food, food, food: a reflection on what it means to feel full

recently, i’ve been tearing up whenever i eat food.

last week, i made kimchi jjigae for the first time. i stopped at my local asian mart to grab the ingredients, and the woman at the counter mistook me for an international student — a korean student from korea. i was taken aback, struck with an odd feeling. maybe it was because i was humming along to a korean pop song in the aisles, or maybe it was in the way i smiled in relief as i snagged the last bag of rice. whatever it was, her warm smile followed by her inquiry really rattled me.

once i got home, i whipped out all my vegetables and pork belly. methodically cutting and stirring, hearing the sharp simmering of ingredients in a pot, it was the perfect way to spend one of the first cold nights of the season. i kept contemplating the woman in the market. what would she be making that night? who would be joining her for dinner? would anyone? whose faces did she meet as she sold the bags of rice that were gone before mine?

i was nervous to take my first sip of broth, paranoid my last bit of kimchi wouldn’t be enough to fruitfully flavor it. to my absolute surprise, both the meat and the broth were just perfect. so perfect that i felt my eyes begin to water. i did it! i made my first korean dish that tasted good.

for some reason, this small achievement made me really reflect upon my relationship with food.

i celebrated my first chuseok this year, sitting on a rooftop with a close friend and eating takeout japchae from a local family-owned restaurant. we listened to newjeans together and watched the sun set, trading bites of our meals.

every week, i watch one of my favorite variety shows that consists of the host and their guest eating a grand meal and talking about life. out of habit — one i didn’t realize i had developed ’til now — i always sit down with a bowl of ramen. by the time it’s empty, i’ve had a good laugh like i was a guest at their table.

and whenever i crave takeout, i always make sure that a stephanie soo mukbang is playing when i get home.

i can remember just one other instance when i felt myself ready to cry when eating a meal. it was when i had hot pot at a restaurant with a group of asian friends. i remember thinking they were pros at this. the ordering for each other, the cooking of the meat, the drinking games. one friend noticed that i was a bit lost in all the chatter and chaos, and throughout the rest of the dinner she would always take note of when my plate was empty so she could cook a new piece of meat to add to it. she did this subtly, and that feeling of being taken care of through food was overwhelming for me. i think that this must have been the first time i understood what it meant to feel full.

the other night, i made kimchi jjigae and, in tasting the broth, chewing the meat, i felt full. and what surprised me the most about this feeling was that, for the first time, i did that myself.

there used to be a time when all i could think about was whether i was korean enough. for who? i’m not really sure. myself, my friends and family, my white peers, my asian ones. over the past year or so, however, as i began making korean dishes, learning the language, and immersing myself in k-music and shows, that nagging feeling sort of faded away. i no longer mourn the culture that i grew up without because i’m actively working to revive it each day. my relationship with my koreanness as an adoptee is something that i’ve come to appreciate as both a challenge and something to be grateful for.

recently, i’ve been tearing up whenever i eat food. simple food, too, like sandwiches or snacks. i keep thinking back on this kimchi jjigae. without the woman at the counter, i think i wouldn’t have felt so emotional. her kindness made me feel full, too. that approval i had so desperately been searching for, it just kind of came to me one day in the form of a simple question. and i realized that it wasn’t necessarily approval i was needing, but that harmony, that togetherness that exists only in true fullness. it’s a simple feeling, one that’s existed forever in east asian culture. to experience it like this, in the small ways that i can, is something truly special that’s been on my mind.