dear xx,

my mom will hold a scalding hot pot with her bare hands. to push potatoes deeper in the boiling water for the noodle soup we’ll be having for dinner, she’ll penetrate her fingers into the first layer of searing steam and almost touch the volatile bubbles of water. as if oil droplets magically avoid splattering onto her bare arms, she’ll grill pork belly in an apron and short sleeves and won’t flinch even once.

as i grow older, i’ve noticed that a scalding hot pot isn’t getting any less hotter. it’s still scalding hot. i’ll try to follow mom and use my hands to push the potatoes deeper into the boiling water, but i burn my hands before i even get halfway past the layer of steam. when i grill pork belly, i put on a sweater and cover my hands with my sleeves, wear my glasses to prevent the possibility of permanent vision loss, and stand so far from the stove that i can barely touch the pork with the tip of my wooden spatula. it’s not that mom’s invincible like we all think moms are. mom’s love was just so great that not being able to feed me warm home-cooked meals was harder to bear than burns or splatters.

in addition to the harsh steam and oil, my mom has her hands in water and soap so often that a lot of times, she’ll form rashes because her hands are stripped dry of their essential oils and moisture. sometimes, it makes me wonder if the responsibility of raising me stripped her dry of things she’s wanted to do or things she could have done. i always tell her that she should take a break from cooking and eat out so that the cracks on her hands can heal. she’ll scold me and tell me that i’ve lived too bourgeoisie. $25 with inflation for a dish flavored with magic powder? if that’s what it takes to keep her hands healthy, i’ll choose that any day. her hands are more precious to me.

so i carry hand cream with me wherever i go. for my stubborn mom who will fly miles to hand deliver me tubs of Korean dishes but refuses to drive ten minutes to the restaurant in our small suburban town, the only thing i can do is squeeze some cream on her hands hoping that the rashes will show some mercy. those hands that work overtime because her big heart gives them too much to do.

my dream is to be like hand cream. to calm rashes. not just a cream that permeates the skin’s surface, but a cream that can go as deep as to soothe and warm the heart. i want to mend the wounds and wrinkles of time and life.

so my dream is to be like hand cream.

a hand cream for my mom. my family. everyone.

love xx