And yet, improbably, she was happy. She smoked with abandon. She ate whatever she wanted. She had female friends at the factory, as well as male Korean friends she gathered with to play the Korean card game hwatu. Gambling with men would have been unthinkable in her previous life. She’d traded opulence for independence, and she was better off.

But her earnings put her under the poverty line, making her eligible for government-subsidized housing. While her daughters helped her out where they could, she had to scrimp. Her bedroom became a kind of monument to her earlier life, packed with artworks, jewelry and expensive clothing — things to gradually sell off.

It is astonishing that my grandmother had any appetite for fast food after working on a chicken disassembly line. She may have had a greater appreciation for mass-processed food after spending her days among its raw ingredients. Or maybe it’s telling that she generally avoided chicken at McDonald’s.

Grandma kept a mental calendar of McDonald’s promotions. When hamburgers were on sale for 29 cents each, she bought 10 at a time and kept a supply in the freezer. As a treat, she sometimes splurged on the 39-cent cheeseburger.

My grandmother also looked forward to each McDonald’s Monopoly period, that marvel of synergistic marketing that turned every McDonald’s purchase into a scratch-off prize opportunity. This allowed her to scratch the gambling itch in a socially accepted way. For a brief period I, along with every other person I knew, went temporarily deranged over going to McDonald’s as frequently as our wallets and waistbands would allow.

I don’t know how much money eating at McDonald’s actually saved. Arguably it could have been cheaper to cook at home, but my grandmother never really learned to cook. She’d never had to in Korea, what with the professional cooks in her house. Cooking American food, especially, would have been daunting.

My grandmother loved McDonald’s in a way that only someone who hadn’t grown up with it could. So after she died, as my family was preparing for the Korean grave site ritual of bringing food loved by the deceased, I thought about collecting a burger, fries and America’s best coffee. I was overruled, so we ended up leaving Korean takeaway noodles — jjamppong — on her grave instead. The broth leaked out of the package, leaving a fishy smell and a mess on our hands.