. 

His body echoes the mantra “you are what you eat”, and over the years, he has not only put on more weight but also higher cholesterol. Carefree diet and poor genetics, the perfect storm. He’s wearing the Boston Red Sox shirt I had gifted the previous year, and I notice that the shirt is snug, especially around the midriff region, despite the label that claims “relaxed fit”. 

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Tonight, he plods around the kitchen as the sweat beads form heavily on his forehead and runs down his back. Ingredients are not mise en place; he grabs the ingredients as he goes, and his units of measurement are his own two eyes. Even though my mom does most of the cooking in the house, my dad prepares dinner on Thursday nights. Tonight’s menu is one of my favorite dishes: donkkaseu. (This dish is an adaptation of Japanese Tonkatsu and it resembles Viennese Wiener schnitzel.)  

Using a meat tenderizer, my dad flattens the cutlets until they reach a quarter inch thickness. He mashes and pounds on our granite countertop, loud as a battle cry, signaling that the process has begun. After one big dunk into a bowl of beaten eggs, quickly and generously coated in breadcrumbs, these flattened pork chops are carefully dipped into a deep, rounded pool of bubbling, hot canola oil. The coated cutlets begin to sizzle, and he waits for just the right color: golden brown. While he’s waiting, the fridge door opens and shuts repeatedly, revealing a purple cabbage, Kraft singles, and a can of coke. While washing the cabbage, my dad unwraps the plastic off a slice of Kraft singles and rolls it up, devouring it whole. Next, he cuts the stem off the cabbage and slices it into quarters. He then slices each wedge into thin strips and transfers the cabbage into each plate, forming a small pile. And to pull it all together, my dad mixes one part ketchup and one part mayonnaise to create the dipping sauce, pastel orange in color. During the mixing process, he decides that eating one Kraft single slice is not enough and opens the fridge yet again, revealing two more slices of butterscotch yellow to soothe his insatiable hunger. 

As this elaborate process takes place, I’m sitting on a tall stool in the middle of the kitchen with my feet hanging, absent-mindedly leafing through a Pottery Barn catalog. I am lost in my own thoughts. Although my dad and I are in proximity, we barely exchange a few words. We don’t talk often, and I would hesitate to say that it’s because our relationship is strained. It’s more due to fact that my dad is a man of few words, and he is preoccupied with tasks on hand, or so I tell myself. 

When the color of the breaded cutlet turns golden brown, Donkkaseu is ready to be served. Using chopsticks, he pulls the cutlets out of the pan, one by one. These bronzed bodies lay on a large bamboo plate covered with paper towels that soak up the excess oil. I think my dad lays them on paper towels to be somewhat health conscious. He transfers each cutlet onto plates, positioning them next to the heap of shredded cabbage. 

We finally sit down for dinner. I cut the Donkkaseu into long horizontal strips, and then cut the strips again, in half, into bite-sized pieces. The process is automatic at this point and requires little force as the cutlets have been tenderized and thinned. After a quick glance at my dad, I slowly drift into thought. Maybe if I got to spend formative years of my childhood with him other than seeing him for a month or two out of the year, maybe if I tried a bit harder to communicate with him when I'm away at college, maybe if he simply talked more, we would have a stronger relationship. I dip the Donkkaseu into the ketchup and mayonnaise mixture, and take my first bite. The crispy tenderness of the cutlets, enveloped by the savory sauce, takes my mind away from the series of hypothetical questions. I fork some of the shredded cabbage that’s been piled onto a small heap on the side, and open my mouth wide. The food is simply good and the amalgamation of different textures stops me from spiraling down in my own thoughts. As an automatic response, I look up at my dad and smile gently, my mouth full of fried pork and shredded cabbage. He cracks open the can of Coke and takes a big gulp, smiling back at me, mirroring the same emotions. And I decide, in that moment, that this is more than enough. There aren't cookie cutter templates and guidelines to what a close father daughter relationship looks like, and my dad and I may not communicate extensively, but sharing Donkkaseu tonight brings us a sense of intimacy that transcends words.