"We're rich."

Chuseok (Korean Thanksgiving) was two weeks ago, but I still enjoyed this essay by Nina Yun on what it means to celebrate abundance in a time of the coronavirus in America:

"On Chuseok, as my mother and I cooked happily and divided all the food into containers (and then Ziploc bags when we ran out of containers), we’d make the same joke. 'We’re rich,' my mother said every time she poured more oil into the pan. 'We’re rich,' I said when I cracked more eggs. 'We’re rich,' we said in unison as we looked at all the food we packed to give away. After months of pandemic living, we still find it hard to enjoy our meals without feeling guilty, especially when faced with an excess of our own making. But this felt like relief, like a long exhale for a breath we didn’t know we were holding. It felt right. Chuseok, too, is a kind of new year for my mother and her emigration from Korea. I think for many Korean Americans, the tenor of Chuseok’s guide to remembrance expands to their or their family’s immigrant experiences. To account for the struggles it takes to make a life here, to account for what it means to survive here, is to remember a kind of body.

Before I left to deliver the food — face mask on the entire time — my mother poured us each a small serving of sujeonggwa [cinnamon fruit punch]. We toasted. After I drank mine, I studied the emptiness of my teacup and felt grateful."

This is, frankly, a horrible time to be alive.  Splurging on food for yourself, family, and your friends seems perfectly logical to me.