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I
awoke to an overbearing smell of hot sauce. It was that time again. The
time I could not invite anyone over to my home, knowing they would
simply not understand. I could hear dishes clanging against each other,
and the kitchen faucet's steady stream.
I got up, walked over to
one of the bar stools, and watched as my mother prepared the kimchee.
She smiled at me when she noticed I had taken a seat without saying a
word. I didn't want to interrupt her concentration while she prepared
the common Korean dish, but the smile on her face made me want to help
her through this grueling process—adding spices, mixing, lifting heavy
pieces of cabbage to the rugged cutting board.
I could never
conjure up the guts to help, though. At sixteen, I was a neat freak,
and the process of making kimchee was a messy one, probably giving
someone with OCD a nervous breakdown. I could see my mother struggling
with her arthritis at times, pausing to rub her hands or fingers after
combining the green onions and chili powder.
Communication
between middle-aged Korean women usually takes place in the kitchen,
sitting at a small table with a variety of colorful bowls and lids used
to contain steaming white rice, fish, and most importantly, kimchee.
The discussions are robust and raucous to the impassionate observer.
Every
other Saturday a group of these women invaded our home. "Ah… John Boy,
you so cute… where's Mom?" "John, you big now, grow so much." I walked
them into the kitchen and the women began conversing in Korean, which I
didn't understand. I did not want to be asked if I would try the
kimchee my mother prepared the previous night. I longed to get away,
away from the broken English, the freedom they took from me in my own
home. I kept a great distance when they began to eat; I couldn't bear
to watch. Bits of food would be seen while they talked with their
mouths full. When I grew tired of looking at the Kobe Bryant poster on
my wall, and the MLB baseball logo on my bedspread, I made a brief
appearance in the kitchen.
The community meal was the center of
attention, and the place where interchanges took place. I usually heard
the women from my room, even though it was on the other side of our
gray ranch style house. It might seem like yelling to American people,
but it is perfectly natural for Korean women to raise their voices in
excitement in times of fellowship. At times, the piercing voices would
cease, and a breakout of loud laughter would follow. It was contagious.
If I had friends over during one of these visits, I always studied
their reactions. Most cringed. After a moment, I usually saw them gaze
confusingly back at me, their curious, wandering eyes looking for
guidance and comfort. I would tell them that this was normal and there
was nothing to worry about.
During the meal, they conversed
around intricate bowls and jars decorated with bright patterns and
whitish oriental writing, none of which I could make out. Sometimes the
food in these containers looked and smelled nauseating. Brown mush,
reddish and yellow sauces, fish with eyes looking back at me. I wanted
to scream to my mother, "Why can't you eat regular food, American food, like other moms?" None
of my friends' mothers ate strange shaped and odd smelling foods on a
constant basis. Why did I have to deal with it? Of course, I never told
her this.
When
you first encounter the smell of kimchee you will be startled. You may
find yourself trying not to sneeze from all the foreign spices you just
inhaled. A salty but potent smell will encapsulate your senses. I think
I adapted to the scent of kimchee at birth. The smell of it was never
offensive to me, and was an integral part of our culture—something I
have come to learn over the years. The vibrant red pepper, garlic,
ginger, and green onions mixed with salted cabbage had to be expertly
prepared in large containers. Kimchee, cut in fine pieces or cubes, is
usually eaten with others. "That is the Korean custom, and always has
been, John." The hot spices in its red sauce become part of your
connection. The kimchee serves as a reminder that your mother and her
kitchen come together as one.
These gave character to an
otherwise mundane home in Iowa. Most of my friends' homes contained the
same decorations. The various craft ornaments, wallpaper, and furniture
made everyone's home seem alike. My house was no exception but for a
few things in the kitchen. A Korean calendar hung unnoticed on one of
the white walls. In the corner, a white rice cooker sat next to the
stove. Sometimes, if my friends came at the right time, they could see
a steady stream of steam oozing out of the top of the odd contraption,
like the eerie fog in a horror movie.
Apart from the smell, the
taste for kimchee did not come naturally for me. At age seven or eight,
my initial reaction to it was utter disgust.
"I don't want to, ugh no, get it away from me."
"Just please try it John, just one time, come on."
"I hate this, I hate being Korean."
There
were many small arguments such as this during my adolescent years. I
usually cried, and gave my mother hell every time I saw her pick up
some kimchee and rice with her silver chopsticks, holding her hand
underneath to guide it to my tightly closed mouth. A silent rage filled
the room. The kimchee was too hot, too sour, and the pervasive garlic
imbedded in my tongue. Tenderly, my mother tried to coax the cabbage on
my palate, but it became clear to her that I was thoroughly westernized
at a very young age.
Though my family always ate together at the
dinner table, we would not share the same kinds of food. My dad, an
Anglo-American, eats only a select variety of Korean dishes. However,
kimchee is something he enjoys immensely. On some days, my mother would
have to stand a bit longer on her feet to cook two meals—one for my
father and I, and the other for herself. The stove had more than two
pans simmering on it at a time, and the oven was always on. The grimace
on my mother's face made me feel guilty for putting her through this
extra work. She did eat American, it's just that she enjoyed her native
cuisine; it was healthier, and she couldn't just give up on her
heritage.
Sometimes during dinner, my mother would put random
pieces of Korean food on my plate. It looked very odd sitting next to a
piece of chicken or steak. As a child, I was a good sport and tried
most things; however, I vowed never to try kimchee. Some kind of
natural force (or my own stubbornness) was holding me back. She was
neither discouraged nor distraught by my aversion. She smiled and
turned to her own meal.
At
thirteen, I made a concerted effort to try this dish that took her so
long to prepare. The taste was unbearable. The spiciness was
overpowering, and the texture was coarse and unmanageable. A gagging
sensation started at the back of my throat, and made me spit a
half-chewed piece of cabbage onto my white dinner plate. The sauce
splattered in every direction, painting my dish with tiny drops of red
liquid.
During the next couple of years, if I ever saw kimchee
on my plate, I would lock myself in my room and not come out until my
mother promised I would not have to eat it. But then, at sixteen, a
maturity overtook me. The day after waking to my mother working
diligently in the preparation, I saw her sharing the meal with her
friends in the late afternoon, and a strange sort of awareness set in.
I felt ashamed of what I had put her through. I realized that I was
guilty of treating my mother with a stern harshness for a foolish
reason. The relationship between me, my mother, and her food needed to
be resolved.
This time, there were absolutely no surprises. My
mother and her friends were not taken aback by my craving for kimchee.
They seemed to expect it. I could see the smirks on their faces. It had
been nine long years, and for some unknown reason, I was drawn to the
scorching vegetable dish. I picked up a pair of wooden chopsticks from
the table and pinched a cube, holding it over the blue dish until the
red sauce stopped dripping. I slowly brought it to my mouth, knowing I
could not back out and disappoint my mother even more. I began to chew
the crunchy, zesty, and cold kimchee, and felt the cabbage's soft
smooth texture slide all the way to my stomach. I glanced at my mother.
She had a proud smirk on her face. Somehow my mother knew that my soul
would eventually find itself in the cabbage and small talk that brought
life to the kimchee. I smiled and put the chopsticks down, only to
begin sneezing seconds later.
http://www.summersetreview.org/07fall/korean.htm
Copyright © John Hansen 2007.
Copyright © The Summerset Review, Inc. 2007.