Blog 2: I Heart Teriyaki

In a way, teriyaki is one of the main reasons why I left the prestigious women’s liberal arts college in the East Coast and returned to the temperamental climes of western Washington. Even though I spent two years in Pennsylvania, I could never quite shake off the feeling of longing, of homesickness for Washington. While I lived on campus, I searched vainly for things that would remind me of home, namely the not-quite-fast-food teriyaki.

                The cheap and delicious dishes I used to be able to eat whenever the urge struck were nowhere to be seen. Oh, maybe there were a handful of upper-end Japanese restaurants, but what I wanted was not high class cuisine ̶ I wanted my steaming hot plate of white rice shaped by an ice cream scoop and grilled chicken slices drenched in teriyaki sauce. In my desperation, I even tried Chinese takeout but it just wasn’t the same. My desire for teriyaki was so extreme that it came to the point that when I returned home for the winter or summer holidays, my very first meal would be chicken fried rice (or Mongolian beef).

                Teriyaki wouldn’t be teriyaki if it weren’t for my best friend Melissa. Back when we were in high school together, she had a particular teriyaki restaurant that she was attached to, and lucky for her, it was within walking distance. In the summer, whenever she got the urge, she would contact me and the two of us would walk the three miles to the I Heart Teriyaki restaurant under the warm Washington sun. This was back when neither of us could drive, and even if we could, we still would have walked. The road there was mainly a long straight sidewalk next to a busy road. There was a public bus route which coincided with our walk, but unless the weather was horrible, it wasn't an option.

                We would walk at a leisurely pace and we’d talk about whatever came to mind. (She was always the friend I could say anything to, without the fear of being judged.) And when we finally reached the restaurant, we would order the exact same things we’d always order, eat (me with chopsticks, her with a fork), and walk back home. Though I’m sure I had a few worries even back then, looking back at it now, it seemed like such a stress-free time in my life.

                This teriyaki restaurant has long since changed hands, and our favorite dishes have taken on different tastes. Melissa and I now attend different colleges, and no longer live close enough to walk to each other’s houses, much less this teriyaki restaurant. But in some ways, it's preferable this way. I can preserve the memory of that particular summer without any adulteration.

Blog 1: My Unni and Me

Ever since I can remember, I have called my sister ‘Unni.’ Literally ‘older sister’ in Korean, it is a respectful term that girls use to call both kin sisters and other older girls they are close to, and it can also be used following a given name. Even among twin sisters there is an unni. Just being born a few minutes earlier entitles the older girl to a degree of respect. Thus I have lived all my life calling Faith, who is two years my senior, ‘older sister.’ This term, I feel, has always been at the center of our relationship.

I moved in with Faith and her two roommates a few days ago. At first I was prepared for it to be very awkward, but things have changed since I last lived with her in our parents’ home. We wake up around the same time, and she gets ready to go to work while I make breakfast. I prefer a heartier meal while Faith is always in a rush to catch her bus and rarely has time to sit down and eat. My first breakfast in this new house was rice porridge that I made, and a variety of typical strongly flavored Korean side dishes that our mother had packed us.

That morning as a broke up the hard, brittle pieces of toasted rice for the porridge, I realized I had put in more than I could eat alone. It was not based on a fully formed intent, but I felt it would be odd to prepare only my own breakfast. Looking at the digital clock on the stove, I stirred the bubbling pot, hoping the rice would soften in time for Faith to at least take it with her for lunch. She came downstairs with a few minutes to spare and I quickly poured half of the steaming, slightly-undercooked porridge into a glass Tupperware container. She took a few quick bites of the side dishes and rushed out the door with the Tupperware in her hand. Afterwards, I ate my half of the porridge alone in the empty house.

That first morning, I was acting in the role of the younger sister whose duty is to serve her Unni. Though Faith is only two years (and 3 months) older, she was three years ahead of me in school, and this distance felt substantial while we were growing up, but now it is slowly but surely decreasing. Since we started living together without our parents, she asks me what I would like for dinner and we prepare the meals together. Because she has started to treat me more like her equal, she feels a little less like the Unni I grew up with, and more like a companion that I have come to live with.