Flying Solo: Managing a baby alone at 20,000 feet

Hopper flight in Hawaii

My world-traveler baby has logged about 45 hours in the air, and we were sans Daddy for almost half that time. That’s right. I flew more than 20 hours alone with an infant.

I should say at this point: I am normally an even-keeled person—on the ground. But something in the recycled air of a plane cabin puts my teeth on edge. My muscles tense, my throat dries. I feel claustrophobic if someone I don’t know puts their arm on the armrest between us, or their leg into my territory. I get selfish. Entitled. Somehow the wonder of humans flying—literally flying—escapes me.

Flying with a baby too young to watch in-flight entertainment ratchets up that stress... or, as I found out on the third flight of Luca's life—my first solo-with-baby flight—it can be a lesson in patience.

The result of such lessons? I’ve changed: I’m less antsy on a plane. Less annoyed. Yes, I got frustrated at Korean Air’s policy of turning on all the cabin lights in the middle of a marathon flight when everyone is trying to sleep. No, (but thank you to every single flight attendant for asking) Luca will not go back to sleep when he wakes up under all those lights. But, for the most part, I don’t let my frustration and exhaustion push me to the end of my rope. At least not the very end.

Here’s the secret:

1. Change your attitude, and especially your expectations.
Of course it will be tough to fly alone with your seven- or nine-month old, I told myself. Don’t expect to watch movies. Don’t expect to relax.
I decided to treat our flights from Seoul to SFO and back like one of Luca’s hospital stays: It’s OK if I am uncomfortable trying to sleep on this stiff fold-out hospital chair. If Luca is OK, then I am OK. Why can’t a flight be the same? Babyhood is short. If I’m uncomfortable, exhausted and doing a song-and-dance routine for every flight we take while Luca is a baby—and while any future children we may have are babies—what’s the big deal? I’ll survive.
Attitude is the number one thing to get you through a flight with a baby, and that's true even if your partner is along for the ride.

2. Don’t worry about what other people think.
This is foundational. I used to roll my eyes and sigh loudly when a baby kicked my seat from behind. I used to say in a loud whisper, “Oh, great,” when a baby started crying before takeoff. But, please, ignore past Mallie and anyone else like her. Who cares? Past Mallie and anyone else like her will learn soon enough. As for those older men who cast judgmental stares… who cares? You will never see those men again.
If judgmental looks make your guilt meter skyrocket, avoid eye contact with any other passengers—especially when your baby is crying or screaming. (notice I said when.)
A note to past Mallie and friends: Flying commercial is public transportation. You will hear other people who paid (roughly) the same amount you did for a ticket. Of course we parents will do everything we can to keep our babies quiet, but what baby will be quiet for 11 or 6 or even 3 hours straight? In cramped quarters with limited stimulation? Seriously. It's hard enough for adults.

Seoul-SFO

3. Request a bassinet seat, if your baby is small enough.
Lying your baby down flat where he can stretch out is invaluable. Let’s be honest, you’ll have to use any available surface (your lap, the floor, the carseat if you bought the baby his own ticket) to try to help your child sleep. The bassinet provides another awesome option. Plus, don’t tell anybody, but I definitely changed Luca’s diaper in the bassinet seat. He gets skittish in that garishly bright, loud and cramped lavatory, and besides, (I think) no one noticed. (See point #2)

4. Use all your space.
One bonus of the bassinet seat was that it got me a section of three seats to ourselves, at a bulkhead. And, believe me, I used that space. Don’t judge me; I have an active little guy who loves to crawl and explore: I let Luca play on the ground on top of an airline blanket. True, I made a big toy and bottle mess and probably made the Korean Air flight attendants very uncomfortable. BUT, Luca was much happier for the freedom, and therefore the other passengers were much happier, whether they knew it or not. (And, don’t judge me again, but I also changed Luca’s diaper on the floor. No one noticed.)

Seoul-SFO

If I didn’t have a bulkhead, I probably would have brought my airline blanket to that small open area near the kitchen and the bathrooms to let Luca crawl for limited periods. You gotta do what you gotta do.

