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Open
a jar of kimchi, and the smell slaps you in the face. Touch it with
your hands, it will stain them red. Kimchi ignites a burn on the
lips and tongue that swirls in your nose and starts eyes leaking,
even before your first crunchy bite.
It
tingles the mouth as you chew it, and stokes your gullet after it
glides toward the slow, simmering cauldron formally known as your
belly.
Kimchi
is also a tonic of sorts, chock full of Vitamin C and super nutritious..
That's the second thing about kimchi – its "good for health,"
as Koreans say.
I
learned this first-hand a few years back while living abroad in
Korea, teaching English in sleepy Haenam, a crossroads town of 20,000
about 30 miles from the South Sea.
One fall morning, I woke up covered in sweat, intense stabbing cramps
locking up my stomach.
'You
Need Cut'
My
boss, Mr. Kim, took me to the clinic, where I was examined by the
doctor's eldest son, fresh out of residency. He poked and prodded
my abdomen before grabbing a dictionary and flipping to the word
"appendix."
"You
need cut", my boss said to me, running his finger staight across
his midsection. "I need a ticket back to Jersey," I thought.
I
was weighing my options when the two doctors strode back in to the
room, the younger catching a tongue lashing from his old man, who
was waving X-rays. Volleys of Korean flew by my ears before the
father turned to me and said "too much rice." He held
the dictionary open, and pointed to "constipation."
We
eyeballed the X-rays, then he said to me, "You need to eat
more kimchi."
There
are up to 200 varieties of kimchi be some counts, but the "classic
kimchi," a Korean staple for generations, begins with a whole
cabbage, which is bathed in a salty brine until limp. Its folds
are then stuffed with an assortment of garlic, ginger, pickled fish,
fresh oysters, green onions, and the kicker, red pepper paste.
The
resulting mix is then jarred to ferment. Traditionally in Korea,
kimchi is stuffed into big earthenware pots each autumn, then buried
outside to brew for the winter.
Age-Old
Pickling Process
Chinese
farmers first began pickling vegetables to preserve them through
the winter during the first century B.C. Over the next thousand
years, monks and other travelers helped spread the practice east,
from China through Korea and eventually on to Japan.
By
the 13th Century, Koreans were pickling prolifically. But it's modern
recipe wasn't complete until the 16th Century, when Japan invaded
Korea, and left behind an essential element – red pepper powder,
the key to kimchi's heat.
Much
more can be kimchied than just cabbages. There's kkaktugi, hot radish
kimchi, and oi sobagi, cucumber kimchi stuffed with radish strips.
There
are kimchis wrapped around combinations of fruits and nuts, seafood,
and vegetables. Some seasons see pumpkin kimchi, others, wild leek
and onion kimchi. White kimchi, water kimchi, kimchi with clams,
or squid, or heavy on the onions, or tangy with sweet potatoes.
Kimchi
Cravings
When
I first arrived in Haenam, I was uninitiated to the stuff. After
fourteen hours in the air from New York, I'd built a hefty appetite.
Mr. Kim sat me down that morning to a breakfast unlike any I'd eaten
– broiled fish, rice, and an assortment of side dishes holding
brightly colored concoctions, mostly kimchis.
The
Korean table traditionally features a smattering of side dishes,
I soon learned, plus the ubiquitous classic kimchi and rice.
Before
long it became a staple in my diet; I was craving kimchi at the
oddest hours. Occasionally, I'd wake up deep in the night, unable
to rest again until I'd crunched some cabbage.
After
returning to the States, my kimchi cravings didn’t subside.
If anything, they grew stronger. I sampled some store-bought kimchis,
but realized something was missing – the human effort in its
making, and the love. So I decided to make my own.
I hooked up with my Korean-American friend Jane Kim.
"Don't
wear white," she advised.
I
expected a grueling task. To my surprise, making kimchi was pretty
much a snap. Here's how to whip up enough classic kimchi to keep
cold and flu season safely at bay:
The
ingredients:
Two
heads of Chinese cabbage, 2 cups coarse salt, 1 Korean white radish,
1 cup red pepper powder, _ cup tiny salted shrimp, 2 knobs ginger,
1 head garlic, 1 large green onion, _ bundle very thin green onions,
1/3 pound fresh oysters, 1/3 bundle watercress, 4 tbsp salt, _ bundle
Indian mustard leaf.
(Remember,
these ingredients can be amended. Some of the best kimchi results
from improvisation.)
First,
trim the roots from the cabbages, then cut each cabbage lengthwise
into two sections.
Create
a brine using 10 cups of water plus a cup of coarse salt. Soak the
cabbages, drain them, then sprinkle the leaves with the other cup
of salt and let stand.
When the leaves are limp, rise them thoroughly in cold water and
drain again. In the meantime, prepare the other fixings.
Cut
the radish into thin strips. Cut the green onions, watercress stems,
and Indian mustard lead into _ inch lengths.
Shell
the oysters, and clean them with salt water. Chop the salted shrimp,
garlic, and ginger.
Now
comes the fun part. Mix the red pepper powder and the juice from
the salted shrimp. Add the mixture to the radish strips, and mix
until they turn good and red.
Then add the chopped shrimp, garlic, green onions, ginger, oysters,
Indian mustard leaf, and watercress. Mix thoroughly. For good measure,
toss in some more salt.
Take
the mixture, and begin stuffing it into the leaves. Be sure it reaches
deep into the folds. If your hands don't turn the loveliest shade
of crimson, you're not putting enough love into the dish.
Add
the radish strips, then stuff the whole blend into a large crock
pot. If you can bury it, all the better.
After
a few days, crack it open and dig in. You now have enough kimchi
to get through any cold and flu season. Let the heat begin.
–
Jay Cooke is a San Francisco-based travel, food, and culture writer.
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