I’ve written a lot about my identity struggles in this column. I mean, my life so far has been pretty diverse culturally like a whole world market: I was born in Korea, raised in Texas and moved to Los Angeles for college. By joining clubs like the Korean American Student Association and embracing L.A.’s thriving Korean food and culture scene, I thought I had finally found it — a place where I fit in, where I felt comfortable with my identity. Instead, I found myself with more confusion and self-doubt, adjusting who I knew myself to be to align with external standards.

But well into my sophomore year, I still haven’t found “it.” Now that I’m living in USC Village (with a kitchen!), I’ve been cooking a lot more — and since I’m no longer confined to questionable dining hall meals, there’s lots to do and experiment with. And I think that’s precisely it. Like gastronomy, my identity is intersectional, multifaceted. 

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At the start of the year, I cooked mostly the American, New American and Italian foods that frequented my chef’s corner over the summer. Three-hour dill and sake salmon, protein pasta with homemade red sauce and sandwich variations were common. Essentially, I was cooking the things I was familiar with, staying inside a nice two-by-two box of comfort.

But that got old fast. After two weeks straight of school and cooking Western foods, I was fed up (literally). Over the summer, I was at home, so I stayed in a lot — often recouping the energy I had spent over the past year in college. When my parents went out for dinner, they usually brought back a variety of foods, with the most common thread being Asian food.

Now, in college with quick access to only Trader Joe’s and Target, I missed the food — not to mention the community aspect — of home. Meal prepping for the week by myself was isolating. Lucky for me, I had three friends who were willing to drive me to H Mart in exchange for a home-cooked meal. And lucky for them, cooking was my love language.

Over the next two weeks, I only ate Korean food. I mean, I was a fiend when it came to grocery shopping. My kitchen was stocked with three variations of kimchi, jangjorim, gochujang, ssamjang, marinated bulgogi, bone-in short ribs, kongjang, brown rice, kim, mandu, hotteok, myeolchi-ttangkong-bokkeum, red leaf lettuce and hobakjuk — you name it, I probably had it. 

I spent an entire afternoon making galbitang from scratch, numerous nights eating kimchi tuna fried rice with quadruple egg and countless hours of meal prepping rice, protein and banchan combinations. And I loved it. Which is crazy, considering that before college I complained about having too much Korean food.

This drastic change brought to mind another question — what am I cooking? As I began making Korean dishes for the first time, I not only learned about the ingredients that went into them, but also about the time, love and heritage behind my favorite foods. 

Yes, the recipes followed instructions, but to truly cook the dishes, there’s a little sprinkle here, an extra dash there, etc. Navigating identity isn’t a one-size-fits-all checklist, in which you have to conform to a specific archetype, be involved with a particular club or adopt certain mannerisms. 

It’s just like cooking — explore ingredients here, merge flavors there, mix and match cooking styles until you figure it out. You don’t suddenly find your identity wrapped up in a ribbon after meeting a series of quotas — you know you’ve found it when it feels right. 

Food is my love language. Through home-cooked dinners with my roommate, neighbors and friends, I’ve learned to love my identity a little bit more — and share it with others. Sure, I may not be the typical Orange County stereotype who goes to church every Sunday and speaks fluent Korean, or the international girl with pronounced aegyo sal calling everyone “Oppa.” I’m glad I’m not, because that’s not me. My identity doesn’t fit into a box. It can’t be sorted into a grocery aisle. Its ingredients come from all over, and there is no recipe. That’s why I love it.

Victoria Lee is a sophomore writing about DEI, the AAPI experience and representation of underserved communities. Her column, “Your College Unnie,” runs every other Friday.