For a long time, my only connection to Korea was the way I looked. I grew up in a small, rural, majority white community going to church potlucks where I’d eat a lot of casseroles. But food does a lot more than simply feed us. I took up cooking as a hobby mainly because I like to eat, but in time food ended up bringing me closer to Korea than I ever expected. It put me in spaces where I was surrounded by other Koreans, and the ingredients, smells, and tastes provide a place for me to consider what it means to be caught between Korean and American culture.
What I remember of my first taste of Korean food is that I didn’t like it. I was probably six, and the 1980’s American palate wasn’t exactly primed to love spicy cabbage that was fermented with pepper flakes and anchovies. Much of 1980’s America was also not primed to be particularly welcoming to a young, Korean boy. I have distinct memories of walking through a youth center for weekly music lessons, my face burning with shame as I heard some combination of “ching chong” and unintelligible comments about karate from the older kids who were hanging out there. Encounters like this, confused looks when new people met my white parents, and the recurring question “Where are you from” reinforced that many people saw me as ‘other,’ even if their intention wasn’t mean-spirited. I never thought about this explicitly when I was younger and I don’t want to overstate its impact on me, but I think that one result is that I distanced myself from things that made me feel more Korean. There was no reason to learn more about Korean language, food, or culture because it would simply reinforce an identity to which nobody else could relate.
Cooking has been a hobby of mine since I was a kid, but my interest in it expanded through college and as I moved through my 20s. Eating good food was the initial goal, but the more I cooked the more I became curious about understanding the science and cultural framework of food. I wanted to learn about new ingredients and techniques, and understand why recipes worked and how cultures meshed through history to create them. I studied cookbooks, searched for grocery stores within concentrated immigrant neighborhoods, and when traveling I would prioritize finding restaurants that showcased each place’s culinary traditions.
While I dove into understanding many different food traditions, I neglected the most obvious for me to pursue – Korean. I never chose to ignore it, but I felt so detached from being Korean that it never occurred to me that I would prioritize it for any reason. Luckily for me, a few things came together at the same time. First, a series of events in my mid-30s sparked a new interest in understanding my Korean heritage and exploring the impact of adoption on my life. For the first time, I was able to acknowledge that being an adoptee was not a neutral fact, and I began to understand and articulate its impact on my life. At this time I was also working in New York City, which allowed me to easily find Korean businesses and grocery stores. I began to frequent Korean restaurants, learn more about common Korean dishes, and the distinct Korean flavor profiles. Finally, this awakening coincided with a growing spotlight foodie culture shone on Korean food which provided access to information and ingredients. Kimchi was having a moment, leading a craze for fermented food. I started learning how to make basic Korean dishes by watching the Maangchi YouTube channel just as it exploded in popularity and began to show up in mainstream media. Chefs like David Chang were celebrities, and I still remember listening to a mainstream podcast in which a Korean food writer interviewed a prominent Korean chef about the intersection of the food and cultural experiences of Korean-Americans.
I don’t think that I like Korean food more or less than the next person because I am genetically Korean, but learning how to make the food carries more weight for me than learning how to make Mexican or Iranian or Greek food because I know that my connection to the culinary heritage is one step closer than for the others. The ordinary tasks of grocery shopping, preparing, and eating Korean food make me feel more Korean than anything else because I can imagine other Koreans doing the same thing in parallel. The ordinariness is the key, it brings me into the culture in a way that’s difficult for me to access any other way.
While food brings Korean culture closer to me, I feel part of and separate from it as an adoptee, a tension that’s evident in many small ways. For instance, I remember one of the first times I found myself in a small Korean restaurant filled with only Koreans. It was a new and strange experience to be part of the majority, to blend into a room where I looked like everyone else, where everyone was going about the normal activity of eating dinner. At the same time, I was greeted in Korean and within a few words the staff deduced that I was not “truly” Korean. They gave me an English menu and brought me a fork with my dinner. I asked for chopsticks and then looked around as I Googled “chopstick etiquette,” wanting to figure out if I was doing anything that made me look even more clueless than I felt. To be clear, I think that the otherness I felt was on me and I doubt anyone noticed or cared whether I used a fork or English menu. But the simple act of eating brought out feelings of belonging and otherness at the same time, and it sparked curiosity and connection with my Korean heritage that I had not felt before.
I recently heard an interview with Marcus Samuelsson, an Ethiopian adoptee who grew up in Sweden and is now a celebrity chef in the US (Milk Street Radio, Episode 434). In this interview he openly discusses his adoption and the complexity for himself and his children of being Swedish, Ethiopian, and American. Instead of making one identity primary, his point is that the three come together to create a unique voice. I can relate. This is how I eat the ever-present jar of kimchi from the fridge: with Korean bibimbap, as a side with pork dumplings, on my roasted veggie grain bowl, as a layer in turkey and cheese sandwiches, and once in a Mexican torta. Though I am not very confident in my ability to move between worlds, food has helped me frame my identities in a way that they can coexist and enrich each other.
Aaron