5. BRING TOYS. And be ok with “found toys.”
The bulkhead armrest that opens and closes to let the food tray pop out? Awesome toy. Plus, if you excitedly say “open!” and “closed!” every time the baby opens or closes it, he stays interested for longer, and he’s learning. Win-win.
Airline magazines? Not a good toy if your baby still sticks everything in his mouth. I put these all together in an off-limits corner of our area and stuck toys in the magazine pocket for Luca to discover.

SFO-Seoul

6. Plan to play with your baby.
This may sound obvious, but who among us wouldn’t rather watch the latest Hobbit movie than sit on an airplane floor with a nine-month old, constantly repositioning tiny airline pillows in a vain attempt to hide the electrical outlets—complete with glowing red lights—that are waiting under each seat for tiny, poking fingers? But really, if you expect to play with your child, you’ll be less annoyed that you have to do it in an uncomfortable situation.

7. Walk the aisles using your baby carrier.
The magic sleep machine! Plus, you can avoid blood clots, burn some airline-food calories and guess the movies other people are enjoying.

8. Use your baby wipes.
Luca, like most babies, loves to put things in his mouth. Airplane seatbelts and armrests are no exception, and it is far less stressful to sanitize the seatbelt clasp than to constantly pry the baby’s gums off it. Yummy.

9. Strategize bathroom trips.
OK, this is one that never worked out well for me, primarily because Luca’s health issues made him particularly clingy to mama and scared of strangers for a while. I peed once on the flight to SFO since Luca wouldn’t sleep without me patting him or rubbing his head—once in 11 hours. A flight attendant offered to hold Luca while I went. Great, right? Well, he screamed the entire time, right outside the lavatory door. I held it the rest of the way.

10. Factor in monster jet lag.
Don’t worry too much about adjusting your sleep schedule—or your baby’s—to the new time zone. Unless someone on the other end is prepared to pull night duty for you, you should know up front that mommy jet lag is really just extreme sleep deprivation, especially if your baby couldn’t sleep much on the flight. It’s probably better if you expect it. Don’t make huge, involved plans for the next day or two, and—if you can—nap whenever your baby is ready to sleep. It was worse for me going back to Seoul than over to the States, though I’m sure everyone is different.

Finally, if you are someone who gets annoyed at babies in the air: I am sorry. There is not much else we moms can do at 20,000 feet, but we are trying. Believe me.

Healthy Baby

It’s hard for me to imagine, now, that screaming baby with head-to-toe open sores.

It seems an age ago since I heard that desperate, mournful tone: “Ma ma ma ma ma.”

It’s hard for me to imagine, now, how I felt: Helpless. Depressed. Awful.

Look at this child: Healthy, happy, whole.

The last few months have been transformational. Luca’s skin has held its integrity for nearly four months, after five terrifying weeks of suffering and three hospitalizations, preceded by a couple months of worry and rashes. And itchiness.

It’s hard to say what finally made the difference, but I believe it was a combination: medicines and skin treatments, stopping all solid foods temporarily, and timing. And especially prayers and hard work. Blood. Sweat. Tears. Baths. Wet wraps.

We are incredibly blessed to have discovered what was triggering Luca's horribly severe atopic dermatitis flare-ups (certain foods) and be able to remove those triggers from the equation. Many, many families are not so fortunate.

During our third hospital stay, at the advice of our military doctors, we decided Luca needed U.S.-level medical care. He needed a med evac.

Luca helping weigh himself before an appointment

Medical evacuation—med evac—sounds so intense. I imagine helicopters. Emergencies.

But really, the government will med evac employees or family members when they can’t get U.S.-level care wherever they are posted. Many pregnant women med evac to give birth.


So, Luca and I flew to San Francisco where top-rate UCSF doctors tweaked his medications, ran tests and gave us a plan of action.

Our time in California was like a surprise summer vacation in the middle of winter—figuratively and literally. I was hanging by an emotional thread when I left Seoul at the beginning of March, but my hotel (Hotel del Sol) was bright and cheery, orange and yellow and red. There were hammocks in the courtyard, and my room was called The Motivational Suite.

The weather was fantastic.

Uncle Dean & Aunt Amanda!

My family and my friends came to see me, hug me and play with my son.

We were well loved.

We spent a couple weeks in San Francisco, and then a month—in between follow-up appointments—at my parents’ house, five minutes from my sister and her family and twenty minutes from my brother and his.

