Crying in H Mart

Crying in H Mart Plot Summary

Introduction

Michelle Zauner's journey unfolds at the intersection of cultural identity, profound grief, and the universal language of food. As a Korean-American artist raised in Eugene, Oregon, Zauner navigates the complex terrain of being caught between two worlds—never quite Korean enough, yet always marked as different in America. Her story begins with a seemingly ordinary moment: crying in the aisles of H Mart, an Asian grocery store that becomes both sanctuary and battlefield in her quest to preserve her Korean heritage after her mother's death. Through Zauner's unflinching narrative, we witness the evolution of a mother-daughter relationship that transforms from teenage rebellion to profound connection through shared meals and cultural traditions. Her experience illuminates the immigrant family dynamic where food becomes the primary vehicle for expressing love, preserving identity, and ultimately, processing grief. As she learns to recreate her mother's recipes, Zauner discovers that cooking Korean dishes is not merely about sustenance but about maintaining a vital connection to her roots and honoring the woman who gave her both life and a cultural legacy worth preserving.

Chapter 1: Between Two Worlds: Growing Up Korean-American

Michelle Zauner was born in Seoul, South Korea, to a Korean mother and an American father. When she was just a year old, her family immigrated to Eugene, Oregon, a small college town in the Pacific Northwest. This picturesque setting, with its lush greenery and mild climate, became the backdrop for Zauner's childhood—one marked by the constant negotiation between her Korean heritage and American upbringing. In Eugene, Zauner's family settled into a house nestled among ponderosa pines, far from neighbors and other Korean families. This physical isolation mirrored her cultural one; she was often the only mixed-race child in her classes, subject to the inevitable question: "What are you?" Her mother, Chongmi, became her primary connection to Korean culture, teaching her the importance of proper etiquette, respect for elders, and appreciation for Korean cuisine. These lessons, however, were delivered with a tough love that sometimes felt harsh to young Michelle. Her mother's exacting standards extended beyond cultural education to personal appearance and behavior. "You'll have this scar forever!" her mother would scold when she fell and hurt herself, more concerned about permanent marks than immediate comfort. This approach to parenting—prioritizing long-term outcomes over momentary relief—reflected a distinctly Korean sensibility that often clashed with American norms. Her mother's famous phrase, "Save your tears for when your mother dies," became a refrain that would haunt Zauner years later when facing that very reality. Food became the bridge between these disparate worlds. While Zauner struggled with her mother's strictness in other areas, their shared appreciation for Korean cuisine created moments of genuine connection. From an early age, Zauner impressed her family with her adventurous palate, willingly trying everything from live octopus to raw sea cucumber. These culinary experiences became a source of pride and a way to earn her mother's elusive approval. "This is how I know you're a true Korean," her mother would say as they shared midnight snacks of ganjang gejang—raw crab marinated in soy sauce—during their biennial trips to Seoul. These visits to Korea provided Zauner with immersive experiences in her maternal culture. Staying with her grandmother (Halmoni) and aunts in a cramped apartment in Gangnam, she absorbed Korean customs, language, and family dynamics. She followed her older cousin Seong Young around, played hwatu (Korean cards) with her grandmother, and listened to her aunt Nami read Korean Sailor Moon books with dramatic voice acting. These trips reinforced her Korean identity in ways that couldn't be replicated in Oregon. As she entered adolescence, however, the cultural divide widened. Zauner began to rebel against her mother's expectations, embracing American independence and creative pursuits that her mother viewed with skepticism. Music became her passion and escape, leading to further tension at home. This period of their relationship was marked by fierce arguments and mutual incomprehension—a painful but common phase in immigrant family dynamics where first-generation Americans struggle to reconcile their heritage with their desire to assimilate.

