For My Umma

Confession: I didn’t celebrate Seollal growing up.

We did celebrate Korean new year’s traditions—we bowed to our elders in our colorful hanboks and ate our tteokguk for good luck—but did them on January 1st, in between watching the Rose Bowl Parade and writing out resolutions. My parents, like a lot of immigrant families, probably figured it was just simpler, smoother, less of a hassle to ring in the new year with everyone else.

Now as a mother of young girls, I’m discovering how to create space to celebrate special holidays. We read storybooks about Korean traditions for the lunar new year. We play fiercely competitive games of yutnori, their grandpa’s favorite board game. They teach their classmates how to bow, or sebae, so they can get that sweet sebae money from their elders. 

Making trays and trays of mandu has become one of our most cherished Seollal traditions. My daughters and I gather around the table, just like I used to with my umma, our fingers working the wrappers over tiny scoops of seasoned ground beef. There’s something so comforting about it—the faint wisp of minced scallions and sesame oil in the air, the rhythm of spooning, folding, creasing, sealing. Each dumpling holds a little bit of history, a little bit of love, passed from my umma’s hands to mine, and now to my daughters.

My umma’s kitchen holds so many early memories for me. At the center of it all were her pink bowl and kitchen scissors—the indefatigable MVPs of her kitchen tools. 

Her pink bowl did everything: it washed, soaked, carried, and mixed. After school, I’d peek into the pink bowl and find ribbons of green onions, awaiting the moment they would be added to our soup. During the holidays, yellow mung beans would soak in its depths, preparing to be blended into a savory pancake batter. When guests arrived, it cradled enormous Korean pears, waiting to be peeled and sliced. ​When it came time to design our first mixing bowl, The reBowl, I immediately envisioned an easy-to-use-for-everything, indestructible bowl like my umma’s pink bowl.

Her kitchen scissors were just as versatile as her pink bowl. Where others might wield a chef’s knife, my mom relied on the rhythm of her trusty scissors. Snip, snip—they turned a bundle of scallions into a quick confetti of garnish for steaming bowls of soup. Snip, snip—they tamed long, unruly strands of noodles, making them easier for slurping. Snip, snip—they transformed sizzling chunks of galbi into tender, bite-sized morsels, ready to share. Those scissors weren’t just a tool—they were an extension of her hands that provided so much love and care for our family.