I Was Born on the Battlefield of Kimchi (Literally)
Do I smell like garlic and chili powder? If I do, it’s not because I’m Korean.
It’s because kimchi season has chosen me… and there is no escape.
There is a family legend I tell people when they ask about my roots. My story doesn’t simply begin in a sterile hospital room like a normal person’s. It started on the battlefield.
My mother went into labor while she was making Kimchi. Specifically, right in the middle of salting hundreds of cabbages in the freezing winter. She was literally rushed from the piles of salted cabbage straight to the hospital delivery room.
Not Just a Salad, It’s a Survival Ritual
To the untrained eye, making Kimchi might look like a simple cooking class: mixing vegetables with spicy sauce. But in Korea, when the icy wind of November hits, it signifies the start of a war.
We call this ‘Gimjang.’ It is a massive annual event where families gather to make enough Kimchi to last the entire winter and spring. It is so culturally significant that UNESCO inscribed Gimjang as an Intangible Cultural Heritage of Humanity in 2013.
Why? Because Gimjang isn’t just about food. It’s about community, identity, and survival. It’s about ensuring the family has enough vitamins to endure the harsh winter. And apparently, it’s also about intense manual labor that can induce childbirth (You’re welcome, Mom).
The Battlefield: Operation Cabbage
My mother transforms into a four-star general during this time. Once the date is set, she moves with military precision.
- The Mission: Secure 50+ heads of prime cabbage from the local market.
- The Enemy: The stiff, raw cabbage that needs to be tamed.
The process is brutal. The day before the main event, the cabbages must surrender. We soak them in salt water until they lose their stiffness and bow down to us, becoming soft and flexible.Then comes the ammunition. We blend a potent mix of red chili powder, garlic, ginger, fermented fish sauce (jeotgal), and sticky rice paste. Sliced radishes join the mix to add a crunch. When this red paste meets the salted cabbage, the magic happens. The pale vegetables turn a fiery red, ready to punch your taste buds and boost your immune system for the year.
The Assistant’s Life (That’s Me)
Even though I am the legendary “Kimchi-born,” my rank in the kitchen is surprisingly low. I am merely the Assistant.
I watch my mother’s hands move faster than a machine. My job is to carry the heavy tubs, move the ingredients, and clean up the “debris” of the battle scattered across the living room floor. It is back-breaking work.
But I don’t complain. Because I know exactly what comes next.
The Golden Ticket: Bossam (The Real Prize)
This is the secret reason why Koreans volunteer for this war. The moment the Kimchi is packed into jars, the real feast begins. We boil pork belly (Bossam) until it is tender and juicy.
Imagine this: A slice of steaming hot pork, wrapped in a piece of freshly made, unfermented Kimchi, topped with a raw oyster. It is savory, spicy, crunchy, and soft all at the same time. This taste is a privilege reserved only for those who survived the Gimjang battle.
The Sad Truth: That Jar on Your Shelf is Lying
After reading about fresh Kimchi and pork, I have a confession to make. I have seen them in supermarkets abroad. Small glass jars or tin cans, sitting on the “International Food” shelf, staring back at me with sad, pitiful eyes.
Inside, there is pale, washed-out cabbage floating in watery brine. They are labeled “Kimchi,” but to someone born on the battlefield of real Gimjang, they look like ghosts.
Let’s get one thing straight. Simply pickling cabbage in salt and vinegar does not make it Kimchi. Those commercial jars might mimic the sour taste, but they are missing the most important ingredient: The Process.
They lack the “Battle.” They lack the frantic energy of November. They lack the interaction between the red chili powder and the salted cabbage that creates a deep, fiery fermentation.
Most importantly, they cannot bottle the Devotion. Real Kimchi contains the sweat of the family, the cold air of winter, and the touch of a mother’s hand (literally, we call it Son-mat, or ‘hand-taste’). When you open a can of mass-produced, pale cabbage, you are just eating a vegetable. But when you eat Kimchi from a Korean home, you are consuming Time and Soul.
So, please. If you see those sad little jars in the supermarket, don’t judge Korean cuisine by them. They are just trying their best, but they never stood a chance against the real thing.
The Spoils of War: A Mother’s Love
The battle ends, but the supply lines remain open. Even as her joints ache and her muscles scream from the labor, my mother—the Commander—never stops until every container is full. She pushes her physical limits not for herself, but to pack heavy bundles of Kimchi for her grown children.
When I drive away from her house with a trunk full of these heavy boxes, I feel a strange sense of security. It’s not just food; it is reassurance. No matter what happens in the coming year, I have my “basic ammunition” to survive.
The Shape-Shifter: From Fresh to Aged The magic of this “loot” is that it is alive.
- Day 1 (Haet-Kimchi): It is fresh, crunchy, and raw—perfect with pork or hot rice.
- Month 6: It ferments and turns sour, gaining probiotics and depth.
- Year 1+ (Mukeunji): It transforms into “Aged Kimchi.” It becomes soft and incredibly potent, destined to be reborn as a rich stew (Kimchi-jjigae) or a savory pancake (Kimchi-jeon).
The Real Protagonist Writing this, I realized something. We often call Kimchi a “side dish” (Banchan), but that is a lie. It dictates what we eat. It saves a boring meal. It evolves with time, changing its character just like we do.
On the Korean table, Kimchi is not a supporting actor. It is the Protagonist. And my mother, who crafts this protagonist every winter with her aching hands, is the director of this beautiful, delicious drama.
The Taste of Time
So, do I smell like garlic and chili powder? I hope so. It means I carry the scent of my mother’s hard work and the history of my culture.
If you ever visit Korea, don’t just look for the finished product. Look for the process. Look for the families gathering in November. And if you are lucky enough to taste that fresh, spicy Kimchi wrapped around a piece of pork, remember: You are not just eating cabbage. You are tasting the fierce love that gets us through the winter.
Think you have what it takes to join the battlefield? Don’t worry, you don’t need to salt 50 cabbages like my mom. Experience the fun part of the ritual (and skip the back pain) with a local expert.