Since the first day of kindergarten, my mom has made my lunches with a distinctive flair. Her creations were never ordinary, and they came in phases. For example, during the Alamo Elementary School years, my mom packed me diagonally-cut peanut butter, jelly, and egg sandwiches. “It’s all about balancing out the texture,” my mom told me when I asked her why I didn’t have normal PB and J sandwiches. “The egg softens the thickness of the peanut butter and jelly.” Next came her chicken nuggets with ketchup and rice phase — since rice can be eaten with anything — marking the beginning of her American-Korean fusion experiments that lasted from the Presidio to the Lowell years: rice and stir-fried tofu with Vienna sausages (and ketchup); rice and kimchee with tomatoes, eggs cooked in sesame oil and spam (a lunch essential); rice and dried anchovies (it’s a Korean thing) with carrots, peanuts and cubes of cheddar cheese, etc. The weird mixtures were often a result of my mom stretching the limits of her creativity to make yesterday’s leftovers into today’s surprise, yet, they were always yummy. Periodically, she’d shift gears and construct huge bagel sandwiches with ham, cheese, lots of lettuce, tomatoes, onions and pepperoncini that would take me an hour to finish. The bagel phase would last for about a month, often followed by pasta (with kimchee) for a couple of weeks, then back to rice medleys.

    Currently, my mom favors more traditional Korean food — kimchee bokkeumbap — which is kind of like fried rice but with lots of garlic and onions — the smelliest, but also one of the tastiest lunches. I’ve eaten it for about a week and a half so far. We’ll see how long this phase lasts.

    Epic portions are another characteristic of my mom’s lunches. Her serving sizes increased as the years went on. Even when I downgraded the size of my Tupperware to accommodate for my slowing metabolism, my mom proceeded to stuff the limits of the plastic container, arguing that “a smaller container only looks fuller.” Luckily, my friends have always been there to help me finish it off.

    The reputation of these famed lunches has often preceded me, sometimes rudely announcing themselves as those around me wrinkled their noses at the pungent aroma wafting out of my bag. They’ve made excellent conversation starters in classrooms: Many began with an inquisitive “What is…that?” or “What is that…smell?” They’ve also been instant friendship starters: When someone hinted “That thing is huge! And it looks really really good,” usually I responded with “Yes, you can try some.” The mysterious “purple rice” has raised many eyebrows — it’s the natural color of wild rice, my mom’s preference. My mom’s lunches have celebrity power. Not only have I have risen in the ranks of “favorite friends” through the sheer grace of sharing my food (only slightly kidding), but, I have also managed to get an unwilling friend to let loose prom gossip by threatening to withhold my lunch from him forever. Now that’s something.

    Though I sometimes cursed to myself as a friend took the last morsel of my favorite part of the lunch, passing around Tupperware with my friends (and sometimes strangers) has made me appreciate the lunches better. When some of my friends developed a liking for the anchovies that I didn’t like, it reminded me that this was food that my mom woke up early in the morning to prepare for me, and I told myself to like it. And after hearing, “Your mom should cook for the cafeteria” from more than a couple people, I realized that unlike many other students who buy their lunches, I have been privileged to have a healthy, hearty, homemade lunch every day — packed with loving care by my mom.

    These lunches are more than just food provided for a midday meal. Without them, I don’t know how I would have survived. My only hope in college is to bring a rice cooker and cans of spam to try to imitate my mom’s cuisines, but I know that it won’t look or taste as great (or as interesting) as my mom’s. Thanks mom! I love you!