I sit around a dinner table and I divulge details whilst I pass the bread, tuck into a piece of something or fill empty wine glasses for my friends. I send voice notes that take people through every moment of my day, from what I’m doing (walking and recording a voice note), what I’m planning on eating (probably noodles) and how I’m feeling (happy when it’s sunny, sad when it’s not – a simple barometer for life). Between friends, particularly women, we talk about pregnancy and kids; the wanting or the not wanting of it. Lately, we’ve been talking about Roe V Wade – the podcast we’re all listening to, the maddening sadness of it all, how lucky we are to live in a country where abortion is legal. Often, after these words are exchanged, there is silence.
I think about what I share on my social media the day that it happened: a picture of Hampstead Heath Ladies’ Ponds at 7.42am. A sun-soaked selfie. A bowl of velvety mayonnaise. The jammy eggs it was spooned into. A new denim apron. Some favourite film pictures from an old shoot. Finally a link to Jia Tolentino’s piece for New Yorker. I felt a compulsive need to share this. That I wasn’t just thinking about what to eat; that my heart was breaking for women in America, particularly marginalised women, Black and Indigenous women, and those from lower income backgrounds, who would not be able to simply cross (multiple) state lines to do what needs to be – what they have a right to be – done.
I remember the first time I took a pregnancy test. I was 17 years old and on the top floor of a department store. My friend was waiting for me outside the stalls and I was shaking, running through the worst case scenarios in my head. As soon as I saw that it was negative, I burst out and hugged my friend. We ate salt beef sandwiches in the food hall downstairs, and I felt the relief rush through me with every bite. I would have got an abortion if the lines had been different. I think about that every time I eat one of those sandwiches. How lucky I was – still am – to have that option available to me.
The other day, a friend and I were speaking about sharing things on the internet. The perils of social media and the ability to distance yourself from its grasp. I often grapple with the level of detail I feel expected to share. There are pictures of meals made and grocery shops done; there are selfies that sew up my insecurities and can’t be denied as a tiny cry for validation; there are more serious matters that I sometimes avoid, not because they do not occupy my mind (they do: intensely, habitually and overwhelmingly), but because the online world is sometimes unforgiving of half thought-through opinions. Sometimes, I prefer to discuss it with friends over the dinner table, in an offline space where I feel free to talk it through. No judgement. No expectations. More emotion. More engagement.
These thoughts swirl through my mind on a day where I have nothing to do. No friends to see, no dinner to look forward to; just endless space to reflect on the happenings of this week. There were multiple Google searches and long-reads and many minutes staring at the ceiling.
There are times to keep things to yourself, and there are times to share your hurt, your anger, your total awe. And not just in the echo chamber. I ate a bowl of noodles and wished I was at home with my parents, sitting around the dinner table, talking about this. Not trying to make sense of it, but simply sharing our despair.
Yesterday I started reading Crying In H Mart. I’ve had to stop and start multiple times, because Michelle Zauner’s descriptions of her Korean mother feel like she’s reached into my brain and created a shared language of how to talk about my own mum. It’s eerie and I love it, but it also makes me incredibly sad. Like I miss my mum even though she’s only an hour away. I call her immediately and tell her about this book; my mum half listens and interrupts by telling me about a totally different book. I move into this conversation and halfway through me asking her more about it, she goes back to the original conversation and talks about H Mart. This is what it is to speak to Kie Jo Sarsfield.
I longed for her japchae, a comforting dish made up of glassy noodles, matchstick-cut carrots, mushrooms and a fragrant garlic and ginger soyed-up sauce. Mum tells me what to buy at Oseyo, gives zero measurements, and sends me on my way. I make it that evening, even though I’ve been crying for most of the afternoon, numb and watching episode after episode of Gilmore Girls because it feels better to be comforted by familiarity than tackle something new and unexpected. Everything starts to make sense once I mash the garlic cloves and ginger in the mortar and pestle. I pour in soy and sesame oil and a little chilli crisp, bring it all together and it smells like home. I don’t cook Korean food that often, leaving it to my mother to work her magic (the complacency, I know). So this feels like a rare gift – when I feel myself morphing into her once again.
You’ll need:
1 carrot, cut into thin matchsticks
1 medium white onion, sliced
4-5 large shitake mushrooms, sliced
4-5 oyster mushrooms, sliced
1/2 fennel bulb, sliced
A handful of Korean japchae noodles (these are the ones I got from Oseyo, the Korean supermarket chain – part of H Mart! – in London).
3 garlic cloves
1 thumb of ginger
Around 1 tbsp soy sauce (I, obviously, did not measure but it seems about right)
Around 1 tsp sesame oil
Around 1 tsbp chilli oil (with crispy chilli bits – like the Lao Gan Ma or Lee Kum Kee ones)
A splash of Chinkiang vinegar
One egg, whisked
A small squeeze of honey
Two handfuls of spinach
Two spring onions, thinly sliced
(1) To prep the sauce, mince the garlic and ginger in a mortar and pestle, then add all the wet ingredients, stirring at the end. (2) In a large pan, heat up some neutral oil (vegetable/sunflower) and add your hardier vegetables first (carrots, onions, fennel). (3) Season with salt and once soft, add your mushrooms, lid on. In the meantime, boil your noodles until they’re soft (give them a taste for consistency). (4) When the mushrooms are nice and soft (you can add a little water to the pan if it’s sticking), add your glass noodles, and toss the vegetables through. (5)Add your sauce, turn the heat to low and stir in your spinach. (6) You can put the lid on while everything comes together, and grab a small non-stick pan. (7) Add some butter and turn it to a medium heat. Pour your one whisked egg in and make a mini omelette. (8) Flip then fold over once, shake it out onto a chopping board and slice into strips. (9) Add the egg and the thinly sliced spring onions and take it off the heat. (10) Serve with a sprinkling of sesame seeds and eat with a few mandu dumplings (I get these frozen ones – I steam then fry them in chilli oil).
Soon I’ll moving to a paid model. These essays will remain free for all, but recipes-not-recipes and leftovers will be part of a paid subscription. If you subscribe, that’s three newsletters in your inbox a week! Plus the opportunity to come together at IRL events and share with a food-obsessed, unmeasured-by-nature community both online and offline. It’s been two years of sharing SNOA with you all – and I’m 74 subscribers away from hitting 2K! It feels like the right time to do this.