PRELUDE

Hej from Copenhagen!

Today, I’m really excited to share this essay I wrote. This is also the first time I’ve attempted to do a VoiceOver for one of my posts. I do feel the need to apologize for my computer’s shitty audio quality… I’ll work on it for next time!

Lately, everything is slower. My creative projects have been all on ice since I haven’t been feeling so good, especially after my partner had food poisoning (yuck). And we just hosted our first friends in Copenhagen (more on that below)!

But what’s on my mind has been actually running some sort of banchan cooking class/workshop and still chipping away at work and finding creative outlets – like scrapbooking and starting morning pages again! I’ve also really been missing the routine of a nice, quiet morning to myself – doing my morning pages and reading my book with a nice warm cup of tea. So that’s kind of what I’m working on for the rest of this month.

here’s what I’m watching lately:

• Sentimental Value (rewatch)

• Joan Didion: The Center Will Not Hold

• Rental Family

• Pillion

• Knives Out (rewatch)

You can also follow along on my Letterboxd. I also write more about cinema here.

TABLE CHAT

Recently my partner and I hosted our first guest in Copenhagen. It was really fun to see our friend again and show him around. My friend had grown up in the U.S. his whole life and I could sometimes feel the ocean between us, especially ever since I left New York City (I had moved back to Korea briefly and now I’m in Denmark). The different worlds. The difference in worlds. There were some small quiet moments (maybe even a little awkward?) during the trip that I had really just written off to jet lag or tiredness. But I would be lying if I said that I wasn’t feeling self-conscious about the way my vagrant, unencumbered life was being perceived.

When he left, while we were saying thanks for visiting and he was saying thanks for having me, he said something along the lines of: “I really appreciate you guys hosting us. I feel like I really enjoy traveling and seeing you guys here because I feel like I get to see different perspectives in the world.”

I felt a little bit surprised. Even a bit uncomfortable.

And I was really trying to understand why – when I had so often felt that way about others too. I guess the conclusion I’ve come to is that I’ve never actually seen myself as that person who could change or contribute to someone’s perspective in that way. My whole life I had seen myself as a vessel. A black hole with a desire, a hunger to see more of the world and absorb and take in more of it. I had never considered that I could bring that out in someone else.

Growing up in Korea I felt so stifled. Whether as a queer person, a woman, being not what the mold and society expected of me. I was too Korean or too American or not Korean-American enough, somehow, too. I didn’t always check the right boxes, nor did I really want to. And that was all fine and good at the end of the day. But I knew there was more. I always knew there was more. I was so hungry to leave Korea, and after a lot of coaxing and begging and proving my worth – that I was smart enough, bold enough, confident enough, sure in myself enough, independent enough, able to care for myself enough to go to boarding school on my own – I begged. I was always very proud of myself, and even to this day I feel that I can do anything I put my mind to for leaving on my own terms. And a lot of what drove me then, and still drives me now, is this desire to experience and see more, to feel more like myself, to find small pieces of myself wherever I stay and visit.

I became an artist because I had my own taste and opinions and ideas about the right way to do things. Being the daughter of two artists, I had always been around headstrong people – though honestly it just runs in the whole family or maybe we are very Korean in that way. I have a strong temper still. I can lash out quite angrily, blinded by my own rage sometimes, scaring even myself (my poor boyfriend). I didn’t always know how to do things or achieve the artistic goals I want to achieve, and excitingly I still don’t. The discovery brings me joy, although mostly anguish too. I never fully felt confident that my art could affect people, that it could move people. I had flirted with it over the years – theatre, different technical aspects, different artistic mediums throughout my whole life. But I can’t say I ever felt fully confident in any of it in that way. Until recently, I never felt enough to call myself an “artist” either.

So after I finished college, everything got quiet. And I wanted to rebuild and retry and reimagine what my life could look like. I didn’t want the 9-to-5. I didn’t want to suffer long hours. I didn’t want to be unpaid PA on a film set at 4 am. I didn’t want to be a film agency’s mail girl. I didn’t want to work a shitty job in NYC as an assistant to pay rent. (And I mean no disrespect, this is really how Hollywood is being run… unpaid overworked college interns in America reading future Oscar-winning scripts). Being so headstrong, I knew exactly what I wanted – which was really just knowing exactly what I didn’t want. And all these things, that’s how I ended up in Copenhagen, if I’m being completely honest. That’s the actual truth.

We recently grabbed a beer with this couple. On paper it seemed like we were ripe for the perfect night out. They were also a Danish guy and Korean girl couple – and the guy was a childhood friend of my partner’s who wanted to reconnect after a couple of years. With so many similar experiences (we suspected) and so many silly coincidences, we thought we’d have everything to talk about. The night turned out awful. We had nothing in common. Our worldviews were so misaligned. I genuinely texted my friend afterward saying it had been so long since I’d met someone I was so excited to never meet again. This girl felt like a reflection of myself – though I can admit I unfairly placed that expectation on her before we even met – but she was ableist, racist, limited in her worldview, and made uncomfortable comments all night. At one point, she asked me what I liked about Scandinavian men, in a way that felt like I was being asked to fetishize my boyfriend, in front of her boyfriend and our mutual friend. I answered as kindly as I could because the sexual connotations and manner in which I was asked was so uncomfortable. My world felt so small that night.

The next morning, I actually felt very lucky to have met people who make my world feel bigger. Whether it be my partner or my best friend. Sometimes it really does just come down to: how caffeinated with a sweet treat can we get and yap about everything under the sun without any inhibitions, truly and freely as possible.

I’m lucky for all the people I’ve met. The impossibility, the beautiful chances, and chance encounters in life. I’m so in love with the world, because of these events and these people.

It’s quite hard to explain what it really means for one’s world to become more expansive. You can read books, watch movies, see plays, witness art. But that special connection with others – and (more importantly) with oneself – is so rare. And at the same time, I truly try to believe that it is still everywhere.

What my friend said at the door is still on my mind after a week. I’ve spent my whole life thinking of myself as the one whose world was being made bigger by others. Maybe I’ve been doing it too, without knowing. Maybe that’s been the point all along.

Thanks for reading <3

Skylar

Prelude

Hej from Copenhagen!

The weather is finally changing here (thank god!). Scandi summer is finally defrosting and I can’t wait for all the nice changes the warm weather brings to this city.

The sun makes me feel like SPRING IS HERE!

For me, Spring is an unbelievable time of just being alive again. Yearning, freedom, and embracing life to its fullest – think running through fields, every single ABBA track ever, running through the crazy intense high of memories of all your awkward situationships with reckless, shameless abandon, juicy stone fruits, Charlie XCX’s Crash Deluxe Album, tanning in the park basically naked, and the sun-kissed joys and reminders that I once was free and I will be again!!!

Today’s post is a deep dive about my language learning journey. It’s a little bit of everything about learning Korean, French, Italian, and now Danish. If your goal this year is to learn a language, please consider using my Preply link for 70% off your first trial lesson (which also gets me a $50 discount too – everybody wins!).

Hope you enjoy! :)

Previously on banchan: James Turrell, my wrinkles, and more on moving abroad and friendship breakups.

Table Chat

I sucked at Korean my whole life.

Not for lack of trying. I spent years wrestling my way toward what I hoped was an “authentic accent”, obsessing over perfect sounds and intonations. Having been born in the U.S., my Korean language-learning experience didn’t start until I actually moved to Korea at five years-old. Being able to speak with my extended family was tiresome and difficult and shameful for so long.

But living in the country allowed me to learn Korean the most natural and fluid way possibly, by simply existing around the language – by being around people, listening in on conversations, and trying to strike up conversations with my family, people I trusted and knew incredibly well. And that was really successful for a while. My Korean accent is now near fluent, only experiencing hiccups when I encounter more local and slang words I don’t interact with on a day to day basis for most people my age.

I could perform language perfectly. I just couldn’t use it with as much ease as English.

French was the same story. I took classes for years and never really got anywhere. I never sounded particularly good, and I certainly couldn’t hold a conversation with anybody. The problem was that I was learning about languages without ever learning to actually speak them. And my god, I was so shy and embarrassed to speak any French to anybody I happened to meet.

If I had to sum up those years of my youth in one word, it would be frustration. I leaned on English constantly and, honestly, got praised for it. People in Korea would compliment me on being a perfect English speaker, long before Seoul became the international city it’s known for now. That might have been nice if I’d planned to stay in Korea or even settle in the U.S. for a while. But it wasn’t the life I was building towards or even wanted.

Everything Changed in Italy

Before I left for study abroad, I downloaded Duolingo almost as an afterthought 3 months out before my departure. The app gamified language learning in all the usual ways, but it gave me something I’d been missing for years: it made learning fun again. And I fell in love with the language – the sounds, the culture, the everything about it.

More importantly, I went into Italy with a different goal this time. I didn’t just want to learn vocabulary and grammar rules. I wanted to talk to people. I wanted to impress the locals I’d be conversing with, sure, but also my peers. I wanted to order at restaurants in Italian. I wanted to ask taxi drivers to take me places. I wanted to ask for the bathroom in Italian dammit. I wanted to fit in and to immerse myself in the culture the way studying French had at least allowed me to appreciate French art, films, and food from a distance. This time, I wanted to sound local and I wasn’t afraid to make myself look like a fool for doing it.

