Gamja Bokkeum — the howl mag

Thoughts | Esther Choi

POV: imagining myself at age 60, many decades from now, reminiscing about my youth

The carrot skins peel off in thin ribbons into the sink. I discard them and start gently scrubbing off the blemishes of dirt from the potatoes with fine care, polishing them until they glisten and desire to be roasted. I leave the skins on out of habit—Umma used to tell me they were full of antioxidants and good for your skin, but what help would they be for my worn down, leathered face? I start dicing a plump yellow onion, letting my tears fall naturally out of resignation.

I chuckle, remembering how Umma once scolded me for letting my tears fall onto the onions: “You won’t need to put any salt into the jjigae (Korean stew), your tears added so much flavour to it already.”

She left the kitchen as I continued dicing the onions with cautious, steady hands. I felt proud of myself that she had left me alone with the big girl knife. Umma returned, with a pair of swim goggles in her hands. I asked what they were for, but she just told me to put them on. Confused, I pulled the tight straps over my head and smiled a sheepish, toothy grin.

“They’ll catch your tears for you!”

I mix equal parts sugar and soy sauce, coating the potatoes with the syrup. Korean sweet soy-glazed potatoes were Avery’s favourite side dish. My heart swelled up at the thought of her high-pitched voice yelling, “Gamja!” (potato). In Korean culture, cooking for your family is probably one of the most expressive forms of love: a physical translation of your utmost effort and longing to fill their tummies with hot, nutritious food. Cooking for myself was quite honestly a bore, a tedious chore that I avoid the more and more I grow older. However, if my granddaughter asked for a second serving of potatoes, I would happily spend the weekend packing containers for her to take home to eat throughout the week. I mince garlic and toast some sesame seeds, a comforting fragrance tickling the air. The syrup has hardened, forming a hard, candy-like shell on the potatoes.

When a stupid boy broke my heart for the first time, I flew back home. I thought I was going to die. I thought true love was supposed to last—at least for over six months. I seldom left my room, engulfing myself in my tissues and refusing to join family meals at the dining table. My poor Umma, she was probably so worried about my loss of appetite. It was unlike me to not ask what was for dinner. She started quietly leaving trays of food in front of my door on the second day of my breakup. I nibbled through the egg salad sandwich, played with my yogurt parfait, but it was kind of disgusting to eat with all the snot running from my nose. A couple of tissue boxes later, I cracked my first smile. I opened my door to see a pair of swimming goggles comically set on the tray next to a fruit cup. Umma had a sense of humour, sometimes. Whether it came to onions or boys, she didn’t want to see any tears. Motherly love was quiet, but nurturing. My tummy was always full, but nowadays I skip dinner.