The sun was out, the air warm. We cranked (coconut) ice cream and the kids swam in the pool.

Cousin fun!

It felt like stolen time.

For several weeks, a day couldn’t pass without one of my family members exclaiming: “This is a different baby than Hawaii!” or, “Can you believe this is the same baby we saw in Hawaii?!”

And it was true. Luca’s skin turned from alligator rough to baby soft. His recurring rashes were mild. Very mild.

Luca’s mood turned from pained to gleeful—my sister said he was one of the happiest babies she’d met. I could have cried.

It was as though he was making up for lost time—in grins and in development. He thrived: learned to sit up from a crawl and to pull himself up on furniture. His hair grew, and he stopped rubbing it off.

He (eventually) stopped needed to wear silk mittens at all times.

It was the most soul-healing six weeks of my life so far: family, love, sun, health.

The Kims, reunited

Joe visited from Seoul for a week—and his family met us for the weekend—which was amazing. But, despite our California love, that little visit from Joe wasn’t enough: We were more than ready to return home to be with him once Luca’s appointments were done.

Luca adored Uncle Albert

We’ve been back in Seoul nearly a month, and now, it is hard to imagine any of our suffering ever happened. It’s as though California erased the intensity of the past.

It was a time out, a reset button.

And now, we are cautious.

I am vigilant.

I watch Luca’s skin like a hawk and treat any rash immediately, bathe him daily, keep up with his creams and medications.

We introduce solid foods slowly, one food per week. Though, as we learned this week with chicken, it only takes a day to see his body react. Thankfully, we saw the signs early enough to stop chicken before his skin got too involved.

Honestly, I’m a little disappointed to find a new allergy. I’d started wondering whether I’d dreamed up all his issues and we were being too uptight with food. That perhaps Luca’s health struggles were really and completely over.

This is not the case.

But—and it gives me joy to say this—his condition is manageable. He does not suffer like he did. I’m learning what to watch for (dry cough, vomiting, painful diarrhea) and how to help him.

Maybe he will even grow out of his food allergies one day. Maybe.

Now, even as Luca is recovering from a small reaction, his spirits are high. I can barely keep from tearing up when I think about his health, his giggles, his grins.

He is almost a toddler now, and he is well. Normal. Curious. Healthy. Thriving.

Thank God.

Baby Cuddles and the Meaning of Life

I knew having a baby was life changing, but until it was my own son, I confess: I didn’t truly understand.

At times it’s hard, it’s tiring, it’s frustrating.

Luca cries and gets cranky; he’s upset when I don’t let him chew my cell phone; he refuses to fall asleep when he desperately needs it, and when every fiber of my being wants to lay my own head on my pillow.

But I’ve never been more grateful for any earthly thing in all my life.

When I met Joe, a whole new world of emotion opened up to me. It was like a faucet turned on. Literally—I started crying over emotions more than ever before; I felt life more deeply.

Having a child, for me, has been a different kind of falling in love—something I didn’t fully know was waiting for me on the other side of pregnancy.

I’ve felt worry before, but never so acutely. I’ve treasured memories before, but never so deeply.

Like when I make Luca giggle, or find something that draws out his now-toothy grin. When I figure out what need he is trying to communicate and then fill it. When I read him stories while he watches me with those giant brown eyes. When Luca rests his head on my shoulder and closes his eyes, trusting me enough to hold him while he finally gives in to his sleepiness.

In those rocking-chair moments particularly, when my heart nearly splits its seams, I am convinced that a baby’s cuddles hold a key to life's meaning.

My short stint at motherhood has offered me a first-hand glimpse at what I believe God’s heart must be like as he watches us.

He doesn’t want us to suffer. He feels our pain. He wants the best for us. When we are anxious over getting what we want—and even throw fits about it—he is there, longing for us to lay our heads on his shoulder and close our eyes. To trust him enough to let our worries slip away into peace and the rest we so desperately need.

I always thought of God as a father, but I realize now he is also very much a mother.

The Roller Coaster

Luca’s impossibly soft cheeks; his grins, his giggles.

That wiggly, smiley squeal when I pick him up—even if it’s 3am and he’s decided it’s a good time to play.

