HG has a deep appreciation for Korean cuisine. Possibly the most I’ve ever known from someone not of Korean descent. She also happens to be a professionally-trained chef with a rather impressive resume. This woman has single-handedly brought me to the brink of tears through more than one (ridiculous, memorable, beautiful) meal.
Thus, it was no surprise when she approached me with the idea to make our own kimchi. And, not just any random sort of kimchi. No, sir.
OLD-SCHOOL-BURIED-IN-THE-GROUND-FOR-TEN-DAYS-MADE-MY-GRANDMAMA-PROUD-KIMCHI.
But, how? In Manhattan? Did I bury it in my floor thereby breaking through my neighbor’s ceiling downstairs? Under a potted plant on the roof deck? In Central Park? Did I *gasp* go to an outer borough?
Nay! HG has access to a private garden and she blistered her precious hands to put the hang ah ri (earthenware jars which are impossible to find in the city and required a blaaah… trip to Queens) to rest in the cold, hard ground. Alas, I am getting ahead of myself. Let’s go back to the beginning. I called the three most influential women in my life for guidance: Wae sook mo (my aunt), Hal muh ni (my grandmother), and of course, Umma (my mom).
Unfortunately, the latter two are not exactly the finest in the culinary arts. They provided plenty of moral support yet couldn’t help but snicker a bit, “YOU are MAKING kimchi?” Luckily, what they lack in skill, my aunt possesses ten-fold. To this day, she is the BEST Korean cook that I have ever known. She did not disappoint.
KIMCHI
Napa cabbage (Bae choo) – quarter
Daikon radish (Moo) - julienne and cube
Garlic - chop
Ginger – chop
Green Onions – chop
Coarse Sea Salt
Sugar
Korean Chili Powder (Go chu garu)
Fermented Shrimp (Sae woo juht)
Anchovy Sauce (Myul chi aek juht)
A caveat, if you will: anchovy sauce has a foul, repulsive stench. It STINKS. Prolonged exposure may induce vision impairment and loss of mobility for up to eight hours. At least, it does in my mind. I have sacrificed my nose so that you, dear reader, do not have to…
After I recovered from the initial sniff, I quartered the cabbage while HG began slicing and dicing the other ingredients. My aunt’s instructions called for ”caressing” the cabbage leaves with coarse sea salt. So, I did.
Following the leaf fondling, I placed the cabbages in large pots of water to soak overnight alongside daikon cubes that were in a saline bath. The daikon cubes were for a variation of kimchi called Ggak doo gi. We began combining ingredients for the mixture in a bowl. There are no measurements listed above because measuring cups are banned in Korea. Heh. My family doesn’t jot this stuff down. In fact, my aunt said that I would KNOW when it tasted right. No joke.
I was relieved to find that there really was a point when I could tell by taste that the mixture was ready to go. It’s basically a concentrated version of what you expect the kimchi to taste like. We covered the bowl and called it a night.
The next day, HG was unavailable so I went over to her apartment and rinsed the cabbage quarters. Then, I started carefully lathering each of the happily salted cabbage leaves with the mixture we made the night before. The remaining mixture was sloshed around with the cubed daikon and everything was gently stuffed into the hang ah ri.
It doesn’t sound too complicated but it took a little longer than I had anticipated. The next day, HG hauled the jars to the Upper East Side where they resided comfortably for ten days. Upon her return from a business trip in France, they were unearthed.
Result? I am very pleased to report that our first batch of kimchi was a total success and has been delighting kimchi-loving taste buds throughout the city. HG’s already nudging me for another batch before it gets hot.
Place your orders! 
-HHH, Kimchi Artisan
