Eating my Way to my Hawaiian Roots in Kauai

Born in the Pacific Northwest and raised in Louisiana, outside of New Orleans, my relationship with my sense of identity is complicated. I’ve long tied myself to the word hapa, which roughly translates to “part-Hawaiian.” My grandparents permanently relocated from the islands to the West Coast in 1979, and ever since, the majority of my immediate relatives have belonged to the growing Hawaiian diaspora in that part of the country. As a child, I convinced myself that my mom, sister, and I were the Pelican State’s sole Hawaiians. And I wasn’t far off, as only 0.1 percent of Louisiana’s population identifies as Native Hawaiian or other Pacific Islander.

Unfortunately, for much of my life the 12-hour flight (at a minimum) from the Big Easy to the islands was out of the question for our nuclear family of four—and my father’s restless legs. I tried to forge a better understanding of the islands from afar, but my lack of firsthand experience of Hawai'i left me with a gutting feeling of imposter syndrome. Then, when I was 25, a wedding invitation finally made the fateful trip to Kaua'i (anglicized as Kauai) possible.

Once in Hawai'i (as Hawaii is spelled in the native language), I ached to close the gaps in my cultural knowledge by practicing the language, dancing hula, and—most imperatively—filling my stomach. Food has always been one of the easiest ways for me to better understand myself and my bloodline. For decades, it’s helped me connect with my paternal roots in the American South. In that humid, haunted region, taste buds are revered because food isn’t just sustenance; it’s also a repository for memory and culture that transports the eater through time, linking her to a way of life with every spoonful of gumbo, étouffée, or jambalaya.

Similarly, when I was growing up, my mother’s kitchen also helped me feel connected to the islands. With every batch of her kālua pig (slow-cooked, shredded pork) and cabbage, she fed my cultural curiosity. But her home cooking and the occasional Hawaiian restaurant meal barely whetted my appetite for deeper understanding, which grew more ravenous with every passing year. Finally, I was in a position to satiate that hunger.

So began my impromptu Kaua'i food tour—starting in, of all places, the commercial belly of Costco. On a standard mission for groceries, I found that the shelves of this cookie-cutter retailer tempted me with unexpected gems. There were vats of kimchi, batches of pork lau lau (meat wrapped in taro leaves and cooked), and bags of char siu manapua (Chinese-style buns stuffed with roast pork). It was an auspicious beginning.

Over the course of the next week, I satisfied my sweet tooth in Kōloa, the town on the southern edge of the island that served as our homebase. In the mornings, I ate guava bread for breakfast and washed it down with cold-pressed strawberry, pineapple, and orange juice from Kauai Juice Co. In the afternoons, I traded my Louisiana snowball for Hawaiian shave ice that dripped with the juices of guava, lilikoʻi (passion fruit), and li hing mui (Chinese plum). On the recommendation of my ʻanakē (aunt), I also tried purple sweet potato haupia pie with layers of Okinawan sweet potato and coconut pudding.

While making my way around the island, I made sure to heed one of my personal “10 Commandments of Travel:” thou shalt stop at every roadside shack and hole-in-the-wall restaurant that catches thine eye. The results were varied but always delicious.

Famished after a midweek hula class in Kapa'a, my sister and I found a Filipino café nestled under palm trees that served classics including pork or chicken adobo, pancit noodles, pork blood, chicken papaya, and monggo (mung bean soup). Our plate lunches, piled high, kept our bellies full as we clambered barefoot down lava rocks to the clear waters of Queen’s Bath in Princeville.

Related: Around the Philippines in 15 Dishes

The next day, two warm, plastic-wrapped Spam musubis—made up of slabs of the ubiquitous canned pork, sushi rice, and nori—enhanced an afternoon drive along the coast. Later, at an outdoor market, we sipped fresh coconut water and chewed on sugar cane stalks before kayaking the Wailuā River.

On the island’s east side, I savored bite after bite of loco moco, a local comfort food of rice topped with a hamburger patty that is drizzled with brown gravy and topped with eggs, sunny side up. (The meal would later serve as inspiration to attempt the recipe on my own stovetop.)

Our final night, we indulged in fine dining at Red Salt at Ko'a Kea Resort, swapping forkfuls with family members. For me: Furikake- and wasabi-crusted seared ahi tuna on mushroom and asparagus risotto, with bok choy. For my sister: Gnocchi with Kona lobster meat, roasted mushrooms, charred leeks, and truffle beurre monté.

Related: Must-Try Street Food on Oahu

But the crown jewel of these culinary offerings was a meal from Koloa Fish Market, an unassuming spot with a long line. Along with my family, I joined the crowd and waited eagerly for my Styrofoam box, then settled on the porch steps of a nearby business for the great unveiling.

A simple meal without any bells and whistles, the plate lunch of kālua pig, rice, mac salad, lomi lomi salmon, and poi (a paste made from pounded taro root) might have qualified as a basic, hefty lunch for some. But for me, these foods completed a circle of time. The lunch transported me back to my childhood home, where I used to sit at the kitchen counter after school while my mom made her own version of kālua pig and cabbage. It also reminded me of the icy containers of poi that sat in my family’s freezer, and of steamy rice from my first rice cooker in my college dorm. That afternoon, with the ʻāina (or “land”) under me, my loved ones next to me, and a dish that first introduced me to my Hawaiian heritage in my belly, I felt one step closer in piecing together the puzzle of my identity.