By August. The city is warm and bright and I am seven weeks pregnant and walking through it with a secret that makes everything look different — sharper, more saturated, the way a camera adjusts when the focus finally locks on. The trees in Volunteer Park look greener. The traffic on Pike Street sounds more like music. James says I am romanticizing pregnancy and that in three months I will be complaining about swollen ankles. He is probably right. I do not care. Right now everything is gold.
Nausea update: manageable. Morning sick is a misnomer — mine arrives at 2 PM, like a very punctual guest I did not invite. It lasts thirty to forty-five minutes. I sit at my desk at Amazon and quietly will my stomach to behave while reviewing code or typing performance evaluations. Nobody has noticed. I am very good at being quietly uncomfortable. This is, arguably, a skill I developed as the only Asian kid in my elementary school class, repackaged for a different kind of being-out-of-place. Adaptability: the adoptee's superpower.
James and I talked about when to tell people. He wants to wait until twelve weeks — the traditional milestone, the safety boundary, the point at which the risk of miscarriage drops significantly. I agree in principle. In practice, I am terrible at secrets. I told Priya on Friday. I did not mean to tell Priya. We were having lunch at a Thai place near her office and she ordered a glass of wine and I did not order a glass of wine and Priya — who has known me for four years and has never seen me decline wine at a Friday lunch — looked at me and said, "Stephanie." I said, "Don't." She said, "You're pregnant." I said, "How does everyone know?" She said, "Because you are glowing and not drinking wine and you just touched your stomach three times in ten minutes." I need to stop touching my stomach. The stomach touching is apparently a tell.
I have started thinking about names. Not seriously — we are weeks away from knowing gender, months away from a decision. But the thinking has begun. I want a Korean name. James wants a name that works in both English and Korean. I want Jisoo to have input. James agrees. The fact that my birth mother — the woman who could not name me at birth because she could not keep me — might get to name my child is a narrative arc so perfectly circular that I would not believe it if someone had written it in a novel. But my life is not a novel. My life is a messy, layered, improbable true story, and in this true story, Jisoo gets to name a baby. I am crying while typing this. I cry constantly now. The hormones are real.
The Amazon promotion is official this week — my title change to Principal Engineer went through the system. I received the notification on Tuesday. I felt nothing. No pride, no accomplishment, no satisfaction. Just: okay. The title is a box on an org chart. The title is not me. The title is what I do to pay for the kitchen where I actually live. I am beginning to understand that my time at Amazon is finite. Not this year. But soon. The baby is accelerating a timeline that was already in motion.
The recipe this week is a quick kimchi bokkeumbap — kimchi fried rice — which has become my go-to dinner on nausea days because it is fast, comforting, and the strong flavors cut through the queasiness in a way that bland food does not. Hot skillet. Aged kimchi, chopped. Leftover rice. A splash of kimchi juice. Gochujang. Sesame oil. A fried egg on top (the egg aversion has partially resolved; I can eat fried eggs but not scrambled). Eat from the skillet. Stand at the counter. Think about the poppy seed that is now a blueberry. Think about the fact that you are feeding a blueberry kimchi fried rice. Think about everything. Think about nothing. Eat.
I made these the same night I stood at the counter eating kimchi fried rice from the skillet, thinking about the fact that I was feeding a blueberry — because that’s exactly what the apps call it at seven weeks: a blueberry. Something about that stopped me mid-bite and made me laugh and cry at the same time, which is apparently just life now. I needed something small and sweet to follow dinner, something I could make without a recipe running in my head, and these no-bake bites were exactly that — simple, cold, a little celebratory, and the right size for a moment that felt too big to name.
Easy Blueberry “Cheesecake” Bites
Prep Time: 15 min | Cook Time: 0 min | Total Time: 15 min + 1 hr chill | Servings: 12 bites
Ingredients
- 8 oz cream cheese, softened
- 3 tablespoons powdered sugar
- 1 teaspoon vanilla extract
- 1/2 teaspoon lemon zest
- 1 tablespoon fresh lemon juice
- 3/4 cup fresh blueberries, plus more for topping
- 12 mini graham cracker squares or vanilla wafers
- 2 tablespoons blueberry jam or preserves
Instructions
- Make the filling. Beat the softened cream cheese with powdered sugar, vanilla extract, lemon zest, and lemon juice until smooth and fluffy, about 2 minutes with a hand mixer or vigorous stirring.
- Fold in blueberries. Gently fold 3/4 cup fresh blueberries into the cream cheese mixture, breaking a few slightly so they streak the filling with color without completely disappearing.
- Arrange the bases. Line a small tray or plate with 12 graham cracker squares or vanilla wafers spaced slightly apart.
- Pipe or spoon the filling. Dollop or pipe a generous tablespoon of the cream cheese mixture onto each cracker base, forming a soft mound.
- Top and finish. Press one or two fresh blueberries into the top of each bite and add a small dot of blueberry jam for shine and extra flavor.
- Chill. Refrigerate for at least 1 hour before serving so the filling firms slightly and the flavors meld. Serve cold, straight from the tray.
Nutrition (per serving)
Calories: 95 | Protein: 2g | Fat: 6g | Carbs: 9g | Fiber: 0g | Sodium: 75mg