“Apples” was just an exercise to see if I could write a five-line poem without metaphor or hyperbole, except for in the final line.
On a lazy Sunday afternoon in spring, what appeared was a hankering for pie. And, though I did not realize it at the time, the recipe I baked to satisfy my craving would teach me so much about where I came from, and where I was headed.
Fresh Fruit, Broken Bodies describes the physical pain and emotional suffering that Triqui migrant workers routinely face during their work in the West Coast berry fields
- Waiting for a Cappuccino: A Brief Layover along the Spice Trail
As I wait for my cappuccino, I subconsciously but quite mechanically begin to play with the salt and pepper shakers on the vinyl tablecloth—pairing them off as ballroom dancers across the checkerboard design, then transforming them into charging bull and lithesome matador.
- Home Run: My Journey Back to Korean Food
I was harboring all sorts of yuppie anxieties about first-time fatherhood—the unit cost of diapers and 529 College Savings Plans chief among them. But as a Korean-American, I was also worrying about our son's cultural identity. I especially looked forward to introducing him to my culinary heritage.