Chapter 2: The Language of Food and Love

In Zauner's household, food was never just sustenance—it was the primary language of love and care. Her mother expressed affection not through verbal affirmation or physical embraces, but through meticulously prepared meals tailored to individual preferences. "Korean people like small faces," her mother would explain in Seoul, where strangers complimented Zauner's appearance. "And Korean people like the double eyelid," she added, noting the crease between eye and brow that Zauner had inherited from her father—a feature many Korean women sought through surgery. These cultural observations about beauty were delivered alongside lessons about proper eating. Her mother taught her to wrap galbi (marinated short ribs) in lettuce leaves with rice, kimchi, and ssamjang sauce. She showed her how to eat miyeokguk, seaweed soup traditionally consumed on birthdays to honor one's mother. Each dish came with context and meaning, connecting Zauner to a heritage that otherwise might have felt distant in their Oregon home. Unlike many American parents who might force children to clean their plates, Zauner's mother had only one food rule: you had to try everything once. This approach fostered Zauner's adventurous palate and created opportunities for approval. At Noryangjin Fish Market in Seoul, when ten-year-old Michelle willingly ate live octopus tentacles that still pulsed with movement, her mother beamed with pride: "Good job, baby!" This moment crystallized a pattern—while Zauner struggled to please her mother in other domains, food became the arena where she could excel and earn praise. The contrast between Korean and American food cultures became especially apparent when Zauner entered adolescence. While her American peers subsisted on processed snacks and fast food, her lunch box contained homemade kimbap (seaweed rice rolls) and other Korean specialties that sometimes drew curious or judgmental looks. These moments reinforced her sense of otherness, yet also became a source of pride as she developed a sophisticated palate beyond her years. When Zauner left for college, her mother continued to express love through food, sending care packages filled with honey-puffed rice, seasoned seaweed, and cups of Shin ramen. During breaks when she returned home, her mother would prepare elaborate feasts of Korean comfort foods—galbi, doenjang jjigae, and perfectly fermented kimchi. These homecomings centered around the dining table, where Zauner would close her eyes in appreciation of flavors impossible to replicate in college cafeterias. The language of food extended beyond their immediate family. During their trips to Korea, Zauner observed how her grandmother showed love by peeling Asian pears in one continuous strip, offering the slices to her daughters while eating only the core herself. She watched her aunts debate the merits of different jeotgal (fermented seafood) at department store food halls, their animated discussions revealing both expertise and care. These moments taught Zauner that in Korean culture, feeding others is an act of devotion—one that requires knowledge, skill, and attention to detail. Even in conflict, food remained their common ground. When teenage rebellion drove a wedge between them, shared meals provided moments of truce. Years later, when Zauner married, her mother-in-law recognized this aspect of their relationship immediately: "You can tell your mother just adored feeding you." This observation captured the essence of their bond—a love expressed not through words but through the careful preparation of dishes that nourished both body and cultural identity.

Chapter 3: Losing a Mother, Finding Identity

The devastating news came when Zauner was twenty-five. Her mother, diagnosed with stage IV cancer, faced a prognosis that left little room for hope. This moment marked the beginning of a profound transformation in their relationship. Zauner, who had spent years establishing independence from her mother, now found herself drawn back into her orbit with a fierce determination to become the perfect daughter—to make amends for every teenage rebellion and harsh word exchanged. Zauner immediately quit her three part-time jobs in Philadelphia, put her band on hiatus, and returned to Oregon to become her mother's caretaker. The role reversal was jarring; the woman who had always been a pillar of strength and perfectionism now required assistance with the most basic functions. Zauner meticulously tracked her mother's medication, monitored her caloric intake, and researched Korean dishes that might appeal to her diminished appetite. "I would radiate joy and positivity and it would cure her," she thought, clinging to magical thinking in the face of medical reality. Food, once their shared language of love, became a battleground of a different sort. Zauner struggled to prepare dishes her mother could stomach through the nausea and mouth sores caused by chemotherapy. She made gyeranjjim (steamed egg custard) and pine nut porridge (jatjuk), traditional Korean foods for the ill, but even these gentle offerings often went untouched. The meticulous record-keeping of calories consumed became a desperate attempt to exert control in an uncontrollable situation. As her mother's condition deteriorated, Zauner found herself navigating not only grief but cultural tensions. When her mother's friend Kye arrived from Georgia to help with caregiving, Zauner felt increasingly marginalized. "You are not one of us," Kye seemed to imply when Zauner expressed concern about feeding her mother soft-boiled eggs. "And you will never really understand what it is she needs, no matter how perfect you try to be." This moment crystallized Zauner's fear of losing not only her mother but her claim to Korean identity. In a poignant attempt to create one final positive memory, Zauner organized a hasty wedding so her mother could attend. The backyard ceremony became a celebration of life as much as marriage, with her mother dressed in a vibrant hanbok sent by her aunt Nami. For a brief moment, cancer receded into the background as they focused on flower arrangements, table settings, and the slow dance between Zauner's new husband and her mother—the last man she would ever approve of. When her mother passed away in October 2014, Zauner faced the dual challenge of grieving her loss while preserving her Korean heritage. Without her mother as cultural intermediary, she feared this essential part of her identity might slip away. This anxiety manifested in dreams where she discovered her mother wasn't really dead but had been forgotten somewhere—dreams that revealed her subconscious fear of losing connection to both her mother and her Korean roots. The process of clearing out her mother's possessions became another layer of grief. Each object—from QVC-ordered beauty products to carefully preserved childhood mementos—told a story about her mother's values and priorities. Among these treasures, Zauner discovered her mother's art supplies and completed watercolors, revealing a creative side she had only glimpsed in her mother's final years. These paintings offered a new dimension to her understanding of the woman who had raised her with such exacting standards.