The ability to put himself to sleep for his morning nap after playing alone in his crib for half an hour.

These are things I do not take for granted, things I’ve seen—sometimes—this past week.

I thought the worst was over after the flare up that landed us in Samsung Medical Center in January, but this latest flare was as good as any of them.

We were discharged from our third hospitalization in five weeks last Tuesday, and afterward it seemed my little man was making up for lost time, with extra energy to play and interact.

He’s still itchy, but when I see him like this, I hope.

Maybe now the worst is over, I tell myself. Except that is what I thought the last time, and I’m seeing suspicious signs again. Maybe I’m just paranoid.

This time, we stayed at the military hospital on base, and American nursing care was a breath of fresh air. In Korea, hospitals expect the family to do most of the hands-on care; I hear people hire helpers if they don’t have family to help. And the cultural hierarchy is tangible: Doctors are the center of the universe, particularly our allergist, who everyone referred to as “The Professor.”

It is just different.

At the military hospital, the nurses did all his wet dressings and brought me water. They constantly asked: Can I do anything else for you? The staff removed my used food trays. The military doctors took time to explain Luca’s care and answer my questions. Luca’s care revolved around us.

These are things I do not take for granted.

And, as a bonus, I had a full-time, dedicated nurse by my side: Sometimes a girl just needs her mom.

My mom arrived in Seoul on Saturday to the news we were in the ER, waiting for admission. She booked her tickets a few weeks before to help me manage Luca’s care at home—perhaps give me a few full nights of sleep—but her help in the hospital was vital; she came just in time.

This is something I do not take for granted.

Now, a few days after returning home again, I’m nervous. Yes, he’s still playing well (for the most part). Yes, I'm vigilant about his skin treatment and avoiding potential allergens (i.e. any solid foods).

But he’s gotten a bit crankier, again. And now he has trouble settling and staying asleep for his naps. He cries more than usual, scratches his knees back and forth on the mattress, rubs his head or pulls his ears.

Yesterday, parts of his skin seemed splotchy red, just slightly. Just enough to worry me.

But Luca still grins at me from across the room while he plays with his Nana, so I suppose tomorrow can worry about itself.

Right now, he is healthy. And this is something I do not take for granted.

A Very Itchy Christmas (Or: Atopic Dermatitis, a Primer)

Before Christmas, I felt like I was drowning.

Always close to tears; edging toward a breakdown.

No one seemed to understand, though of course I couldn’t fault them.

“Eczema? Yeah, my baby had that. This-or-that cream worked wonders. I just moisturized more often.”

Even the doctors: “This is a well baby with a rash. It’s mild eczema—you don’t even want to see severe eczema, believe me.”

“Oh, he’ll grow out of it in a year or three or five.”

I had nothing to compare, so I tried to believe it wasn’t such a big deal. Maybe I was overreacting. Just moisturize.

I, too, had eczema once. On my elbows. It was dry, sure, and it was itchy. It was annoying. I rubbed on some hydrocortisone and it cleared up in a couple days.

This is not that.

Remember your last mosquito bite? Remember that intensely itchy sensation, especially right before the welt appears, when all you want is to scratch?

Imagine that sensation engulfing your entire body.

And then, imagine someone restraining your hands, your feet, doing everything they can to prevent you from doing the one thing that seems relieving.

Sound like torture?

This is what my son felt, and feels. Daily.

Before Christmas, a trip to warm, humid Hawaii was the light at the end of my dry, ice-cold, skin-cracking tunnel. Late November and early December were dark for me.

More stressful than planning a wedding from the opposite coast.

More stressful than my Master’s program.

My entire day and night consisted of trying, unsuccessfully, to keep Luca from scratching himself, to keep him moisturized, to help him sleep. In photos from that time, I look ill.

I was scared: Sometimes Luca’s skin looked sunburned, sometimes mottled red, sometimes bumpy. Always itchy. I’d prayed for wisdom in raising my son since my pregnancy, but I felt lost.

His sixth month of life, Luca was rarely happy.

Some days he looked better, and I was hopeful. Then devastated when it got worse. Ups and downs wore my emotions threadbare.

