I was walking to the metro station one morning this week, when I was gifted with a hilarious sideline show.

A man in a SUV was trying to make a U-turn on a narrow street. I’m pretty sure it is illegal, and so was the driver behind him in her Nissan, and so was the woman who happened to walk by with her little dog.

“You can’t do that,” the woman said loudly to the man, to which he started protesting, “Oh yeah? Where’s the sign? There’s no sign that says I can’t!”

Now the driver behind him was shaking her head, annoyed but patiently waiting, while the woman with the dog was flabbergasted. “Where are you from?” she demanded. “You’re a New Yorker, aren’t you? I know a New Yorker when I see one!”

“So what? Where are you from?” The man responded, somehow making the word “you” sound like an expletive with the way he gestured and twisted his lips.

“Born and raised Chicago, baby,” the woman said, bristling. Meanwhile, a few feet away, her little dog sniffed at a pile of turd on the grass, moistened and chilled by last night’s storm.

I waited until I was a safe distance away to burst out laughing. That scene totally made my day.

Now, as a city nomad, I take no sides. I love Los Angeles, I love New York, and I am loving Chicago. What I love about all these cities is the flash of city pride that most city-dwellers (be it Angelenos, New Yorkers or Chicagoans) wear like badges on their chest. I’ve heard Chicagoans grouse about the rickety transit system, the head-slamming parking fees, the bone-shattering weather…but when you start pricking them, their Chicago pride stirs up bold and strong. I love this level of pride and passion that you just don’t find in the suburbs.

I’ve been roaming Chicago for two weeks now. That means I have ten weeks left in the city and I’m getting a little bit panicky already, counting all the things I want—need—to do before I leave. Chicago is an amazing place to be in the summer. There are so many free activities, so many concerts, so many festivals to attend. You can live decades in the city without having visited all the food, music and ethnic festivals, or picnicked at all the live outdoor concerts, or learned all the free dance lessons that the city has to offer. I seriously LOVE Chicago!!!

The Chicago Tribune tried to help tick some items off my list. On my second day of work, the Chicago Tribune organized an Orientation Day of sorts for us summer interns. Here we are, the 2013 team of ChiTri interns!

Not all of us are reporters. In fact, only three of us are editorial; the rest of the gang worked in photography, tech (apps), marketing and graphic design.

Our guide and organizer was Kevin Pang, our James Beard Award-winning food writer and “Cheap Eater.” Here’s our ChiTri concierge:

We couldn’t have asked for a better tour guide. He was meticulous and thoughtful in his planning, and he really packed in a wonderful, non-touristy day of events for us. I’m lucky enough to have him as my resource. When I asked him for the best South Indian place on Devon Avenue, he personally came over to my desk to hand me a comprehensive newspaper spread he did on Devon’s Little India.

We kicked off the morning by attending two editorial meetings: a brainstorm meeting for ChiTri’s features team, and a front-page discussion meeting between ChiTri’s section editors. Then we trotted down the stairs underneath the Magnificent Mile to the legendary Billy Goat Tavern:

Chicago used to house more than 10,000 neighborhood taverns. These ubiquitous watering holes were where blue-collar immigrant workers rubbed elbows with fellow men after work. Taverns were where they griped about working conditions and their wives, exchanged contact information for cousins, lawyers, barbers, and whatever services one needed. Taverns really knit the community together over a frothy drinks and perhaps some loud drunken tussles. Unfortunately, Chicago’s streets dot with more Dunkin’ Donuts than taverns now.
When I was dining with my editors on my first day, they told me that once upon a decade, journalists would be stirring liquor mid-day. “Times have changed,” my editor told me mournfully. No longer do men in dapper suits order three rounds of Margaritas and slurp up platters of raw oyster at noon.

But during those Mad Men days, many Chicago Tribune reporters could be seen lunching and seeking stories at Billy Goat Tavern. It was only appropriate that we have lunch at the same spot where Chicago newspaper legends such as Mike Royko (Pulitzer-winning columnist and author of “Boss”) and Roger Ebert (recently passed beloved movie critic) sat sharing social commentaries and lampooning politicians.

The original “Billy Goat”—a Greek immigrant called Billy Goat Sinias—died in 1970, but his nephew continues on the Billy Goat tradition of cheezborgers, Coke, and chips. Perhaps you recall the SNL skit that immortalized the ordering process: “Cheezborger, cheezborger, cheezborger! No fries, cheeps! No Pepsi, Coke!” No? Watch it down here:

So. Here’s the famous Doublecheezborger that the Billy Goat staff will insist you get (“Single cheezborger? NO! Doublecheezborger is the best!”):
It’s really just a simple, average cheeseburger. Two beef patties. American cheese. Stuffed between a large crusty, hearty Kaiser roll. You can load in as many self-serve toppings as you want: pickles (yum!), ketchup, raw minced onions that you churn by turning a mincer, thick onion rings, mustard. No plates, just paper. It’s not even close to being the best cheeseburger I’ve ever had, but the Billy Goat Tavern should still be pinned high up on your “must-do” list for Chicago.

We had the honor of Rick Kogan joining us for lunch as well. If you’re a long-time Chicagoan, you simply must know who Rick Kogan is. He’s a legend in ChiTri, not just for his journalistic fame, but for his quintessential Chicago personality as well. This guy has his loafers sunk deep into Chicago soil. He was born a journalist, and not just because his father, Herman Kogan, is another legendary Chicago journalist. I remember the first time I met him and shook his hand, I didn’t realize who he was—and yet he already left a stunned impression in me. I heard his booming, charismatic voice, and instantly knew this man is somebody I want to have a beer with—with a respectful sense of awe, of course.

After our lunch, we climbed the stairs back up into the sun again (It’s midnight-dim at all times at Billy Goat Tavern). We met up with Chicago Elevated’s Margaret Hicks:

Oh man. This lady is HI-LAR-RIOUS. When she revealed that she used to study improv comedy (alumna of iO and Second City), none of us were surprised. The way she squiggles her eyebrows, tangos her mouth, and snaps her fingers would build a portfolio of amazing expressions for Japanese anime artists. I could watch her talk all day.

Margaret Hicks leads several personal tours in Chicago. She’s born-and-raised Chicago (though she did a stint in NYC for a while), a self-confessed half-Trixie, and a passionate explorer of Chicago’s nook and crannies. You want to know which Chicago’s back alley is the dinkiest, she’s your gal.

For us ChiTri interns, she blended together several tours. She led us by the Chicago River, where the waters are green all-year-round and Leprechaun-green on St. Patrick’s Day.

Margaret snapped her fingers as she regaled us with tales of Chicago’s architecture, risen from the dust after the infamous Great Chicago Fire. She gave us the quick-and-dirty history of the Chicago River: how the river’s flow got reversed, who literally got the shit end of the flow, how Chicago has the largest number of moveable bridges in the world.

At the Chicago Cultural Center, she taught us how the city’s grid system works: For east-west streets, Madison Street starts at zero. For north-south, the zero is at State Street. 800 units = one mile. The lake is always east. It’s a nifty tip to know when you get lost among street numbers.

Another cool thing to know are the hidden “Y”s in the city:
Didn’t know Chicago is a scavenger hunt of Y diagrams? Neither do many Chicagoans, but that’s one of the fun facts you learn from Margaret. And of course she demonstrated the “Y” for us in her most awesome animated way:

The “Y” is meant to symbolize the splitting branches of the Chicago River. It’s everywhere: municipal buildings, schools, bridges, piers.

After traversing the streets for a while, Margaret took us down under. Here’s another fun fact: Below Chicago’s downtown are underground passageways for savvy city-walkers who want to roam the Loop without weathering blizzards and storms and humidity.

It’s called the Chicago Pedway, a network of tunnels and underground walkways that passes food courts, Macy’s, benches… even a swimming pool.
If you work downtown and ride the metro, this is something you want to know in preparation for Chicago’s seasonal tantrums. Which WILL happen winter, spring, summer and fall.
The tour ended at Millennium Park, Chicago’s ultimate tourist destination and public meeting space. You know those touristy spots that you visit and get freaking mad and disappointed because it’s not all it’s cracked up to be? Millennium Park is not one of those crappy spots. It is all it’s cracked up to be.

First of all, the “Bean.” Yeah, yeah, it’s really called the Cloud Gate, but nobody here really calls it that. To everyone, it’s affectionately known as the “Bean” for its cute jellybean shape. When you walk up next to it though, it’s really not that cute anymore.  It is a 33 by 66 by 42 feet beast, a 168-plate steel monster, a 110-ton Hercules. You stare into its face and see a warped skyline of Chicago’s glorious skyscrapers. It’s stunning.

There are so many things to do at the Millennium Park that I would spend all day typing things that you can easily Google up. So I’ll skip the words and numbers, and jump right into the pictures. Here’s a bad shot of the famous Jay Prizker Pavilion:

I’m planning a picnic dinner there soon once the outdoor concerts begin. And then there’s the Crown Fountain:
  Apparently the faces change. We didn’t get to see it.

I loved this penny-sprinkled section the most for its ideal tranquility and communion space:

After that we rested for a while at Panera, and then headed for the next activity: an improv comedy class at iO Comedy Theater. iO, home of the long-form improv comedy, spawned some of the greatest comedic stars in Hollywood: Mike Myers, Tina Fey, Chris Farley, Amy Poehler—but don’t you forget that Chicago was where they were bred.

The building of iO  is located (until it moves later) next to the iconic Wrigley Field, “Home of the Cubs.” Apparently going to a Cubs game is another “must-do” thing in Chicago. I’ve been squished into armpits and elbows on the “L” (Chicago’s metro) during Cub game nights. For such a respected establishment, iO’s building is pretty inconspicuous and old. It’s neither dazzling nor glamorous—but hey, that’s exactly what improv isn’t, either.

To be honest, I was a little nervous going into this. Improv? I don’t know man…a lot of crazy, humiliating things spew out of my mouth already without the help of anything! I was afraid unbridled freedom to speak whatever is on my mind would create a monster. But it turned out to be so much fun.

It was the perfect ice-breaker for us interns who met for the first time that day. I mean, after talking about penis balloons on stage, I think anybody would loosen up any sort of inhibitions. Our instructor, an iO alumnus and performer, was perfectly easy-going, funny and warm.

This guy taught us to say “yes, and!” to everything. No statement or remark is stupid or ridiculous enough to reject. Just say yes, and then play off it. If there’s any rule in improv, it’s to have an open mind and flow along with whatever’s thrown at you with humor and grace. And yes, as several girls in our group commented already, our instructor is pretty nice to look at.

After an afternoon of snappy comments, uncontrolled laughter and lascivious jokes, we headed for a much-needed evening snack: the Chicago-style hot dog.