Fluency wasn’t the objective. Learning was the objective.

My Defining Moment in Marseille

During my study abroad, I happened to visit Marseille. There, I met another solo traveler who struck up a conversation with a French family that had spent some time in America. Her French was effortless. Flawless. They complimented her and asked if she was French, or if she’d lived there. She wasn’t. She hadn’t.

I felt a sharp twinge of jealousy. How was her French so perfect when mine (after years of classroom formal education) was still so rough?

She told me she’d only had an online tutor. That was it.

I kept the name of that tutoring site tucked in the back of my mind for a long time. It wasn’t until after graduation, suddenly adrift in the wide-open expanse of my post-grad era, that I finally bit the bullet and signed up.

I was ready to jump right in and make mistakes all over again. That made all the difference. The one-on-one nature of the online classes made me speak up much louder. It made me nervous but also excited to try speaking about the things that interested me, instead of waiting for my turn in a classroom.

I found myself twisting my mouth, making sounds I never made before that made me sound much more fluent. I found myself being able to strike up conversations with random people. I found myself enjoying speaking the language.

Consider using my Preply link for 70% off your first trial lesson (which also gets me a $50 discount too – everybody wins!).

Starting Again, Again

Now here I am, starting over one more time, learning what has been dubbed, many times over, the hardest language in the world: Danish.

And here’s the really funny part. There is genuinely no practical need for me to learn Danish. My boyfriend’s family all speak English (and honestly, actually, their French is probably better than English too). Most of Copenhagen speaks English fluently. More often than not, the person taking your coffee order is another international expat who won’t speak a word of Danish either.

There is no NEED to learn Danish… which is exactly what makes it feel almost like the universe is daring me to try.

That’s exactly why I’m doing it. Not because I have to but because I want to. After all these years and all these languages, I’ve finally learned that the best reason to learn a language isn’t obligation or grades or impressing anyone. It’s the desire to connect anyway. To give yourself fully away to the unknown thing.

Happy learning! Here’s my special discount for you, once again: my Preply link.

Skylar <3

Lately, I’ve been noticing more wrinkles around my wrists.

I’ve always had small hands and feet. When I’d visit my paternal grandmother, she would tell me my hands were small and slender. An artist’s hands. Perfect for making little trinkets and things. We’d use our hands to fold dumplings for soup. We’d roll and press little indents into rice cakes for Lunar New Year’s in Korea. She’d buy us crayons and origami paper whenever we came by.

I slide my hands into the LED UV machines for my gel nails, hardening the intricate designs. I always get worried about the UV light burning my skin. I wonder if I need sunscreen for my hands. I think about how Kris Jenner got a facelift but always hides her hands in long, taut gloves, because unlike the face, the skin there can never really be “fixed.” Despite looking more like Kim every day, her hands will show the years she has lived.

I hate admitting that it scares me on some level. The fear that my hands will get old, and that my face will (god forbid) inevitably reveal my true age. I hate that. I hate that I feel this way.

I still remember asking a group of my girlfriends in middle school in Korea, enthusiastically, that we should promise to never get cosmetic surgery. None of them were as enthusiastic to agree, and I remember that moment left such a strong impression on me my whole life. I still feel that tinge of fear that no one in the pack agreed with me, or maybe no longer liked me so much for saying such a thing. Now, I don’t think I would recognize any of them on the street anymore. When I stalk them on Facebook or Instagram nowadays, I honestly don’t feel like I’m looking at the same girls I used to know. (Most girls get double eyelid surgery in Korea as a rite of passage at age 16 or 18, right before college or high school when their new friends won’t know what they looked like in the grade levels before). They were complete strangers, after I left Korea for the U.S. as well.

I want to say (and I believe it) that anyone should be able to get whatever procedure they want, whether it’s gender-affirming or honestly just for fun. The difference between botox and eyelash lifts and nails and a butt lift and eyebrow waxing always felt so blurry to me. There’s never a perfect line to be drawn of what is too excessive. But I’ve seen too much growing up in Korea to always agree or promote or even support every single one of these procedures wholeheartedly.

I remember one day in Elementary school my mom couldn’t pick me up from an after-school program, so my friend’s mom came to pick me up from school. From the back seat, even underneath the white bandages from some sort of cosmetic skin procedure, I could tell her face was red, inflamed, and bruised. Small bruises dotted her face like dark cosmic black and blue stars. I don’t remember the exact conversation we had but she told me not to be afraid and that I would understand and have the same problems when I was older. It was no big deal, as she explained it all to me. I remember not saying much or even saying anything at all. I honestly don’t know if there’s even a lesson to be learned from this, but I know that I’ll never forget that specific car pick-up, even though I was picked up from school almost every day by many other people my whole childhood.

I think about the harsh stares and judgments still, the unfair standards I felt raised to in Korea. Even being called names by old men (who are probably all dead now) on city streets for wearing shorts I bought from American Eagle as a 14 year old. I remember being uncomfortable wearing tank tops even at home alone, afraid of baring my own shoulders to myself in the mirror. I don’t think I even properly owned a non-athletic tank top I wore publicly around outside (in the U.S.) until college started. This was during an era when K-pop was rising and the exorbitant costs of procedures were being quietly normalized–all while the pressures of luxury goods, of saving face, of showing off, were pulling people into increasing debt. Even in the U.S., I remember everything my body was called or complimented for, by all kinds of people: women, men, gay, straight, classmates, coaches, adults, strangers. I was a skinny-legend, chubby, too thin to be a hockey player. I had soft skin, long hair, short hair, thick hair. I had baby fat around my face. I had a long neck. I had almond eyes. I was short. I had a button nose. I had strong legs. Even when I think I don’t remember, I can recall every single thing I was called, recite it all from memory alone.

Most of all, I still remember the hurt it caused me. How much my body was subject to cruel, harsh scrutiny, all in the name of aesthetics.

Instead, I’m reminded by the wrinkles around my wrists: I hope I’m remembered for the things I’ve made with my hands. Of the people I’ve touched and held in my arms. I hope I’m remembered for the pushups and chaturangas I’ve struggled to push through in class. For the strength I used to lift my body up just a little bit higher.

At 25, I feel old and young at the same time. New and forgotten. Yet my hands will always stay the same but also continue to age. They will always have worked and endured.

I remember my hands patchy and dry in those Korean winters, my eczema flaring, skin scaly and tight. I remember my whole body sore from ice hockey, the hours spent stick-handling with the puck, the basketball layups, the heavy equipment loaded into U-Haul trucks. I remember the smell of the heavily scented hand lotion my mom taught me to apply to take care of my skin. Every bend, every twist, every push, every resistance that came up against those hands. These lines deepen and etch into my skin like a tattoo. Like they each hold a memory.

Love,

Sky <3

Hej from Copenhagen!

It’s been a while since I’ve last written. Truthfully, I don’t think anyone’s really counting the days of my absence. But a lot has happened over the last few weeks…

But first, hello to my New Subscribers!

Welcome! I write about pretty much anything and everything (hence the name banchan, aka Korean side dishes). So every week will be something a little bit different, whether it be on art, films, literature, personal essays, or more casual updates and writings like this!

If you’re interested, here are a few of my most popular posts:

I flew from Seoul to Copenhagen.

While my move technically isn’t official yet, and I hope to share my about my experiences moving to Denmark (or at least still attempting to) on banchan soon, I am back in Copenhagen!

Most of my time here has been just existing super jet-lagged and organizing and being sad about leaving Korea and taking things out of my suitcase (rinse and repeat every day).

I’m exhausted. And I’m no longer 15.

Almost a decade ago, I moved from Korea to the U.S. on my own to go to boarding school. I couldn’t believe how jarring it was, at age 25, almost a decade later, here I am in my childhood bedroom (recreated in my grandparents’ apartment), preparing to move to a new country on my own all over again.

Life is strange… bittersweet even.

I’m writing a TV show.

I don’t know why I’ve been so secretive about this because I feel like most filmmakers are always doing the same things anyway. But I’m writing a TV show about my experiences in Copenhagen. I don’t want to say any more than that or what it’s about, except that it’s forced me to make Tik Toks for a living (I’m up 5am every morning to edit these things) to see what will resonate and stick with people, also generally just to use the platform eventually for the purpose of the show. When the weather gets warmer, I can’t wait to go into production in the summer!

As a perpetual expat/foreigner/stranger/dual-culture kid/international wherever I go, I’m really excited to explore some of my favorite themes on belonging and community :)

I feel sad.

A friend of mine unfollowed me on Substack on my birthday (the ultimate betrayal!).

This was someone who I considered one of my closest longtime friends until he started making uncomfortable comments about my life and relationships, and began “slowly fading me out” even though I had gently confronted him about his strange behavior and even asked him to be kinder in his tone. It was just generally pretty obvious what he was doing when he stopped reaching out and answering my texts, quietly unfollowing on every single non-essential platform. Our last remaining link outside of Instagram: my Substack.

