The Day We Make Kimchi

Sometimes, non-Korean friends ask me how kimchi is made. But I (along with most young Koreans) have never actually made kimchi myself. These days, kimchi feels more like something you buy, not something you make at home. But until about 30 years ago, in my family, we used to make kimchi at home, a tradition called “gimjang” in Korean.

To describe the process: each household would prepare about 100 heads of napa cabbage, more or less depending on the family size. You wash the cabbage, salt it for several hours, then stuff each layer of the cabbage leaves with seasoned filling. It’s a massive undertaking, making enough kimchi for the whole family to consume for an entire season. The kimchi made at home back then was made through wearing the joints and cartilage of mothers.

We used to do “gimjang” twice a year. My mom would work for hours, her face looking empty as if her soul had escaped its shell, unable to endure the grueling physical labor. I would go up to her and say, “Mom, do you need some help?”, and she would look at me, completely exhausted, and say “Just staying out of the way helps the most.” That moment always left me feeling disappointed, a little embarrassed, and strangely powerless. But seeing how exhausted she was, I couldn’t say anything back. I’d go off and watch some cartoons on TV for a while, and when I came back, she’d still be working. I’d want to ask again if she needs help but I wouldn’t. She would still be tired even the day after.

Looking back, my five year old self couldn’t really help with something like gimjang. But at the time, I was five years old, and at five you think you can do anything in the world. Even now, as an adult, I sometimes feel like I’m back to being that five year old on gimjang day. I often feel helpless when I can’t do anything for people I love. No matter how old I am, there will always be things in this world that I can’t fix. I tell myself I need to accept the limits of what I can do, be humble about it, and just watch quietly from a distance. It hurts to feel that all I can do for you, who I know will still be tired tomorrow, is just to watch from afar.