Ooh. Controversial territory here. Apparently, you never. Ever. EVER squirt ketchup on a Chicago dog. Mustard? Yes. Pickles? Go crazy. But never ketchup. I’m so used to piling a mountain of ketchup over my hot dogs that I couldn’t really imagine a ketchup-less hot dog. Well, we went to Wrigleyville Dogs to test it out.

As it turns out, you really don’t need a drop of ketchup on a Chicago dog because it’s flavorful enough what with all the sweetness and pungency of tomatoes, onions, pickles and pepper. So what is a true Chicago dog?
It’s really just an ordinary beef Frankfurter on a poppy seed bun, trampled under a load of toppings. There’s yellow mustard, minced onions, relish with mint, whole sport peppers, a Kosher dill pickle spear, sliced tomatoes, maybe a sprinkled of celery salt.

It’s obese. And delicious. But it won’t blow your mind. This is a $2 street grub, after all. But after a long day of shouting at the Cubs who just never seems to win? Hits the freaking spot.

And there you have it! A brief of list of things to do in Chicago, whether you’re a native or a tourist or a new transplant. For a long-form of this list and more ideas, check out my Chicago Tribune article from this weekend. Five more ideas to come next weekend. It’s supposed to be a teaser. Just play along.

Related posts:

1. First Day at ChiTri

Okay, okay, it’s too early to say it, but I’m just going to blast it out: I freaking LOVE Chicago Tribune.

Things started off on a rocky start, however. See, I haven’t been sleeping very well for the last few days, and I’ve been stuffing myself with a lot of fatty foods. So the day before my first day at ChiTri, I saw a huge-ass zit next to my nose. I also zealously spotted a couple weenie bumps on my forehead– you know, those little fetus pimples that aren’t noticeable unless you zoom in with extreme vanity.

I read somewhere that plastering toothpaste on pimples overnight instantly zaps them dry. So I slathered toothpaste the night before, and went to sleep fully trusting that the next morning, I’ll wake up blemish-free again.

Nuh-uh. I woke up, washed away the caked toothpaste, and almost screamed in horror. The zit next to my nose turned into a freaking bluish-purple MOUNTAIN of a pimple! It was like a volcano that erupted and sharted all over itself! And the tiny invisible baby imperfections on my forehead? They looked like flattened leeches, all raw and bloody and wiggly gone SPLAT! in between my eyes.

DO NOT LISTEN TO THE TOOTHPASTE ADVICE!!! It’s bull! It ruined my face! I looked like I was pelted by Smurfs! Talk about a confidence bulldozer. I couldn’t step into my first day at ChiTri looking like that!

I was hyper-ventilating in front of the mirror. I had no foundation, no concealer, no powder to cover up the monsters scarring my face. Thankfully, I woke up early enough to get to downtown about 45 minutes before I was expected at the Tribune Tower. During the 40-minute metro ride to downtown, I googled “How to conceal acne” on my iPhone.

The moment I reached downtown on Grand Avenue, I charged into the nearest Walgreens and paid $12 for a concealer tube. Normally I would weep if I had to pay that much for make-up, but at that moment, I would have paid any amount for some sort of beauty relief. Using a narrow mirror at Walgreens, I dabbed the concealer all over my forehead and that bare-assed pimple beside my nose. The brilliantly purple zit beside my nose refused to disappear, but the leeches on my forehead faded just a tiny bit, at least enough for me to look…presentable.

It’s funny how you suddenly notice certain things. I stared at the faces of every Chicagoan passing by, sickly envious of all their clear complexions. It seemed like even that scowling 50-year-old lady with the congealed make-up had better skin than me.

I shambled into the Tribune Tower wishing I had a hat to cover up my burning face.

But you know what, a little humiliation and low confidence is good on the first day of an important event. After that toothpaste mishap, nothing else could really bother me. The day was a breeze. Granted, I wasn’t doing any hard work on my first day, but my nervousness and shyness dissipated. I didn’t even get troubled that I wasn’t in the company’s system because of some technical error. And then my computer wouldn’t sign me on, my phone wasn’t working, my Tribune email mistakenly retained my Los Angeles Times email, and my Tribune pass badge got bungled. But everything seemed to go smoothly compared to the blatant hideousness stuck to my face.

What’s more, I was wowed by how nice and friendly everybody was. I had lunch at a fancy restaurant with two editors, Geoff Brown and Kevin Williams. Geoff Brown is the associate managing editor who interviewed me, and Kevin Williams is my supervising editor/mentor for the summer. They are an awesome pair, both ridiculously young-looking. I enjoyed the ceaseless conversation we shared, and I love that we all ordered our own dessert for lunch.

There’s a jovial air of camaraderie in the Tribune office. At one point someone will burst out into hysterical laughter, and at another there will be this hum of concentration as reporters write what they want to write, and editors make sure they write what they need to write.

As I rode the metro back home (wow, I can’t believe I’m calling Rogers Park home after only two nights!), I listened to my playlist for the musical Chicago. It just felt appropriate to listen to Roxie and We both reached for the gun! at the end of the day, and I couldn’t help singing and whistling along, despite the amused stares from fellow Red Line commuters. Zit? What zits?

But seriously, man. What can I do to get rid of these purple welts on my face? My friends are all praying I find a cute Midwestern boy in Chicago, and I don’t want their prayers to go to trash just because of my toothpaste misadventure. Any (inexpensive) tips welcome.

No related posts.

There’s nothing more thrilling and terrifying than staring into a blank page as a journalist.

That’s the part about journalism that I both love and hate—the moment when I had done as much research and interviews as I can to exhaust the topic I’m supposed to write about, and now all I have to do is put the knowledge I amassed into coherent words and sentences on a page.

Sometimes I know exactly how the story will be structured before I begin writing. Someone might provide me with a vivid anecdote, or I might be so clear about the nut graf that the words just flow from my fingers to my laptop to the Word Doc.

Other times, I sit staring at the white blinking screen. I blink back, gulp dark coffee, and pray fruitlessly that the caffeine will magically inject me with inspiration. I am certain it’s an intensive form of workout, because I get exhausted after an hour of sitting there staring into space. During those moments, I always gape at the insurmountable project in front of me: how the heck do I build a publishable story of significance from a page that screams blankness? How do I organize the gazillion facts and random quotes I’ve scribbled on ratty notebooks into a neat, readable structure of 800 words? How do I create a masterpiece out of scraps and snippets?

These similar thoughts were on my mind as I graduated on May 17, 2013.

Yes, it finally happened. I waited seven years to graduate from college. Then on the day I was finally graduating, I waited about four hours before I walked the stage and received a blank diploma.

I made several mistakes on my graduation: I was late. I didn’t have time for coffee (Bitch alert!). I didn’t bring bobby pins to keep my graduation cap secure, so it kept flopping down my ears. I lost my tassel. My sash kept fluttering away. I hugged the dean when I didn’t have to. I slipped as I walked down to have my picture taken. I walked out of the bathroom with the back of my skirt tucked into my stockings (thankfully I caught it in time).

The commencement was finally over. And what I had at the end of these four years in college was, quite literally, a blank page (well, and some thousands of dollars of loans).

All of us graduates got blank pages. Every commencement speech alluded to the uncertainties and fears that each student feel as we look into our bleak future of crushing loans and unceasing recession. It is a bad time to graduate, especially as a journalism major. Many of us don’t have a full-time job lined up. Already some of my friends are busy preparing for grad school. Some are leaving the States to teach or travel. Some are frantically applying for jobs. Some are taking it easy, recuperating before they start their “adult” life. And we all really need a drink.

I’m one of those lucky, lucky graduates who have definite plans for the near future. I’m interning for three months as a reporter for the Chicago Tribune’s features section. WORLD Magazine has offered me a full-time job when that internship ends. I’m somewhat more secure than many.

But still, we’re all entering a new chapter in life. There’s a gloriously empty page in front of us, itching to be filled with fresh stories. But I also feel like I’ve been taught how to fish, and now I’m cast out into the ocean with two fingers crossed and not much supplies. It’s exciting. And also slightly intimidating. But thankfully, not terrifying.

I shut myself in a Korean spa one early morning after my graduation. I felt like I needed some quiet, personal space, and there’s no place better than a Korean spa (jjimjilbang) for blissful seclusion when you live in the city. Seriously, if you haven’t been to a Korean spa, you’re missing out on a special oasis. Yes, you have to be buck naked, and yes, you’ll be surrounded by old Korean ladies with sagging breasts and stretched out tummies. But for just about $15-25, you get a full day of solitude, plus amenities such as magazines, Anime, sleeping bags, fresh towels and hot jade tubs.

As I steamed and boiled, I closed my eyes and prayed. At first I got a bit panicky thinking about whether I’ll do a good job at the Chicago Tribune. I begged God not to allow me to make any stupid, humiliating mistakes. And then I re-thought my prayers and asked God to help me pray a more detailed prayer. How do I pray about my future in a way that is most pleasing to Him? I didn’t receive brilliant insights that morning, but I did tune myself to think more deeply on how best to pray and meet my “blank page” future.

God showed me answers in the details. Before my graduation day, my parents came to visit a few days earlier so we can take a mini family vacation to the Grand Canyons. My brother couldn’t take days off work, so I had my parents all to myself.

For the first time in my life, I was the main driver during a family vacation. I picked my parents up at Las Vegas, cruised us to the Grand Canyons, sped us back to Las Vegas.
One day we were spending about 10 hours on the road, and my dad being my dad, he used up all those hours preaching, teaching and lecturing. We were stuck in a tin car speeding through a 100-degree desert so I had to listen to it all…and I received a lot of grace. I think now that I was cast out into the ocean of adulthood, I really hungered for some form of coaching, and I can’t ask for wiser coaches than my parents.

The Grand Canyons is…breathtaking. I had seen those rocky striped hills in pictures, but it’s quite another to gaze at the ancient landscapes in real life. I have to say though, I was missing Starbucks iced coffee about 20 minutes after we arrived, especially because the inn’s coffee tasted like burnt toast. At least something about my future is clear: I’m staying in the city.

Being at the Grand Canyons made me think about how puny a human’s life really is, compared to the vast beauty and mysteries of the universe. Not that nature is infallible and all-powerful either—during my trip there I learned that the Colorado River is starving, drained of its resources due to burgeoning human population and persistent drought. But as a reporter it’s easy to get spiraled into the details and the now—it takes experience and wisdom to gain a fuller, richer understanding of the world’s happenings and then be able to hone the abstract into the individual. That’s one thing I’m starting to pray for: better judgment and sharp worldview.

The very next day after we returned to Los Angeles, I had my graduation.

Those two bouquets I have holding triumphantly above my head? Symbols of the two families I cherish: my flesh-and-blood family, and my spiritual family in Christ.

