Heart and Seoul

Stories about putting up grape jelly in Chautauqua County reminded the other Juicy Disher of putting up in the pantry on the other side of the continental United States--except that what was put up by the Gentes family was another matter altogether...

In 1970-71, our parents adopted three girls from Korea. They were biological sisters aged fourteen, twelve, and eight, all from the same orphanage in Seoul. The exact story of their relinquishment remains obscure, but has something to do with the father's coming down with tuberculosis, his relocation to the warmer, drier south part of the Korean peninsula, and the mother's being largely responsible for turning them over to the custody of the orphanage. In any case, our parents adopted the youngest first, and on discovering that there were two older siblings, cut through reams of paperwork and bureaucratic resistance to take the daring step of adopting all three, a decision unorthodox even by Seventies standards in California.

The girls brought Korea with them and within them. Whatever Korea was (and in many ways, the country itself was irrelevant), to us, the girls were Korea--its people, its history, its language, and above all, its food. Out went the creamed tuna on toast and stewed tomatoes of our mother's Midwestern background; out went the steamed clams and picalilli of our father's Francophone New England childhood. In came the rice, the bean sprouts, the lightly-cooked vegetables, the cellophane noodles, the dried fish, the exotic Asian mushrooms, the tofu. In came such oddities (to the rest of us, that is) as sungnyung, a beverage made by pouring water into a pot encrusted with leftover rice and simmering the whole like a soup; as with another other hot drink, the resulting "tea" is then sipped and savored...at least, it was savored by our sisters. Above all, in came the kimchi, staple of the Korean table, a kind of spicy coleslaw make from bok choy, sesame oil, rice vinegar, garlic, salt, and chili pepper. Lots of chili pepper. Think there's enough chili yet? There's not. With kimchi, like a pitcher's fastball, there can never be enough heat.

When the girls were still new to the country, our mother sought out the closest Asian market (this was the early Seventies, so it was still called the "Oriental" market) and bought some prepared kimchi. As soon as our sisters were old enough, however, they made it at home. They made it by the double-gallon in the largest mixing bowl in our cupboard, mixing the sliced greens with the requisite seasonings, adding so much red pepper and salt and garlic that the kitchen started to smell like...well, like a Korean household. The odors took over, and we American-born kids wrinkled up our noses at the prospects of all that "Korean cole slaw." Our mother was simply content to let the girls appreciate their heritage; our father, who appreciates foods the more idiosyncratic they are, couldn't wait to try some.

The kimchi had to be put up to ferment for a few weeks. We didn't have a basement or a garage--this was California, after all--so we put it up in the laundry room. As a family of eight (later, it became thirteen), we always had numerous leftover glass jars of all sizes--jelly jars, mayonnaise jars, pickle jars, and peanut butter jars. We had dozens of the latter with metal lids in a large two-quart size one seldom finds anymore. (Writing this, we realize that in this age of plastics and recycling, glass jars and metal lids have gone the way of the original Volkswagen, so the noise of the lid from a half-gallon peanut butter jar ringing on a cement laundry room floor has become a sound of the past.) Our sisters spooned the kimchi into the jars, topped each with a square of waxed paper, and screwed the lids on as tight as they could manage. The jars were put up in the laundry room to sit, and a few weeks later, the flavors, especially the chili, salt and garlic, had steeped, intensified. We kids...well, we didn't appreciate kimchi anymore than we appreciated tea made from water boiled after the rice was cooked. We tried it only because our father, as he helped himself to more, said that one should never simply categorically dismiss things without trying them first. We tried it; we just didn't like it. Fine, said our sisters, more for us. Which was equally fine with us.

Decades have passed since then, and even if we still don't appreciate kimchi, at least we appreciate the early exposure to such an exotic condiment. To be honest, we only have to imagine the sound of the metal lid of a peanut butter jar been unscrewed, and we can feel the crunch of the cabbage, taste the bite of the chili and garlic, the tang of the vinegar, the brine of the salt, and remember that we too, have our preserves...Seoul food, if you will.