“The memories I had stored, I could not let fester. Could not let trauma infiltrate and spread, to spoil and render them useless. They were moments to be tended. The culture we shared was active, effervescent in my gut and in my genes, and I had to seize it, foster it so it did not die in me. So that I could pass it on someday.”
Michelle Zauner, Crying in H Mart
When I found out Week 2’s theme for 52 Weeks of Cooking was Cabbage, I was not enthused, for two reasons.
Cabbage makes me think of coleslaw, the watery kind that comes in school lunches and KFC meals. The kind of coleslaw that has too much mayo and is simultaneously too watery, an insult to any vegetable. If you actually like coleslaw, my condolences to your long-last taste buds. May they rest in peace.
There is no such thing as a “small-batch” cabbage recipe. Every cabbage, even small ones, feeds at least 10 people. Our three-person household cannot eat that much cabbage before it inevitably rots in the crisper.
But as much as I dislike cabbage, I love pickled and fermented vegetables.
Enter kimchi, and Crying in H-Mart.
The Book
A warning: Do not listen to this audiobook while driving, as you may experience the sudden urge to cry at any moment. There were several times while listening that I had to switch it off and collect myself, because it’s so emotional.
But it never feels maudlin; it’s full of love. Zauner’s memoir is a tribute to a mother gone too soon, as well as an exploration of the Korean heritage and cuisine they shared. And at it’s most painful moments, it’s a raw portrait of death and grief over losing a parent at as a young adult (Zauner is only in her 20s when her mother dies).
Zauner doesn’t seem to keep any pieces back; being able to write about such pain, with such true emotion, is a feat few writers achieve.
On the lighter side, there’s also now ton of Korean food I want to try— all of the descriptions of the food she cooks and eats with her mom and other Korean relatives sound amazing.
The meal
Zauner writes about how making kimchi helped her process her grief over her mother’s passing and became therapeutic for her.
There is a comfort in cooking for me too, part instinct, part following instructions, to make something that is comforting to others. It’s a way to pass memories down and to show others that you care.
For my first attempt at kimchi, I used a small-batch recipe from Emmymade.
Not being too familiar with Korean cuisine, I found the mix of ingredients odd. Cabbage soaked in salt, then marinated with onions, ginger, garlic, pear, fish sauce, red pepper flakes and a rice flour paste? This was supposed to taste good at the end, right?
But I trusted the process, including the part where the kimchi has to ferment at room temperature for a few days. I stuck the jars in my basement, so I wouldn’t stink up the whole house, and prayed they wouldn’t mold.
Two days later, I had kimchi: spicy, crunchy and a little bit sour (I’m told it gets more sour as it ages). I used some of it to make kimchi pancakes, which were easy and delicious and added some kimchi to a rice bowl for extra heat.
This “small-batch” recipe still filled 3 large jars, but, unlike raw cabbage, kimchi can keep in the fridge for up to six months and gets better as it ages.
I like kimchi mixed into scrambled eggs in the morning, as a topping for Korean fusion tacos and blitzed with butter to rub on a roast chicken. I also think it would be good mixed with cream cheese and spread on toasted sourdough.
If you don’t like that much kimchi in your life, you can always pass along the extra jars, share the culture, with someone you care about.
Next week: Oaxacan.