Every morning I wake up to the sound of an obnoxious ringtone that sounds like a cross between an over-caffeinated hamster and a hyped-up track from a Daft Punk album. Despite having a rather persuasive alarm, it usually takes me several snoozes to entice me to slide out of my bed and crawl into the shower. After ten minutes of sluggish scrubbing and washing, I take another five minutes to groggily pick out my outfit for the day. Then I commence downstairs to have breakfast.
As I make the first few steps of my descent downstairs to the kitchen, I try to guess what my mother might have whipped up in the kitchen. I inhale deeply, attempting to identify the sources of the scents that waft from the kitchen counter. On some mornings the scents would be from an average Continental breakfast. But most of the time, my olfactory senses invite the rich and savory aroma of solid Korean fare to their humble abode.
And I absolutely love Korean food. There has never been a single day when I devoured a platter of spicy tofu or downed a steaming bowl of seaweed soup without relish. I attack that potato noodle salad with alacrity. I masticate on that seasoned mackerel like a hunting dog maiming its prey. Every breakfast, a feast is laid out for me.
But who makes all this food? Who gets up everyday at 5:00 to fix breakfast and pack my lunch? My mother. Yes, she is a busy woman and could be occasionally be more forgetful than my father and I put together, but she will always make sure that I get to have breakfast. Why, that lady will cook even if there was a war going on outside! That sheer determination, that undying devotion, that utter joy that is conveyed through her furrowed brow and crooked smile is powerful enough to move a couch potato to take up rigorous exercise. At first glance she seems just like any other stereotypical Asian housewife: short, temperamental, and diligent. But when she lays her hands on the knife and the stove, she becomes an alchemist, a conjurer of savory magic and delicious spells. Her bony fingers stir and weave the freshest ingredients into the most delectable dishes available in Korean cuisine.
Yet, when I watch my mother cook, I am overcome with pangs of guilt. Here is this woman who has fed and taken care of me for my entire life, and yet here I am, her son, unable to remember even her birthday. When was the last time I got her a card or a bouquet of flowers? When was the last time I said “thank you” or “I love you” to her?
But my mother’s love is unconditional. I can tell by the way her breakfast tastes.
Some kids have parents who give them $150 for their allowance. Others have parents who buy them clothes from Armani Exchange and Dolce & Gabbana. But I have a mother who cooks breakfast for me every single day. And for the last 17 years, I proclaim with pride, my mother has been the greatest cook in the universe, not because of her excellent culinary skills, but because of the effort that she puts into creating the greatest breakfasts in the universe.
