Sandra Oh And Korean Food Nostalgia
A week of Korean cultural signals and a hunger for my mother's kimchi-focused dishes.
Food For Thought.
There are some days or weeks or months when I am happily reminded of my Korean heritage. Small signals that crop up in news stories or shows or conversations with my mum. It's been one of those weeks.
First it was listening to To Live And Die In LA, a true crime podcast about the disappearance of 20-year-old Korean American woman, Elaine Park. I spoke to a friend who attended a Korean dinner where she feasted on ssam. Then watching the first series of The Chair, starring Korean American actress (and, let's be honest, icon) Sandra Oh; and a subsequent interview between Sandra Oh and Joanne Molinaro (@thekoreanvegan). And this morning stumbling upon an IGTV of Peggy Gou playing in London on South Korea's National Liberation Day.
It's a strange to write that I'm 'reminded' by these cultural signals. Shouldn't I be reminded of it everyday when I look in the mirror? Yet we become so used to our faces and how we look that often we erase that layer of ourselves. I spend so much time thinking about my anxieties and insecurities; money, work, relationships, friendships (and food) – that sometimes I don't stop and consider the other parts that make up the sum of me.
In The Chair, Sandra Oh plays Ji-Yoon Kim, the first woman of colour to hold the Chair of Pembroke university's English department. It follows her as she is forced to reckon with low enrolments thanks to prehistoric, white professors who refuse to update their lectures; yielding to the Dean's requests – which proves that her rise to the top was less about systemic change and more a matter of optics; and her own messy inter-personal relationships as she tries to progress the department (and her own life).
There's a lot to say about the series – the performance of white male privilege, the transmutation of pedagogy, its take on cancel culture – but for me the most significant relationship to watch unfold was between Ji-Yoon, her adopted daughter and her elderly father. It was here that we see an unravelling of cultural dynamics. Ji-Yoon's father speaks almost exclusively in Korean and feels a disconnect with his granddaughter, Juju, as she struggles to find her place as the Latinx adoptee of a single, Korean mother. He refuses to speak English; Juju refuses to learn Korean. And she often pushes away Ji-Yoon's attempt at integrating her – albeit adopted – Korean heritage, instead desperate to connect with Mexican traditions like Dia De Los Muertos.
Ji-Yoon is a a self-confessed terrible cook (we're shown a scene where Bill, Ji-Yoon's sort-of boyfriend and colleague, opens her fridge and finds stacks upon stacks of Lunchables. "Mom doesn't cook", Juju says, all matter of fact). But as is typical in Korean culture, the elders are always on-hand to provide food, drink and sometimes unwanted advice (as seen in Juju's cousin's first birthday party). The show doesn't make much of Korean dishes – it doesn't have to – but there were two brief but touching moments that showed the inextricable link between food and culture. The first, when Juju and her grandfather lay a path of kimchi leading to an alter for Ji-Yoon's mother (who died when she was 14, and whom Juju is named after). Following the tradition of Dia De Los Muertos, an offering of the deceased's favourite food is left for their soul to come back to. In Ji-Yoon's mother's case, it was kimchi. And the second, a soundtracked snapshot of Ji-Yoon, her father and Juju cooking what looks like might be ramyun or kimchi jiggae in the final shots of the last episode.
It made me long for my mum's kimchi jiggae, where tofu trembles in a boiling, spicy stew. Or her japchae where delicate strands of glass noodles collide with meaty mushrooms and crunchy vegetables. The ssam (pork belly, homegrown sesame leaves, a gochuchang paste and rice) we eat on special occasions. Smoky bulgogi, thin strips of beef marinated and flash fried, still cooking on a hot plate as you dig in at the table. Steaming bowls of miyaguk, a seaweed broth studded with beef that feels like the perfect balance between earthy land and salty sea. Kimbap, sushi's more distinguished and more delicious older sister.
Through food we can remind ourselves of who we are. Of course there's the other side of me that's Lancashire hot pots and Morecombe Bay potted shrimp (ICYMI my dad's a Lancashire man). But when you live in the land that affirms that side of you everyday, you have to work hard at honouring the other parts that make you who you are, that you don't encounter in every face or conversation or experience.
Here's to the discovering the dishes of different cultures and teach us about ourselves,
Cat x
Recipes-not-recipes™️
On an evening where I was desperate to sear some tender chicken thighs, I arrived at the shop to find zero chicken. But what I did find was plenty of delicate oyster mushrooms that always remind me of an Issy Miyake Pleats Please number.
The foundation of this dish is always white rice, and you just build around it. So I cooked up some fluffy white rice in a donabe pot – you don't need a donabe, but I've learnt that the perfect ration is 1:1.1. So if you do 1 cup of rice, you add 1.1 cups of water. And if you're cooking in a normal pot or rice cooker, letting it stand for 15 minutes after it cooks will help ease the rice off the bottom of the pot/pan.
For the mushrooms, it's a simple process. I picked about 5 medium sized oyster mushrooms and of course devoured them all, but if I'd picked a couple more it would have sufficed for two.
Slice these mushies in half, and dice two fat garlic cloves, a small thumb of garlic and half a deseeded red chilli.
Using room temperature butter (a fairly large knob), mix in 1-2 tbsp of white miso paste.
Then in a heavy bottomed pan (I use a cast iron skillet) on low-medium heat, add the miso butter and a little oil to stop it from burning.
Throw in the garlic, chilli and ginger, and if you've got them some chopped spring onions (the white parts only).
Next goes the mushrooms. Turn the heat down and maybe add some more butter if it looks a little dry, and a splash of water. Stir to coat and place a lid on for a few minutes so the miso butter almost steams. (I threw in some asparagus because I had it in the fridge).
Once cooked, finally drizzle a little sesame oil and scatter sliced spring onions (this time the green parts).
Serve with the fluffy white rice (I always add soy sauce and sesame oil and black sesame seeds because it's ingrained in me), more spring onion greens and the chilli sauce of your liking (Laogan Ma forever).
Leftovers.
Obviously you need to watch The Chair, and also The White Lotus, which deal with white privilege in very different ways. Both great but also flawed.
This conversation between The Korean Vegan (Joanne) and Sandra Oh, while Joanne makes Bindaetteok, a favourite childhood dish of Oh’s.
Just super into the concept of a pizza joint salad, which – lightbulb –means adding salami to lettuce and dressing. I’m in.
I posted a lot of lettuce content this week, including this accurate portrayal of the correct iceberg – tuna mayo sandwich ratio.
Waiting for another heatwave so I can make this Bibmguksu – a Korean cold noodle dish made with gochujang and plum extract.
Literally cannot stop thinking about making these wontons – they are my ultimate hangover cure.
Leftovers kimbap forever and ever and ever.