I call them my church friends, but I really think of them more as my brothers and sisters. My graduation pictures were taken by Chris Reyes, a church brother who is an amazing photographer. On my right is my young pastor Isaac, and on my left is Hannah, one of my favorite people in the world. I don’t know how I got to know such cool people.

The next night I had my graduation party at Next Door Lounge, a 1920s-style speakeasy, where waitresses flounce in flapper dresses and bartenders stand sharp in suspenders. One of my closest friends, Tracy, surprised me by showing up from San Francisco.

It was yet a different group of friends, a different sort of celebration, but ah yes, totally essential. These are the group of friends where crazy is relative and loudness is infectious. We disagree about many issues (in fact we just had a big email conversation on feminism), but we aren’t afraid to voice our opinions out. Most of the time we aren’t able to change the other’s opinion, but I love that we have strong opinions, and that despite our differences, we share genuine love and respect for each other.

That night (morning?) I got home, napped for two hours, and then hopped out again for a three-hour, blistering drive into the California desert with my intrepid co-reporter Angela.
The trip was sobering in all sorts of ways. I stupidly didn’t bring my sunglasses, so I was crying and crying and crying, blinded by the sun’s unrelenting rays. It was so hot that the car still steamed with the air-conditioning on full blast. We guzzled tons of water and fueled on fruit strips, beef jerky and Graham honey bears so that we won’t die. All this for the sake of one story.

We stopped in the middle of Nowhere, Godforsaken. It’s this off-the-grid piece of forgotten land called Slab City, where transients, artists, musicians, bums, addicts and preachers camp out in trailers and RVs and subsist without water, electricity, sewage, and other nifty public amenities we take for granted. I learned that no matter how far you travel out into the barren land, so long as there is more than one human being, there’s always going to be drama. Angela and I somehow found ourselves invited into a tarp behind a trailer, where a cozy of interesting characters (ages ranging from 21 to 67) dished wild gossip and sniffed marijuana buds.

The experience was an immediate answer to my prayer asking for both a comprehensive worldview and detailed judgment. I’m so grateful for Angela’s company. We discussed, debated, agreed and disagreed about what we gathered from that flabbergasting day, including what it means to be a Christian journalist. It put some things into perspective for me, and gave me several topics to mule over.

My last week in Los Angeles before leaving for Chicago was a whirlwind of saying goodbyes, drinking goodbyes, and frantic last-minute reporting for World Magazine. I had one last BBQ with my church family (home-smoked beef and pork ribs, potato salad and chicken chilaquiles), two AYCE sushi feasts with friends, a bachelorette party in Las Vegas, Sam Gye Tang with a best friend, several coffee and brunch meet-ups with fellow graduates, another AYCE Korean BBQ with friends, a very awkward club experience (have you ever been in a club where the only person dancing is the over-enthusiastic DJ?)…and then on my last night, two of my church brothers stayed up till dawn just so they can give me a ride to the airport at 5:30 a.m.

I was squished into an uncomfortable middle seat on my flight to Chicago, so I was sliding in and out of restless sleep. But I smiled a lot to myself, thinking about how much grace I have received the last four years as a college student in what I think is the best city in the world. When I arrived in Chicago’s Midway airport, I was received by old family friends, who battled hours’ traffic to pick me up, take me to Target, warm me up with Pho, shop at a Vietnamese market, then drop me back to my apartment in Rogers Park. And the whole time, as much as I enjoyed their company, I kept thinking, “How will I ever repay this grace?”

Grace is, in Christian terms, a gift of love that is utterly underserved, wholly free and purely good. It is not mere kindness, but the kind of all-encompassing, divine agape love sourced from Christ. It is a beautiful concept that forms the foundation of Christianity.

I’ve been subsisting on grace these past four years. Emotional debt has stacked up so high that I’ve given up trying to “repay” grace. So I receive, with great gratitude, for the undeserved grace it is. I was writing an email to my parents (they’re in Asia on a mission trip right now) about all the grace I have received just in this past week alone, and tears welled up my eyes. Grace doesn’t just fill you with thankfulness. It feeds you power, confidence, and this brimming joy and zest to share that grace with others. After all, there’s plenty to go around.

I start work tomorrow. I count it as my first real page of a new chapter. I’m not sure exactly what’s going to be written on that page, but I have a feeling the overall theme will still be grace: Grace received, grace shared, grace given.

No related posts.

***Just a warning that this post will have some pictures of the past, back when I was sick. Please avoid if you are easily triggered by pictures.

My high school best friend, Wen, came to visit me in Los Angeles this past weekend. We had not seen each other for seven years.

The last time I saw Wen was early summer of 2006. Her 19th birthday had just passed.

I went crazy for her birthday. I stayed up past dawn baking three kinds of desserts for her: some kind of chocolate ganache tart, a fruit tart, and a three-tier strawberry cream cheese cake.
I was insane. But even that didn’t feel enough. I just didn’t know how else to express to Wen how much I appreciated our friendship.
I distinctly remember standing by the door of my townhouse the night we said goodbye. My feet were bare, scrapping against the rough doormat. They were blue and veiny. We hugged, and before I could pull away, Wen drew me closer and hung her head down. Her shoulders shook and she started sucking in her breath as though she was having a panic attack. She was crying.

We had all just graduated from high school. I was getting ready to go to Northwestern; Wen was moving down to Georgia because of her stepfather’s new job.

Neither of us, at least according to our perception at the time, had much of a post-graduation future. I was sick in the brain and body, three months discharged from the hospital. Wen, having been rejected by her top choice school, was looking at community college in Georgia, where she would have to waste nine credits to pass ESL classes she didn’t need.

We were going our separate ways as new adults, and both of us were silently terrified and despairing.

I met Wen in the second semester of junior year in high school. She was the new girl from Michigan in our Pre-Calculus class. I remember her sitting alone by the front of the class while the rest of the students separated into groups to work on a math problem. I felt sorry for her. I remembered being a FOB in a new school and country, and how utterly alone I felt. So I walked up to her, said hi, and the rest is history.

We clicked instantly. We hung out after school every single day, walking to McDonald’s to do our homework over fries and coke, then visiting each other’s home and gossiping until the sun set. We became friendly rivals in Calculus—we were the two insane Asian girls who actually loved playing around with tangents and derivatives—and we chatted on and on about our hopes and dreams for the future.

Wen wanted to be a pharmacist. I wanted to be a journalist. She talked about a practical future, I talked about an idealistic one.

I still remember one time we were at a Chinese noodle shop in Chinatown together, and we happened to witness a reporter come in and interview the owner. We both walked out flushed and excited as though we had just met Will Smith. I was thrilled because I finally saw a “real journalist,” while Wen was thrilled for me as my best friend.

“That’s going to be me,” I told her. “Yes, that is,” Wen said, “But you’re going to be a rich one.” Hahaha, that’s how much of a supportive friend she was.

We also talked a lot about religion. At the time I had just given up leading the youth group at my church. Wen, who grew up in Shenzhen, China, was a free-thinker. “I don’t really believe in God,” she told me. “I would rather believe in myself.” Meanwhile, I tried to articulate what I believed in—and failed, because at the time, I was struggling with my own faith.

And then sometime in the middle of our senior year, Wen found a boyfriend, and I found anorexia. Well, more accurately, I was already engaging in certain eating disordered thinking and behaviors when I first met Wen. I just got exponentially worse in senior year, because I started drawing away from all social life, including Wen. Wen got busy working at the pharmacy department of CVS and going out on dates with her boyfriend, while I got busy walking and walking and walking up hills, down hills and around supermarkets staring and thinking about food.

And then some time in March, I disappeared from school.

I had been disappearing gradually that year. I didn’t weigh myself, but could feel my strength and life wasting away with my flesh. The day I got hospitalized, I barely thought of my friends. I could only think about myself and what was going to happen to me. But when a doctor asked me point-blank if I had no friends and was just starving for attention, I remembered that hey, I did have friends. Or I had them, once upon a time. And now I didn’t know if any of them still cared about me.

But I did call two friends. Just two. And Wen was one of them.

She came to visit with her mother. Her mother took one glance at me in the hospital bed with my gown hanging off my skin-wrapped skeleton, and hurriedly excused herself out of the room, her face stricken. I actually don’t remember this much, but Wen told me everything this past weekend when we finally met.
Seven years. We’ve both come a long way since then. I dropped out of Northwestern, she excelled in community college while working almost full-time. I recovered and entered the University of Southern California as a journalism student, while she became a Pharm.D candidate at the University of Georgia. We’re living those very dreams we talked so much about as 17-year-olds.

We had kind of lost touch, only sporadically updating each other. It was mostly my fault; during my sick years, I cut off contact with almost every high school friend. But the moment we saw each other again last weekend, we picked up right where we left off.

Last Friday night, I picked her up from Union Station, and we decided to roam downtown Los Angeles. We were both so elated that we couldn’t stop shrieking, jumping, hopping, and squeezing each other’s hands.

I took her to Happy Hour at Fu-ga Izakaya.
We talked and talked and talked.

And then we went for second rounds at The Edison:
We talked and talked and talked. We just couldn’t run out of things to say!

And then, final stop, we went to Perch. We waited half an hour to be admitted in, and then waited a line again to go up to the rooftop.

But the rooftop view is always worth it, and that was where we finally reminisced about the old times. Specifically, my eating disorder.

I had been very self-absorbed at that period. I was paranoid about people finding out my “real condition.” I was angry and scared yet blindly hopeful that the nightmare will magically end when I leave for college. Everything was centered around my thoughts, my feelings, myself. I wasn’t able to think about what my friends were going through because of me at the time.

Wen told me everything. She told me how, when she first saw me at the hospital, she wanted to break down. She had to grit her teeth to smile and act as if it was normal for her best friend to be hooked up to the IV in a hospital gown. She had to listen to me feed her bullshit about why I lost so much weight. She got confused and torn between wanting to believe me and putting the puzzles together of my erratic behaviors.

She cried every day. She cried with my friends. She cried as they argued whether I was lying or not. She cried as she thought about how I might die. “I was so scared for you, Sophia,” she told me at Perch. “After I left for Georgia, I didn’t know how to contact you. I knew you too well. You wouldn’t pick up the phone. You weren’t updating your Facebook. I didn’t know if you were alive or not. I had to rely on others to check up on you for me.”

We were overlooking the gorgeous view of downtown LA’s nightscape, but the sky lights were blurring into wobbly spots because our eyes were teary.

And I saw clearly, once again, that I wasn’t the only victim of my eating disorder. I wasn’t the only on who suffered. I had once been bitter and angry that my friends had all “abandoned” me, only later to find out that the eating disordered me had abandoned them first. I felt I wasn’t deserving of love, yet I hungered for it. I pushed people away, even while desiring their touch.

