A chef-writer gets a cooking lesson from the mother of all teachers
By Namju Cho
Illustrations by Katherine Yum
Despite being a self-proclaimed foodie known to cook elaborate five-course meals from scratch, I had yet to attempt making the mother of all Korean dishes: kimchi. Sure, I had prepared an abridged version, kkakdugi, those cute little radish cubes that perfectly complement a piping bowl of seolleongtang. But the more labor-intensive classic napa cabbage kimchi that requires salting, resting, mixing a ton of ingredients that need to be chopped or minced, fermenting and so on—I could not get myself to concoct solo.
The very act of making kimchi felt sacred to me, after all. I had long romanticized the ritual, envisioning my mother, three older sisters and I squatting on the ground in a traditional hanok-style home smack in the middle of a rural town somewhere in Kyungsang Province (where my family hails), chopping and mixing away, as the aromas of garlic and red pepper filled the air. Minus the hanok house and squatting, I conspired to make a more contemporary version of this long-held fantasy a reality during a recent trip to Korea.
Unfortunately, I failed to cajole my sisters into participating in this kimchi-making pow-wow, despite my best efforts to play it up as the quintessential bonding event for the females in the family. But, my ever-accommodating mother did indulge me, and I took on the role as the ever-zealous sous-chef as I furiously chopped, minced, sliced and diced, in an effort to capture as closely as possible her kimchi recipe (see recipe above).
I have always loved my mother’s kimchi—just spicy enough to make you reach for a mouthful of rice, with crunch from the cabbage and a hint of fish sauce that gives it that salty edge. Always picky with her ingredients, she would even ground her own chili powder (gochugaru) to give her kimchi its signature blood-red color and fiery flavor.
Contrary to what is known today as red and spicy kimchi, kimchi historians say the earliest types were neither red nor spicy. Red chili powder was only added to kimchi after peppers were brought to Korea from the Americas in the 1500s. The earliest record of what would later become Korea’s national dish was during the Goryeo Dynasty in the 12th century, where kimchi makes an appearance in a poem that sings the praises of radishes pickled in salt.
After a visit to the Kimchi Museum in Seoul, I also learned there are more than 200 types of kimchi varieties, including such exotic variations as pheasant kimchi, eggplant kimchi and persimmon kimchi. Kimchi was a carefully thought-out dish by our ancestors. It is nutritious, follows an ingenious preservation method, and adheres to Korea’s philosophy on harmony by featuring five colors and five flavors: white cabbage, combined with the green scallions, red chili powder, yellow garlic and ginger and dark, salted shrimp liquid. The breadth of flavors speaks for itself.
Making kimchi at home with my mother was a veritable treat, as she offered tips on how to boost the gourmet factor by adding the squid and pine nuts she doesn’t normally put in her everyday recipe. Perhaps not surprisingly, my mother subscribes to the “jukdanghi”—meaning “in appropriate quantities”—school of thought when it comes to cooking Korean fare, so the measurements for her recipe are more visceral than logical. But, when it comes to kimchi, where no two batches are exactly alike, I couldn’t agree more with her approach.
My mother’s regular kimchi would have been perfectly satisfying. But with the added “secret” ingredients in this batch we made together, the kimchi was that much more delicious and special. “It has to be extra fancy because I’m making it with you,” my mother had told me. I felt giddy, like I had inherited a precious family heirloom. I was eager to take this slice of life with me back to the States, but, alas, my fear of dyeing all my clothes red kept me from packing it.
I guess I’ll just have to make my own batch and be sure to honor my mother’s cooking principle of “free-styling” it.