Chapter 4: Music as Salvation and Expression

Music had always been Zauner's refuge, a space where she could process emotions and forge an identity separate from her mother's expectations. As a teenager in Eugene, she idolized Pacific Northwest indie rock heroes like Modest Mouse and became captivated by Karen O of the Yeah Yeah Yeahs—the first half-Korean, half-white musician she'd ever seen achieve mainstream success. This representation was revolutionary for young Michelle, who had previously struggled to imagine someone of her background thriving in alternative music. Despite her mother's skepticism about her musical ambitions ("I'm just waiting for you to give this up," she once said), Zauner persisted. She badgered her parents for a guitar, eventually receiving a modest Yamaha acoustic from Costco for Christmas. She took lessons, wrote songs, and gradually built up the courage to perform at local venues like Cozmic Pizza and the WOW Hall. These early shows, though humble, gave her a taste of artistic expression that would later become her lifeline. The tension between pursuing music and meeting her mother's expectations of academic success created significant conflict during Zauner's adolescence. While her mother envisioned a stable career path, Zauner dreamed of life as a touring musician. This fundamental disagreement reached a breaking point when her mother declared, "You want to be a starving musician? Then go live like one," temporarily kicking her out of the house. This painful episode illustrated their different values and visions for her future. After college, Zauner moved to Philadelphia and formed a band called Little Big League, working multiple jobs to support her musical endeavors. When her mother's cancer diagnosis pulled her back to Oregon, music temporarily receded into the background. However, during the darkest days of caregiving and grief, Zauner found herself returning to songwriting as a form of processing her emotions. In the small cottage at the bottom of her parents' property, she wrote songs about her mother's illness, Julia the family dog's confusion, and the isolation of the woods—conversations she couldn't have with others but could express through music. Following her mother's death, Zauner recorded these songs with friends in Eugene, creating a nine-track album she titled "Psychopomp." Released under the moniker Japanese Breakfast, this deeply personal project unexpectedly resonated with listeners who had experienced similar losses. What began as private catharsis evolved into a successful career that would eventually take her around the world, including back to Seoul for a sold-out show—a full-circle moment she wished her mother could have witnessed. The irony wasn't lost on Zauner that her musical success came only after her mother's passing—as if her mother had been advocating for her from beyond. "If there was a god, it seemed my mother must have had her foot on his neck, demanding good things come my way," she reflected. The career her mother had discouraged became not only Zauner's livelihood but her vehicle for preserving and honoring her mother's memory, with her mother's image even gracing the album cover. Music provided Zauner with both an emotional outlet and a platform to connect with others experiencing grief and cultural displacement. At shows, fans—particularly Asian Americans and those who had lost parents—would share how her songs had helped them navigate their own losses. Through this unexpected path, Zauner found purpose in transforming personal pain into art that could offer others solace and recognition.

