Lunch Box
by Tricia Park, Open Study Researcher When I was in fourth grade, Tally McMasters came up to me and asked: “Are you Chinese?” I was waiting for my turn at double dutch. “No,” I said, eyeing the line. “Are you Japanese?” she asked, peering at me intently. “No,” I said, again. The line was getting shorter. I glanced at her face and saw confusion. She’d run out of options. “Well, then.” Tally jammed her hands against her hips. “Are you Norwegian?” ~ ~ I was one of two Asian kids at Sacred Heart Elementary School. Sally Wu was Chinese. Everyone knew what that was. Everyone liked chop suey and sweet and sour pork. And everyone liked that joke: “my mother is Chinese, my father is Japanese and I’m in-between.” Pulling the corners of their round blue eyes up, then down, then one of each, making a diagonal slant across their faces. My mother made me beautiful lunches then, packed in a Hello Kitty doshirak box. A puffy heap of white rice, surrounded by tiny mounds of side dishes that glistened like jewels. Glossy anchovies, candied in soy sauce and sugar, freckled with toasted sesame seeds; crisp bean sprouts with vibrant, yellow heads; grassy watercress, steamed bright green; a perfect stack of roasted seaweed, shiny with sesame oil and sprinkled with salt; a juicy Asian pear, cut into precise quarters. “What’s that?” Suzy Lawson stood, pointing. “It’s my lunch,” I said, covering it with my right arm, like I’d covered my math test earlier. “It looks weird,” she said. Suzy was mean and popular and never talked to me. Everyone was either afraid of her or envied her or some combination of both. Lacy Stevens and Jennifer Lewis dressed just like her in Guess jeans with zippered ankles and wore glittery, jelly bracelets but they weren’t as pretty. You always knew that Suzy was the best one. “Hey, guys.” Suzy’s voice got loud and the din of the lunchroom stopped to listen. “Look at the new girl’s weird lunch.” The scraping of chairs against linoleum and the squeaking of sneakers as a crowd gathered around my table in the corner. “Ew, look, you can see their eyes! Disgusting! What are those things, worms? Look, they have yellow heads! Seaweed? Oh, ew, seaweed feels like alien slime on your legs! Oh my god, the smell. C’mere, smell this!” Fingers poked and prodded at my lunch, over my protecting arms. The tiny, perfect compartments were extracted as they crowded in, spilling and grabbing at my lunch. I tried to get away but the table was surrounded, the laughing and jeering continuing until nothing was left. The rice was smashed onto the table, anchovies dumped on the floor, seaweed scattered like a deck of cards. Through a blur of tears, I packed up the doshirak, the small, geometric containers empty now. One of my Twin Stars chopsticks was missing. Over the weekend, I asked my mother to pack me SpaghettiO’s and Oreo cookies for my school lunch. Puzzled, she asked, “don’t you like your bap? I saw your doshirak was empty.” I pulled away from her stroking hand on my hair. “No,” I said, a new note of irritation in my voice. “I hate it. I want a normal lunch.” I’d never spoken to my mother that way. On Monday morning, I opened my book bag at the bottom of the stairs. My SpaghettiO’s were in a plaid Thermos and a stack of six Oreos was nestled in Saran Wrap. There was also, hidden under a napkin, a small container of anchovies. I crumpled the plain brown bag, zipped up my backpack, and walked to the bus stop. When I was a kid, there was this show called Stand-Up Spotlight on VH-1. Rosie O’Donnell was the host, before she had her own show. Back then, she wore dresses and her hair was permed and feathered. The nineties were early and still recovering from an eighties hangover. I wasn’t actually allowed to watch VH-1 though it would have been worse had I been watching MTV. I wasn’t allowed to watch TV at all on weekdays and certainly not in the afternoon when I was alone, sent home early from school to practice my violin. To this day, I’m not sure what my parents had to do to make it okay for me to skip school. It probably didn’t hurt that I was a good student; quiet, Asian. I was getting straight A’s, so what could they say, really. That particular afternoon, Rosie O’Donnell stood on the small stage, the black curtain behind her strung up with white holiday lights, even though it wasn’t Christmas. It was a cheap set but the logo on the corner of the screen shone like a spotlight. ‘Welcome now to the stage, a very funny woman. You’ll be hearing more from her after this, I’m sure. Put your hands together for Margaret….Cho!’ I was only half watching – my hand aloft between my mouth and the bowl of rice I was having for lunch, my chopsticks holding some of the myeolchi that my mother had made – until I heard Rosie say, Cho. A Korean name. The last name of the first boy I ever had a crush on. Now, Rosie had my full attention. I watched as she left the stage, handing the mic over to a Korean woman wearing a dark blue dress. She was ordinary looking, almost plain. But to me, she could have been a unicorn standing in our living room. That was how startling it was to see an Asian woman on TV. Not just Asian, but Korean. Like me. And she sounded like me, too. Back then, I was always a little surprised to hear an Asian adult speak unaccented English, since all the adults around me spoke English with a heavy coating of some Asian flavor. Whether it was my Japanese violin teacher’s swallowed consonants, the hard staccato of the Chinatown kids
The Pinoy Grill
by Joy Cariño, ETA ’20 The Pinoy Grill is like a restaurant in many ways. To the right of the entrance, there’s a counter with a cash register. There are two refrigerators full of drinks and a multitude of shelves selling Filipino spices and snacks like Silver Swan soy sauce, Boy Bawang and mani. At any time, people might be eating or drinking at the four tables in the center of the room. Upon entering the restaurant, especially in the height of summer, the humidity is stifling. You can smell the flavors wafting from the back kitchen—pork marinating in soy sauce, grilled chicken, and the sour tang of sinigang. At the same time, walking into the Pinoy Grill is like walking into a large family’s living room. To the left of the entrance is a tall shelf of succulents (with a sign saying DO NOT TOUCH), couches, some chairs, and a large billiards table. Behind the chairs, there’s a carpeted mini-stage with a TV showing a Netflix drama or a YouTube playlist of romantic ballads. There’s a children’s playroom in the back right corner and two smaller rooms built into the right-side wall, which serve as tiny bedrooms for napping babies, or as a storage space for children’s items. The Pinoy Grill isn’t a sit-down restaurant. If you want to order food from the menu, you have to call or text the owner at least 24 hours in advance so she can prepare. The menu has several dishes, each of which is 7,000 won. There are meat dishes, pork or beef calderetta, corned beef, hamonado, dinuguan, humba, dinakdakan, smoked pork, or adobo pata. There are noodle dishes, like sweet banana ketchup spaghetti and bihon. There are siomai and lumpia, fried rice and bananacue. My favorite soups—sinigang na bangus, sinigang na baboy, and tinola manok are there as well. When someone in the Filipino community has a birthday, a baby dedication, or any other community event, friends and visitors need only pay for the drinks. All food is on the house, and someone always brings a Paris Baguette cake to share. After eating and gossiping at the tables, visitors gather around the royal blue billiards table for a drawn-out game. These games are always interrupted by a child holding a toy car and attempting to get involved. Others retreat to a side room to drink San Miguel and take their turn on the karaoke machine. Sometimes there are two karaoke sessions running at the same time—a slow Korean ballad playing in tandem with “Country Roads.” Children run throughout the restaurant playing tag, giggling and chattering in Korean. The room fills with noise and unapologetic laughter. When I’m invited to such events, I’m reminded of the Filipino parties my family took me to in the US, where my parents would chat and gossip around the table in Filipino or Tagalog and I would hang out in the living room with the other kids—chattering in English. Now, I’m a somewhat adult, somewhat Filipino living in Korea temporarily. I’m an outsider here, but when I come to the Pinoy Grill I can feel a semblance of home. I’m always a bit shy and apprehensive before I walk through the restaurant doors. Yet, coming here is better than staying alone in my one-room on a Sunday evening, nervously anticipating the next school day. Even though I can understand when people speak to me in Tagalog (and I welcome this change of environment where I can understand all the words being said around me), I know I’m still an outsider in this community of Filipino immigrants to Korea. I’m still more American than I am Filipino. Still, there have been many moments that will make me miss this tight-knit, unexpected community. ****** One chilly October evening, I stopped by the restaurant for some dinner and the owner told