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As a kid, I remember the countless times I helped my grandma press our large jar of kimchi, squatting over the kitchen floor covered in old newspapers. The bright red color of the kimchi is seared into my memory.This bi-monthly tradition always started the same; opening the jar to have my nose berated with a ripe sour smell from the long time it was fermenting in the fridge. Growing up, I hated the sourness and the cold, slimy feel of kimchi in my mouth. My dad would force me to eat at least one piece at dinner anyway, saying I wasn't a real Korean if I didn't eat kimchi. Nearly a decade later, when I see and smell kimchi, I'm reminded of the memories of my family, of my late grandmother. The taste doesn't bother me so much anymore; instead it reminds me of home. Some might even say I enjoy kimchi now. While maybe taste buds change as we age, I wonder if it's a sign of learning to love and preserve my culture.

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I remember warmth in my home. The warmth of a hug, a smile, or the mysterious grey box that lived in the wall. The heater that I would stare at as I lay on the floor. I would see the blue flame behind the slats and be amazed at the color.

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My grandfather had a home-built go kart that he fixed up and got running for us. It was built from an old lawnmower engine and spare parts from bicycles and other machines. We would ride it up and down the driveway, taking turns straddling the engine and going as fast as the machine would let us, cackling as the wind blew through our hair.

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When I was a child, the Dutch bakery truck came to our house with roogebrod, Dutch cheese, hagelslag (chocolate sprinkles), and donuts. One night my brother Alan fervently prayed, "Thank you, God, for the donuts!"

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During New Years my family eats 20 grapes at 12 pm. We make 20 wishes, one for each grape. For me, this always represents all out hopes and dreams that we have. I also included frames with photos of special memories and achievements.

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As I child, I could count on the delight of a special rose, a box of plums, and a special rice cake for my birthday.

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Growing up, my father always made German stollen for New Year's Day. It wasn’t until I became an adult that I learned this was a German Christmas tradition. I realized that as we always spent Christmas at Grandmas' — who wants to make yeast bread in someone else's kitchen?

I still make my own stollen today — at Christmas or New Year's, often incorporating 12 fruits for my husband's Filipino tradition.