배추김치 (Baechu Kimchi – Cabbage Kimchi) 

Buy an almost you sized box of round green leaf things. Try to read the foreign letters with the little knowledge you picked up from Korean Sunday school, “bee … chh…” “Baechu” you hear your mom correct you from behind. Wonder why anyone would ever want to have baechu. Watch as your grandma carries the box to the kitchen, carefully splitting each green oval in half with a knife, then placing them into the large red plastic tub you hide under during hide and seek. Walk off as she starts washing in between each leaf with salt water. After school, sit next to the large tub crowded with green ovals. Watch as your grandma squats down, moving the bottom ovals to the top, spilling a bit of the tub liquid onto the tile floor. Grab one of the dining room chairs, placing it in front of the large front window and wait for mom to come home. Periodically glance up to see your grandma sprinkle in white and red stuff into a large metal bowl, tasting a bit each time. Get distracted by the sound of your mom’s car pulling up into the driveway. Run out to hug your mom and go to the park. Forget about grandma in the kitchen. 

Open the front door and feel your nose crinkle as the strong sour, spicy smell of garlic and pepper burns your nostrils. Call out for your grandma and hear her call back from the kitchen. Wonder if she has been there this whole time. Find her squatting next to the big red tub, now filled with red coated ovals. Watch as she carefully pulls back each leafy layer, rubbing in red paste in between. She repeats this with every oval. Count 24 ovals. 

Much much later, sit at the table. Watch as your grandma goes into the laundry room where the second fridge is and grabs a big box. She places a small dish of the red paste leaves in front you next to all the other small dishes of foods you barely recognize. Focus only on your bowl of rice, wrapping a bit in dried, salty seaweed. Occasionally add some of the fish that your grandma placed into your bowl. Listen as your grandma asks you a question, “igeo meog-eobollae? (do you want to try this?)” Look up to see your grandma holding up a piece of the red paste leaf. Vigorously shake your head, remembering the last time you tried that. “han-nib-man (just one bite)” Frown and respond in disgust, “meoggo-shi-yeo halmoni. Mae-wuh (I don’t want to eat it grandma. It’s spicy)” Watch as your grandma grabs a small bowl and fills it with water, then dunks the leaf, washing away the red paste. She places it into your rice bowl. “ttag hanaman (just one.)” Reluctantly place the now whitish green leaf into one of your seaweed rice rolls, trying to bury it under the sticky rice. Feel the crunch as you bite into the leaf, trying not to breathe as you chew. 

미역국 (Miyeok Guk – Seaweed Soup) 

“Jongkuk-ah! Jongsun-ah!” Wake up to the beautiful sounds of your mom screaming at you to wake up. Squint as the sun rising through the broken tan blind reminds you that it is October 11, 2011. Run downstairs toward the kitchen, ahead of your brother, almost tripping on the hem of your dad’s big white t-shirt. Run up yelling “UMMA! (mom)” and hug the back of your mom’s legs, burying your face into her lower back, as she slowly stirs the large pot on the hot red circle you aren’t allowed to touch. Listen as your mom says “Good morning little princess. Happy Birthday!” Smile and look up, locking eyes with your mom as she turns to look down at you. Let her perfectly straight black hair that always seems to smell like your favorite thing, whatever that is, graze your cheeks. Watch as your mom slowly takes off the lid of the pot that you steal for the secret cooking show you host under your desk, then grabs one of the bowls from the neat stack she laid out on the black shiny counter. Hear the deep footsteps of your dad, who you thought was already at work, creak from the wooden stairs. Run and jump into his open arms, as he wishes you a happy birthday. “Happy birthday to you too appa (dad).” Sit at your favorite spot at the table, which is your favorite for no particular reason other than that was how it has always been. Wait as your mom places a steaming bowl to the right of the rice in front of you. Stare at the slimy bits of dark green seaweed swirling around in the murky green liquid. Wait for your dad to take a bite of his soup. Eat everything, leaving only the small flakes of pepper at the bottom of the bowl. Wonder why kimchi can’t taste like this. Brag to everyone in the second grade that you were daddy’s favorite birthday gift. When you get home, eat more soup. 

급식 (Geubsig – School Lunch)

Wait in line with your best friend, making sure to stand against the green tile wall of the third grade hallway of your elementary school. Tell the lady behind the counter that you want the pizza sticks with tomato sauce, a bag of sliced apples, string cheese, chocolate milk, and no green beans. She doesn’t hear you, so you get the green beans that make your nose crinkle. Wonder if that is why your mom wouldn’t let you bring the “smelly” kimchi to school, not that you are complaining. Sit down at the bench of your class table and watch as kids excitedly talk about the food on their lunch trays: one kid drowns her pizza in ranch, the other rips off the crusts of his grilled cheese, while another refuses to touch the chicken nuggets she got, eventually throwing them out at the end of lunch. Talk about how good the pizza sticks are with the tomato sauce. Ask your friend if you could have a few of her goldfish her mom packed for her. Look down the long table and realize that no one that looks like you brings lunch to school. Eat three slices of apples. Save the cheese stick. Drink half the chocolate milk. Throw out the green beans. 

야채죽 (Yachae Jook – Vegetable Porridge) 

Wake up in a cold sweat with a sore throat and massive headache. Convince your mom to let you stay home. The thought of sitting through nine periods of sixth grade, getting up every second to blow your nose was a nightmare. Fall back asleep. 

