A few years after college, ashamed to request another care package, I decided it was time to learn to make bindaeduk. To my surprise, my mother, a pharmacist whose accuracy in measuring saves lives, did not have a recipe on paper—or even, she said, in her head. It was all in her hands, she insisted. We compromised on a solution: she would cook the pancakes in Ohio and record ingredient amounts, then call me, give the recipe to me over the phone, and stay by her phone while I attempted my own batch. I could hardly believe how many details went into preparing this food I took for granted. On my first try, I didn't grind the mung beans sufficiently, had trouble ladling the mixture into the frying pan so that it would form a circle, and didn't know when, precisely, a pancake was done enough on one side to be flipped—phone instruction was only so helpful. I almost resented my mother for not whipping up a stack and shipping them to me once more. But when I tasted my creations, all was forgiven. They weren't beautiful looking, but they were beautiful tasting. My mother had shipped them to me, in her own way.