There are two ways of falling in love. There are those moments in life, even if they never reach fruition, when one suddenly falls for that person, moved to the core by her delicate gestures, the contours of her elegant face, or the softness of her voice. But then there are times when love slowly creeps over a relationship like the sun rising and radiating light over the fields in the morning while you are dozing. That person, perhaps someone you never paid much attention to, or perhaps someone who was just too familiar, slowly reveals a depth of character, and warm empathy, through multiple kind acts and thoughtful gestures that sweep one towards true love over months, years, or even decades.
My love affair with kimchi was without question this second kind of love.
My first furtive encounter with kimchi was back in 1973, when I was nine years old. I lived in Saint Louis, Missouri, in the conservative Midwest, and very far away from Asia. I would not hear about Korea at all until a few years later when a Korean adoptee arrived at our school.
We rented out a room in the basement of our house to a graduate student named Sylvia who was studying at Washington University, just a few blocks from our tree-lined street. Sylvia studied the cultures of Asia and introduced me to bits and pieces of Indian, Chinese, Japanese and Korean culture, showing me fascinating photographs in books, and a kimono that she stored in her closet.
Sylvia invited me to come over one day and she purposely sat me down at the table in her kitchen. She prepared a bowl of white rice and then pulled out of the refrigerator something wrapped in aluminum foil, unfolding it with great attention, as if delivering a treasure.
She presented me a few delicate slices of white cabbage that had an orange tint, with flakes of red pepper scattered on top. I ate them with the rice, employing the unfamiliar chopsticks Sylvia taught me to use.
It was but a brief moment in childhood, but fifty years later, I remember it all too vividly. That kimchi was the eidetic madeleine pastry Marcel Proust recalls fondly in his novel Remembrance of Things Past for me, an open window that transports me back to that moment.
The slices of kimchi were sour, tart, spicy, and even slightly sweet at the same time, forming an indescribable bouquet that filled my mouth, and lingered in my memory.
That kimchi flavor went straight to the soul.
Kimchi found its way into my life again when I was a graduate student in the 1990s, gathering with my fellow graduate students at the Silla Restaurant near Harvard Square. It stood out because it did not fall into the predictable patterns of Chinese or Japanese food that was then so common, demanding a culinary space for itself.
But it was only when I spent a year in Korea as an exchange student that I understood the centrality of kimchi. Everywhere around me in the neighborhood where I rented a room I saw the massive pots for fermenting kimchi placed along rooftops, standing on staircases and tucked away in the alleyways behind the brick homes that I passed—with crowns of snow in January.
Kimchi was not simply a condiment; the making of kimchi defined daily life, an investment in the future that tied the women of autumn in cutting radishes into cubes, preparing the garlic, hot peppers (gochu) and other magic ingredients, to the subtle flavors of winter and spring.
I had no idea at that time that I would marry a Korean woman then, but I did so do.
Kimchi, lovingly prepared, crept into most meals, sometimes in the middle of the table as a condiment, or as a flavoring. At first it was a bit spicy for me, but it became more familiar and worked its way to the center of my palate.
Later on, when my wife was ill, and especially in the difficult year before her passing, I found myself cooking Korean food on my own for the first time; eating alone often, I remembered family life when the kids were young---and the kimchi brought it all back.
Kimchi offered that mixture of memory and flavors that I needed so desperately.
At the time, I was living in Yeosu, that sturdy seaport that hugs the southernmost tip of Korea. I discovered the most excellent kimchi just a ten-minute walk from my small room. I walked there every week to buy a supply of kimchi, speaking with the cordial woman who ran it so efficiently.
As I approached the age of sixty, kimchi had taken the center stage for my dinners. I confess that I made rice late at night just to have an excuse to eat a bit more of that kimchi, to be drawn into the tantalizing web of taste and things past that called out to me.
In a sense, it is impossible to write about kimchi in the first place—unless one has tasted it, and tasted it repeatedly in different circumstances and environments. Like holding the hand of a loved one, the simple act of eating kimchi has a million connotations beyond the capacity of the writer to describe, or even for the lover of kimchi to fully grasp.