Ultimately, the slow-burn ending of this friendship left me feeling used and depressed (honestly, as I prefer an all-out-screaming-match-blow-out-fight where at least I can get all my anger and thoughts out before we never speak to each other again). It’s been months of this and yet I still can’t quite verbalize how much this fallout causes hurt in my heart (honestly it hurts more than any breakup I’ve experienced), leaving me frustrated and angry that I had put up with so much of his harsh judgements, condescending behavior, and unkindness (“jokingly” calling me stupid and untalented until it wasn’t a joke anymore) throughout the duration of our friendship. I lie about what really went down or downplay the full scale of what actually happened because I’m actually so embarrassed and disappointed in myself about how much I let slide and let him think was okay and acceptable.

I genuinely still can’t talk about it out loud to anybody. I hate making it all sound so real. Replaying it in my head feels “safer”.

I told my boyfriend last night that I feel like I get hurt more sometimes, because I’m someone who believes that humans are good at the end of the day, but I’m confronted with how much cruelty and evil exists at the hands of people every single day. I wish I was an ignorant, blissful little idiot.

I want to believe that whatever happened, happened. But it’s so hard. A big theme of my 20s has been learning to let go, like expectations I had for my art, my failed projects, my career, my family, my friendships, or my relationships. Growing up has meant accepting that I can control so little, despite how I feel so, so sad or so, so upset. Quietly accepting and moving on with my life, and focusing instead on what feels good for me. Letting in the good ideas and curiosities are the only blessings in my life sometimes. I’ll keep at it in the meantime.

what I’m watching lately:

I’ve been starting the year strong, in between reading scripts for work. Here are some films I watched lately; you can also follow along on my Letterboxd.

• The Perfect Neighbor (2025)

• Doubt (2008)

• All the Empty Rooms (2025)

• Wuthering Heights (2025)

• Eternity (2025)

I also write more about cinema here.

see you next week! <3

sky

Hi! It’s my birthday tomorrow, and this year I’m asking for something a little different.

Instead of gifts, I’m inviting friends (if you’re able) to match my donations of $50 each to immigration defense organizations in Minneapolis and New York City that provide legal representation and advocacy for immigrant communities.

Immigrant Law Center of Minnesota

www.ilcm.org/donate/

Immigrant Defense Project (NY)

https://www.immigrantdefenseproject.org/donate/

These groups do critical work, especially right now: defending people facing detention and deportation, supporting families, and helping individuals navigate systems designed to overwhelm them. Even a small donation can make a real difference.

If you’re looking for further organizations, mutual aid groups, and individual fundraisers based in Minnesota to donate to you can find them at: www.standwithminnesota.com

There’s absolutely no pressure. (And donations to both organizations are tax-deductible!) But if you’d like to celebrate my birthday by supporting work that truly matters to me, this would be the best gift I could receive.

Please love each other and look out for one another.

Thank you for being here,

Skylar Kim

nothing is going according to plan.

The truth is that lately it feels like nothing is going to plan, or how I expected things to go.

It’s cold and grey most of the time. I don’t feel any closer to “getting my life together,” whatever that means.

But I’ve been getting a lot of writing done (more coming soon on things I can’t share yet!!). I put on a workout video every once in a while when I feel like my body needs it (or craves it). I’ve dropped a little over 10 pounds. I’ve been reading loads of books, and seen more movies in the past few weeks than I have in the past month.

I miss my boyfriend and my friends a lot; I’m feeling very lucky to have very special people in my life to miss. Some respond to my messages, some have disappeared completely from my periphery. For how long? Who knows.

It feels like I’m not any closer to going back to Copenhagen anytime soon…

It’s been so unexpected that I would be home in Korea for this long, and yet there’s a strong comfort (alongside some silent frustration) that I’ll be here for an uncertain period of time.

Maybe the truth is that I actually do like being here, I just don’t like it because it’s not what I expected it to be. Not what I expected my life to be at this stage in my life.

But resilience and adaptability are things I’m continuously reminded of throughout my life: it doesn’t come easily but you have to embrace it anyway, especially when you least expect it or want to.

I’ve also been thinking a lot about what parts of my life I feel comfortable sharing, why I feel comfortable saying it, and what is the best way for me to share these things?

I’ve been at this filmmaking thing for so long now, and film school was such a blur; I honestly can’t even remember sometimes how it all started. Writing is something that has gained so much momentum in the past year alone and purely born out of my own sheer will. Sometimes I’m scared of how far I have and can continue to push my voice out there. I even made a TikTok last month and I’ve already gained over a 1,000 followers and multiple videos are hitting 10K, 20K, 50K numbers.

I never really liked putting myself out there, but suddenly I find that so much has changed and that I’m changing right now too.

I’ve realized how important it is to stay in touch with the world around me, and engage with things and art and people as much as possible while I still can. So hopefully I can leave Seoul without saying that I regretted doing nothing.

Here are the places in Korea I’ve been visiting, movies I’ve been watching, and books I’ve been reading!

places and things I’ve been enjoying this winter in korea:

• Getting an Erewhon-style smoothie at Twelve in the basement of House of Shinsegae Cheongdam

• Delicious home-style french-fare at Maison Jo in Seocho-gu

• Chestnut desserts!!!

• Gentle Monster Haus Dosan for all your eyewear needs and the coolest desserts rn

• Blue Bottle Coffee >>>

• Going to CGV with my mom (getting the squid snack and caramel popcorn always)

• Australian-style brunch at Bills in Gangnam-gu

• Being able to go to Olive Young for all my skin care needs; mainly for face masks from Torriden and the Biodance collagen mask

• Whipping up a nice cup of hot chocolate to end the night

what I’m watching:

I’ve been starting the year strong with some movie-viewing, in between reading scripts for work. Here are some films I watched lately; you can follow along on my Letterboxd.

• The entire Oslo trilogy by Joachim Trier (which I talk more about in my other spoiler-free post here)

• It Was Just an Accident (2025)

• Metropolitan (1990)

• Safe (1995)

• Lurker (2025)

• If I Had Legs I’d Kick You (2025)

I also write more about cinema here.

what I’m reading:

• Hamnet by Maggie O’Farrell

• How Fascism Works by Jason F. Stanley

• Coming up next: Wuthering Heights by Emily Brontë

You can also follow along with what I’m reading on Goodreads.

that’s all for today :)

thanks for reading and see you next time!

sky <3

I just wanted to take a moment to say thank you. Banchan hit over 200 followers this year, and I’m honestly so proud and grateful. Knowing that so many of you choose to read, subscribe, and spend time here means more than I can say.

I hope you’re enjoying a calm, cozy end to the year, and I can’t wait to keep writing, sharing, and building this space together in the year ahead!

Love,

Sky <3

This was the first year I actually sent in pitches instead of just thinking about sending them in.

Most of the calls I responded to were the ones I spotted on Instagram–quick posts or short-lived stories that I usually screenshot and rot in my camera roll. But I paused, I wrote the thing, I sent it. And somehow those little acts turned into actual publications. One magazine even published me twice in different issues, which still feels mildly surreal.

None of this started with an actual plan. It came from noticing where people were asking for work, showing up with something to offer (even if it wasn’t perfect), and resisting the urge to reject myself before anyone else could. I learned that most opportunities are smaller and much closer than they seem. There are no perfect 1:1 introductions at cool parties and the metaphorical doors swinging open, just short-n-sweet emails, quick DMs, and call-to-action social media posts that you decide not to ignore anymore.

And when opportunities didn’t pop up online for a while, I carved out my own little space on Substack. What was first just a place to dump the writing I was doing in my English major classes has drastically transformed. It’s become the place where I can write without waiting for validation, where I can follow my own intuition and see what it turns into. I’ve learned to become much more comfortable with being actually seen.

Putting your work into the world doesn’t require certainty (or the absence of self-doubt), it requires motion. You don’t have to be brave; you just have to refuse to rule yourself out.

In the new year, hopefully, I’ll continue to bet on myself.

The places where I was published are in the issues of Produce Parties: Squash and Produce Parties: Apple, as well as on the Partiful Blog.

More of my essays can be found through this link :)

Thank you for reading!

Sky <3

Hi everbody!

Welcome to all my friends I’ve been texting nonstop about following me on Substack. Thank you, thank you, thank you for subscribing! More on that below…

Today’s post is more casual and a bit of an update on… everything.

If you haven’t snooped around the website yet, please feel free to take a peek at some of my previous work!

Share [banchan]

I have been really anxious lately about whether I’m writing well or enough these days. When I shared my concern with an old high school friend, he told me it was alright because it was Thanksgiving week. I guess writers deserve breaks too…

what’s coming up next on banchan

ideas on my mind:

• capitalism and community: the price of cool girl meet-ups

• why is everybody a curator now?

