Downtown Farmington—MI

The eve of my mother’s 45^th birthday.

A night that my youngest brother, would fare in telling you would’ve been a night better spent had he been able to take down the sake bombs he saw my mom downing at the bar.

A quaint hole in the wall Korean restaurant, with easily the best sushi in the Midwest, sandwiched at the corner of a plaza deep in Downtown Farmington.

Owned by a renowned Korean chef, who wanted to create a humble beginning for him and his family in America. A family that each had a role of their own within Sushi Mi.

Chef greeted us with a bow as always when we walked through the door. “Hello! Long time!”

I smiled and waved.

Chef’s wife came to take our order.

“We want a boat.”

“Yeah, gone fishing,” my youngest brother said with a chuckle.

As a first generation American, it always filled me with pride as I saw Chef diligently and dutifully crafting his little works of art to soon fill our stomachs.

Each of us took turns peering through the windows of the sushi bar to watch Chef and his brother Yoshi execute our order onto a large wooden boat.

Chef’s wife and sister took each side of the boat and walked it to our table. One by one, my mom, brothers, and I whipped out our phones ready to snap this masterpiece to display on the many social networks we belonged too, but a sullen feeling sank into my stomach as I saw Chef glowing with pride watching us document his art.

Were we counting our blessings in the way that we should have been? By taking turns showing all of our friends what we were eating. Detached from one another, yet still connected to the world it didn’t seem as if we were wholly there.

Chef and his family spent almost everyday together working hard and dynamically, and we seldom gathered around the table together, albeit special occasions.

Chef offered us a roll on the house as he usually does, and Yoshi insisted we take sake bombs with him to help celebrate my mom.

My mom begged me to document her first ever sake bomb. She had had my older brother at 18 and was pregnant with me just shy of her 22^nd birthday, and another two after us. On the eve of 45 she was finally beginning to experience her youth, and rightfully, so.

I begrudgingly did so with a slight smirk on my face.

My mother and I were one fortune cookie away from a Freak Friday episode. As a child, my father constantly insisted we eat dinner together as a family, but as time went on and our lives grew separately into our own worlds, we became disengaged with one another, and improperly connected with everyone else except each other.

Peering at my mother, whose face was flushed a rosy pink from excitement, a smile stretched across my face. I didn’t want to watch her, I wanted to stand beside her, even show her the ropes, so to speak. Yet, she kept insisting she had to show this to her childhood friend— who lived in who knows where—who she had always talked about doing this with as a teenager. A flush of disappointment washed over me.

FOMO-Fear of missing out.

The Oxford dictionary added this word to their online database in 2013 and defines it as anxiety that an exciting or interesting event may currently be happening elsewhere, often aroused by posts seen on a social media website.

Had FOMO replaced family?

We too, had our own role in this beautiful little Korean family eatery.

We were the extended family of these people who had grown to become our friends, but even as friends we acted as if the ones we shared our blood with were basically strangers because of the attachment we had to a small rectangular screen seemingly glued to our hands or pockets, or facing up on the table awaiting to be answered at the first buzz, glow, or chime.

We had always been taught to pray before a meal, not snap a picture of it. To engage each other in conversation, not engage in texting one another into a conversation. The disconnect was taking us away from counting our blessings, and instead counting followers or likes.

A man that thanked us with a bow as we walked into his establishment hungry and bowed again to us for walking out filled to the brim with satisfaction understood the meaning of gratitude and blessings by the exceptional customer service he and his family had always provided.

I paused and took a look at my family. Each one of us—phone in hand—as we walked across the parking lot and just before stepping into our car, I spread my arms as wide as I could around some of the people I held dearest, and just whispered “thank you,” as I saw a smile stretch across their faces translated for my own ounce of comfort.