I tried to take Wen to as many places as I could. Our weekend was so packed that by the time we stumbled back home, we both pretty much fell into our beds face-down. I took her around my school campus:
I’m still trying to convince her to do her residency here in SoCal, but this little country girl seems to like the open-road South.

Since Wen was craving real Asian food, that was pretty much all we ate. After a relaxing afternoon at the Korean Spa, I took her to chow soon dubu at So Kong Dong:
Where we had beef and seafood soon dubu.
And the fattest, crunchiest, gooeist seafood pajeon (pancake) EVER:
Behold, this glorious obesity of a pancake.
It came loaded with crabmeat, squid, onion and green onions, all tangled between sticky dough, while the surface sizzled on a hot stone platter.

We also spent a lot of time at Little Tokyo, munching on mochi, fried chicken and fried octopus balls, and sipping on milk tea and coffee.
We also hung out with some of my friends in Santa Monica:
We literally danced the night away and cooled down at the Santa Monica Pier.

The very last day on Sunday afternoon, I took Wen to church with me. I wanted her to meet my second family.

Wen had never been outwardly against religion; she was an agnostic who just didn’t feel she particularly needed God. But she had changed her views since high school. She, too, had suffered her own battles. Her meticulous plans for the future had all fallen through, and she had had to deal with one disappointment after another. She, like me, also had to swallow her ego, and accept the fact that we, despite all our assumed talents and intelligence, are just human.

I started praying for Wen ever since she told me she was visiting. And this time, when we talked about God, I was able to clearly articulate my faith because it was no longer a religion but a living truth for me. After all, my life is living testimony of God’s grace and love. And Wen noticed the change, too. “Before, I felt like religion was what your parents told you to believe,” she told me. “But now it actually feels real. It feels like yours.” That was actually one of the most encouraging thing a friend has said to me.

We promised each other we wouldn’t cry when we said goodbye at the airport. We didn’t, because this time it’s only a brief goodbye. I wasn’t too sad. Of course I was sad that Wen was leaving, but that sadness was just the shadow of brimming joy I felt.

We were both in very different stages from the last time we said goodbye in 2006. This time, we are looking into a summer in which I’ll be working for the Chicago Tribune, while Wen will be working the trauma unit in a hospital. We’re still both a little nervous, but we’ve both matured a lot and learned that things don’t always go the way we plan. But I believe God had always answered and worked so much in the last seven years, in His own amazing way. And I know there’s more to come. I’m sure of it.

No related posts.

A church is a strange miracle of an institution.

As a daughter of a deacon-turned-missionary/pastor, I grew up in a church. According to my mother, my brother and I spent our first two years audaciously crawling up to the pastor’s podium while he was preaching. The pastor let us crawl around his feet until we started getting too distracting; then he had to call my mother to drag us away.

I have fond memories of trailing after my favorite Sunday School teachers as a toddler, playing hopscotch with church friends after service, getting shushed by adults for being too noisy during church conferences. I must have spent at least half of my entire childhood in church.

Because I grew up in a church, I’ve witnessed a lot of drama and controversies behind the scenes. You think high school and office politics is bad? Wait till you join a church and become an active participant.

You’ll see people arguing over the most petty things. You’ll feel that tight tension that stretch between opposing theologies, politics, personalities and values. You’ll one day suddenly discover a family missing, and later through eavesdropping you’ll discover that they left over financial clashes, twisted envy or kids getting bullied. You might even experience a church splitting off into groups under bitter emotions—I’ve unfortunately experienced this too many times. Even if nothing so dramatic is staged, just keep your senses open, and you’ll notice strained relationships between certain individuals, sprouted over weeds of misunderstandings.

My dad once told me that a church is like a hospital. We’re all patients who are forced to gather under one roof because we are sick, and know we are sick. The Bible also describes the church as the body of Christ—we are elementally linked to one another into one body under one head, despite having disparate functions. It’s like having a second family: You can’t choose your family members, and you can’t avoid having to deal with each other. You’re forced to talk issues through, you argue and fight over trivial things, but in the end you’re still joined flesh and blood.
That’s why I say church groups are fascinating entities. We’re practically a freaking human psychology project: Individuals with vastly different personalities, talents, flaws, backgrounds and economic status, pinched together into a tight-knit community.

And it’s not like we talk about superficial things. No, we have to hold hands and sing praises together, share intimate details, confess our mistakes, learn to empathize with one another. You’ll meet the weirdest, most annoying individuals, and not only can you not avoid them, you have to struggle to love them. Which sane person would willingly put himself in that masochistic situation?

Yet for me, life without a consistent church fellowship feels awkward and unnatural. Even if I’m regularly attending Sunday service, if that’s all I’m doing, I feel like I’m a spare toe chopped off from the foot. Going back to my dad’s analogy of church = hospital, I feel my spiritual state deteriorating when I don’t draw communion from a healthy, sustainable church life. It’s inevitable: I absolutaely have to embrace the church, its warts and farts and all.

That’s why despite knowing that being part of a church means dealing with additional drama, the most important thing for me was to find a good church when I moved to Los Angeles for college.

And that’s not easy, because there is no such thing as a perfect church. I had to give up a lot of my own selfish expectations and prideful comparisons in order to finally settle into the church I’m in now. I’m so thankful that God  helped me endure the little bumps, because now even though my biological family is 3,000 miles away, I’ve found a substitute family here in Los Angeles.
I attend a small Korean church in Koreatown. It took months for me to finally wiggle a comfortable spot in this church because I just couldn’t adjust to the overtly Korean culture at first. Fellow Asian Americans, you might understand what I’m talking about. It’s a typical struggle within many immigrant churches. But I’ve gradually settled in, and now I look forward to all my weekly church activities, even more so than a night out with my friends.

One of my church activities involves a co-ed group prayer meeting twice a month on Saturdays. We rotate hosting that meeting, and recently I hosted at my apartment studio.

Our intimate group consists of a few extreme foodies (you know, the kind of foodie who makes ramen noodles and pho broth from scratch) and all of us are heavy eaters. Depending on who’s present, we swing between a keto-friendly, meat-heavy meal or a carb-laden ramen feast. That particular Saturday, the anti-carb members weren’t present, while the two ramen-fetishing members were, so a ramen lunch it was.

If you’re a cognizant Angeleno, you might have noticed the steaming ramen craze in the city. Openings of specialized Japanese ramen shops headline local food blogs every week, it seems. I’ve mostly been ignoring the ramen trend because I’m not a ramen fan, so I probably wouldn’t have visited if not for my church friends.
The group, minus some camera-shy individuals.

We went to Shin-Sen-Gumi in Little Tokyo.

The owner, Mitsuyasu Shigeta, a one-time civil engineering student and Karate black-belt champion, worked part-time at a yakitori restaurant in Hakata after graduating university. Fast forward a few decades, and he’s now the owner and founder of 11 Shin-Sen-Gumi yakitori, ramen and shabu-shabu restaurants in Los Angeles and Tokyo, with more planned for New York, San Diego, Hawaii and Las Vegas.

Shin-Sen-Gumi specializes in the popular Hakata-style Japanese ramen, from the namesake city northwest of the Kyushu region in Japan. Hakata ramen is known mainly for its milky tonkotsu broth that is creamed out from hours of boiling pork bones. Its noodles are thin and straight, and its garnishes simple and humble. Shin-Sen-Gumi boasts that its broth is churned from 15 hours of simmering Berkshire pork in filtered water.
Angelenos greeted Shin-Sen-Gumi with choruses of approving slurps, so favorable that the restaurant now has 11 locations, though not all are ramen shops. The one we visited in Little Tokyo is a more recent opening. I really can’t imagine why anybody would crave steaming, rich ramen in the middle of a hot day, but Shin-Sen-Gumi was packed as usual when we arrived that Saturday afternoon.

Unlike some militant restaurants, Shin-Sen-Gumi is more customer-friendly in that it allows customer-chosen variations in their ramen. Once you find a seat, you’re given a sheet of paper in which you create your own ramen dish. You pick the toppings/garnishes you want, the level of richness of the broth, and even the hardness of your noodles (go for the hard, never the soft!). For the hungry diners, you can also order an extra helping of noodles after you finish your first portion, and presumably you can keep ordering more noodles until you run out of broth.

For our group, we chose egg, spicy miso, corn, karashi takana (pickled mustard greens), and pickled ginger for the toppings.

I find the egg disappointing…I’m more used to the gold-bleeding soft-boiled eggs served in Singapore ramen restaurants.
We also ordered the Takana fried rice, which was superb:

Lovely, oil and egg-coated rice.
In case you’re wondering, it’s different from Chinese fried rice.There’s less of a wok-fried taste, and the rice is stickier.

And the main star of the meal!
Each bowl comes with sprinkles of chopped scallions, a small spoonful of pickled ginger, and thin, velvety slices of pork laced with fat. The above bowl is tinted red from the spicy miso taste.
I love the utilitarian spoon—it has this little ledge to hook to the side of the bowl. There’s nothing more aggravating than a soup spoon that slides into your precious broth.

For non-ramen lovers like me, they also serve pork wonton soup:
The broth is still the same awesome cloudy, thick-as-cream tonkotsu broth, and it still comes with thin-sliced pork meat, pickled ginger and scallions.

It’s definitely not a light meal; even the broth, unctuous and heavy, sticks to the roof of your mouth and coats your throat and stomach with its porky richness. But it leaves your tummy feeling warm and toasty for hours later. You can feel the protein adding sprightliness to your muscles, the fat injecting fluidity to your joints, and the carbohydrates energizing your mind and heightening your senses.

Hey, kind of like church.

Related posts:

1. Unpredictable
2. Words to Argue, Noodles to Slurp
3. A Little Tokyo Day Trip

For those of you who have read my Weekend ED Series from start to finish, you’ll know that I’ve never been admitted into an eating disorder treatment center.

The reasons vary on why. Before I even dared admit to myself that yes, I was suffering from anorexia nervosa, I was spending hours and hours in the library and my local Borders bookstore reading up on the subject. Unconsciously, I had already admitted to myself that something was wrong with me. And although I couldn’t pinpoint my issue exactly to anorexia (but anorexics are supposed to think she/he is fat! But anorexics don’t eat anything and I eat soooo much!), I was fascinated with what it is, its symptoms, and its treatment.

It’s true that an eating disorder is a self-engrossed disorder–– particularly because eating disordered individuals are completely lucid except when it comes to certain issues. We know what’s disordered and what’s not; we just can’t seem to do anything about it. Personally dealing with such a irrational obsession obsesses us with the irrationality of it all.

