Note: This essay was originally a series of tweets, but as we think about our families, and to honor Kimchi Day, I thought it was worth sharing again.
My Mom’s Final Gift
There's an emotional side to kimchi and fermented banchan that's hard for Westerners (including some Korean Americans) to grasp because kimchi and fermentation can't be rushed. You plan months, sometimes years ahead.
My mom was sick for a long time, but during a reprieve, she made kimchi and other fermented foods so that they'll still be there for me after she was gone. She was planning meals for her child for long after her.
It's not something I understood right away. I was in a haze after she died. I didn't really eat, but I knew I should. It was something she kept asking me at the hospital. As she was dying, she constantly checked to see if I was taking care of myself—if I was eating.
After the funeral, when we were back at our apartment, my wife made something quick. I was still numb. But after each bite, I felt warmth. I felt longing. I felt joy. I felt home. I looked at my wife, and she said, "It was your mom."
I opened my fridge, and I found containers of food. In the pantry, homemade Korean wine. On the balcony, gochujang.
This act of love was first invisible. As was her invisible labor as a woman.
I saw her make food, but she always made food. So when she made kimchi during her illness, I thought it was a hobby that made her feel better. I didn't understand why until she was gone, and miraculously there was food when I was hungry. There was food when I wasn't going to the store or taking care of myself.
The secret ingredient to Korean cooking is time. It's a time capsule. You make food, then wait. Though time was working against her, she could still trust time to deliver her meals to her son.
The ghost of my mom was still nurturing me.
My mom never got to see the birth of her grandson, but she had faith they would still meet. That's what she must have thought when she made gochujang. It wasn't just something my wife ate while pregnant; it was also there when my son had his first taste of spicy Korean food.
My mom is there when we cook from her recipe book. The one she gave us specific instructions on finding. The recipes she gave us specific pointers on from her hospital bed. Her notes full of typos because she only went to grade school.
They were all leading me back to her. In every bite, her warm embrace.
My son knows her grandma. He looks just like her, and we wonder if that's from her cooking. We wonder if that's why he likes Korean food best.
Korean Americans may wonder why their families always ask if they've eaten, and spend so much time making and packing them food. If we judge our parents by romanticized Western signs of affection, we'll think they don't show love. Which turns into resentment, annoyance, and jokes about how un-American our parents are. Internalized white supremacy will rob us of all the love that was there all along. That's something that's lost in the fire of assimilation that's rarely accounted for—that we didn't even know we lost.
Believing the person who cooked for you your whole life is the best cook in the world means you know love. But under a capitalist paradigm, we sometimes don't recognize labor, especially unpaid and emotional labor, as having value. In turn, we don't know how to recognize all the various shapes of love. We've learned to hold speech in the highest regard while ignoring service as love. As a result, the caretaker is often unappreciated—and the chance to appreciate them is fleeting.
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Thank you for this insightfully vulnerable share. I respect the way you pointed to cultural differences in expressions of Love. This is a new angle to view the dominator paradigm for me, I appreciate you.