Chapter 5: Reclaiming Heritage Through Cooking

In the aftermath of her mother's death, Zauner faced a profound identity crisis. Without her mother as cultural intermediary, she feared losing connection to her Korean heritage. This anxiety manifested most acutely in the kitchen, where she realized she had never properly learned to cook the dishes that had defined their relationship. "I had spent my childhood watching her cook these meals," she reflected, "but had never bothered to learn the recipes myself." This realization prompted a culinary journey that became central to her grieving process. Shortly after the funeral, when Nami and Seong Young visited from Korea, Zauner attempted to make doenjang jjigae (soybean paste stew) for breakfast. Despite her limited knowledge, she was determined to provide comfort through food as her mother would have done. This initial effort, though imperfect, marked the beginning of her reclamation project. Her breakthrough came when she discovered Maangchi, a Korean YouTube chef whose instructional videos became Zauner's virtual cooking school. "It's Maangchi and me," she would joke, finding solace in the cheerful, maternal presence who patiently demonstrated techniques for everything from kimchi to jjajangmyeon. Through these tutorials, Zauner learned to make jatjuk (pine nut porridge)—the same dish Kye had prepared for her mother during chemotherapy but had refused to teach her. After moving to New York with her husband, Zauner established a ritual of cooking Korean dishes after work. Each recipe excavated memories: knife-cut noodles recalled lunches at Myeongdong Gyoja in Seoul; crispy Korean fried chicken conjured bachelor nights with her aunt Eunmi; black bean noodles summoned images of her grandmother slurping jjajangmyeon takeout. Through these culinary recreations, she maintained a tangible connection to her past and the women who had shaped her. The ultimate test came when Zauner decided to make kimchi from scratch. She traveled to H Mart in Flushing, Queens, purchasing napa cabbage, Korean radishes, gochugaru (red pepper flakes), and other essential ingredients. Following Maangchi's instructions, she spent hours preparing the traditional fermented dish, working the spicy paste between cabbage leaves just as generations of Korean women had done before her. The process was labor-intensive but deeply satisfying, resulting in a product that connected her to her ancestral lineage. This culinary education became more than just skill acquisition—it was identity preservation. "I was what she left behind," Zauner realized. "If I could not be with my mother, I would be her." By mastering Korean cooking techniques, she ensured that her mother's cultural knowledge wouldn't die with her. Each successfully executed dish became proof that her Korean heritage remained intact despite her mother's absence. The therapeutic aspect of this cooking practice cannot be overstated. While traditional grief counseling proved ineffective for Zauner, the rhythmic chopping, stirring, and tasting of Korean cooking provided genuine healing. "I started making kimchi once a month, my new therapy," she explained. The physical labor and sensory engagement offered relief from the abstract pain of loss, grounding her in concrete actions that produced tangible results. Through cooking, Zauner also discovered a community. She began sharing her homemade kimchi with friends, participating in the Korean tradition of food as social currency. This practice echoed her mother's approach to relationships—expressing care through carefully prepared dishes rather than words. By adopting this cultural value, Zauner honored her mother while forging her own adult identity as a Korean American.