Anyway. One thing that fascinated me the most was eating disorder treatment centers. I guess deep down, I wanted to change. I wanted to be treated. And it seemed like every book pointed towards treatment centers as the ultimate solution: “Do you suspect your daughter/sister/friend is anorexic? Get her help! Send her to a treatment center!” And I guess it’s the same solution we come up with most addictions and psychiatric issues: Drug addict? Rehab! Alcholic? Rehab! Depression? Therapy! And shots of drugs!

So it was entirely depressing to read about the pitfalls of eating disorder treatment centers as well. Contrasting those self-help books were also autobiographies in which individuals shared how they went into treatment only to come out even more disordered than ever. After all, what are treatment centers but an enclosed gathering of equally disordered individuals?

The thought of spending three months with other anorexic girls didn’t appeal to me at all. In fact, it sounded downright toxic to me. I remember when I was sick, the first thing I noticed about another female was her weight. Was she skinnier than me? Was her waist narrower than mine? And then: What is she eating? More than me? Less? I didn’t think I could survive in that kind of hyper-sensitive, hyper-observant, hyper-competitive environment and not come out scarred.

Plus, just reading books about eating disorders inadvertently taught me even more disordered “tricks.” How much worse can it be when immersed in a society of intelligent people who are all struggling to even want to recover? Not to mention the rigid structure of the days during treatment. From the books I read, it seemed like each day followed a certain routine. Meals are fixed and based on meeting a certain requirement of calories. What the…that sounded exactly like how I was already living at the time! How would that help once I was released into the “real world?” How do I deal with the sudden spread of options, choices, and social situations?

The only thing that appealed to me about eating disorder treatment centers were the meal plans. And to be honest, that was my main purpose for reading those books. I wanted to be told what to eat. I wanted a strict plan I could follow, I loved that the treatment centers divided each meal into x amount of starch, y amount of vegetables or fruits, z amount of dairy or protein, which totaled into xyz amount of calories. I liked the rigidity of it, because it removed all freedom from me. I wouldn’t have to cry over having eaten too much or too little, because I’ll be given only the exact amount I needed. It sounded wonderful to me, not having to deal with choices. Not having to worry about unplanned situations and meals. I loved controlling things, yet I also desperately wanted to give it all up.

Thus when it actually came to the time when I wanted recovery…I talked with my parents and we decided not to go that route. Not that we had much of a choice, really, because I didn’t have health insurance, and treatment centers can cost over $1200 a day. A day! And you need to stay for at least three whole months for proper treatment. That’s about 90 days…about $108,000!! Who had that kind of money? Only big insurance companies, and not all insurance policies covered treatment centers anyway.

Oh, and I didn’t meet the requirements for treatment centers, either. During my first hospitalization, the doctors talked to numerous treatment centers all across the country, and all of them refused to admit me. Understandably, because with my medical condition at the time, I was a deathly liability to them. I might die in their facility, and the way I looked couldn’t possibly be healthy for the other patients. In addition, most treatment centers’ philosophy is that an eating disordered individual must meet a certain standard of nourishment and weight in order for recovery to take place. I would be the person I dreaded in a treatment center.

The doctors then had a final solution for me: let’s chuck you into the ICU, feed you calories intravenously and thus fatten you up a bit, and then send you to a treatment center. That’s when I totally flipped and checked myself out of the hospital.

About a few months after, I watched the documentary Thin with my mother. Thin, directed by Lauren Greenfield, was the first inside-look documentary revealing the day-to-days of The Renfrew Center, America’s most well-known eating disorder treatment center in Florida. I ordered the DVD as soon as it was released on Amazon. Even having denied treatment centers, I was still deeply intrigued by it. My dad refused to watch it because he said he was “already living in that reality” with me. So it was just my mother and I, with my mother sitting on the sofa, and I standing because sitting made me anxious.

I remember crying as I watched a particular scene in Thin. It was Polly’s (a patient) birthday, and the treatment center team celebrated it by basically forcing her to eat a cupcake. All the other patients had a cookie on their plate. They hugged and shouted words of encouragement and support to Polly while she stared with white knuckles at that fake-colored cupcake. After finishing that obligatory birthday present, she went to her room and cried.

As I watched her struggling to eat that cupcake, I was shaken with horror and empathy. At that moment, I felt like that was the worst birthday joke to play on a person struggling with anorexia. How is that supposed to help at all? Also, all the other patients had one freaking cookie! That’s like, 150 calories compared to the 250 calories of a cupcake! For the birthday girl! How completely, devastatingly unfair!! (It sounds a bit ridiculous writing this now, but that was honestly how I felt at the time).

By the end of that documentary, I felt heavy with the weight of despair. If  treatment centers couldn’t completely treat us, then what? Isn’t that supposed to be the ultimate answer to our suffering? Are we doomed to a life of just maintaining our disordered behaviors? Just…surviving? If even paying hundreds of thousands of money, or fighting tooth-and-nail with an insurance company, and relegating months of personal freedom can’t help us…what can?

My mother, who was also tearing up beside me, turned to me and said, “Only Christ.” And I at the time struggled to believe that, because I wondered if Christ would deign to help someone as pathetic as me. And I wondered, what if this is God’s plan? What if He meant for me to live my entire life with a thorn in my side, as the Apostle Paul did? Maybe His purpose is to live with this disorder so I can be humbled and turn to others with empathy.

That night, I guzzled three bottles of vanilla-flavored Ensure. I don’t know, I guess I was suddenly desperate to be instantly better and be rid of this nightmare I was living. But the next day, the obsessions, the voices of anxiety and fear, the clings of self-disgust and hatred, started all over again.

I receive a lot of emails. Some of them have been from parents, desperate for help yet sucked dry of energy. Some of them have been from husbands, too, who pore through the Internet seeking help for his wasting wife. And most of them ask: What can I do? Can you recommend a treatment center to us?

And I have no answer. I’ve never been to a treatment center, and for a long time my perception of it has been leaning negative. But how do you tell a parent or a husband that? So I have no answer, only a twisting sympathy for these aching families.

I’ve been living without thinking about eating disorders for a long time now. Well, it feels long after having obsessed about it day-in-and-out for about five years. But the last few weeks, my obsession with it has been rekindled. The reason is because I’m researching treatment centers again…this time, as a journalist.

For the final project of my investigative journalism class, I’m focusing on investigating eating disorder treatment centers. As a reporter though, I’m re-looking at with an open mind. I’ve talked to individuals who tell me horror tales of their experience with treatment centers, but I’ve also had coffee with individuals who told me that their treatment center have changed their life for the better. I’ve even attended a conference about eating disorder treatment in San Diego, in which I’ve learned about some of the new skills and school of thoughts regarding treatment for eating disorders.

Things are gradually changing in the eating disorder field. Perceptions are shifting, and new research and technologies are approaching eating disorder treatment with gravity and hope. And I’m realizing that one eating disorder treatment is not the same as the other. And a treatment center five years ago is not the same as a treatment center now.

And here’s where I turn to you, my readers. In order to gain a more comprehensive understanding on this subject, I need a lot more interviews. If you’ve ever had experience with a treatment center in the United States, whether personally, or through a close family member, or as a health practitioner, please consider talking to me. 

I mentioned that this is for a college class, but I’m planning to work on it longer term and hopefully, actually get it published. It might take a year. Or two years. I just want to do a thorough job.

I understand it’s a highly sensitive and personal subject. I am willing to work with you in terms of confidentiality and  your comfort zone in revealing certain details. I have no intentions on turning this into some kind of sensationalizing piece. In the end, I want what every person involved in this field wants: to portray hope. Hope that recovery is possible.

Think about it. And when you’re ready, please contact me at burp.excuzme@gmail.com and include the word “interview” in your subject title. I also welcome any kind of suggestions, advice and questions.

And if possible, please spread the word for me. Tweet it, Facebook it, etc. Anything helps.

Related posts:

1. Weekend ED Series: The 5 Holes
2. Weekend ED Series: Mock Treatment Center
3. Weekend ED Series: The Good Recovery

A couple weeks ago, my friend Hannah introduced me a TED talk with a scandalous title: “When Ideas Have Sex.”

It’s a short clip, about 16 minutes long. We watched it together while sipping beer and munching oil-drizzled dolmas. I suggest you do that too, because the speaker, Matt Ridley, will bring a fascinating perspective into how human beings advance and innovate.

One thing he said particularly stood out to me: “Who knows how to make a computer mouse? Nobody. Literally, nobody.”

Nobody, from the CEO of Apple, to the factory worker, to the truck driver who distributes the mouse to Radio Shack stores, knows how to make a computer mouse from start to finish. It would take forever to learn all the skills and procure all the separate materials to build one fist-sized computer mouse. But with a bit of teamwork and communication, we now probably produce millions of computer mouse (computer mice? mouses?) a year in various designs and qualities.

Amazing, huh. We human beings are the only species that have become more prosperous even as we become more populous. The reason, Mr. Ridley argues, is because we are also the only species that communicate ideas, cooperate, and work for each other. And that kind of interchange right there, is why there’s always hope for the advancement of human kind.

Everything he said made sense to me: we can’t live in this society without working for each other. We all have our specialized fields, and we all play our minor roles in improving living standards for each other. That’s the beauty and power of humans. Consciously and unconsciously, we live in a state of constant interchange, melding ideas and production and thus progressing incrementally.

I thought about that talk again while touring an avocado farm last Saturday.

Most of us know where avocados come from: a tree. But do we know all the energy and process needed to bring those avocados from tree to plate? Do we even think about the amount of manpower and cooperation needed to bring one sticker-stamped avocado into our local grocery store? I had the honor of seeing the whole process for myself.

The California Avocado Commission invited me to tour the journey of an avocado, from seed to store. It’s all in celebration of California Avocado season, which kick-starts early April through September.
I knew I had to invite Hannah then, because she is a true avocado-lover. Why, the night before, she had two whole avocados for dinner—by the spoon! Hannah is a little camera-shy, but she had no problems taking tons of pictures of and for me. She took most of the beautiful pictures below. Thank you Hannah!

This is Jan DeLyser, VP of Marketing at the California Avocado Commission, which represents the hundreds of avocado growers in Southern California. I met her two years ago at another avocado-themed event. She actually remembered my kimchi guacamole creation! That’s why she’s great at what she does.
We met early morning at the Mission Produce Packing House in Oxnard, which is about an hour’s drive away from Los Angeles. The tour was organized for local bloggers. I’ve never toured an avocado farm before, and I’m currently taking an Environmental Journalism class, so I knew I had to jump on this opportunity.
We signed in, got our badges, received a small bag of press goodies, and then took a pee trip together. It was all very VIP and professional. There were even two friendly professional photographers lurking around snapping pictures of us, yay! Once all the bloggers arrived, we piled into a bus and were off on our tour.

