Storytime
Me: “How much salt?”MOM: “Oh, just enough so it tastes salty.”ME: “…”A lot of us experimented with cooking during quarantine. My sourdough starter’s name is “Mariah.” She still takes me [higher than the heavens above.]1
After spending a few months making a plethora of recipes ranging from easy to medium difficulty, summer was arriving and I decided to ask my mom to teach me how to make White Radish Kimchi — a delicious, crunchy, and refreshing Korean side dish I grew up eating on hot summer days.
This dish reminds me of the water olympic sessions I staged in the pool with my little brother. A few hours of twists, dives, and gymnastic-like landings always left us famished around sunset. I can still hear the screen door sliding open and our mom arriving with a tray of whatever it was that she had arranged. Cut up fruit or cold noodles made frequent appearances, but when these little radishes presented themselves is when routine transformed into fond memory.
My mom and I live in different states, and with coronavirus in our presence internet-instruction was the obvious choice. We coordinated ingredients via text — iMessage to be exact. Kakao is our usual source of communication. Something about this particular irregularity made it serious, almost secretive.
I set up my station sometime before our appointment. I laid out all the ingredients in a way that would even make Pinterest a little insecure. Maybe it was some expression of anxiety, I can’t tell. It felt right.
Korean Radish, green onions, garlic, chili peppers, and an apple (fuji to be exact). I remember thinking the inclusion of the apple was so random, maybe something I leave out. I bought my favorite apple just in case we didn’t use it. It could easily be distributed into the snack bowl, if things didn’t work out. I’m a planner.
I dialed in when our appointment time arrived. It seemed like she just got home, because there were grocery bags all around her. My mom announced that she didn’t have any of the ingredients. “What?” I whispered to myself quietly. Apparently, she had had time to make this particular dish recently and decided to just talk through it with me instead of making it together— a detail that might’ve helped me prepare. I took a deep breath.
I was slightly disappointed with the now increased chance that this wouldn’t turn out well. The cravings for this dish were arriving more frequently, and I was low-key ride or die coming in to this experience. I took another deep breath.
“Cut everything up”
“Yeah, but how?”
“Just, you know, the way you like it.”
This instruction was neither clear nor specific to me. I had been thriving off visual examples following new recipes, and I was overwhelmed here without them. I felt weak.
“Ok, well, I’ll do the radish first. What should it look like?”
“You can dice them. What kind of jar do you have?”
I held my very millennial mason jar up to the camera.
“That’s cute. Yeah just dice them up.”
She went back to putting things away in her kitchen; I turned my attention to the radish and started to think. I didn’t want to cut them too small, because I wanted to be able to grab them easily with chopsticks. I struggled with this as a child. I also thought each one should be more than one bite to balance effort and reward. I cut one and held it up for her.
“What do you think?”
“Oh. Yeah. You can do that too.”
Now I was second guessing myself.
“Ok, now put them in the jar.”
I put my cut radishes into my mason jar and shook them around a bit.
“Now just cut everything else around the same size.”
“But what about the garlic? It’s too small and isn’t long enough.”
“Just slice those.”
“How thick?”
“Just like slices.”
Ok, fine. I’ll just slice them into “slices”.
Everything was in the jar now. The apples made the cut, too. She said it was to add sweetness, but I still had my doubts.
“I’m ready.”
“Ok, now get a bowl and add some water to it.”
“How big of a bowl?”
“Enough so it will hold what you’ll put in the jar.”
“How many cups of water?”
“It really doesn’t matter. Just put the water in the bowl.”
Ok, fine.
“Now, what?”
“Add salt to it.”
“How much salt?”
“Oh, just enough so it tastes salty. But not too salty.”
I had reached my ambiguity limit. I couldn’t process any more non-specific instructions. The recipes I’d been following to this point laid things out to a tee.
“Mom— I don’t understand that. How do you do that? What does it mean to be salty?!”
“Well, add some salt to the water and taste it. If it’s not salty enough, add some more. If it’s too salty, just add some more water back in.”
I looked down at my bowl of water, and then I looked at the salt.
I added salt to the water and tasted it. I could taste the salt but was it “salty”? Maybe not? I added more. Tasted it again. Negotiated with myself. Added more. Hmm…too much. Wait…I guess that means it’s too salty? I added a little bit of water. Then a little more.
After more deliberating, I decided the mixture would met the definition of “salty.” Perhaps only my definition and only in this context, but that’s all that mattered. I raised my head to look up at the video.
“It’s salty now.”
“Good! Now just pour it in the jar to cover what’s in there. Close it up and leave it out on the counter for 3 days.”
“That’s it?”
“Yeah.”
“… this is so weird.”
My dad entered the frame. He had come home and was hungry, which meant my mom was already trying to figure out what to make for him. After a bit of chatting, we said our goodbyes and I told her that I would call in 3 days to tell her how it was. I didn’t really mean it. I expected disaster. Better to prepare for failure than be let down, right?
I poured the saltwater onto my cut items, closed the lid, raised it up to the light to give it a good glare. It made its way next to the sink.
Over the next 2 days, out of the corner of my eye I would notice the water getting murkier, bubbles starting to form on the surface. My feelings were getting cloudy, too. I could no longer distinguish between hope and anxiety.
On the 3rd day, in what felt like a mini-resurrection, I picked up the jar and looked directly into it, opened the lid, and, with a yoga-like inhale, absorbed its scent.
It smelled how it should smell, but I had recently learned that that didn’t mean it would taste how it should taste. My expectations fluttered. I looked closer and checked the jar for mold. There was none. The liquid looked a little cloudy, but that’s what it’s supposed to look like, right? Oh God, those apples…sus.
I grabbed a pair of chopsticks and reached for a radish. In my own solidarity I took a bite.
I smiled. It was perfectly salted and perfectly mine.
Written by Janice M. Cho // Founder of Mise App
Carey, Mariah. "Emotions." Emotions, Columbia, 1991.
White Radish Kimchi
Ingredients1 Korean Radish or Daikon
2 Green Onions
3 Garlic Cloves
1 Red Chili Pepper (optional)
1/2 Apple
~ Salty Water (Made with kosher salt)
NotesCut Radish/Daikon to any shape desired—just make them equal sized. Cut Green onions to be around the same width or height. Same with the apple.
Slice garlic cloves, any width.
Put everything in a glass jar. Add salty water. (Make sure it covers all the ingredients.)
Wait 3 days. Refrigerate after 3rd day.
This recipe is written the way Mise App’s Founder would read it.
If you decide to store it for yourself, consider changing the way it reads. Alter it to the way you would want to read it.