• my 2025 reading recap

• on being nice but not kind

• what I miss most about copenhagen

• the lack of diversity in book clubs

• writing a tv pilot in one week… and the burnout that followed

• georgia o’keefe (part of my artist highlight series)

• behind the scenes: how to plan a film screening in copenhagen

if you’re new here, the truth is: there isn’t really a format, I just send what I like. staying creative and active is what matters the most to me.

weird shit’s been happening

• it’s cold in seoul and my visa process is chugging along

• today was the first day of snow

• I haven’t been feeling so great about my own writing

• this was supposed to be a fun thing but I spent a week writing a pilot and it brought up a lot of bad feelings truthfully and I’ve been taking an over-a-week-long break from looking at it

• I’ve been enjoying exploring other mediums outside of film like writing short stories and drawing

• old friends don’t reach out as much but new friends ask me where I’m at lately

• an old friend resurfaced in a random conversation with an acquaintance living in nyc recently. this old friend’s been saying that he’s going to visit and stay with me in denmark even though he hasn’t texted me in over 6 months. do I need to call 911??

• my routine: most nights I visit my grandpa at his care facility and walk to the nearest coffee shop. once I’m done with my work I walk home. I’ll clean the house until midnight and fall asleep at 3-4am.

• i’m cold and i’m tired most of the time

the truth is: I need to stretch more in the mornings and evenings…

what i’m working on lately

• I’m producing a short film in copenhagen which I’m so excited about

• re: setting up a film screening in the upcoming year

• I’ve been helping out my friend Lily’s with her NYU senior thesis film (hi Lily!) – you can follow her page @marginofinnocence for more updates coming soon!

the truth is: staying busy is good for me

banchan is close to hitting 200 subscribers!

• as I write this, I’m quite literally 2 subscribers away from hitting 200 subscribers.

• please prevent me from making fake accounts and share the publication with someone who you think will enjoy it <3

Share [banchan]

the truth is: i’m just happy you’re here

Thanks for reading!

Sky <3

I’ve never been so good at slowing down, or letting go. Autumn, therefore, has just never really been my season. This fall, what might actually be the shortest recorded fall in Korean history, feels short. Most days are warm-ish, but seem to fluctuate with days that forewarn the freezing, icy, and imminent cold.

I grew up in a family that reasoned the weather was the reason for everything.

You weren’t feeling well? It’s because it’s raining.

You’re depressed? It’s cause the weather is cold.

You have a headache? It’s because it’s too hot outside!

You’re feeling nauseous? It must be something you ate… because it’s so humid outside, it would spoil food.

I used to disagree when I was younger. Over time, I’ve learned to accept that our bodies are, in their own way, fragile–moving of their own accord, following some hidden inner rhythm, beating on and on.

I don’t miss New York as much as I thought I would? But I guess most people don’t really stay in their college towns.

There’s not much else to say about coming home again, although the beauty of the nature here always takes my breath away. The mountains in the distance that follow you wherever you go. The persimmons and pears growing on the trees, which I can see directly from the apartment window (we’re only on the second floor now). The spiky chestnuts that have fallen to the dirt.

Fall in Korea was always a stuffy season in my childhood. It’s chilly; I’m wearing itchy sweaters as a kid; and I have to sit in old, dusty rooms for hours for the family holiday events or going to church. I used to think persimmons and chestnuts had weird aftertastes but now it’s a flavor I’ve come around to–I now really find comfort in the seasonal foods that I know I won’t be able to taste again for who knows how long?

The thought of an indefinite stay here would have driven me crazy at one point in time, but now it’s not so bad. I’m trying to see the good in everything. And, really, I think that’s the plan so far.

My daily to-do list is as follows:

• be happy

• try to see the good

• maybe stretch

• go get a coffee

• write

• finish today’s work

• tidy up

• most importantly: stay. sane.

Autumn has always been the season of change, but it also feels like the season of routine. (I think it’s in our human nature to crave stability in change.) Small rituals and traditions re-emerge. Pumpkin spice everything, obviously. But cozy sweaters, soft blankets, cozy colors, and many, many candles.

The shift in the air calls for new practices, and as we start to slow down we begin trying new ways of doing things. It makes me excited to write, honestly–to hold onto each word, to linger at the edge of a sentence. It feels like a return to noticing, to being present in the silence.

Thanks for reading! 🌷

Sky xx

The first time I came to this city, a submarine exploded miles and miles away somewhere deep, unimaginable in the expansive ocean.

I remember standing in my box-sized hotel room staring at the TV screen in shock. I had never been particularly sympathetic to billionaires or reckless adventurers who left worried family members behind at home, but the news that all had perished - no one had survived - rattled something deep within me that I couldn’t speak to for a long time. It was hope, maybe, as it always was hope - believing in mystery, the unimaginable, the hope of it all, instead of a quick, silent explosion in the middle of the ocean. I did not know them but for the past week or so I deep down - not so much publicly - wished them survival, hope, and return.

They went quickly. They all said it was quite lucky that they did.

That night, I navigated a new metro system to a bar/coffee shop/restaurant I found on Instagram - the one named after a Greek god. I grabbed a seat in the outdoor courtyard of the small gallery/museum. The white stone and brick walls crawling in dark ivy reminded me of my New England boarding school. The proximity to art, although the gallery was closed, gave me great comfort - even if I could not see it. It was by the canals, lined in those classic quaint European homes that appear in postcards. Later, my boyfriend will tell me that it’s the Times Square of Denmark, but back then it still felt like the center of the universe was concentrated there. It was something about the light and pastel houses reflecting off the water.

I met a boy and I wasn’t really supposed to that night.

But I wore my prettiest dress. A green one from Reformation, it made my dark hair and eyes look nice against the color. I paired it with brown cowboy boots from Ganni because I desperately wanted to fit in with the city.

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I was determined to be happy that night. I ordered a gin and tonic. I asked what else I could order and he apologized that the kitchen was closed. I flashed a smile and said that was fine. I ordered almonds and olives, which I could pick at as the sun went down. I had deadlines to finish, stories to write, things I wanted to say before life could go pop in an instant. Between writing pages, I would glance up - at him. He could take orders, rush inside into the kitchen, and I’d catch him looking at me too.

He asked me what I was working on. I told him my screenplay. He played professional badminton. I played professional ice hockey. I studied film. His brother was a filmmaker too. I loved art from my mom who was a graphic designer. He was a fine arts major grad turned business major. He was a Swedish grad student working a summer job in the city. I was a Korean American girl studying abroad in Italy, desperately hunting for any cheap ticket anywhere across Europe.

I had never flirted with a Swedish guy before. I had never flirted with a stranger before.

I stayed in that dimly lit courtyard long enough for the customers to all leave and the stillness of night to arrive close to midnight in the Scandinavian summer. I asked for the check, but he had already closed the register and comped my “meal”.

Before I head out, he catches up to me and asks me if I’m free on Monday to visit his favorite museum in the city together.

I leave Monday.

Oh.

But maybe, we can walk around tonight?

I watched him close up, say goodnight to his coworkers, walk across the courtyard - to me - with a cup of beer from work in his hand.

We walked through the closed shops and cafes by the canal. The sky darkened and closed us in. We walked up to a ledge by the harbor. We stared at each other in that stillness for what felt like hours but were probably only minutes. I had never made a man nervous before. But we never kissed.

We walked back to the metro, we shared instagrams, we hugged, and we took our separate trains. The night was over.

I think about the incredible fragility of that night all the time. The incredible chain of events that moment set off in my life, even though I ghosted his messages later that fall. I realized I couldn’t live in uncertainty forever.

I broke up with my ex shortly afterwards. I told her I wasn’t happy and we weren’t right for each other at the end of the day. She told me she had hurt me. I lied that she hadn’t. She kept crying and I had to stifle my laughter every time she did. I didn’t understand why she was so upset when she was the one that had bruised me so badly. But now the world suddenly felt so much bigger and scarier than whatever we were constantly fighting about.

A month ago, I moved to Copenhagen for good. I’ve grown used to sitting at a local café in Vesterbro, watching the characters of the neighborhood pass by the window. My boyfriend warned me that in Scandinavia, one needs to like themselves - there aren’t many things to distract you from yourself. Staying here longer has allowed me to settle, to see things more clearly. Bits of language aren’t as elusive or mysterious (or unintelligible) as they once were. Faces have begun to appear in more physical forms - more literal, more present. The characters of the city: the father taking his kids to school, young volunteers awkwardly approaching commuters outside the metro, the hungover Swedes walking back to the train station. And more obviously: the American tourists, the teenagers loitering outside bars they’re not yet old enough to enter, the small children who ride their bikes better than I do. Everything feels sharper now, as if the city has come into focus.

I arrived here a month ago, and as the weather gets colder and the yellow hues of trees shimmer in the gentle rustle of the wind, I am reminded to slow down. Take a break. I moved here not so long ago and I find myself missing the chaos of the city sometimes, it’s what I’ve been used to my whole life - walking down the streets of New York City or Seoul.

Life doesn’t always go pop in an instant. Most days, life just lingers - hazy, dim, soft. Survival isn’t why we stay; we stay because tenderness insists on being felt, even when everything keeps changing without waiting for us. The gray weather outside, the orange warmth of candles inside - life may not be as fragile, but it is still tender.

Thank you for reading! If you like this post, you can check out more of my personal essays here.

Hope you have a tender day 🌷

Skylar xx

PRELUDE

Hej from Copenhagen!

