I think of the relationship between food and love as an equilibrium reaction. Both the forward reaction, food creating love, and the reverse reaction, love being displayed through food, occur simultaneously. Although I wasn’t necessarily taking chemistry at the time, my experience with my grandmother and her cooking has inspired this thinking.
My halmeoni immigrated to America when my father was only one years old. Although her English speaking abilities have grown significantly since she moved, I still have trouble understanding her thick Korean accent and broken phrases. As a result, she uses food, in place of a verbal demonstration of affection, as a way to display her love for our family.
She typically makes kalbi, a dish all Koreans are familiar with. The majority of people buy kalbi already cut and seasoned, so they can easily throw it on the grill. My grandmother, on the other hand, possesses both the patience and the skill to create her own spin on the traditional meal. Instead of asking the butcher for the meat “flanken” style, the way most restaurants prepare kalbi, she gets a thick piece of meat and carefully cuts it herself. No one else in the world prepares the meat the way she does. Furthermore, while most Koreans add sugar or molasses to the meat, she knows my halabeoji prefers a more meaty, authentic flavor. To make sure the meat is flavorful enough, she uses a homemade recipe for the seasoning, creating small “x” shaped cuts in the meat and tucking the paste into the crevices to infuse the beef with a powerful taste. Unlike those who throw the meat in a bag and shake to marinate, she takes the time to make sure every part of the meat is coated. When I learned how much time and attention to detail is put into making just the kalbi for our family, I was astonished. But that was just the start. The cabbage, garlic, radish, scallion, cucumbers and red peppers are grown in my grandfather’s garden; she practically invented the term “farm-to-table.” The red peppers are dried in the sun, crushed in a mortar and pestle, and fermented to construct side dishes that accompany the final serving. It takes weeks to prepare this one meal – from growing the produce, preparing it, and, finally, cooking it to perfection. She utilizes old school techniques, but invents her own creative twists to enhance the dish and make it unique to our family. It’s a whole new level of special.
Despite all the times she has cooked for family gatherings, I’ve never actually seen her make kalbi in person, solely because of the sheer amount of time it takes to prepare. When my brother and I arrive at my uncle’s house, we hug and greet relatives before unloading the heavy plastic coolers of the prepared meat and glass jars of kimchi from my grandmother’s car. We hover around the kitchen for a half an hour or so, sneaking bites of haemul pajeon (seafood pancake) with a drizzle of sesame soy sauce while we converse with our aunts and uncles about school. Once the attention has turned to the parents (most likely bragging about the achievements of their children), my brother and I retreat into the basement to keep our younger cousins from bickering with each other. We are the two oldest grandchildren and, therefore, responsible for all the crying toddlers, screaming seven-year olds, and wrestling children. If someone ends up bawling to their mom, we are expected to provide an explanation, apology, or receive a punishment or admonition. It is absolutely exhausting. When the adults finally call us, my brother and I are quick to herd the others upstairs. The rich aromas wafting through the air, the sizzle of the kalbi on the barbeque, and the promise of freedom from the burden of our cousins are our only motivations.
When we reach the table, our stomachs howl with delight and anticipation of what is to come. The delicate china bowls are filled to the brim with various types of banchan (side dishes). A bowl of fresh greens from my halabeoji’s garden glistens with water; each piece is layered on top of another, forming lush hills. The base consists of fuzzy mustard fronds, followed by a bouquet of heart shaped sesame leaves, an assortment of red lettuce pieces, and dainty dandelion greens. Another contains kimchi, fermented cabbage soaking in a blaring red pepper sauce. This means the oi kimchi, cucumbers smothered in the same spicy substance, can’t be too far away. I spot a tray of myulchi, soy maple glazed anchovies, and my mouth waters. My fingers itch towards my chopsticks, imagining the satisfying crunch of the fish as it melts on my tongue and the sweet flavor that leaves me longing for more. Small plates of crunchy bean sprouts, cucumber strips, raw garlic cloves, skinny hot peppers, fern sprouts, and marinated spinach cluster the table with a multitude of colors, textures, and smells. The list goes on and on. A feast, brimming with love and care, all made for us. The crinkle of the plastic containers of salted seaweed squares and the chimes of “jal meokgesseumnida” begin as we dip greedy fingers into the beautiful spread. I nearly hold back, admiring my grandmother’s masterpiece, before my stomach convinces me otherwise.
The lettuce is first. I cradle it in the palm of my hand tenderly. It is still wet from being washed clean, but I don’t mind. I pluck sprigs of dandelion, sesame and mustard greens to add spice and texture. Parents circle the table with a pair of scissors, snipping the kalbi into bite-sized strips. My grandparents watch proudly as we sigh in delight and heap food onto our plates. Scooping a portion of soft, sticky rice, I gently press it into the center, indent a tiny crater with my thumb, and tuck two slices of kalbi neatly into it. Quickly, I add small portions of the supplied banchan, and finish with a dollop of gochujang, spicy red pepper paste, before wrapping the corners of the lettuce to secure the components inside. In a few bites, I am finished, and the process starts again.
There’s nothing else like that first bite. The familiar flavors and textures mixing in your mouth, the nostalgia and craving finally melting away after days and weeks and months of waiting for this moment. I eat and eat and eat until I feel like I can’t put one more bite into my mouth, and then I think “just one more”. By the end of it, my cousins have returned to the basement. The parents chatter away in the dining room. My only companion is my aunt’s orange and white spotted cat and the table of food. But I don’t need anything else. I feel warm and loved. I feel safe and blessed. I feel at home.
Every time we see my halmeoni, my father reminds me it might be our last. I sear the feeling of her embrace in my memory – the scratchy fabric of her frilly blouse, the cold chill I get when her pearl earrings brush my cheek, the saccharine scent of her perfume. I memorize her tinkling laugh, the rewarding feeling of seeing her smile, her soft silver hair. I ingrain the happiness in her voice as she calls out to me – In-Ae! But most of all, I know I’ll always picture her bent over a cutting board, perfecting every ingredient until she is satisfied, and presenting the final dish to our family with all the love she has to offer.
About the Author:
Supriya Chang
Hi! I’m Supriya Chang, born and raised in South Jersey, but currently living in Connecticut, where I attend boarding school. Growing up half Indian-Portuguese and half Korean, I’ve realized how deep and rich different cultures can be. I love to travel around the world, try new foods, take photos, write poetry, play the oboe, dance for fun, listen to music, and hit around some squash balls. You can reach me at supriyaichang@gmail.com or through my Instagram @supriya.chang.
The Big Duck 