Crying in H Mart: A Memoir

If you aren’t hungry when you pick up this book, you soon will be. Zauner describes Korean food with the passion of a zealot! I’ve never heard of most of the dishes she described in lush and mouthwatering detail but now I want to find the nearest Korean restaurant and dive in. I want to try all the different flavors of kimchi!I loved so many things about this book, truly. I think I read it too fast and I already want a re-read. I lost my own mom to cancer at 22, such a tender age when you are just getting past all the teenage moodiness and resentment towards your mother and begin finding yourself in her and building a relationship again. Michelle’s deep love for her mom and how she waded through the months of watching her mother fade and deteriorate struck a deep chord in me. It was hard to read but powerful and vital.I loved how vulnerable and honest this memoir was. It wasn’t preachy or given to justifying or explaining death. Michelle just told the story with straightforward and direct words that highlighted the realness of her experience and mostly lets you do your own interpreting of what it all means. I do love one section in particular where she goes all little off that script and gives some food for thought when she intertwines the relationship between kimchi and death, describing how cabbage could rot into nothing but with the right ingredients, the rotting process turns into a delicious dish that is integral to Korean culture. She chose to find the beauty in her mother’s death and instead of letting it rot, instead become a source of healing and sustenance.Overall this is a remarkable book about a very human experience that many will face in some form or another when they lose someone vital to their life. Michelle told her story with raw candor and the added depth of her mixed heritage and love of Korean food that bound her to her mother was so compelling that I read the whole book in a day! This is a great book to explore death, culture, food and the power of the mother-daughter relationship.

Philip Roth opens his memoir Patrimony: A True Story with a long and detailed description of his father's health that sets the stage for what is about to come: "My father had lost most of the sight in his right eye by the time he'd reached eighty-six, but otherwise he seemed in phenomenal health for a man of his age when he came down with what the Florida doctor diagnosed, incorrectly, as Bell's palsy, a viral infection that causes paralysis, usually temporary, to one side of the face." Michelle Zauner does the same, but in a much more concise way: "Ever since my mom died, I cry in H Mart." They are different, but they are the same: they are sparked by pain and suffering, they pay their respects to the ones who have gone and are missed, and they intensely connect with their roots, Jewish and Korean, respectively. And through them, Philip Roth and Michelle Zauner strive to heal their pain, using writing as therapy, no matter how different their success in that endeavor may have been.Michelle Zauner's writing may not be as ornamented as Philip Roth's, but her book is a treat all the same. Crying in H Mart is like listening to a candid confession from a close friend late at night, when everybody else has already left and you stay with her, a glass of wine and many stories. It is intimate, sincere, funny and sad, bittersweet, generously emotional. At the same time, it is also a gastronomic trip: Michelle meticulously uses traditional Korean food to connect and reconnect with her mother and her mother's relatives in Korea, and some descriptions of dishes, ingredients and dish preparations are as detailed as in a recipe book with mouth-watering pictures. There is even an almost literal transcription of one of Maangchi's tutorial videos, specifically the one where she prepares soothing jatjuk. By doing that, I think Michelle also tried to find roots in Asian references: take the Studio Ghibli movies with their beautiful scenes of food preparation, the importance of food in Haruki Murakami's novels or Bong Joon-Ho's movies. From my part, I am now a Maangchi fan.The text is extremely fluid, moving from the main plot involving Michelle's mother to flashbacks of her childhood and adolescence in a very logical and well-connected way. Up to mid-book (when the main plot sort of resolves itself), the text is so thought-of that it even sounds excessively edited--it is like a perfectly engineered, scientifically-paced Hollywood story: there is the punchline at the end of each chapter making reference to an idea cited before and causing a shiver to run up your spine, there's the perfect pacing from funny and comfy moments to describing delicious Korean food and then back to dramatic scenes, there is suspense and plot twists, all smooth and seamless. The last half of the book loses some of its stamina (except for a poignant scene at her parents-in-law's house in Bucks County, all Cinema Paradiso-like), but it is still charming, lyrical and beautiful.Philip Roth concludes his memoir concisely and in a rather bitter tone, with a short and dry sentence: "You must not forget anything." Michele grants us with a fluid, energetic and dreamlike last scene in a karaoke (noraebang), whose atmosphere made me think of Bill Murray and Scarlett Johanson in the karaoke scene in Lost in Translation, a strange simultaneous state of happiness and sadness. Indeed, this book is a testimony of Michelle's own "finding herself in translation", a funny feeling of being awkwardly out of context but even so pertaining, which is why this book seems to have resonated so much with many mixed-race children. Michelle trying her best to sing along Pearl Sister's Coffee Hanjan with her aunt Nami is indeed a beautiful image to conclude and summarize her search for her own identity by not denying but strengthening her Korean roots.