Another November/December non-fiction book that I really, really enjoyed reading. I found this memoir deeply touching and raw.
It’s a gritty memoir in the sense that it looks at grief and death in a very clear-eyed, unsentimental way, but at the same time it’s genuinely entertaining and often very tender. Structured as a series of interlocking vignettes, it’s a tough story about grief and growing up.
One of the strongest elements of the book is the unflinching look at the mother–daughter dynamic and the secrets that usually stay inside families. We get all these beautiful moments of love, care, and conflict, culminating in an intense period of illness and bereavement. By the end of the book Zauner is mourning her Korean mother while also trying, and largely failing, to get emotional support from her American father.
At the same time, she’s learning how to interact with her Korean aunt and the rest of her extended family. That tension between cultures, expectations, and ways of expressing love runs throughout the book.
Food sits at the centre of everything. The memoir beautifully shows how food and culture are intertwined, and how meals and food preparation are intimately tied to family memories, grief, and love. There are some emotive and evocative descriptions of Korean food, markets, and cooking, and these moments feel both sensory and emotional, grounding Zauner’s mourning in something physical and alive.
I love how this memoir is a powerful reflection on growing up, displacement, and the search for identity. It explores the complicated process of forgiving yourself, and your parents, for the ways you’ve hurt each other, and figuring out what family and legacy are all about.
One word: gut-wrenching.
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