Chapter 6: Returning to Korea: Completing the Circle

Two years after her mother's death, Zauner and her husband Peter traveled to Korea, a journey that served as both honeymoon and pilgrimage. This return held profound significance—it was her first visit without her mother as guide and translator. The trip represented both a test of her independent Korean identity and an opportunity to strengthen her relationship with her remaining Korean family, particularly her aunt Nami. Communication with Nami presented significant challenges. Without her mother or cousin Seong Young to translate, they relied on rudimentary Korean phrases, hand gestures, and translation apps. "I had thought fermentation was controlled death," Zauner reflected, comparing her cultural knowledge to kimchi—something that required active tending to prevent spoilage. "The culture we shared was active, effervescent in my gut and in my genes, and I had to seize it, foster it so it did not die in me." During their stay with Nami and Emo Boo (her husband), Zauner experienced the comforting rituals of Korean family life. Nami prepared traditional breakfasts—jeon (savory pancakes) and kimchi jjigae for Zauner, Western-style eggs and toast for Peter. Emo Boo, a Chinese medicine doctor, performed acupuncture treatments and offered herbal remedies. These domestic routines echoed Zauner's childhood visits, creating a sense of continuity despite her mother's absence. Food once again became the primary language of connection. Nami took them to Samwon Garden, an upscale barbecue restaurant in Apgujeong, where they shared mul naengmyeon (cold noodles in beef broth). "Your umma also. This is our family style," Nami explained, revealing that Zauner's preference for this regional style of noodles was inherited from her mother. These small discoveries helped Zauner piece together her mother's history and, by extension, her own. The trip included visits to significant culinary landmarks: Gwangjang Market with its bustling food stalls, Jagalchi Fish Market in Busan, and the seafood restaurants of Jeju Island. These were the places her mother had wanted to show her before she died—the sources of the flavors that had defined their relationship. By experiencing these locations firsthand, Zauner fulfilled a promise and collected sensory memories to carry forward. The journey culminated in an unexpected professional triumph. As Japanese Breakfast, Zauner performed a sold-out concert at V Hall in Seoul. Looking out at the crowd, she felt the improbable convergence of her two life paths—the musical career her mother had discouraged and the Korean heritage her mother had instilled. Nami and Emo Boo watched proudly from the balcony, witnessing her success in the country of her birth. "Emo, welcome to my hoesa," she called out, using the Korean word for "office" to playfully reference her mother's skepticism about music as a viable career. After the show, their Korean hosts took them to a vinyl bar called Gopchang Jeongol, where they discovered "Coffee Hanjan," a song by the Pearl Sisters that had been Nami and her mother's favorite growing up. The sisters used to perform it at family gatherings, wearing matching outfits and improvising with rubber rain galoshes in place of go-go boots. This musical connection across generations provided another thread linking Zauner to her mother's youth. On their final night in Seoul, the four of them—Zauner, Peter, Nami, and Emo Boo—went to a noraebang (karaoke room) where Nami selected "Coffee Hanjan." As they sang together, Zauner struggled to follow the Korean lyrics but felt a profound sense of recognition in the melody. "I could feel Nami searching for something in me that I had spent the last week searching for in her," she observed. "Not quite my mother and not quite her sister, we existed in that moment as each other's next best thing." This karaoke session symbolized Zauner's journey—imperfectly but earnestly connecting to her Korean heritage through whatever means available. By embracing these imperfect connections rather than lamenting their limitations, she found a way forward that honored both her mother's memory and her own bicultural identity. The trip confirmed that her relationship with Korea would continue to evolve, not as a replica of her mother's experience but as something uniquely her own.

Summary

Michelle Zauner's journey illuminates how grief can become a catalyst for deeper cultural connection rather than severance. Through the dual languages of food and music, she transforms devastating loss into creative purpose, demonstrating that honoring a parent's legacy need not mean abandoning personal ambition. Her experience offers a nuanced perspective on the immigrant family dynamic—acknowledging both the tensions that arise from cultural differences and the profound bonds that transcend them. For anyone navigating cultural identity or processing grief, Zauner's story provides valuable insights: that maintaining connection to heritage requires active participation; that creative expression can offer healing when traditional methods fail; and that love often manifests in forms we may not initially recognize or appreciate. Her evolution from rebellious daughter to cultural preservationist reminds us that our relationships with parents continue to develop even after they're gone, as we integrate their influences into our own authentic identities. Through her unflinching examination of loss and belonging, Zauner ultimately affirms that the most meaningful tribute to those we've lost is not perfect replication of their ways, but thoughtful continuation of their most essential values.

About Author

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Michelle Zauner

Michelle Zauner is best known as a singer and guitarist who creates dreamy, shoegaze-inspired indie pop under the name Japanese Breakfast. She has won acclaim from major music outlets around the world for releases like Psychopomp (2016) and Soft Sounds from Another Planet (2017). Her memoir, Crying in H Mart, was released in 2021.

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