Kimchi Mamas

Time of My Own

Growing up as an immigrant kid, I watched my parents struggle a lot. They worked painfully long, labor-intensive hours, often more than 14 hours a day with no real breaks, six days a week. They could never catch up on their sleep and had no time to spare. I remember their exhaustion stretching out like a rope of molten glass, drooping from its own weight, threatening to crack with the passage of time.

As a teenager, I tried as much as I could to help. I cooked dinner, washed the laundry, cleaned the house, helped out at their store. And I was hyper-aware that I should never impose on their time. I remember one time I returned to law school after a visit home. I accidentally left something behind at my parents', perhaps a watch. When I mentioned it to my roommate, she casually suggested that I just call my parents and ask them to send it. I thought her suggestion absurd. No, that's not possible, I said to her.

But more than with regard to time, I knew I should never impose on them emotionally. We weren't an emotionally open family to begin with. But the idea of bringing my personal issues into the household, where my parents' stress already stretched out the seams of our family fabric precariously, was unthinkable. When their frustration and unhappiness started to swell and they started unfurling their anger at each other, we just quietened our breaths and sagged against the cold, desolate walls.

I learned to be accommodating. To figure out a way to help quietly. To identify the areas of need so that I could find a way to fill them. I took it upon myself to play that role. I had to help us. I was the only one who could do something. There was no one else.

Google-

I am a 42 year old Korean-American woman. I go by my given name, Shinyung Oh. A few days ago, I attempted to set up a profile on Google+, not because I necessarily need yet another social networking site. Linkedin and Facebook are more than enough to max out my limited capacity for online small talk and ogling. But I applied, mainly because I have my personal blog on blogger and wanted to add some tools offered by Google+ to expand my readership.

When I tried to set up the profile, Google refused to allow me to complete it. The following sentence appeared at the top of the profile I was not allowed to access: "Your profile has been suspended because it violates our name policy." When I clicked on the "name policy" to find out how I could have violated Google+'s policy, it stated:

Google+ makes connecting with people on the web more like connecting with people in the real world. It's recommended that you go by your first and last name because it will help you connect with people you know and help them find you. 

This policy applies only to Google+ profiles. Google+ profiles are for individuals.

An Unexpected Sweetness

My dad is a bit shy. And a little awkward. In a crowd, he'll be standing near the periphery with a big grin on his face. And twenty minutes later, he'll still be there, with the same grin. Without even a drink in his hand. 

He never drives the car over the speed limit, even when other cars backlog behind him, honking, and they finally pass, revving up their car and craning their necks to see who the hell drives at 55mph during rush hour.

His weight never fluctuates. For most of his adult life, he weighed exactly 120 pounds, a slight weight even for his 5 feet 4 inches. Now in his 70s, he has the shape of a skinny pre-teen. At mealtimes, he used to lecture us never to eat until we were full. Just stop before you fill up, he advised, because your stomach needs time to register its fullness. He rarely eats dessert, never a bite after he brushes his teeth, and rarely snacks, only relenting when my mother goads him repeatedly.

From the Land of Dog Eaters

Before the birth of our first child, our yellow lab Sherlock led the privileged life as the sole heir of a DINK couple. My husband fed him specially ordered never frozen raw meat. We often emerged from pet shops with $20 squeak toys that Sherlock shredded within minutes. During the week, a professional dog walker chauffeured him and a few other lucky hounds to Fort Funston, a dramatic cliffside beach on the west coast of San Francisco, where he pranced as happily as a prima ballerina. During our weekend walks in Noe Valley, we only frequented restaurants that could accommodate all of us, which usually limited us to a cozy French bistro with an illegal patio in the back.

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.

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.

Kimchi Mamas cook with Kimchi Chronicles

In the interest of full disclosure, after our review of the Kimchi Chronicles TV series in June, Kimchi Mamas bloggers were offered free copies of the Kimchi Chronicles Cookbook by Marja Vongerichten.  Below are reviews from Jomama and Shinyung:

----------------------------------------------------

I was delighted to open up the Kimchi Chronicles by Marja Vongerichten.  The book is heftier than my other 2 Korean cookbooks, and has my favorite features of both.  LOTS of pictures of the finished dishes, and even a couple of before and after.  She also tells stories throughout, beginning with her personal adoption story, and explanations of the context of the dishes and her family life featuring her chef husband and radiant daughter.  Oh, and neighbor Hugh Jackman makes an appearance and a few mentions too!  Even if you had no interest in cooking at all, anyone interested in Korean culture, or adoption, or family life, would enjoy this book for all the narration throughout.

But if you didn't want to cook, or eat, then you'd be missing out.  This is a great collection of recipes!  From traditional Korean dishes, to adapted American style classics.  (Why had I never thought to put kimchi on a hot dog?  I love sauerkraut!  Oooh, I just invented a new recipe: kimchi reuben--thanks for the inspiration, Marja!)  I did find the American cheese a little odd in kimbap, but I can see it in soups as she suggests.

Thanks to all the extra information in each chapter, and every recipe, I learned a lot about Korean culture and cuisine that I never knew.  As a Korean adoptee myself (but without the successful birth mother reunion, chef husband, and movie-star neighbor--other than those little details, we're just the same!), I appreciated her "outsider's" consideration in providing so much background information for those of us who did not grow up in Korean kitchens.  I love that she included recipes for even simple things like sesame oil + salt + pepper.  A native Korean would probably never think of providing that, but I found it very valuable.  I've had this sauce, but wasn't sure what was in it.

On Blogging

About a year ago, I received a call from my mother around 9pm PST.  She lives on the East Coast, so it was around midnight her time.  I picked up the phone, alarmed that something could have happened to my parents who live alone in a closed-blind suburb of New York.

"Mom, is everything ok?" I asked as soon as I answered.

"Are you writing about our family in a blog?" she asked.

I was too stunned to respond.  I had been keeping a blog for the past few years, and I had written liberally about our family.  But I had not told any members of my family about it. 

"Why are you writing about our family?" she continued.  "And why are you doing it in your name?  Other people blog anonymously.  Why do you have to put your full name on your blog?"

Matters of Approval

When we were growing up, there was usually a right and a wrong answer for almost everything.  What is the proper way to read?  Sitting upright with the book held at eye level approximately 1.5 feet away.  What is the right way to sit?  Never with your back hunched over.  What is the right amount of rice to serve?  Always more than just one scoop.  What is the amount of food properly left behind on one's plate?  Certainly never just a morsel or a spoonful.

These answers, fed to us in bite-sized aphorisms, ranged from the mundane to the weighty.  For some of the more serious issues, the questions were never posed because the right answers were presumed to be understood.  For example, our parents never asked us, What kind of a person would you like to marry?  They never asked, Do you wish to marry a white person?  What about someone of Hispanic background?  Or someone black?  We understood that we were to marry a Korean. 

I'm not sure how we first came to that understanding.  Maybe the time when my father consoled his friend whose daughter was dating an Indian.  My dad's friend muttered, "An Indian," as he spit on the ground.  Or the time I told my mom that my Korean-American friend was married to a Japanese woman, and she exclaimed, "How could he do that to his parents!"  I have a vague recollection of my parents taking us aside after these incidents and explaining how Koreans should be married to Koreans. 

In Rejection of Denials

In our family, direct communication is not our forte. 

This is what happened when I asked my parents if they wanted to vacation with us in Hawaii this summer. 

When I called, my dad answered the phone. When I asked him if he wanted to go to Hawaii with us, he told me to ask my mother. 

So I asked my mom. 

"Mom, how about going to Hawaii with us this summer?"

"Oh, this summer may be difficult."