Atopic Dermatitis (which I will call it, since the common name, eczema, sounds far less serious) has degrees, and Luca’s escalated its way, flare-up after flare-up, to severe.

I’ve watched with horror (and a touch of pride) the last three months as Luca’s problem-solving skills found increasingly creative ways to scratch his persistent itch.

Lying on the ground? Sweet, I’ll just wiggle and scratch my back! Sitting in a chair? I’ll rub my arms along the sides. Cuddled in the Ergo carrier, usually the great neutralizer? Ooh, these rough nylon straps are perfectly at elbow height.

Then there’s the vaguely disco car-seat dance. It would be adorable if it wasn’t so frustrating.

Rub, scratch, wiggle, and here comes a rash. There goes a patch of skin. Here comes ooze. Peeling. Pain.

Ever wonder what your skin would look like if you kept rubbing? Me either, but now I know.

Toward the end of December, some friends started to catch a glimpse. “What do you do with him all day at home when he’s like that?” a neighbor asked. I shrugged.

There was one reprieve, just in time: I joined a Bible study of a few women on base, women who prayed with me. Women who saw me teetering on the edge of what I could bear, and embraced me. One of them has a daughter with the same problem, about a year older than Luca.

She’d been there. She knew. She was a Godsend.

I would call her at Luca’s bedtime, fretting over some new outbreak. She would talk me back from the edge; give me tips on how to ease his suffering. She showed me which humidifier to buy, and where to order special Scratch Me Not sleeves with silk mittens to lessen skin damage and hair loss (the sleeves finally arrived late last week).

Of course, Christmas in Hawaii would fix all my problems. The warm, humid weather would be the perfect answer to Seoul’s bone-dry cold. I’d see my family and be happy. Joe wouldn’t be working at all. Luca’s skin would clear up.

Nope.

Not a chance.

Yes, it was wonderful to spend time with my family and to have Joe with me all the time—such a necessary break from the drudgery of fighting the scratch mostly alone.

And yes, we had fun swimming in the ocean and hiking to Queen’s Bath, a natural swimming hole formed of volcanic rock. We ate Kauai’s famous shave ice, enjoyed family meals, played with my niece and nephew, and visited my college roommate Bethany and met her cute little family.

But Luca was miserable.

I don’t think my family saw him smile until day three or four, and Luca barely played without whimpering. He was always scratching, scratching, scratching; angry when we pulled his hands away.

After an ER visit—“That is the worst case of dry skin I’ve ever seen,” the doctor said, before sending us on our way with instructions to moisturize—his skin peeled and looked miraculous. My hopes rose.

For a day.

I hate to be negative, but I won’t pretend our second week in Hawaii, in Honolulu, was fun. We watched Luca’s skin deteriorate into open, seeping sores, made worse in areas he could reach to rub with his sock-covered hands or feet.

We didn’t even go into the ocean. We went to Pearl Harbor but couldn’t make it out to the memorial.

If our vacation has a silver lining, it is that we ended up at Kapi’olani Medical Center, a hospital specializing in women and children—and they even staff pediatric specialists in the ER. Right place, right time; thank God.

Doctors took a look at our little one, oozing over probably 80 percent of his body, and admitted him until his skin was back under control. They drew blood, gave him an IV. We delayed our flight home.

Food allergies were the most likely culprit, the labs indicated. Allergy was also what was tearing up his intestines; he’d had diarrhea for almost a month by this point.

Luca was exclusively breastfed, so I cut out dairy, soy, egg, wheat, peanuts, sesame.

But it wasn’t enough.

We arrived home in Seoul on Thursday night, and by Monday, his skin was already relapsing. He rarely smiled. He wouldn’t even stand up—his absolute favorite thing to do.

We had a dermatologist appointment that day, and the doctor checked out our red, screaming infant with skin falling off his hands and feet, read his history, and recommended admission. Again.

Honestly, I was relieved. The way things were already going at home worried me. It was not sustainable.

The day after admission was so bad, anyway, I would have gone to the ER if I wasn’t already admitted. His hands and feet were cold and purple, he refused to nurse, and he would either stare into space, scream, or sleep. Nothing else.

I was scared.

