A Jammin Life

I took a culinary arts class in my first year of high school back in 2011. It wasn’t anything fancy – just a teacher who loved food who taught his students about must-know chefs and rare ingredients for mandatory electives. The only times we “cooked” were during midterms and finals when we each made something at home and brought it to class for a potluck.

For one of these test periods, the theme was “cultural foods” in which – as you would expect – we had to make something that was significant to our cultures/backgrounds. One of the students brought a food I had never heard of or tasted anything similar to before. It was a small oblong shape with herbs and spices I had never encountered up until that point. It was wrapped in something green, which she described as grape leaves.

Being a Korean kid whose mom only cooked Korean food and most of the time bought American fast food, my culinary horizon was extremely narrow. Despite having best friends of Sri Lankan, Armenian, Persian, and Russian descent, I had always been afraid of tasting their foods. I was a people-pleaser and wouldn’t dare to express dislike or not finish a food someone’s mom would cook for me if I went over to their house. So instead of giving it a chance and maybe forcing myself to eat food I didn’t enjoy, I would always walk into my friends’ homes announcing that I wasn’t hungry. Then, I wouldn’t ever have to make their parents cook and create an opportunity for me to unnecessarily please them with my reactions to their effort.

But this – this grape leaf oblong thing – this was one of the best things I had ever had the pleasure of tasting. Everything about it was new to me. And I thought my ears had deceived me. Grape leaves? I eat grapes but never their leaves.. was it something else that I misheard? But I was too shy to ask her what it was. I was a freshman and she was a senior. She was too unapproachable for my immature self. Then, testing period ended and school was over. She graduated and I never saw her again.

The taste and image of the grape leaf oblong was stuck in my head and I wondered if I would ever see it again. (I think back now and wonder why I didn’t just Google it…)

In January of 2020, I was living in South Korea and my sister was in the east coast of the US. We wanted to go on vacation together, but I wasn’t about to fly 16 hours to go to my sister and neither was she. So we decided to meet halfway in Turkey. For three days, we stuffed ourselves with various kebabs and kahvalti – the classic Turkish tourist foods. But in the city, we went into a little hole-in-the-wall that looked as local as a restaurant could be. As we pointed and ordered some mystery Turkish menu items, I spied in the far corner of the restaurant a mound of green oblongs. Two of the cooks were stuffing and wrapping and piling these oblongs. And I just knew. My eyes went wide, and with no Turkish coming out of my mouth, I communicated that I needed those things in the corner and that I needed to know its name.

I took a bite of it and it was exactly how I remembered and reimagined it over the years. Unaware of the reason behind my hype, my sister simply enjoyed it by my side. It was pleasing to watch her eat and be able to share this moment with her.

And the green oblong? Its name was dolma.

Back in Korea, dolma was an extremely rare find. We had a cluster of Turkish restaurants in one international area of the city, but they focused solely on kebabs, baklavas, and dondurma. So once again, dolma returned to its spot as a piece of a memory far and deep in my mind.

Jump to 2023, and I got the chance to come back to the states. It was my first time in 5 years. My parents and I had “opposite” visas in which I could travel anywhere but the states, and my parents could travel anywhere in the states but not outside. This meant that there was no place for us to meet up during that period, making it my first time seeing them in 5 years. Every time I saw a mother and daughter out and about in Korea, I felt a pang of jealousy. I had to leave my home while I was still underage, so we never got to bond as adults.

I promised myself that if I ever got the chance to spend time with my mom, I would take her on dates and out of her comfort zone. Living in Korea alone, I had the freedom to go on expensive dates, travel around Asia, and meet new people visiting Korea from all over the world. I went from eating simple Korean food at home and going on frequent Pizza Hut runs to enjoying South African barbecue in the heart of Seoul’s international district and eating fresh sushi in Japan. But all this I hoped to experience with my mom.

Last month, I finally arrived in California. I had to make up for all the moments I missed sharing with my parents. And the first place I went with them to commemorate the occasion and start this new journey? I couldn’t think of anything better than Mediterranean food. And on top of everything we ordered was a side of dolma. We shared it as I showed them photos of my culinary projects over the years – I had come a long way from making kimchi fried rice with my mom.

Dolma isn’t a comfort food to me nor something exclusive by any means. But it holds such a unique value that is difficult to metaphorize. It is in its normalcy and humble appearance that makes it surprisingly exquisite. Rice wrapped in leaves – that’s it. Yet it contains such robust flavors and aroma that its simplicity is all the more appreciated. It’s easy to approach, but it holds the capacity to leave a lasting impression.

Food has the power to hold memories, dreams, stories, relationships, and more. And different foods hold different meanings for each person, making this food journey endless and infinitely diverse. This is a snippet of what dolma holds within its leaves – a story of discovery and longing and reuniting.