Kimchi Mamas

Holiday Cooking

When I was growing up, I always associated holidays with cooking.  Even when my parents were working 13 hour days, six days a week, my mom always took the time to cook a few special dishes for the holidays. 

When my sister and I were in college, we would always go to my parents' dry cleaners on the day before the holiday, sometimes for the whole day but more often, just for the afternoon.  We would walk about 45 minutes from my parents' house to the LIRR station in Port Washington, and ride to Little Neck.  From the Little Neck station, we would either walk or my dad would come pick us up to take us to Mayflower Cleaners, located where Northern Boulevard meets Great Neck Boulevard.  There, we would help my parents finish up their labor for the day: handling customers as they came in, sorting the clothes, removing the lint from each of the items, bagging the clothes in plastic, putting them on the conveyor belt, restocking all the supplies for the next work day, vacuuming, and wiping down the counters.

A Korean Thanksgiving

How does a 1st generation Korean family do Thanksgiving? I remember the first few times, my parents and I quizzically poking at dry cafeteria turkey breast and grimacing at the new herb flavors in the stuffing.  I remember my uncle good-naturedly trying to swallow down mashed potatoes on his first Thanksgiving with us, then eventually caving in and asking for some kimchi to go with it.  

However, as the years passed and the more America we absorbed, we learned to adore this holiday and its feasting.  And we have blended it with some Korean favorites, which actually go really well with the more traditional dishes.

Kimchi instead of cranberry sauce...

Kimchi fried rice (try it with gravy on top)...

Korean moonshine made from backyard grapes and soju...

Three generations of silly, brilliant people

What are some elements of your own Korean American Thanksgiving?  Let us know in the comments below!

The Search for Back-up Parents

Nothing has brought me closer to death than giving birth.

Before I had my son, I thought about death, but only occasionally, the way I assume most others do. It was there in the abstract, off in the distance, never threatening, never looming. Like a distant cousin, it reminded me of its existence every once in a while, when I happened to pass an accident on the freeway or read a novel with tragic ending, which in turn reminded me to live more purposefully, meaningfully. But apart from its occasional pep talk, it had little to do with me.

Back then, I didn't fear death. If anything, I felt cavalier. So what, I remember saying. What do I have to lose? My life was my own, and I was beholden to no one. If something were to happen to me, a few others may be sad or even devastated, but I didn't own their grief. I was the only one who could potentially suffer, but not really because wouldn't I be dead after all? Just make it quick and don't let me suffer too much, was my canned retort.

You're Not Mad?

Yesterday, my son AJ (3 years old) did something that he does every once in a while. He spilled milk. All over his table. It was his high chair table, and there is a ridge, so none of it spilled out on to the floor or onto him. It was quite a bit though, about 1/3 of a cup?

Normally when the kids have a big spill, I get mad. I yell. I say “WHY DON’T YOU BE MORE CAREFUL?” Of course, it’s not really a question. I know it’s not their fault that they spill (ok, maybe a tiny bit?). That they are just young children and that their motor skills aren’t finely tuned yet. And that even adults spill. But it’s my default reaction… to get angry.