Apparently dehydration and low blood sugar were to blame, since his condition improved after they hooked him up to IV fluids and he finally started eating. Our emergency put us behind in our care plan—we thought we’d only be there three days, but stayed a week.

How wonderful, though, that Samsung Medical Center has a care plan for patients like Luca. The sign in the photograph (right) points to “Atopic Disease Dedicated Ward,” a private room (with a view!) that aims to be allergen free: a hard-core air purifier, a humidifier, and a water purifier for the bath. No shoes or peanuts or ramen allowed. (Why ramen? I don’t know, but that’s what they said.)

View of Gangnam from hotel room, in southern Seoul

Doctors at Samsung research Atopic Dermatitis, using cutting-edge tools to track progress. Again: Right place, right time; thank God.

For example, in the Allergy Center, someone would stick a probe on Luca’s skin and measure its Ph level.

Another probe measured so-called “dryness index.” For perspective, normal dryness measures between 8 to 15, they told us. Luca’s neck—the worst part of the most recent flare-up—measured 150 when we arrived. It measured 50 when we finally went home, after days of multiple baths and wet dressings. After meds, tests and rest. And prayers—ours and those of family, friends and strangers (thank you!).

Luca tolerating a wet dressing

Oh, and diet change. The first thing doctors did was order me to stop breastfeeding. Luca needed to get well faster than the allergens could filter out of my body—and he could be allergic to anything.

He had never before taken a bottle.

We had to let him starve.

That transition marked probably the hardest two days of my life so far.

Harder than labor and delivery.

Harder than moving across the world.

I knew in my mind it was the right choice for Luca's health, but my heart felt otherwise. We both mourned the sudden, unexpected, unwanted end of breastfeeding. It felt wrong to refuse him, and he kept asking, devastated and confused.

I'd always imagined weaning slowly; breastfeeding at least a year. This wasn't what I wanted for my child.

And, practically speaking, the sudden stop was painful, an ache I saw as the physical manifestation of my grief.

He took the bottle, eventually. And then he started eating like a champ, sucking down hypoallergenic formula—which tastes like playdough, by the way.

Luca moving on helped me to start moving on. My physical pain subsided. My hormones and emotions steadied.

And now, back at home, Joe and I are still on edge. Every day, Luca’s skin looks worse. And then a little better, and then worse, then better, then worse.

Now, at least, we should see steady improvement. And now, at least, we’ve learned some techniques to tend to his skin. He’s been off breastmilk for a week and a half, and his intestines seem to be healing. We haven’t had a full-blown flare-up.

Luca is still itchy. And rashy. Food allergy aside, he still has Atopic Dermatitis, affected by humid air, dry air, non-cotton clothing and who knows what else—though there is definitely hope he’ll grow out of both. Eventually.

Some days I am discouraged.

The emotional up-and-down of the past few months makes it hard to rejoice with friends and family who exclaim over how good Luca’s skin looks.

Yeah, I think, It looks ok NOW, but you should see it tomorrow morning. Or, His face looks alright, but check out his back.

I do rejoice over his mood. He plays. He smiles. He laughs some. He gets excited to stand up. He sleeps! We've found new ways to cuddle and bond. And he’s growing—he gained at least two pounds in the hospital.

Honestly, I’m growing too.

A friend asked about all Luca had been through in Hawaii and at Samsung, and after hearing our saga, she said, “It must be really hard for you to be a mom right now.”

That took me aback.

No, that’s not it.

I thought a minute and replied, “Actually, it’s hard to remember I am anything other than a mom right now.”

Because somewhere over the past couple months, I truly became a mother in my own mind, not just a girl with an accessory baby to show off at playgroup.

My desperate prayers in moments of frustration have translated to character development: I see more love, more peace, patience, perseverance.

Deeper joy.

I don’t mean happiness; that’s been hard to muster lately.

I mean, when I felt myself hit my limit, I would think, What’s the alternative? Not having Luca at all?

And a protective sense of gratefulness would push me forward. My son is a gift, rash or not. Allergies or not.

My life is a gift, challenges or not. Happiness or not.

And maybe this is the beginning of wisdom.