Driving through Oxnard felt like I was in a different state. We drove pass miles and miles of strawberry fields and citrus trees. It was certainly an entirely different landscape from the dense, traffic-terror city of Los Angeles!
Oxnard is a coastal area blessed with the perfect agricultural climate. It’s one of the few areas in the world that has a Mediterranean climate—perfect for cold-hating avocados.
We visited the home of Dan and Susan Pinkerton at neighboring Santa Paula first. Dan is an avocado farmer, and nephew of the founder of the Pinkerton avocados. In case you didn’t know, Pinkerton is a variety of avocados. The most famous avocado variety, which you’ve probably heard of, is the darker skinned Hass avocado, which actually originated in California as well.
The view at Dan and Susan’s home is BEAUTIFUL. I’ll try to let the pictures speak for themselves, but gosh we were all in awe when we stepped out of the bus.
Just fields and fields of forest greens, soaking up sun from the clear sky, overlooked by hazy mountains. I haven’t seen so many shades of greens since living in Los Angeles.
Being surrounded by bloggers meant it took a good half-hour before we settled for brunch, because everyone was blasting our their cameras and snapping away. It also meant you’re in trustworthy hands asking them to take your picture with your DSLR.
Dan and Susan’s home is gorgeous, too—flanked with palm trees, basking in warm sun, embraced by verdancy. They also have a lovely pool:
And an outdoor dining table and fireplace.
It’s the ultimate California dream house!
Dan and Susan are a sweet, lovely couple, but they’re also visionaries in their own field.
The 125 acres they own used to be hilly and wild. But they recognized it for the fertile land it is, and managed to raze it down, plant avocado seeds and grow rows of healthy trees. Now they produce tens of thousands of avocados a year.
Dan is a retired military officer. You can kind of tell just meeting him. He’s really fit, very sharp, sincere and warm, yet proper. This may sound weird, but I liked him the moment I saw his elaborate belt and silver buckle. You can’t disrespect a man with a nice belt.
Plus, he really knows his stuff. Agriculture is a complex, tough business. You have to know and meet all sorts of regulations, and even if you do everything right, you can’t predict Mother Nature. You’re at the mercy of so many factors. Farming is no hillbilly work. You need great intelligence and savvy business skills. It’s not just about growing as many fruits as you can.

The Pinkertons had brunch all set up when we arrived. I loved the outdoor table seating. It was all so fresh and vibrant.

Everything, of course, was avocado-themed:
Above are just some of the dishes served. There were avocado omelets, avocado salads, avocado ceviche, avocado hash potatoes, avocado cream cheese… Even the bacon has some kind of avocado infused in it—it was smoked on avocado wood.

And look, dessert!
That’s avocado-chocolate pudding. Check out this recipe by the California Avocado Commission to recreate it in your kitchen.

I totally filled my plate:

It was such a lovely, delicious meal. If you love avocados, this is the meal to have. You’ll probably ingest at least two whole avocados in one plate. I thought of all the healthy fats I’m eating and felt saturated with health and nourishment. Here’s to great hair and skin!

After satiating ourselves on avocados, we piled into the bus again, and drove down to the Pinkertons’ avocado grove.
Here’s where most of our avocado education took place, though eating them was a fun lesson too.

One fascinating thing I learned about avocado trees: They are bi-sexual! Depending on the cultivar, the flowers on avocado trees switch sexes certain times of the day. For example, flowers will open as female one morning, close up in the afternoon, and then open as male the next afternoon. That means it can self-pollinate, though it still needs some exterior factors in order to bud properly.
To make sure that the trees are healthy, Dan checks leaf and soil samples every year. To prevent depletion of soil nutrients, you have to keep a detailed track of elements left in the soil for every 1,000 lbs of fruit produced. That’s particularly important in avocado trees, because they suck out so much nutrients. Just think about how much energy (calories and nutrients) one avocado fruit has, and think about how much nutrients are required to grow that one fruit.
The avocado production in California has been increasing yearly, but that just means they’ll probably face a year of shortage soon, because the soil will need a break to replenish. Plus, certain varieties like the Hass alternate years of high and low yield.
Watering is probably one of the most important part of growing avocados. Avocado trees are shallow rooters—their roots only dig about 1.5 feet deep—so there’s only so much water they can suck up. That means Farmer Dan needs a precise science in estimating how much irrigation to use. Too little water means puny and sun-burnt avocados, while too much water will predispose the tree to root and crown rots. Complicated, isn’t it?
All of the avocados in California are hand-picked. That day, we got the chance to hand-pick our own avocados, too.
Dan provided us with a couple of clippers—basically, long poles of shears—that you place under a mature avocado. You tug at a string that swings a blade over the stem—and the fruit will plop into the bag right under.
Avocado pickers will also be carrying a sling-on bag to lug their picked fruits. There’s also a mini clipper affixed to the bag to snip off any remaining stems from the avocado.
I’m modeling that bag right now. Fashionable, huh?

Hannah and I made a huge mistake picking the avocados though. We accidentally picked avocados that weren’t mature.
Turns out every variety has their own seasons of maturity, and we were picking from the Lamb Hass, which isn’t due to pick for another month. We felt really bad—we basically picked fruit that can never be eaten. Gah, so many things to know about one fruit!

After the grove tour, we drove back to the Mission Produce Packing House in Oxnard.
After hand-picking avocados and loading them into huge-ass bins, these avocados still need to be packaged and shipped, which is where the Mission Produce Packing House steps into duty. It’s a huge, multi-million dollar game of avocado tag.
Before we took the tour around the packing house, however, all of us had to wear this nasty fashion Hitler called hairnets.
Yeah…nobody looks good in a hairnet.

Maybe that’s why our tour guide, Mission Produce Sales/Category Manager Dave Fausset, had no hair.
No hair, no hairnets. Smart.
What you see behind him is the hydro-cooler. Basically, it’s a bathhouse for sun-toasted avocados fresh from the orchards. The avocados are dipped into an ice-cold bath for about 45 minutes to bring their internal temperature down to the optimal 40 degrees Fahrenheit.
It was a hot day, so we enjoyed the chilly breeze whooshing out of that humongous cooler. I got a brain freeze from it, though. Who needs Slurpees when you’ve got a hydro-cooler?
We then moved on to the packing house, where we watched avocados bump and grind on conveyors. First, these avocados are washed once again in soap and chlorinated water.
Then they move on to be coated with food grade wax.
The wax really isn’t necessary at all…but consumers expect shiny, pretty avocados, and if that’s what they want, that’s what they get. We’re a beauty-obsessed society—even our fruits need to go through cosmetics!! Sorry, rant.
Now that they’ve been all pruned and beautified, these avocados are judged once again on their appearance. They hop over to a group of inspectors who check for any indication of sun burns, limb rub, worm damage, ground damage, mechanical damage, thrip or pest nibbles.
Those that don’t meet Mission’s high standards are removed from the pile. Grade #1 means totally blemish-free. Grade #2 means it has some blemishes, but still edible. Hannah took a shot of the grading cheat sheet for us:
After grading, the fruit is individually weighed. It’s really cool how the weighing is done mechanically:
The avocados are dropped into separate levels according to their weight and size. That individual container they’re sitting on are sensitive to the slightest ounce.
Depending on their weight, they will be receive a PLU sticker that designates size, country of origin and ripeness.
And the round and round they go, journeying into different boxes and packages according to size and grade.
Once the avocados are popped into their proper place, they are packed into crates…

Or boxes…
Or these familiar nets…
Costco-bound, I’m sure. Or maybe Trader Joes. Preferably my hat.

Now, this part is relatively simple compared to the whole aspect of “how ripe should the avocados be?” Avocados, like bananas, mature on the tree but ripen after picking. So how much should the packing house ripen the avocados before shipping?
It’s both a science and an art, according to our hairnet-free tour guide. The ripening process is based on both a comprehensive knowledge of the fruit and years of experience. It’s also contingent upon multiple variables, like how far is the fruit traveling? What do customers want? Is it for supermarkets or restaurants? What’s the temperature like at this place and that place?
Mission Produce cannot leave it all to nature. Avocados ripen by naturally producing ethylene gas, but they don’t usually ripen fast enough for customers and retailers, at least not predictably enough for Mission to control the process. Thus Mission has its own “ripening rooms,” basically a walk-in refrigerator that combines refrigeration, airflow and synthetic ethylene gas to help push forward the ripening process in a steady pace.

Even so, not all loads of avocados are ripened to the same stage. Once again, it depends on their destination and retailer demands. At the heart of it all, it’s all about communication, communication, communication. It’s all so complex. Developing this system took many, many hours of research and human brain power.
This is where our tour ended, but the journey for avocados still continues. After they’re loaded into gargantuan trucks, these alligator pears are shipped off to various distribution centers. For example, Costco has its own distribution center, and so does Ralphs, or Walmart. Once they reach their prospective distribution hub, they are re-shipped to different stores.

Phew. So many different steps, so many required teamwork and relationships, just to get a few avocados into consumer hands.
I got to skip the middleman though. Hannah and I lugged home a full paper bag of avocados from Dan and Susan. And then we were gifted a sack of avocados again from Mission. That’s excluding the avocados we picked at Dan’s grove.
The California Avocado Commission really knows how to spoil us writers.

Since Hannah has more mouths to feed, I gave her my Mission sack of avocados. She went home and counted 32 avocados. What in the world can we do with 32 avocados? I have a feeling that for Hannah, it’s going to be sprinkled with coarse salt and eaten with a spoon within a couple days.
For me though, I’m planning to make ice cream. Cake. Bread. Scones. Pancakes. Face masks. I still haven’t decided yet. What would you do if you had 20 avocados?

A big shout out of gratitude to all the wonderful people who made this happen, including Hannah, who was the best company and photographer ever.
It was a freaking blast touring the partial journey of the avocado, from grove to store. Did I tell you I even got to ride the tractor?
Well, actually, all I did was climb in and get swallowed up by that ginormous machine. Since I totaled my last car, I decided against trying to drive it. Not with all the camera and iPhone-totting bloggers/witnesses around!

But anyway, the point of this super long post is: It’s incredible to think about how even the most miniscule objects we use in our daily life—chopsticks, nail clippers, that 4-lb jar of Ketchup, even that rubber band that holds your scallions together—are all products of interchanging ideas, labor and services.
It kind of puts even the most banal things into grander perspective for me.

I’ll remember all the work and effort put into the avocados I buy on sale at my Mexican supermarket: Dan the farmer, the avocado pickers, Dave the Mission manager, the ladies who grade the avocados, the bulky men who carries the crates to the ripening room, the scientists who created bottled ethylene gas, that guy who honks repeatedly as he tractors boxes of avocados around, the companies that make the boxes, the engineers who designed all the factory machines, the manufacturers of the conveyer belts, the real estate that sold the land, Jan and her crew at California Avocado Commission who helps promote the avocados, the health inspectors, the retailers, the Hawaii shirt-wearing cashier at Trader Joes…

Dang. You see what I mean.

