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Style Capsule: All Things Denim

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Denim is French in name, Italian in early use, and American in myth. The word itself is French, a contraction of serge de Nîmes, the sturdy twill woven in the southern city of Nîmes. Denim began as geography stitched into cloth, a textile defined not by attitude but by endurance. Long before it was runway shorthand or rebellion’s uniform, similar hard-wearing cotton was used by sailors in Genoa. The French called the city Gênes. From that mispronunciation came “jeans.” They were work trousers then—sun-faded, salt-stiffened, cut for labor rather than legend. Photo by Maude Frédérique Lavoie on Unsplash America, however, does not leave cloth alone. In the 19th century, riveted denim trousers became standard issue for miners and laborers in the West. Utility was reinforced with copper. Durability became design. And somewhere between gold dust and railroad tracks, fabric turned into folklore. Hollywood later burnished it into masculinity. Counterculture tore it open and called it fr...
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Korean-Inspired Short Rib Udon

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This stir-fry is what happens when comfort overlaps. Udon for its quiet sturdiness, the way its thick strands absorb sauce without collapsing. Short ribs because richness belongs in a proper noodle dish. Baby broccoli because it is sweeter, more tender, and far more interesting than its mature counterpart. It is not traditional. It is not polite. It is deeply satisfying. Ceramic bowl was wheel-thrown and glazed by me. INGREDIENTS [serves 2 as a main dish] ten ounces of boneless short ribs, roughly cubed ten ounces of udon, cooked one cup of diced baby broccoli, including stems and leaves a quarter of a yellow onion, sliced one garlic clove, sliced three tablespoons of soy sauce two tablespoons of brown sugar one and a half teaspoons of sesame oil one teaspoon of mirin a half teaspoon of gochugaru half a tablespoon of cornstarch two tablespoons of room-temperature water vegetable oil for cooking In a bowl, combine the soy sauce, brown sugar, sesame oil, and mirin. M...
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Are We Ready for the Truth? I’m Fat.

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I am fat. That is neither a confession nor a plea for reassurance. It is not coded self-loathing nor an invitation for affirmation. It is a description of my body. Yet the moment I say it aloud, people rush to correct me, as though I have misidentified myself. “You’re not fat,” they insist, with the urgency of someone extinguishing a small fire. The discomfort is not mine. It is theirs. Fat is not an identity. It is not a character assessment or a moral condition. It is a descriptor of a body. The body is a vessel that carries who we are; it is not the entirety of who we are. When I describe my body as fat, I am not reducing myself. I am describing the state of the vessel. Photo by Aziz Acharki on Unsplash We have constructed a culture in which self-acceptance is treated as a moral virtue—but only when it follows approved language. Love your body, we are told, but do not describe it in ways that unsettle others. Do not call yourself fat unless you meet some publicly agreed-upon thre...
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At the Intersection of Law & Humanity: Immigrants

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Americans who believe in enforcement are not automatically endorsing cruelty. Americans who believe in compassion are not automatically rejecting the rule of law as it applies to all of us. Yet in our current climate, those positions are treated as mutually exclusive. Immigration, perhaps more than any other issue, has become the stage on which we rehearse our all-or-nothing instincts. Photo by frank mckenna on Unsplash I am Korean American. I carry my U.S. passport card with me everywhere I go. Some of you already know that. It has quietly become my default form of identification. I did not wait for a second inauguration to begin doing that. The election itself was enough. My parents waited years for lawful permanent residency before we immigrated to the United States. I became a citizen after I turned eighteen. I identify as Korean, a heritage I am immensely proud of. I am also a citizen of the United States. An American. It is simple. It is also complex. I believe a sove...
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Single Gal’s Kimchi Risotto

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I love risotto, but I don’t think I’ve ever shared a perfectly delicious single-serving version here. If I have, I apologize in advance. This is simply the one I am making now. Risotto is comforting, especially after a challenging day, but it is also unapologetically high-maintenance. It wants to be eaten straight off the stove, demands attention while cooking, and rarely rewards reheating.  This is a risotto for nights when you are cooking for yourself, pouring a glass of wine, and calling it an evening. No scaling up. No containers waiting. Just a bowl, a spoon, and the pleasure of finishing the whole thing while it is still glossy and alive. This recipe is a small homage to my Korean heritage, borrowing its spirit from kimchi fried rice, and to my enduring affection for Italian food. It is deeply savory, gently funky, and indulgent without being spicy. Exactly enough for one. Girls want to have fun, after all, and no one wants to spend more than twenty minutes standing over a po...
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Don't Bend It Like The Beckhams

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I didn’t know the Beckhams had three sons and one daughter. I also didn’t know that their eldest is named Brooklyn Beckham, or that he is, depending on the bio you are reading, a photographer, a model, and a media personality. I was blissfully unaware of all of this until a family feud began surfacing on my Instagram feed, at which point I learned, somewhat against my will, that he is married to Nicola Peltz. Photo by Kristina Flour on Unsplash And who, exactly, is Nicola Peltz? I had to Google her to confirm that she does, in fact, have film credits. No shade, just verification. I don’t follow celebrities like scripture, but I follow enough to notice when someone’s cultural footprint expands suddenly. In this case, it seems undeniable that both Brooklyn and Nicola have garnered far more attention from their very public tension with Victoria Beckham and David Beckham than from their individual careers. This is not shocking. The Beckhams are among the most meticulously managed fami...
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Style Capsule: Staples

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It feels faintly absurd to talk about fashion when the country reads as if it has been scorched—our civic life corroded, our norms dissolved, the air thick with something like acid rain. The erosion of the rule of law was already alarming, treated with the casualness of leftovers pushed aside and forgotten. But earlier this week, I felt my stomach drop when Donald Trump remarked in an interview, “when you think of it, we shouldn’t even have an election.” The White House press secretary, Karoline Leavitt, later suggested it was a joke. Photo by Valna Studio on Unsplash If it was meant to be funny, the humor is inaccessible to me. I don’t lack a sense of irony or satire, but jokes rely on shared boundaries. This crossed none I recognize. Perhaps my tolerance for absurdity has thinned as the stakes have risen, but dismissing such a statement as unserious feels willfully naïve. After everything that has already been tested, strained, and broken, pretending this is unthinkable requires a s...
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