Today’s email finds you a little earlier than usual because I can and also we have more ~European friends~ now! I just got back from a few days in Sweden for a wedding, and I’m happy to be back in Copenhagen to catch up with friends and attend the Louisiana Literature Festival this week! In a couple days, I’ll also be going to Porto to visit my aunt. I think this is what the kids these days are calling euro maxing.

In between my euro maxing and acceptance of my post-grad unemployment life, I’ve noticed that a number of newer subscribers have been coming over from my friend Eliot’s Substack: Modern Introspection. (Hi Eliot! Hi friends of Eliot!!!)

Modern Introspection

A space of honest conversation to foster peace, joy, & love.

By Eliot Juno Yun

I would highly recommend checking out his Substack on honest, raw observations on life, but also I really enjoy feeling like somehow I am older and I feel closer to the boy I knew growing up in Korea too.

But however you found your way HERE to this newsletter (probably me harassing you to follow or like my posts), WELCOME! <3

Today, for the newcomers, I want to take it a bit back and explore this newsletter’s namesake: banchan. I realized that while I often write about food on here, I’ve actually never written anything about banchan itself.

Without further ado, please enjoy ^^

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TABLE CHAT

Banchan is a lifestyle.

I would argue that banchan is a lifestyle. Eating banchan is more than having dishes on a table or the kinds of dishes you’re eating–it means you’ve agreed temporarily to a way of eating, a way of living.

Banchan at its most basic level can be defined as the small dishes that are served alongside rice as part of a typical Korean meal. While bowls of rice are served individually, banchan is placed in the middle of the table and within reach of everyone, naturally creating a space that is communal. You agree to share. You agree to reach into the center with chopsticks, taking only piece by piece and sitting shoulder to shoulder. Eating this way determines that no one is entitled to their food (in an anti-hoarding way) or their own dish, but rather that food is made to be shared and that there’s even a manner of giving the best pieces of food to others (usually elders) at the table. (For my Western friends: You just have to get okay with chopsticks and “spit” touching everything real quick.) But you simply take what you want to eat. What’s your’s is mine. What’s mine is your’s to have too.

I would say it’s not quite as egalitarian as it initially appears though. Many of my family meals couldn’t begin until my grandfather (as the head of the household) lifted his chopsticks first. Everyone knew better than to break this silent rule, unless they wanted to face my mother’s sharp glare–or, more often (for me and my brother), the warning kick under the table.

What might seem like a free-for-all way of eating actually comes with subtle distinctions, unseen protocols.

Banchan is a labor of love.

I love telling people my grandmother has 3 fridges. It shocks people. Maybe it makes them wonder how much food can one Korean grandmother eat?

Banchan is made in batches, mass-produced by old hands in a home kitchen. As many of the dishes are preserved and fermented, it requires planning ahead well in advance. Every warm spring is a reminder of the upcoming brisk autumn. Every freezing winter is a reminder of the hot summers ahead. Constantly thinking about the future–creating and planning and portioning and mixing–keeps alive future memory against time and war and scarce seasons. We make for the future because we know what it is like to be without.

Leaving my grandparent’s home after Lunar Near Year holidays meant my brother and I were given the task of lugging the heavy cooler bags packed with food downstairs to the car. We’d slump next to the window in the car, the highway lights flashing by our small, sleeping faces–the trunk full and heavy with banchan.

Banchan is roots.

The kind of banchan we’d receive from my grandmother were mostly roots–plants native to her hometown. The names of these roots and plants I’d never remember (nor do I don’t think anyone would really eat or recognize outside of Korea, unless they also went through severe famine). Koreans use every source of food available in the wilderness: stems, roots, weeds. These plants speak of farmers who used every edible part of what the land offered, of a history that prized resourcefulness, and of ingredients that once made their way onto royal tables. Banchan is a story of struggle and difficult times, one we often shy away from talking about.

It’s a love of the land, one that predates and surpasses modern culinary ethos. Today, Scandinavian fine dining speaks of “local sourcing” as progressive movement; Koreans have long practiced it as necessity and tradition. But that tradition has long changed, deemed no longer a necessity–as people forget the names of roots and Koreans prefer to stay in large cities, instead opting for convenience and efficiency and silence and isolation for a sense of peace and safety.

Banchan is a return home.

Spam, broccoli, pasta salad, and potato mash all fit under the description of banchan. Leftover American canned foods from the war found its way as a part of Korean cuisine. Food charts the history of our country in a special way and international influences continue to color our palettes.

We each have our own unique preferences, our soft spots for a certain banchan: my mother’s preference for the potato salad (with corn, cucumber, apple, and mayo) or my brother’s for sweetened braised black beans. The preference for one, or rather an understanding of a flavor, speaks to our generational differences. Taste can speak to where we were in a moment of time.

I never know what banchan I’m going to get when you come home. It’s mark of the seasons too, or changing climates limiting produce. The plates are a reflection of the moment we’re in, a recognition of where we are right now, and the unseen labor that led to the present. Marked by meaning and abundance, banchan will always be on the table.

That’s all for today! If you like this post, you can check out more of my personal essays here.

Skylar xx

PRELUDE

Hello from Copenhagen!

Today, I’m sharing a personal essay I wrote with the theme of “apples”! If you’re interested in reading more of my personal essays and short stories you can check them out here.

WORDS

I like to pick a fight with my boyfriend sometimes. I tell him that Korea has better fruit than Denmark. He’ll scoff and tell me I’m wrong. He’ll remind me of the Jordbærtærtes (light and crisp strawberry tarts that are chocolatey and filled with heavenly vanilla cream inside) and Æblekages (an old-fashioned desert with layers of crunchy cookies or toasted breadcrumbs, stewed apples, and whipped cream) we had in Copenhagen. I’ll remind him of the large juicy Asian pears and Korean apples that line the grocery stores that need no extra sugar–including the award-winning premium green grapes that people from all over Asia will clamor over, especially for the holiday season. When Lunar New Year rolls around, there is a never-ending stream of these fruit gift boxes luxuriously covered in fine silk sold and shipped out all over the country. Comparing apples to apples, we can’t fend off the urge to defend our own countries. But it's in the reflection of moments and meals we’ve shared–introducing him to my mother in Seoul, or me meeting his family in Copenhagen–that the weight of where we come from starts to show.

I often remind him of the plate of apples my mother would gingerly cut up for us after meals. Even if she couldn’t always express herself fully through words–to me or to him–I knew how much she had developed a soft spot for him during his six-week stay with my family in Korea last winter.

My mother, who likes to tout herself as a traditional, conservative, devout Christian woman, is someone I actually consider to be one of the most liberal people in the entire country. She never batted an eye when I came out as queer; she welcomed my Black, non-binary friend to stay with us in Korea (despite what could have been a nightmare scenario in a deeply conservative and transphobic country–my mom learned what pronouns were as a grammar concept, went out of her way to make sure they were having a good time, and constantly showered them with compliments on how beautiful they were); and she accepted my non-Korean boyfriend without much hesitation–even though my grandfather had explicitly told me not to bring one home before I left Korea to attend boarding school in the U.S. Once, she even told me that (although she refused to smoke) she “accidentally” got hot-boxed in a room in Amsterdam with her art school friends from Boston during a grad school trip.

Still, it meant a great deal that she took the time to peel the apples, carve them into perfectly uniform shapes, and plate them just for him. My mother–the artist–has always had an eye and a discipline for aesthetics. The apples were always neatly arranged on a porcelain dish with a dessert fork, placed on a Japanese-style wooden tea tray, and accompanied by a single napkin.

He was incredibly confused the first time she quietly knocked on his door (she had insisted we sleep in separate rooms during our stay in her home) with a plate of fruit. She didn’t say much. She just opened the door just enough to peek her head in, along with her hands and the tray. Where my mom offered quiet gestures of care through sliced apples, his family welcomed me with rounds of snaps and stories that only rang louder with each drink. 

The first time I went to Copenhagen to meet his family, we all got wasted. We went out to eat a traditional Danish meal, smørrebrød–an open-face sandwich built on top of buttered sourdough rye bread. Smørrebrød is eaten in rounds. After every slice of rye bread, it’s customary to take a shot of snaps, a Nordic and German liquor that can have an alcohol content as high as 50% ABV. A perfect way to meet the family. The waitress would pour us snaps of all kinds of flavors: elderflower, cucumber, lavender, apple, peppermint, and peach. 

I was nervous–not just because I wasn’t a heavy drinker, but because I’d never shared drinks with my partner’s family before. I held up pretty okay (bless my Korean genes) and fell in love with pickled herring during that lunch for some reason, but I didn’t expect my boyfriend’s dad to start tearing up in the middle of lunch. 

As the snaps flowed, he raised his glass and made a toast. He began reminiscing about his youth in New York, before he moved to Denmark to start a family. He said we were young, much younger than we realized. There was something wistful in the way he spoke, like he was watching a version of himself across the table. The whole table fell into a kind of soft silence after that. We drank. And then, almost as if on cue, someone cracked a joke about the snaps being too strong, and we were all laughing again.