Going back to Matt Ridley’s TED Talk, “When Ideas Have Sex.” I originally thought of naming this post “When Avocados Have Sex.” And then I realized it just didn’t make sense, and not just because avocados self-pollinate.

Avocados are just the (re)product(ion). Behind it, it’s all humans. It’s all us. Working for each other to improve one another’s life, one avocado at a time.

Related posts:

1. How an Avocado-Hater Infiltrated the Avocado-Lovers Society

Occasionally in your life, you meet people who immediately make your heart bleed with tenderness.

I’ve met several people like that. Some of them, I got to know better. Others disappear after just a brief encounter.

I wonder if you know what I’m talking about. They are people who for some reason, instantly fills you with fondness. Something about their smile, something about their facial features, something about their mannerisms and the way their eyes crinkle with laughter…their very presence hugs you snuggly with warm fuzzies, and you feel you would do anything for them.

Allow me to introduce you to one such woman. Thankfully, I still get to see her often. And blessedly, I get to eat her cooking.

Her name is Kim Jung Yi, a former North Korean military officer and now a refugee living in Los Angeles with her husband, Charles, also a North Korean refugee. I met her through another North Korean refugee, who I was interviewing for World Magazine.

At that time, I was trying to coax him into allowing me to take a picture of him, promising him that the picture will be pixilated so that he will not be recognized. He kept saying no, but finally he told me to meet me at his friend’s (Charles Kim) restaurant, Yu Hyang Soon Dae.
After much reluctance, he finally allowed me to photograph him—and it was all thanks to the Kims, who joked and teased him until he was softened up into a better mood.
Since then, I’ve been returning to Yu Hyang often. I didn’t get to talk to Mrs. Kim very much, but I did get to chat with her husband Charles, who told me about his difficulties adjusting in South Korea. I left with a new story in mind, and a promise to the Kims that I’ll be back.

I kept my promise. I’ve been returning to this restaurant at least once a month, each time with a new group of friends. And it’s not just because I love the Kims—their food is seriously freaking GOOD. If I go more than a month without eating Mrs Kim’s cooking, I start craving it so much!

The Kims don’t have any help. They can’t afford servers and bussers and cooks. So they perform all those responsibilities, and you can tell the work can be exhausting.
All the time I’ve dined at Yu Hyang, I’ve never seen them be able to sit down and relax. They’re either chopping and dicing in the kitchen, or scrambling around the restaurant serving dishes, or clearing the tables.
For the first several visits, my interaction with the Kims was limited to bows, grins, and exclamations of appreciation. But I always felt a certain fondness for them, especially Mrs Kim, who always greeted me with a bright smile. She calls me “Ms. Journalist” and almost treats me like a daughter. She even invited me to her restaurant for a Christmas dinner when she found out that my family lives in the East Coast.
One time, I left the restaurant without saying goodbye. As my friend and I crossed the street to my parked car, she ran out of the restaurant, calling out, “Are you leaving already?” And then she waved and said, “Goodbye! Drive home safe!” I bowed my greetings, and now I never leave without saying goodbye first.

My appreciation for the Kims grew infinitely, however, when I finally got the chance to sit down and interview Mrs Kim. I visited one late afternoon while she was busy pleating kimchi dumplings. Her husband was away buying produce at the supermarket.

We shared about an hour or so of conversation. And this time, when I left, I bowed as usual again, but now it was with ten times more respect and admiration. The subsequent article I wrote was easy to write—it practically wrote itself. But it changed my perspective on a lot of things. It came at a right time, too, because I totaled my car very soon after. Perspective. There’s nothing more decisive in your life than how you view things that happen to you.

You can read her story here. And if you ever are in the Koreatown area, I hope you can visit the Kims’ restaurant. Invite me if you need a translator. Once, a non-Korean friend arrived at the restaurant before me, and she had a hard time trying to translate to the Kims that no, she didn’t lose her way.
I’m always astounded that Yu Hyang isn’t as famous as some other Koreatown restaurants, because its food is one of the best I’ve had. But Yu Hyang has its limit because it’s not exactly non-Korean friendly. There are no English translations on the menu, and neither Kims speak conversational English. I don’t think they’re very well-versed in social media, nor can they afford advertising in local newspapers.

But I’m slowly spreading the word. Already, I’ve brought about five different group of friends to Yu Hyang, and each time, all my friends—and they’re all non-Koreans—fell in love with the Kims and their food. I’m telling you, Yu Hyang is a miracle for being kept secret for so long.
Everything in this restaurant is homemade on that very day, from the banchan to the brewed barley tea.
And depending on the season and the price, the banchan changes sporadically.
Napa kimchi and pickled cucumbers are always available though.

Since many of you probably can’t make it down here, let me share Yu Hyang’s menu with you. I’ve pretty much tried all the dishes it has to offer. Even if you can’t speak Korean, you can just blind-point to anything on the menu and I guarantee you it’ll be fabulous.

But first, let me share with you what I self-gratuitously call “The Sophia Dish.”
Okay, I didn’t exactly invent this dish. But this dish isn’t on the menu, and Mrs Kim makes this dish specially for me because I asked for it. And now every time I visit, she knows this dish will always be included in the order.
What it is, is stir-fried soon dae. Soon dae is Korean blood sausage—I’ve written about it a few times on this blog—and it’s one of the specialties at Yu Hyang. Basically, it’s noodles cooked with pork blood, stuffed into pig intestine casing.

Don’t be turned off by the words “blood sausage.” There’s nothing bloody-tasting about this dish. Trust me, I cannot stand the irony taste of animal blood, but I can’t get enough of this dish. Plus, because it’s stir-fried with tons of sweet, spicy sauce, sweet potato starch noodles and vegetables, you won’t even know there’s pork blood in those sausages.
Because this dish isn’t on the menu, Mrs. Kim gets creative each time she makes it. The result is inconsistent: sometimes she uses nappa cabbage, other times she uses white cabbage. Sometimes it’s fiery spicy, other times it’s mild. But it’s always, always, freaking delicious.
Other than stir-fried (my favorite), you can also just get plain soon dae, served like this:
Mrs. Kim makes her soondae a bit different. Many restaurants stuff the intestines with mostly noodles, barley and pork blood, but Yu Hyang’s include vegetables like onions and perilla leaves, and she also bulks up the protein level in there with tofu.
You can also enjoy soondae in a soup, thick and earthy, like this:
The brownish-black seasoning on top is wild perilla seeds. It’s also seasoned with some kind of fermented soybean paste, which contributes to its earthiness. There’s also lots of wild greens in there:
I am personally not a fan of the soup-based soon dae. It’s served with cubes of congealed blood…that’s way too bloody for me. The soup is really good for people who is feeling fatigued and dull, though.

The other top specialty, is Yu Hyang’s Mae-un tang, or Spicy Fish Soup. You can order it as individual stone pot portions such as this…
Or you can order it for a group, served boiling and steaming over a gas burner.
I highly recommend sharing it with a small group of friends. Friends with whom you don’t mind double and triple dipping.
Oh man. This is the BEST meal to have when it’s chilly and windy outside. When you feel a flue creeping up, or when your nose just feels stuffed, or when you’re feeling constipated…Maeuntang is your best friend.
It’s got everything you need on one bubbling cauldron: spice to jolt your metabolism, hot seafood-seeped broth to warm your soul, chunks of tender rockfish and crustaceans to rejuvenate your tired muscles, bucketfuls of fresh greens, mushrooms, onions and soybean sprouts to exceed your nutrient quota, gushes of steam to open up your pores.

Oh man, oh man! I know it looks fiery, but it’s really not as spicy as you think it is. Well, to me at least. I might not be the best person to judge, considering my ridiculous spice tolerance.
But if you’re squeamish about eyes, this might not be the dish for you, because there will be at least six different pairs twinkling up among the steam and broth.
My friend Ebony (above) usually freaks out about eyes, but she endured it this time. Well, actually, I had to help rip shrimp heads apart so that she can eat her crustacean flesh in peace without a glassy eye staring at her.
It was a lot of firsts for this group of friends:
We’re all journalism majors and when Fall semester ended, we celebrated by dining at Yu Hyang.
For Tasbeeh (above), it was her first time eating squid. I didn’t realize that when I ordered this stir-fried squid dish:
It’s squid fried with gochujang, and served with thin wheat noodles.
I’ve been gnawing squid of all kinds since I was old enough to chew, but I guess I can understand why someone who has never tried squid before would approach the idea of eating tentacles with apprehension. Tasbeeh, however, was a brave trooper:
She just bit down and said, “Mmm! Not bad!”

So as not to completely turn off my friends, I also ordered some not-so-exotic dishes, such as this potato pancake:
Wow. Just pure grated potatoes, pressed down into a thick, gooey, crispy pancake. Can’t you just taste and feel the crispness of the potatoes between your teeth?

Another group I invited to Yu Hyang was my Chinese classmates:
It was in the middle of final exams so only a couple could make it, but we ate enough for six.

For them, I ordered the Sophia Dish, and also the ubiquitous Korean BBQ:
It came sizzling on a platter, crowned with wisps of savory steam.
I LOVE that it came with thick, hunky stalks of green onions. It provided such a nice texture, together with the nutty sesame seeds and fried onions.

Since we’re from Chinese class, we also had steamed kimchi dumplings:
Yu Hyang serves them in soup, but I asked for it steamed like this. All handmade!

But here’s the soup version:
Oh wait, there’s more! Mrs Kim also makes one of the best seafood pancake I’ve ever had:
I once asked Mrs Kim where she learned her cooking skills. “Everything is just so scrumptious!” I told her.

And she burst into delighted laughter, saying, “Ho ho ho, that’s what everybody tells me!” Isn’t she endearing? And then she added, “Nobody ever taught me to cook. It’s truly a gift from God. I just intuitively know the right amount of seasoning to use, and I know how to put ingredients together to make something taste good. I thank God every day for these hands.”
Again, perspective. When I meet people like the Kims, I feel inspired to view my own life differently. There’s so much power in thanksgiving—enough to empower others as well.

Read her story. And if you can, taste her cooking. They’re both amazing.

Related posts:

1. The Tale of Two Dumplings
2. My Family’s Morning Routine
3. Huff and Puff Fish

I’ve never celebrated Valentines Day before.

I have no animosity towards it. I don’t feel blue about my singlehood during that day when my girlfriends plan romantic dinners and receive roses at their doorstep. So what if I don’t get flowers or chocolate? The next day I can boo-yah on 50 percent-marked down heart-shaped candies. And anyway, what am I going to do with a bouquet of roses that wilt in a day? That’s more time and energy I have to spend procuring a vase and then tossing it into the trash.

