A Korean Pocha in the Backyard: A Gift of Warmth, Memory, and Friendship

A Korean Pocha in the Backyard: A Gift of Warmth, Memory, and Friendship

It’s been six years since I last visited Korea. Sometimes, this physical distance feels like a quiet ache—a longing that words can’t quite hold. But last week, that ache softened, thanks to my dear friend Sophie.

Sophie hosted a Korean-style pocha (street tent pub) in her backyard, and it wasn’t just for fun—it was a heartfelt, detailed tribute to the Korea I miss so dearly. She brought in authentic pojangmacha chairs, a charcoal firepit, wooden signboards with Korean dish names, and even recreated the casual yet comforting atmosphere of a true Korean street stall. This wasn’t just decoration—it was love, memory, and artistry in action.

I often think of her as an artist of emotion and experience. Her food—especially the kimchi jeon and fishcake soup—tasted better than anything I’ve had in Korea recently. It was the atmosphere, the intention, and perhaps the soft rain that began to fall as we sat around the fire, sipping makgeolli, that made the flavors come alive. That moment healed something in me.
Living in the U.S. as a Korean is not always easy. We navigate layers of cultural disconnection, subtle and overt racism, and the emotional labor of constantly adapting. Artists like myself often find that we exist in spaces where there are few who look or feel like us. The world of art here isn’t always built for Asian souls—and yet we persist. We create. We give.

There are angels here too—people who extend warmth without needing a reason. I’ve been lucky to meet many of them. Sophie is one of those angels.

This experience reminded me of the Korean concept of “jeong” (정)—an unconditional, everyday kindness. Growing up in Korea, I remember walking into a neighbor’s house and being offered freshly made jeon without question. The corner store owner would hand out free shikhye(Sweet Korean Rice Punch) to anyone passing by. Doors were open. Plates were shared. There was no purpose, just warmth.
Sometimes, in the hustle of survival in a foreign country, we Koreans forget to live by jeong. But when I share it with my Western friends, they often ask, “Why are you being so kind?” Because for us, kindness doesn’t need a reason. It is simply who we are.

I couldn’t participate in my child’s multicultural day at school this year due to my schedule. But this backyard pocha has lit a new fire in me. Next year, I will create a Korean booth again. I will share our flavors, our colors, and our spirit. Because sharing Korea—through food, art, or simple warmth—is how I stay connected to home, and how I create home, wherever I go.
Thank you, Sophie. For your heart, your spirit, and your unforgettable pocha.

A heartfelt Korean pocha (tent pub) in a friend’s backyard helped soothe six years of homesickness. From kimchi pancakes to sweet sikhye, it was a moment of gratitude, memory, and rediscovery of Korean “jeong” in a foreign land.