Dessert came last: Æblekage, layers of stewed apples, soft cream, and crushed biscuits in a small glass. Not quite the store-bought apple pies of my childhood or the homemade American kind I’d become familiar with at boarding school, but something gentler, cooler, and understated like a distant memory retold in another language. I didn’t expect it to move me, but it did–the tartness of the fruit, the quiet sweetness. Maybe I was drunk. It reminded me of home in a way that didn’t shout, only suggested. Like my mother’s apples: a small gesture, quietly understood.  It struck me, then, how care can look so different across cultures and yet still land the same way: as love.

In our relationship, food has become a way for us to recount where we have come from, who we want to be, and who we will become–when words and cultural differences fail us every now and then. I wonder if our relationship will always be this way: sharing new recipes, falling in love again and again with familiar flavors, comparing notes and aromas, and ready to embrace what dish comes next. 

That’s all for today! See you next week <3

9.15.2023

I just moved into my new apartment in Chelsea, letting days melt away in the sweltering summer heat, and waiting for the arrival of my best-friend-turned-roommate. I missed the Edward Hopper exhibition. It’s my best friend’s favorite artist and we had been saying that we should go for months. 

I spent the summer studying abroad in Florence, taking advantage of every $60 Voltea flight or cheap Italo ticket to yet another Italian town. As I slinked past the tourists on the High Line, I realized I didn’t have to travel too far to see Europe or at least the people who live there. Pieces of Italian, French, Portuguese, Spanish humming between the branches and the leaves of the park that was never meant to exist. 

When I reached the Whitney, I rode the elevator all the way up and worked my way down - exhibit, terrace, exhibit, terrace - until I was spit out into the gift shop. I picked up a postcard of one of Hopper’s paintings, a remnant of the exhibition I had just missed: two water towers perched on a building. Hopper’s version of New York takes place not in the golden hour garishly exalting New York City’s shining brilliance but a softer, muted reality. 

When I get home I put the postcard on the wall to find that if I turn my head I see my own version of two water towers outside my window. At sunset, the sky turns into the hues of pale pinks and an emanating glow reveals a softer quality of light, softening the harsh realities of New York. The skyline’s sharp borders and edges blend into the pastel hues and pollution-made haze. In the adjacent building, I peer into my neighbor’s windows. A Calico cat perched on the window sill greets me with its usual presence. Reliable. Dependable. Sometimes it felt nice to be able to settle into one place.

When the time is right, I see two New Yorks. On my wall, a piece of New York that Hopper tried to capture in his painting and to my right, another New York, beating on like clockwork or heartbeat.

See you next week!

Skylar xx

Feeling shame, guilt, and anger are not encouraged in today’s society. We are given so many numbing agents that distract us from that sort of pain, in the pursuit of some false calmness and inner peace. (More so in the sense of taking a shot of DayQuil before inevitably lugging yourself to work your 9-5 job. A bandaid on a brain tumor.) We claim it’s good for society to continue running. And thus it is much easier for us to engage in behaviors which I like to categorize as ways of self harm in an effort to gain control of our own suffering. But even newer forms of “not dealing” have emerged like being able to doom scroll on your phone towards a bottomless abyss or even drown yourself in an endless drone of a right-wing propaganda podcast 24/7. Tell me something I should be doing. Give me something to do.

I couldn’t make sense of the sadness and the suffering for a while. The past couple years it felt like my life and lives of the people around me were centered around loss and making sense of that loss. Complicated emotions and feelings rose up when my family and the families around me all had to learn how to break and repair, leading to varying results.

I always thought that grief would bring people together, but in my family it didn’t. I always thought I knew how to support others while they grieved, but when someone I loved died I realized I didn’t. I always thought that people would show up for others no matter what, but I learned when my boyfriend said “honestly, you learn people don’t like to have difficult conversations.” I learned that despite what they say people will go to any lengths to avoid talking about hard things.

There was so much more I wanted to say about Grief. The embarrassment of not grieving the right way. Living away from grieving family members. How money complicates your relationship with the deceased and the living. The importance of close ties. How a culture of kindness has been destroyed by years of war. I don’t think I know yet how.

My biggest lesson was that consideration is scarce. Attention is scarce. Kindness was free but wasn’t really free anymore because attention had become so expensive. Kindness and generosity could be given up to only a certain point before givers became cruel and ugly.

Kindness was costly and scarce. That’s what makes it so special.

I lived with no regrets and I live with no regrets because I know I was loved the most by my grandmother. In Korean culture, it’s an honor being the first grandchild and my honor was being hers. I could sing before I could talk. I could run before I could walk. For her, watching the bygone era of Korean tradition and time melt off my skin, it must have been amazing to see. She loved everything I did and made sure I had no limitations in my life like hers. She loved me the most.
It was the kind of love that is still causing us problems, drawing out anger and resentment in others. Maybe that means it was love that had an impact, that really meant something? I couldn’t make sense of the sadness and the suffering for a while. But I just keep reminding myself that once I was loved, I am loved, I was loved, I am loved.

Hi everybody!

Today I’m sharing an article that’s going to be featured in an upcoming zine from Produce Parties that is now available to order! I couldn’t be more excited to share this personal short piece with you and hope you enjoy~

SMALL BITES

3 of my favorite pumpkin dishes!

🎃 korean hobak-juk

Korean pumpkin porridge usually eaten around fall. Comforting, sweet.

🎃 kabocha with crispy parmesan

Kabocha with a nice crunchy salty twist! An unexpected combo I love to throw in the oven.

🎃 pumpkin pie

I’ve been obsessed with Costco’s pumpkin pie since I was a little girl honestly.

coming up next: Kabocha Squash Risotto with Crispy Pancetta 😋

WORDS

Meals always began with a cup of savory-sweet pumpkin porridge, or hobak-juk in Korean.

I hated it.

In true eldest sibling fashion, I would simply eat it anyway. I diligently scrapped spoonful after spoonful, leaving nothing but trace amounts at the bottom of the ceramic cup. That’s how I grew to love it. My brother would simply slide his cup down the table to my father who would always enjoy the extra portion. Nice meals out with my grandparents started out this way: Christmas, Lunar New Year, family birthdays at another fancy hotel restaurant in Gangnam. My brother and I were new to Korea: Korean culture, Korean flavors, Korean language, and Korean life. We were young and subject to our parents’ desire to raise us in Korea to be close to the rest of our family. So we moved from the suburbs of New Jersey to the suburbs of Korea, just outside Seoul.

But a part of me still craved and reached for that American part of myself. The first Costco to open in Korea was a major event. The lingering smell of the warehouse's bakery, the sweetness of the air is a nostalgic cornerstone of my youth. Come November, I’d accompany my mom to Costco where I could reach my small hands into a display case of stacked, untouched pumpkin pies. It’s perhaps the only place in Korea that still makes it to this day. Unknown to the other shoppers’ more Asian palates, it was my secret treasure to pick. We’d take the white pastry box home where I’d get to nibble at it all month. The entire 12-inch pie was mine. No one else really liked pumpkin pie in my family, except the occasional slice my dad would have.

Costco pumpkin pie is as quintessential to me as picking out the last single slice of kabocha out of a bubbling pot of shabu shabu on a cold winter day, or eating steamed danhobak before school for an easy, comforting breakfast.

You know kabocha and danhobak are the same thing right?

Growing up, things were confusing. Things were hard to explain. Things didn’t really make a lot of sense. Things raised a lot of questions. Things were mixed up all the time.

Danhobak means sweet pumpkin.

Kabocha and danhobak are the same thing. Kabocha is a danhobak but in Japanese.

Kabocha squash is a pumpkin in appearance but actually a squash.

In Korean, hobak is squash. A pumpkin is a hobak.

Hobak is a zucchini. Hobak is a pumpkin. Hobak is a squash. Hobak is any gourd.

And even pumpkin pie is not pumpkin pie. Pumpkin pie is canned Dickinson squash.

In Korean and Japanese cuisine especially, the line between pumpkin and squash is blurred. What ultimately unites the rich, nutty flavors of these gourds is home.

I would die for kabocha tbh.

Love,

Skylar xx

Running 5Ks and reading 50 books might not seem like they belong in the same conversation. One leaves you breathless and sweating, while the other invites stillness and reflection. Yet, for me, they’re connected by the same quiet philosophy: small steps that build towards something meaningful.

TABLE CHAT

I’ve always been drawn to things that unfold slowly, that require patience and persistence. I hate rushing. I’ve always said I want to have a long career as an artist until I’m 60, not burn out as an internet celebrity when I’m in my 20s. A 5K isn’t a marathon, but it’s still a challenge. It asks you to commit to a running schedule, to build strength and endurance in small increments. Reading 50 books feels the same. It’s not about speed or numbers; it’s about incorporating the habit into my life and letting the pages slowly accumulate naturally over time.

Both goals remind me that transformation doesn’t happen all at once. It’s a process of showing up — lacing up your shoes or picking up a book — even on the days when you don’t feel like it.