I also don’t have any emotional opinions about it being a hyper-commercialized charade crafted by card and chocolate companies. So what if they’re capitalizing on the guilty conscience of consumers by packaging Valentines as a day of sugar-laced love—we live in a capitalist economy after all. And as I said, I love the candy discounts the day after.

Valentines Day has always just been a non-event for me. I’ve passed through 24 Valentines Day without any drama or theatrics, often times forgetting it even exists.

This year, however, I got to actually acknowledge it in a wholly satisfying way. No, I’m still proud and blissful to be single. And that’s the whole point. This year, I got to celebrate Black Day.

I had no idea this event existed until my church friends (I go to a Koreatown church) suggested we eat jajangmyeon together on February 14.

In South Korea, February 14 is the day where only men get all the tooth-rotting chocolates. Females gift the significant males in their life—usually their love interests, but also their guy friends and co-workers—chocolate. Depending on the level of care put into it, that chocolate could signify romantic love, deep appreciation or plain courtesy. The guys will enjoy their sweet gifts, probably tallying and comparing the amount with their peers’ to gauge their popularity, while girls blush and fidget over the reactions of their crush.

Then a month later, on March 14, it’s the men’s turn. This day is called White Day, in which men will present white-themed presents, such as sugar cookies, white chocolate, creamy marshmallows, white lingerie (ew) or if you fancy, jewelry. But the men don’t have to gift their female friends, co-workers or mothers—just the girl they fancy. It sounds unfair, but White Day gifts from men are usually way, way more expensive than the chocolate the girls buy.

Anyway. After all that, another month later on April 14, all the leftover people who didn’t get any chocolate or white panties will meet up and celebrate the rogue, informal Black Day. On that day, all the single ladies and guys slurp up the worst possible food you can ever eat on a date: jajangmyeon.
Jajangmyeon, as all K-pop and K-drama fans will already know, is a fermented black bean noodle dish, a Korean rendition of the Chinese ja jiang mian.
If you’ve ever eaten jajangmyeon, you know it’s not a dainty dish. You splatter black sauce all over your face, your mouth gets stained with inky lipstick, your breath doesn’t smell so good because of all the onions and vinegar you’re ingesting. It doesn’t help that you’ll be crunching on raw onions and kimchi as a side dish.
And that’s the whole point.  You’re single and free! So you don’t have to worry about any of those things. Just pig out and enjoy!

So on February 14, we decided to celebrate Black Day two months early. I went with my two church friends, Hannah and Christine. We meet every Thursday for prayer meetings, so this Thursday we hopped over to a Korean-Chinese restaurant right after our meeting.

We call ourselves the BMW: Beautiful Modern Women. Except that day, we were also the Black-Mouthed Women after our black noodles meal.
(And yes, I’m wearing a bright yellow tie. It’s a little ridiculous but that’s why I love it. I got it for $1.50 at Daiso. I couldn’t say no when I saw the little puppies on it!)

Originally I wanted to take them to my favorite Korean-Chinese restaurant, Young King, but it was packed. Apparently every Korean group in town had the same idea as us. So we crossed the road to another Korean-Chinese restaurant. God I love Koreatown.

This one is called Shin Beijing, and it’s the first restaurant my parents and I visited about four years ago when I arrived in Los Angeles as a freshman.

We started out with the usual jajangmyeon holy trinity: cabbage kimchi, radish kimchi, and raw onions dosed with vinegar.
The only thing missing, I figured later on, was the pickled daikon. Shaking fist and head.

We also got a side dish of stewed beef meatballs:
I don’t know why the menu states it just as “stewed beef meatballs” when it’s clearly the famed Lion’s Head meatballs. Maybe it’s because most of the customers are Korean and thus don’t recognize the dish.
This dish was bomb. The meatballs were really tender, yet crisp on the outside from being pan-fried first. Loved the bamboo shoots and wood-ear mushrooms in this dish.
Each meatball is about half the size of a well-formed fist. Coated with a sticky, gingery sauce.

We also ordered a jjambbong soup:
I think it’s sacrilegious to eat jajangmyeon without jjambbong. Jjambbong is a spicy seafood noodle soup.

The server dished it out into individual portions for us. Each bowl came loaded with squid, shrimp and onions. Nothing like spice-zinged, onion-infused seafood broth on a cold night.

And of course, we also had the jajangmyeon:
Christine had her own small regular portion, while Hannah and I shared a large three-seafood jajangmyeon.
Our three seafood jajangmyeon came with baby shrimp, sea cucumbers and squid. The noodles were divided from the sauce since we asked to split it. By some divine intervention, I managed not to get a single black drop on my shirt or face while slurping:
Technically, Christine isn’t really single; she’s engaged. But this is the last year she’s single—unmarried—until she finally makes the deal in June. And Hannah has more guys chasing after her than I can keep track of. But it was fun to hang out like this and be each other’s Valentines for a night.

Maybe we’ll do this again on April 14. Until then…
Happy Black Day!

Related posts:

1. A Day Trip at Koreatown
2. A Fairy Tale Dinner with a Fairy Blogger
3. Korean Stew: From Dog to Goat?

I was 14 in my eight-grade Civics class when I made a decision to be someone I can never, ever be. I told myself I would be the first female Asian President of the United States.

The obstacle was this little green passport issued by the Republic of Korea.

I knew enough basic Civics to know that only a natural-born American citizen can be a POTUS. But I though, maybe, possible, my intellectual excellence, shrewd political skills, and smooth social passion might convince America to tweak the laws a bit.

A hopeless wish, of course. After a few months of dreaming, I switched my ambition once my Civics class coursed down to from the Executive to the Judicial Branch: I decided I was going to be a Supreme Court Justice.

To be honest, those fruitless dreams stemmed primarily from a teenage desire for raw power. I entertained images of me parading in shimmering black robe and pounding gavel, or shaking the hand of the Abdullah of Saudi Arabia and smoking cigars in the Oval Office.

But other than that purely selfish reason, I also had somewhat selfless intentions: I was absolutely besotted with America.

I listened with rapt attention as my Civics teacher discussed the Founding Fathers and their vision to create a land of liberty and justice. I read with enlightened eyes the grand speech in the Constitution, and nodded with agreement over the concept of “checks and balances” between the three government branches.

I truly believed that America created the most perfect governmental system and the most godly country in the world, and I wanted to play a part in it.

That was the same year I moved to America from Singapore. Before that, all I knew about America was from books. I knew that they put jelly (I envisioned gummy worms) in their peanut butter sandwiches and that high school was divided into the “popular” snobs and the “unpopular” nerds.

But I also heard many, many good things about America from my father, who grew up in an American mission school in Korea. He shared how much his heart ached whenever he saw an American family go hand-in-hand to church every Sunday morning. My mother too told me how the grinning, handsome American soldiers always had pocketfuls of candy bars and bubble gum for the kids. Both my parents still salivate over thoughts of cornbread baked from the sacks of cornmeal America sent over while South Korea struggled with famine and poverty.

Through my parents’ tales, the image of America that formed in my mind was that of a kind, wealthy uncle—the kind that has a  hearty, jolly laugh, a rich beard, and a full belly that wobbles when he chortles.

Of course, a lot of my perceptions were simple-minded and idealistic. America was not the utopia I thought it would be.

Taking AP U.S. History in high school provided me deeper context into the bedrock of America. I learned that the Civil War isn’t purely a war against slavery. Political parties don’t always champion for the people. U.S. presidents are hugely flawed and not as powerful as I thought they were. Americans aren’t all nice and rich, but are a diverse country of people with economic polarization and ethnic conflict. Americans deal their own set of problems: unemployment, bigotry, poor education, homelessness, broken health care, you name it.

But knowing all facets, positive and negative, of this country makes me appreciate it more. Instead of just blindly admiring it, I realize that living in this country comes with sets of responsibilities and action. Because America is not a perfect nation, that only encourages its citizens to contribute in making it better.

Saluting Uncle Sam…

So it’s with a more balanced view of America that I finally became a citizen of the United States yesterday on January 29, 2013.

The oath swearing was a massive ceremony in Pomona, California, attended by 2176 citizenship applicants.
2176 new Americans!!! In one day, in one city! And apparently they do this every month!

We all squeezed into hard chairs. It took at least half an hour to pack all of us into seats. The ceremony itself lasted about another half an hour, but the whole process ate up about four hours because of the sheer size of applicants and the bigger size of their guests who came to witness this momentous event.
I sat next to a well-groomed Vietnamese woman and a rotund Mexican man—oops, excuse me. No longer Vietnamese or Mexican; we are all Americans now. Wow.

It was both chilling and warming to sit there that morning. I was literally looking at a snapshot of American diversity. We had black, white, brown and yellow people who were tall and short, chubby and skinny, bald and frizzy-haired, natural  blonde and bleached, wrinkled and young, cheerful and somber. Then they played this song, which made me tear up:

After the oath swearing, we all raised the plastic American flag and waved it in the air, while our guests burst into applause and whoops.
If you were born and raised in America, you might not completely understand the heart-tugging and chest-toasting feelings I feel when I hear phrases like “God bless the U.S.A” and “America, Land of the Free.” You might not wholly understand the desperate longing people feel as they make every effort, sometimes illegal ones, to enter this land and be able to utter, “I am an American citizen.”

I feel incredibly blessed to have gone through the naturalization process of becoming a U.S. citizen. It took years to reach this stage, and by the time you get there, you understand what a cherished privilege it is to gain that certificate.
I do feel a little sad that my Korean passport is now obsolete. As someone who spent most of my life out of my Mother Country, that passport was the last remaining mark of my “Koreanness.”

But I love that being an American doesn’t mean abandoning my cultural background at all. I share American values and pledge my allegiance to the American flag, but I still gobble kimchi with my spaghetti and curse in Korean. I can be as American as apple pie, but that pie probably will have a green tea crust and speckles of toasted black sesame.
A big thank you to my beautiful friend Hannah, who endured the hours of waiting with me just to get an Instagram shot of my naturalization:
Hannah, like me, is a naturalized American citizen. Throughout the day, as we toiled in horrible traffic, we gushed about how blessed we are to live in America. Hannah was naturalized as a kid through her parents, so she didn’t get to attend the full oath swearing. I was happy that she got that experience through me.

After the event, we went for dim sum at a Chinese-filled place n a city known as Little Taipei. We sucked seasoned skin of chicken legs, chewed on pig tendons, guzzled scalding pu’er tea, and discussed the linguistic difference between the Mandarin and Cantonese version of “fried rice.” I also got yelled at a dim sum lady to go ask for more fried rice myself.

It was as American as you can get, truly. God bless the U.S.A.

No related posts.