It’s Not Rice. It’s Bap.

I packed Big Bear rice, gim (seaweed, also known as nori), and tonkatsu for lunch—her favorite.

After school, she stopped by my office, clearly irritated when I asked how her day went.

“How was school, babe?”

“Kids kept correcting me when I said I was eating bap.”

“Oh?”

“They said it’s rice, not bap.”

I smiled.

“No, Bear. It is—and will always be—bap.”

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“Rice” feels too general to capture what bap is to us.

Bap is moist, dense, slightly sweet, and sticky. It chews softly in your mouth, a white base ready to absorb whatever flavors join it. Like a blank canvas, it waits to be painted.

Bap is the glue—the connector that brings each ingredient together into one harmonious meal.

⸻

I remember when I first attended an American school.

My parents warned my sister and me never to eat kimchi for breakfast, and never to eat anything with too much garlic for dinner because the smell might linger the next day.

In those days, bringing Korean or Asian food to school felt unthinkable. My parents worried we might be teased or bullied for being different. They were protecting us from unknown risks.

⸻

My kids are growing up in a different time.

Big Bear can pack her favorite gim, bap, and tonkatsu for lunch without worrying about side glances, scolding, or curious—sometimes ignorant—comments. She even feels confident enough to tell her friends that bap is not rice.

I will probably still avoid packing strongly scented grilled mackerel.

Friends today are more familiar with Korean culture. And if anyone ever tries to make my children feel like they should change who they are, they will quickly discover that I am their strongest advocate.

My parents protected me from the world.

I protect my children within it.

Some things translate.

Some things simply remain who we are.