* * *



Consider it pure joy, my brothers, whenever you face trials of many kinds, because you know that the testing of your faith produces perseverance. And perseverance must finish its work so that you may be mature and complete, not lacking anything. If any of you lacks wisdom, you should ask God, who gives generously to all without finding fault, and it will be given to you. But when you ask, you must believe and not doubt, because the one who doubts is like a wave of the sea, blown and tossed by the wind. James 1:2-6

A Recipe: Coconut Milk Candy Cane Ice Cream

I knew being a stay-at-home mom of a baby would be challenging, but I didn’t realize it would be the most difficult (though rewarding, of course) job I can imagine. I never thought about the fact that there are limited breaks and no weekends. There is no “going home from work” at the end of each day. So, on the days when Luca is cranky or sick or only taking 30-minute naps, I need a creative outlet to let off some steam. These days, after Luca's bedtime, my creative energy is focused on the kitchen. Well, to be completely clear: on desserts. On coconut-milk-based desserts.

For Thanksgiving, I made coconut-milk-based pumpkin spice pie, and guests said my pie made the traditional (store bought) one pale in comparison, and I don’t think they were just being nice.

My pumpkin craving sprung on me with the sudden chill a few weeks prior, and after I discovered Korean Starbucks don’t carry pumpkin spice lattes, I turned to coconut-milk-based pumpkin ice cream—modified (a lot) from this recipe—and it was deliciously creamy and autumnal.

Now that Christmas is approaching, my cravings have made the seasonal progression from pumpkin to peppermint.

That’s right. Coconut-milk-based candy cane ice cream. Luca really wanted some (or, perhaps more likely, he wanted to eat the bowl).

Here’s the recipe:

COCONUT MILK CANDY CANE ICE CREAM
For electric ice cream makers

2 eggs
¾ cup sugar
1 can of (full fat) coconut milk
½ that amount of almond (or soy, rice, etc.) milk
1 TB vanilla (I use Mexican or Malagasy vanilla—the big jars. You may want to modify if you use the little jars of extract.)
1 tsp peppermint extract (or mint extract, if the ingredients say it contains peppermint oil)
4 (ish) Candy canes crushed to where about half the chunks are tiny (some will be powder), and half are the size you’d like to eat in your ice cream—I used an off-brand slap chop.
¾ cup chocolate chips (I didn’t measure) chopped to the size you’d like to see in your ice cream—I used the fake slap chop.
1 TB of brandy (though I’m sure another liquor would work)

Beat eggs until light and fluffy (I used an electric stand mixer). Add sugar slowly while beating; beat well. Add coconut milk. Fill coconut milk can halfway with almond milk; add that too. Add vanilla, peppermint, and the smaller chunks of candy cane (about half—these will essentially melt into the ice cream to add flavor and color). Put mixture in ice cream maker and freeze according to your ice cream maker’s instructions. When the ice cream has about 5 or 10 minutes left (getting thick, but not done yet), slowly add the rest of the candy cane chunks and the chocolate chips, letting them mix in. When the ice cream is basically done, add the brandy and let it spin about 2 minutes more. Enjoy right away or let it firm up a little more in the freezer.

I like to re-stir homemade ice creams before bed just to make sure sections don’t freeze solid. Texture is best if you eat it within a few days, but if/when it gets too hard, you can just set it out to soften before serving.

‘Have it Your Way’ Does Not Translate

American consumers are used to getting what they want, how they want it. “Exceptions welcome” is the heart of customer service in the United States.

Want your burger without onions? Sure! Want the chef to leave the nuts or cucumbers off your salad? No problem! Want to substitute veggies for French fries? Why not?

And for the lactose intolerants among us, want your pizza or burrito without cheese? Of course!

Restaurants and coffee shops are built for personalization: Think Chipotle or Chop’t. Or Starbucks.

Especially Starbucks! In the U.S., ask for a venti extra-foam nonfat 1-pump sugar-free vanilla half-caf latte, and the barista will only smile, nod and ring you up. No question.

Western culture is often emulated in Korea, and many western chains have crossed the great big pond, but the ‘have it your way’ mentality didn’t make the journey. It just doesn’t fit quite right here.

Don’t get me wrong, there is some excellent customer service here in Seoul—like the four-story dentist office I visited that looked more like a luxury health spa; I was escorted to each floor I visited by a polite, English-speaking woman in a skirt suit. Like the parking garages at malls; attendants bow to drivers as they direct traffic.

