It's here, under Costco's fluorescent lights, that my culturally disparate, non-verbally affectionate relationship with my mother flourishes. We share neither fluency in the same language, nor an ease with physical displays of affection, but we do share an affinity for food.
My mom might hug me just once a year, but her regular, hearty preparations of seafood risottos and kimchi bibimbap offer me a comparable rush of serotonin. The complex layering of ingredients and hours-long prep times replace most families' verbal showcases of love.
Costco -- a warehouse packed full of mutually comprehensible stand-ins for common interests -- supplies props and a stage to the theater that is this deeply felt, albeit seemingly cold, exchange of familial love between my mother and me.