Running keeps me grounded. It’s a way to reconnect with my body, to listen to its rhythm and respect its limits (I always have a tendency to push myself a little bit too far and provoke an unnecessary injury). There’s something so meditative about the sound of my feet hitting the pavement, the steady inhale and exhale of my breath. Reading, on the other hand, expands my world – it reminds me that there’s more existence in my life than the busy chaos of my brain and my immediate surroundings.

Both practices teach me presence and being grounded. Whether I’m logging runs on Strava or losing myself in a story, I’m reminded to focus on what’s right in front of me right now.

“Sometimes taking time is actually a shortcut.”

― Haruki Murakami, What I Talk About When I Talk About Running

These aren’t just goals; they’re anchors. They create structure in my days and give me something to strive for. And it’s not about perfection. Some runs feel harder than others; some books take longer to finish. What matters is the commitment to keep going, to trust that small efforts add up over time.

I’ve learned to celebrate the little victories — a faster pace, a finished chapter — because they’re the building blocks of bigger milestones. And honestly, there’s joy in the process itself, in the act of becoming.

Maybe running or reading isn’t your thing. That’s okay. But I think we all have something we want to grow toward, something that starts small but holds the potential for something bigger. Maybe it’s learning to cook, practicing a new language (I’m actively trying to learn 4 this year!), or carving out time for mindfulness. Whatever it is, start where you are. Trust the process. Let it build. Do a little bit everyday.

For me, running 5Ks and reading 50 books aren’t just about hitting a target. They’re a way of showing up for myself, of proving that the little steps matter. Because in the end, that’s how big things happen — one page, one step at a time.

What’s your version of a 5K this year?

Skylar xx

PRELUDE

My grandmother passed away almost two weeks ago now. The last two weeks have been an absolute blur and I’m still struggling to find any sense or make out any meaning throughout this process. I just don’t understand. One of my old professors told me that this would be a time that it would be revealed and bring out good things in my life, that things that are really important would shine through. These past couple days I’ve had people reach out that I’m thankful for and I’ve run into people I didn’t really expect to run into that I realized I don’t want in my life anymore that I felt that this must be true.

Another friend told me I should record everything and write down everything that happens. That someday it may come in handy to reflect and guide me for another death in my life. Too bad he didn’t tell me I would be utterly exhausted throughout the entire days proceeding. I’ve cobbled together some of the more procedural anecdotes and facts I’ve learned regarding Korean funeral ceremonies (since I haven’t been to one since I was 9 when my father’s mother passed away, I am in fact much older and wiser and in tune with what’s happening around me), in hopes that it may serve as some guide for someone else or even for myself to process and remember one day. Or maybe I can share something so innately a part of my culture and heritage with someone I love. I hope these small musings, timelines, photographs, and excerpts from my diary serve as some help to someone out there.

TABLE CHAT

Day 1

I pick my brother up from Penn Station and we take the first flight out of JFK. We land in Korea before the sun even rises. My dad picks us up and we drive straight to the funeral after our 16 hour flight. The funeral has already started less than 24 hours after my grandmother passed away.

Day 1 - cont’d

We arrive at the funeral home before anyone else gets there. We eat rice cake, rice, and red hot-spicy beef soup. We eat at a small restaurant/dining hall right next to where the memorial of our grandmother is. This is so that our guests can share a meal after paying their respects, as well as leave white envelopes holding 보상 (money to help us pay for the funeral expenses). While many were filled, we later find out that very few envelopes are empty – either shitty friends or people with no means who needed a free, hot meal. I like to tell the story of my grandmother that time a thief broke into her home. In the middle of the night, while her husband and four kids were sleeping, a thief broke into the house and my grandmother caught him. She gave him a lot of cash, asked him to live a better life, and told him never to come back here again. He came back the next day and my aunt told me on this trip that she slapped him. She called the cops and they moved to the apartment that my grandparents lived in since. I greet my family members who arrive while we are eating.

We all borrow clothes from the funeral home. I didn’t need to run to Banana Republic Factory the night before at all. All-black hanbok specifically worn only for funerals that my dad calls “the scary hanbok.” It’s customary to wear a small white bow on the right side of your hair and don a pony tail. I’m still not sure why but the women in my family all share the same look.

We say goodbye to my grandmother in-person and in-private, family members only. We all cry but I don’t think I’ve ever seen some of my family members cry before. My uncles are quiet but weepy. My mom is the only one who knows what to say because she has to.

Visitors come by and we line up to bow to each other in front of my grandmother’s memorial. There are many traditions I don’t know. After a couple of hours I get tired and I retire to one of the small bedrooms attached to our memorial area reserved for mourning family members. I take a short nap. I’m glad I have a change of clothes on me from my luggage.

Day 1 - cont’d

I wake up from my nine hour long short nap. I eat. I fall asleep watching Lost shortly afterwards around 3AM.

Day 2

We wake up at 6AM and eat. The pastor of my grandparent’s church and members of the church come for service at the memorial. There’s an order of walking and a place where everyone has to be at all times. There’s a small ceremonial walk of moving our grandmother’s body from the funeral home to the car to the cremation site.

My family members take the bus to the cremation site, and many of the church members join us. I don’t know who these people are but my mom tells me that my grandmother asks them to pray for me and our family members, so they know me by name. We say our last goodbyes to my grandmother and my aunt’s voice calling out for her mom is seared in my brain forever. She later says that she didn’t know it was all real until that very moment. We hold another worship service with the pastor and members of the church in the waiting room. I learn so many worship songs. A room full of my closest family and strangers see me wipe snot directly into my hand for an hour because I am crying so much. There’s also a cafe and a restaurant at the cremation site.

After an hour, we watch her ashes be placed into a box behind a glass window and we receive her ashes through a hole in the wall with a conveyer belt.

We begin our three-hour drive to my grandfather’s family mountain where all my grandfather’s ancestors are buried. My mom begins to have doubts about whether or not this is where my grandmother would like to be buried since her in-laws treated her so badly.

Day 2 - cont’d

We walk up the mountain for maybe 30 minutes. I’m so glad I have my black hiking shoes with me. Ripe persimmons hang on the trees. We walk in order. My brother is still leading everyone in front as the oldest grandson. I can’t help but feel a little jealous that it should be me but I am so proud of my brother.

There are people waiting for us up on the mountain who know more about the procedural traditions than my mom or her siblings know. We take turns burying her ashes. We cover the spot with flowers. Someone off-handedly mentions how much she loved flowers and I cry more. We hold another service at the site. I can’t believe that members of the church are still here.

My cousin who’s been taking it very hard since we got here leaves the burial site last. He leaves a flower for her.

Day 2 - cont’d

We walk around my grandfather’s childhood home. I find out he wasn’t even born here. He barely even lived here with my grandmother. I think there’s a little bit of an unspoken wistfulness among the women in my family (me, my mom, and my aunt) that my grandmother doesn’t get to be buried in her hometown because she’s a woman who married my grandfather.

We eat all together at a local restaurant that makes their own house-made tofu. It’s so fresh. It’s the only kind of thing you can taste in the countryside. We drive home for three hours.

Day 3 & 4

Rest. Finally. I press the flowers from my grandmother’s funeral.

Day 5

We go to church on Sunday. We almost don’t make it because of the Seoul Marathon and the closure of nearly every street. Somehow we make it (my mom’s driving skills and ability to get shit done, she talks to the police officer). They make a special announcement regarding my grandmother’s passing during the service. My aunt is upset because they left out her name on the service guide’s list of her children. I’d be upset too honestly. We get free sujeonggwa – punch made of cinnamon, ginger, sugar, and water. It’s too spicy and I give the remaining half to my dad.

It feels like the intensity of the funeral and memorial is over now. I don’t know if we’ll be okay without my grandma but I hope we can be.

The next day, I get to spend some quality time with my mom, dad, and brother before flying home the day after.

SMALL BITES

How to grieve:

🍙 Snacks

Crying takes a lot of water out of you. Funerals and memorials are exhausting. Asking each other have we eaten or are we hungry is the only thing to do. Taking care of each other is the best we can do.

🛌 Sleep

My father slept alone at a funeral home. This is normal for people to stay behind and entertain any late night guests, and someone did stop by while he was there alone. When I slept there, tiredness waved over me swiftly. No windows, just darkness.

🌼 Share

I pressed flowers for the first time since I was young. My grandmother showed me how to do them in the study. I forgot the parchment paper at first. I crush them in between my elementary and middle school textbooks. Entire flower heads were too big at first. I removed the ones that were browning. I removed the petals because there was too much water in the flowers. I salvage what I can. I slip them into my notebook and bring them back to America. I buy a frame on Amazon and keep it at home.

WORDS

Yesterday morning I felt like getting flowers. An hour later I heard that my grandma had passed away.

As many of you know I was born in the states and moved to Korea when I was 5. At first I really struggled to speak Korean and I didn’t really understand my grandmother back then. One time my grandma kept calling me and my brother her 새끼들 (this word means young kids/children or it can mean “bastards”… totally contextual). I went to mom, told her grandma kept calling us a bad word and my mom explained that word was not what that meant.

