“How does it taste?” says my grandmother. As I take a bite, the crunchy sound of cabbage fills my brain. My tongue is surrounded by a sensational, perfectly spicy, flavor of the sauce. It is spicy enough, but not too spicy to burn my tongue. Tiny pieces of pepper powder are a key to my family’s kimchi, as they bring out a vivid red color that makes one’s mouth water while allowing us to achieve the perfect level of spiciness at the same time. As I chew more and more, the aftertaste makes me crave even more kimchi. However, now is not the best time. I wrap up my gustatory journey to resume the bustling activity in the kitchen and tell my grandmother how good it tastes. She smiles knowingly. My parents and relatives go back to mixing the bowl of sauce and separating the cabbage leaves as we still have a stack of fermented cabbages that are looking forward to our touch!

Yet, making kimchi means more to me than just creating wonderful food: it serves as a unifying force for my family. When I enter my grandparents’ house, I see my aunts, uncles, and cousins who I have not seen for a while. I share loving hugs with them, feeling so comfortable despite a few months of being apart. All members of my family gather around and work on a common goal, giving me a sense of belonging and pride: after all, kimchi-making within families is a deep-rooted tradition in Korean culture. Kimchi is not merely a dish; it holds important cultural and social meaning in Korean society. Families often have their own unique recipes and methods passed down through generations which creates a strong sense of familial identity and unity.

As I observe the hectic scene in the living room, I see different vegetables being chopped and sauces getting mixed. The smell of shrimp paste and fish sauce that typically feel pungent begins to bring back memories of kimchi; this strong but familiar smell makes me look forward to our creation as if we are all working on a piece of art together. Making kimchi forms a bond within my family because we gather to make it a few times a year. We usually make a big amount of it at once, so we can share this food symbol of love not just with our family members, but also with our friends and neighbors.

Unfortunately, all these wonderful memories exist only in my past right now. Ever since my family moved to America four years ago, my big Korean family tree has shrunk to my immediate nuclear family of four: my mom, my dad, my brother, and I. Sometimes, in the quiet of my small kitchen in New Jersey, I find myself longing for the loud laughter and hustle and bustle that were always present in our shared kimchi-making gatherings in Korea. The physical distance that now separates my immediate family from the rest of my relatives can feel like an insuperable mountain at times. I miss the connection with my loved ones that kimchi would create. Not only have I lost the physical presence of my extended family, but I have also gotten disconnected from my Korean heritage and identity. 

As I came to my new home in the United States, there was no step-by-step guidance or manual that I could follow. Therefore, I was the only one I could trust. While navigating the cultural differences between Korea and the U.S., I had to step out of my comfort zone. During that process, I began to observe my new identity and personality develop: I started to assimilate into American culture more than I really wanted to because of peer pressure and my superficial teenage desire to fit in. I started watching only American shows, listening to only American music, buying new American clothes, and changing my way of talking to be more like other American girls in my grade. 

However, over the years, as I started to mature, I realized that my foolish ways of fitting in made me forget who I really was: with all the cultural background that I carried, I could not truly become American. I was, and I am a Korean American. Living in the United States gave me a new, fresh perspective on Korean culture. Traditions and cultural celebrations that seemed normal and common in the past became unique and special experiences that not a lot of people share. When I look at the photos from the big family gatherings during our celebration of the lunar new year, I feel proud that I am a part of Korean culture. Now that I am not a part of a Korean society that values community and togetherness, I realize what a great community that was. Ironically and surprisingly, living far away from Korea made me appreciate Korean traditions even more. My family's kimchi making tradition has become a powerful symbol of my cultural identity. It no longer serves as just a fond memory from the past; it defines who I am today.