Patbingsu!

But try to order a bubble tea without milk, or try to substitute flavored syrup for heavy cream in patbingsu—my favorite shaved ice, mochi and red bean dessert—and oh, man. You are in for a hassle. Substitutions and exceptions are not built into the customer service mentality at most cafés and restaurants.

But, boy, do I try anyway.

Once at a bubble tea shop in the Coex Mall, I noticed the girl pouring ingredients in one by one. Flavoring, milk, ice, tapioca balls. It wasn’t pre-mixed. Excellent, I thought, just change milk for water, and I can drink it!

Wrong.

There’s no asking a manager; there’s no apology. Just: No. Can’t do it.

Sometimes I do get away with these substitutions, I think since I’m a foreigner speaking (a tiny bit of) Korean. Probably because they (accurately) assume I can’t say much more in Korean than I already said, they don’t want to argue with me.

And, are you ready for the real shocker? The hassle even happens at Starbucks in Korea.

Starbucks! The coffee shop known for interchangeable ingredients!

But I’m stubborn.

When I saw the sign for peppermint mochas, I was thrilled. There is nothing so comforting as a sweet, warm, soy-milky, caffeinated beverage on an ice-cold day.

The first time I asked for a grande single-shot soy peppermint white mocha, the barista had to repeat back to me: “Whah-ee-tuh?” Since this is the pronunciation when spelled in Korean.

“Ney, whah-ee-tuh,” I affirmed.

She looked doubtful. She thought. I re-explained my drink. She thought again, then nodded and took my payment. Not bad.

The second time I ordered my drink was on the military base, where the baristas speak English.

“I’m sorry, we don’t have that menu item,” she said.

“Oh, it’s the same as a peppermint mocha, but when you pump the chocolate in, you just pump white chocolate instead,” I explained.

“But we don’t have that menu item,” she repeated. “We can’t do it.”

I stood my ground, longing for that sweet warmth. “I order this all the time in the States, and I already ordered it at another Starbucks in Korea with no problem,” I explained, as respectfully as I could. “I know it’s possible; you just pump in white chocolate instead of chocolate.”

She stalled. She looked around the store—perhaps for the other barista who had stepped away—and back at me, bundled against the cold, pushing my stroller.

And she agreed.

If I’d tried that business at a Café Bene or Tom & Tom’s, I’m sure I would have walked out the door empty handed.

Now, I mean no disrespect. I understand that Korean culture is collective while American culture is individualist. Korea is homogonous while America is a salad bowl, or melting pot, or whatever. Critical thinking is not a priority here the way it is in the United States.

At Korean businesses—from what I hear—employees are expected to tow the line and follow the boss without question or creativity.

In the U.S., teachers complain about having to teach to standardized tests, but in Korea, education is—again, from what I hear—completely focused on preparing students to pass one, entire-life-deciding college entrance exam the November of their senior year. This test is such a big deal that companies tell workers to come in an hour late so students won’t face traffic; airplanes are not allowed to take off or land during the exam, for fear the noise will distract; the energy company puts extra crews on standby in case of power outages. A few years ago, according to the Wall Street Journal, a police officer even used his siren to rush to a student’s house to retrieve the test admission ticket she left behind and bring it to her at school.

The same WSJ article explains that Koreans believe the test is far more fair and objective than hiring admissions officers to look at essays and consider additional criteria, as American institutions looking for well-rounded students do.

It makes sense that this black-and-white attitude trickles down even to the bubble tea shop girl. She did as she was instructed by her boss, with no wiggle room. Why cause ripples? Why make a change? Why do something out of the ordinary to keep a customer?

I feel bad, sometimes, for asking employees to go against the norm since I understand it is a cultural difference.

…But not quite bad enough to stop. Starbucks run, anyone?


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And, just for fun, here are some other things that didn't translate well...

(windows on a cell phone shop, and the checkout counter at a toy store selling Gunpla, a Japanese fighter toy.)

I miss you happy together ha!ha!ha! talk to her don't worry you are my sunshine

Apparently C.O.U.N.T.E.R stands for Come With Empty Hands, Gone With Full of Gunpla Bags