ENG190 Elizabeth Van Deren 09/03/2025
The Hands That Made Us
A Reflection on “Crying in H Mart by Michelle Zauner”
I have a vivid memory of the last time I saw my great-grandmother alive. She was
a mighty eighty two, and I was a mere fourteen years old when I asked for her bread
recipe. Her fingers—delicate and stiff from age and injury—could no longer hold a pen.
So I sat down beside her, on the beautiful floral couch I once took naps on after
Thanksgiving dinner as a child, and I carefully recorded the last gift my great-
grandmother would ever give me—a bread recipe I would never be able to recreate. No
baker and no amount of yeast, flour, or water, can resurrect the taste or cloud-like
consistency my grandmother once conjured. Ever since I was young, I have been
surrounded by homemade food infused with love, especially during the holidays. My
grandmother, Mary, would bake a delightful coconut cake, my Aunt Nellie would bring a
sweet strawberry marshmallow dip to dollop on top of homemade ice cream, alongside a
savory cheddar cheese spread to go with Ritz crackers. Aunt Pearl, without fail, would
always bring the most wonderful mashed potatoes, perfectly creamy. And to this day, my
mother still makes pinwheels on Christmas—tortillas rolled up and cut into tiny spirals
with cream cheese, green onions, cheese, and olives inside. Though many of my relatives
are too old or far to travel back home to southern Missouri now, my family continues to
try and recreate the traditional dishes our great-grandparents and aunts used to make, not
just for the taste but the memories the bring as well, just like Michelle Zauner says in her
essay Crying in H Mart.
The Hands That Made Us
A Reflection on “Crying in H Mart by Michelle Zauner”
I have a vivid memory of the last time I saw my great-grandmother alive. She was
a mighty eighty two, and I was a mere fourteen years old when I asked for her bread
recipe. Her fingers—delicate and stiff from age and injury—could no longer hold a pen.
So I sat down beside her, on the beautiful floral couch I once took naps on after
Thanksgiving dinner as a child, and I carefully recorded the last gift my great-
grandmother would ever give me—a bread recipe I would never be able to recreate. No
baker and no amount of yeast, flour, or water, can resurrect the taste or cloud-like
consistency my grandmother once conjured. Ever since I was young, I have been
surrounded by homemade food infused with love, especially during the holidays. My
grandmother, Mary, would bake a delightful coconut cake, my Aunt Nellie would bring a
sweet strawberry marshmallow dip to dollop on top of homemade ice cream, alongside a
savory cheddar cheese spread to go with Ritz crackers. Aunt Pearl, without fail, would
always bring the most wonderful mashed potatoes, perfectly creamy. And to this day, my
mother still makes pinwheels on Christmas—tortillas rolled up and cut into tiny spirals
with cream cheese, green onions, cheese, and olives inside. Though many of my relatives
are too old or far to travel back home to southern Missouri now, my family continues to
try and recreate the traditional dishes our great-grandparents and aunts used to make, not
just for the taste but the memories the bring as well, just like Michelle Zauner says in her
essay Crying in H Mart.