Wake up at noon to the sound of heavy footsteps coming up the stairs, which you recognize as your grandma. She sits at the edge of your bed, reaching out her hands to pull the sheets up higher over my chest. Listen as she talks to you with worry,“Jongsun-ah, mweo meo-guhya-ji (Helen, you have to eat something.)” “bae-ahn-gop-pah-eo (I’m not hungry).” Vaguely hear her respond, “Ahn-nee yah. Mweo-guh-ya-deh. Jook man-deu-ro jook-gae (No. You have to eat. I’ll make you some porridge.)” As she gets up to leave the room, drift back to sleep, attempting to remember how it felt before swallowing was painful.

Sit up in bed, as your grandma sits next to you holding a tray with a bowl of porridge and a small dish of cut up kimchi. Look at your grandma. Look at the mush in the bowl. Look back up at your grandma. “Jincha bae-ahn-gop-pah-eo (I’m really not hungry).” “Ahn-nee-ya mweo meo-ghya-dae (No. You have to eat).” Watch as she grabs a spoon and scrapes a bit of porridge from the top, blowing on it. Stare at the mush on the spoon as she brings it closer to your mouth. Reluctantly take a bite. Tilt your head and realize it isn’t as bad as it looks. Listen as your grandma asks, “Gwaen-chanh-ji? (It’s good right?)” with a soft smile. Nod your head and take another spoonful, suddenly realizing how hungry you really were. Eat, feeling warmer with each bite. 

김밥 (Kimbap – Seaweed Rice Rolls)

Walk into the kitchen for a glass of water. Find your mom, dad, and grandma around the table, each with a sheet of dried seaweed in front of them. Smile, realizing what your breakfast, lunch, and dinner were going to be that day. Sit down, completely forgetting your thirst, determined to finally learn how to make the perfect roll. Take out a bamboo rolling mat and a sheet of seaweed. Grab a handful of rice, spreading it as thin as you can onto the seaweed. Realize you grabbed too much and try to scrape off the excess without ripping the seaweed. Rip the seaweed. Patch the hole with rice. Look at the separate plates of ingredients and wonder which to start with. Watch as your grandma takes a pinch of seasoned spinach, thinly sliced carrots, and braised burdock, gently pressing them into the center of the sheet of rice. Then, three thin slices of egg, three slices of fishcake, and one long pickled radish. Finally, a few pieces of rice to the end of the sheet to act as glue. Observe closely as she carefully rolls the layers together into a beautifully tight, clean cylinder, squeezing the roll several times for good measure. The hard part. Attempt to mimic exactly what you just saw. Fail miserably, realizing this may not be the day you perfect your technique. Nevertheless, proudly place your messy, thick roll, with rice bursting out the sides, on top of the pyramid of perfect rolls. 

도시락 (Dosirak – Packed Lunch)

Sit down at the leftmost table in the back of cafeteria one, the table you and your friends claimed as your own for the entire ninth grade. Take out the black box your dad placed gently into your blue color block lunch box. Carefully open the lid revealing separated sections filled with an assortment of foods. Open the compartment on the top of the lid and grab the chopsticks strapped into place. Grab a bit of rice in the biggest section and a few of the bean sprouts in another. Take a bite out of the flour sausage coated in fried egg. Eat some of the thinly sliced potatoes in the top right corner. Do not touch the marinated peanuts in the bottom right. Do have some cucumber kimchi, the only pickle-like thing you would mess with. Watch as people step out of the kitchen holding their trays of school food. Listen as your friends complain about their cold cream cheese bagel or peanut butter and jelly sandwich, admiring your box of foreign dishes. Remember how you used to be jealous of those “normal” lunches. How you secretly wished your mom would just pack a simple grilled cheese like all the other blonde hair, big blue eyed girls had. Teach your friends how to use chopsticks, and wonder why you were ever scared to bring Korean food to school. 

설렁탕 (Seolleongtang – Ox Bone Soup)

Get older. 

Walk around Korea town with your best friend, excitedly explaining every little thing you recognized: the sweet pastry you would always get at your local Paris Baguette, the corn dog coated in cubes of fried potatoes you would get when you went to the Korean spa, the rainbow rice cakes your grandma would buy from H Mart because she knew they were your favorite, the few syllables you were actually able to read. Look over to make sure she isn’t bothered by your rambling. Smile when you realize you are being silly. 

Later, take her to get your favorite dish. Sit down at a restaurant your parents would frequently take you to growing up. As you order in your broken Korean, notice your friend sitting across from you in confusion and awe. Wait for twenty minutes, repeatedly telling her that you hope she likes the food. Tell her about each of the side dishes covering the table: the typical kimchi, bean sprouts, marinated potatoes, some kind of root you forgot the name of. In the middle of your explanation, watch the server place two large steaming bowls in front of you and your best friend. As you watch her spoon full of soup inch closer to her mouth, feel as your hands start to shake and your body gets jittery. Never take your eyes off the spoon, wondering when it will finally reach its destination. “Will she like it? What if she doesn’t like it? Please like it.” You think to yourself. Do the chicken-like dance you always do when you get excited, vibrating your fits near your chest, unable to sit still. It feels as if your whole friendship rides on her reaction. 

“Oh my god, this is so good.” you hear her say as her face lights up. “Really? You aren’t just saying that?” “Yes! It’s super good.” 

Slump down into your chair and take a huge sigh, not realizing you had been holding your breath. Smile and enjoy, thinking of which dish you should have her try next. 

배추김치 (Baechu Kimchi – Cabbage Kimchi) 

Sit at your favorite spot at the kitchen table. Watch as your grandma goes to the laundry room fridge and pulls out a large container, carefully setting it on the table. Wait as she unclips each side of the lid, allowing a pungent spicy, yet comforting, smell escape into the room. Have a small side dish of cabbage kimchi placed in front of you. Do not share with anyone. Eat, wondering how you will ever be able to survive college without your Halmoni’s kimchi.