My grandmother used to tell me all the time the story of how she held me for the first time in her arms when she visited us in the U.S. but I think my oldest memory of her was when we would visit her house every weekend - she would dye my tiny nails amber with crushed up flower petals 봉숭아 (kind of like henna paste) in Autumn.

Growing up we called my grandma 꽃할머니 (flower grandma). My grandmother was one of the first women to introduce 꽃꽂이 (flower arrangement/ikebana) in Korea. She was an artist, so was my mom, and so am I. She sparked 3 generations of female artists in my family.

Yesterday morning I felt like getting flowers for absolutely no reason. I came back from a workout class and I was so sore and tired and I still wanted to get flowers from Trader Joe’s anyway. An hour later my mom told me my grandma had passed away an hour ago.

My grandmother loved to read poetry. She loved to write her own poems. There were so many things she had left to do but couldn’t. I miss her a lot.

If you read all of this please go get regular check-ups at your doctor. There are rising rates of cancer amongst young people because more people are getting tested but also many illnesses are now treatable! Please stay safe and healthy 💛 xx

I finally made it out to Greenpoint to try the infamous Hana Maekgolli. This summer, I wrapped on co-directing a short documentary with my partner about Yunguna Brewery, a Copenhagen-based brewery that focuses on making Korean sool (think maekgolli, takju, etc.). The owner, Emilie, highly recommended checking Hana Maekgolli, which I had heard of for years but never had the time or the perfect friend to sip down some delicious maekgolli with on the perfect rainy day… However, when I saw their upcoming pop-up in collaboration with Banchan by Sunny and TART Vinegar, I knew I had to take my friend DJ. It was finally time.

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It seems that every time DJ and I meet we love to share a glass of strong alcohol (her preferred drink Kung Fu Girl wine from Wholefoods, which I think is a questionable name for a white man-owned company but damn is it delicious) and discuss why being a Korean woman is the tenth circle of hell that people have never heard about.

This was kind of why I had started this newsletter but I haven’t really had the guts to start talking about it yet. But it’s something that feels important to me and so for the next few posts I’ve committed to making more relevant to Korean society, culture, and arts, especially its relationship to Korean women.

I feel I have to preface that I was born in the U.S. but grew up in Korea since I was five years old. I went to a Korean international school my entire youth and a U.S. boarding school for high school which places me in a different community and social class that colors my point of view. I don’t feel that my viewpoint is the only “right” perspective, but I think is a valid part of a larger whole. My goal isn’t to take over the dialogue happening but to share and give voice to a bigger conversation happening right now and relay it in English (my native language) so that more people can learn about what is happening to Korean women in the country today and explain in more personal details how these social pressures function and affect me and others today. I am not afraid of being incorrect and I hope that we can start a dialogue around these issues together!

Banchan by Sunny is back at Hana Makgeolli, this time for a very special collaboration with TART Vinegar! We're thrilled to be sharing a sneak peek of Sunny Lee's upcoming menu at Sun's, a small banchan bar opening this autumn. Come for the hwe kimbap showcasing Sang's scallops (IYKYK) but stay for the array of banchan, hotteok, and sesame crusted mochi cake.

– @hanamakgeolli

All because it starts with one cup of maekgolli and before you know it you’ve drunk the whole bottle with your best friend and you’re speaking in gibberish about how crazy life is.

WORDS

(Note: This is based on conversations DJ and I were having at Hana Maekgeolli. However, the topic and ideas we are discussing is largely based on this article that WE ARE HAVING TROUBLE LOCATING. If you have any information regarding this article and many of the concepts featured below, please let us know! If you are interested in these types of discussions)

We turn the history of women’s clothing. Typically women’s clothing is found to be extremely restrictive. In Europe there’s the corset. In places like Japan there’s the kimono and in China there’s the qipao or cheongsam (in Cantonese). These clothes were made to be tight and restrictive, sewn together to highlight the female figure (and posture), as well as to physically keep women within domestic spheres by limiting their movement. The clothing’s form depersonalies the women’s bodies, rendering them demure, pretty objects of desire to be admired and looked at. But then there’s the hanbok.

To quote my friend Dajung, the hanbok is so fucking comfortable (졸라 편해…). It’s loose fabric, it’s lightweight. It’s pretty much 90% skirt, giving you ample room to stretch and move your legs and squat and sit down on the floor on your knees and even sit criss cross apple sauce. Yet in the winter time it also maintains its warmth. The tried and true way of layering different fabrics and materials that fully cover the neck, arms, and legs is extremely effective in maintaining heat even in the colder months.

This design allows for agility and ability to move in all conditions. However, it’s built comfortably so that women can labor. Korean women have long been expected to bear children and maintain their husband and entire in-law’s households for a long, long time. This way of thinking has not changed much even to this day. Then the rapid economic growth of South Korea during the 1970s and 1980s led to the influx of women into low-paid, labor-intensive industries. Joining the work force for woman was not a patriotic act or nationalistic war effort but rather an expected route for the nation to desperately and quickly escape poverty.

When the messaging in the West is that “women can do anything and everything”, it doesn’t resonate with women who historically have been doing everything. When a lot (but obviously not entirely) of modern day white feminism is fighting against beauty standards and women being rendered simply as pretty objects, for many Korean women that doesn't quite capture the struggle we are facing. I would argue that the issue is societal and generational. Many of the traditions and beliefs held by Korean society to this day are so largely disconnected from the modern Korean woman today, as well as the international, forward-thinking image that our government tries to desperately project and protect.

(K-Pop and korean beauty standards are a recent phenomenon that have obviously created a huge impact on the perception of Korean women, but I would argue that many have the underlying social issues have been present for a much longer time.)

If you are new to hearing about this experience for Korean women I would highly recommend reading this article that covers a few major events that have recently happened in South Korea without being too graphic.

SMALL BITES

Here are the delicious drinks and little plates we enjoyed while speaking about the unbearable horrors of being Korean women <3

🍶 omija makgeolli

this was really the star of the whole show. this omija makgeolli is made from a special kind of berry found in Korea. it paired so nicely with all of the dishes we had! we also tried the takju which is a bit stronger with has a bolder flavor.

🐟 hwe kimbap

a hybrid of a sushi roll and korean kimbap made with tuna and scallops harvested by sunny’s father in massachusetts! as a scallop lover, I will be dreaming about this for weeks to come…

🍡 sesame mochi cake

sweet but pairs perfectly with makgeolli - the perfect ratio of chewy and crumbly cake~

☀️ banchan by sunny and hotteok with korean corn cheese

it’s well known that makgeolli is perfectly paired with fried food but honestly over any shared meal with good company… the variety of banchan was amazing (although the severe stinginess of rice was honestly apalling to me as a Korean… honestly offensive… rice comes complimentary everywhere in Korea… with free refills…)! the hotteok was perfect, not super oily but the spiciness of the kimchi and sweetness of the cheesy corn was perfect with the more tart tastes of the drinks!

Thanks for reading!

Skylar xx

Hi everybody! This short piece I wrote is actually featured also in an issue of overachiever magazine which you can check out here at this link. All the photos in this post are also by me when I moved back to NYC post-pandemic in 2021!

Although pizza is no longer 99 cents in the city… I hope the themes are still relevant today!

WORDS

Something really interesting happens the longer you live in New York City. During the transition from just another passerby, a tourist, into someone who actually lives here, you begin to notice the places you’ve already been. But it’s almost as if it appeared from a past life or a different dimension. The theater you went to see Wicked ages ago as a kid. The museum you went to on a field trip with your class in high school. The one dollar pizza joint you went to at 3 a.m. when you were high off your ass. A glowing, luminescent corner shop smelling of good gooey cheesiness, tangy tomato sauce, and warm bread. But now you see it during daylight in its entirety - greasy counters, grimy corners, and all. It hits you that - oh! - I’ve already been here before! Nothing’s really changed but the visual is so stark. It’s so bizarre to see it so naked.

I think something similar happens when you begin to see things for what they are and not what they represent. As you get older, you begin to see the cracks in the facade of systems “meant to keep you safe” or “create order and peace.” You start to notice small things. The holes in the logic. The hypocrisy. The hatred. The healing that can’t be done. You learn to name the things: microaggression, discrimination, assault, sexism, fetishization, white supremacy, hate crime. You see beyond the action itself and turn your attention to the aggressor. You notice the individual’s flaws, places where they fall short and can’t see. You learn their rough edges and sharp corners the same way you’d memorize streets and subway stops. You look even beyond them at the larger systems at play that condone their behavior. You realize it’s more than just one. It’s whole institutions that are complicit. It's loads of people who never learned better and you wonder, is it my place to educate them? You turn your attention inwards and see that you have a lot of unlearning to do as well. How can I ask for freedom and liberation when I can’t even give it to myself?

Once you’ve arrived at this point, it’s incredibly difficult to look back. To look at how far you’ve come. To see the people you’ve left behind. To remember how much pain you lived with and accepted. How did I not see it before? But nothing’s changed except your perception of it. You see it now, naked and exposed. Broken fluorescent lights hanging on the ceiling. Dirty napkins strewn on the floor. The pizza would still hit but maybe I’ll walk down the street and see what else is around.

Thanks for reading!

Skylar xx