me she was hosting a Halloween event on a Saturday. The Friday before the party, she texted me asking if I was free to help decorate, so I showed up. Someone else was allegedly going to come, but it ended up just being me, her partner, her children, and Netflix Pororo. When I arrived, the owner was assembling ethernet cords, another one of her many part-time jobs. She put down her work and asked what she always asked when I came in: “Kumain ka na? Kain muna tayo!” (Have you eaten? Let’s eat first!) I responded that I hadn’t eaten yet, but she was already heading to the back room to pull out her stash of last year’s Halloween decorations. She spread them across the billiards table—crumpled up cotton spider webs and tissue paper ghosts tied onto the ends of burlap rope. A “Spooky Tree” and white curtain would act as a photo station backdrop. I helped her untangle some pumpkin and skull string lights. After several iterations of “Kain muna tayo!” and contemplative discussions of potential Halloween decorations, she and her partner wrangled their two children—a two-year-old boy and a seven-year-old girl—into chairs at the dinner table. I sat between the kids while large portions of rice and sabau were spooned onto their plates. I followed suit and ate at what felt like a dinner table with family. I live alone in my one-room, so this was only the third time I’d eaten a home-cooked meal in Korea. The seven-year-old refused to turn off YouTube on her tablet, and her father kept telling her to eat while she ignored him. The two-year-old screamed and rattled around in his high chair while the owner joked about how stubborn and angry he was. Her partner talked with me about his family in the United States. I listened and nodded, while eating the best fish stew I’d ever had. Again, I felt a semblance of home. Was it my home in Mississippi, at a table with my parents and two siblings? Was it the home my family left behind in the Philippines, with rice meals and salty sinigang stew?
Trading Fall Favorites
by Johanna Alexander, ETA ’20 Content warning: this is a recipe BLOG and as such it will read like one. Don’t like? Don’t read. #livelaughlove #suburbanMom-sona As you all might already know, Korean Starbucks BARELY carries The Pumpkin Spice Latte (PSL). It’s there for like two weeks and gone before Halloween. To some this may be devastating, but to me, this crime is overshadowed by one much more heinous, almost sinister in nature: there is no apple cider! I worked on a farm last year so I was blessed with free cider every week during fall apple season. Blessed and also cursed, for as soon as we ripped August off our paper calendar, a certain withdrawal-like feeling crept into my body…What do you mean it’s September? The leaves are changing colors? Who gave them permission?? The queen has not yet sat upon her throne with spiced cider in her golden chalice!!!!!! Just as I was about to succumb to the cognitive dissonance of fall with no liquid indicator of the change of seasons, my host mom sat a glass of something oranger than orange juice down at the breakfast table. The second I took my first sip I felt the impact of the season’s first amber leaf hitting the ground. It was full of pumpkin flavor, a little sweet. Refreshing. A little tangy. 단호박 식혜. Sweet pumpkin rice drink. A beverage that, though lacking caffeine, could rival the reigning champ PSL for pumpkin drink of the season. I decided that I MUST learn how to make this pumpkin sikhye; in return, I would show my host mom how to make apple cider. First, I learned the ways of sikhye. My host mom, watchful eyes aflame with the embodied spirit of Gordon Ramsey himself, guided my hand in the measuring, chopping, pouring, stirring and straining of our nightly sikhye sessions. I was Hercules and she Chiron, meticulously preparing me to make a sikhye fit for the gods—lest her honored name be shamed by a mistake in my recount of her sacred recipe. Halfway through our sikye olympic training (we made a total of four batches), I discovered the magic of slushie-cold sikhye (freezing it in the kimchi fridge is the secret!). A refreshing ending to the hot days of summer and a foreshadow to the chilly fall days ahead. Next, was the apple cider. I didn’t realize how much seasonal weight rested on a 16 oz glass of muddled apples until I came to Korea this year and was unable to drink it at my leisure. As Joni Mitchel once said, “You don’t know what you got till it’s gone.” If you have ever lived away from home, you will understand how tiny, seemingly insignificant details of your daily life –things that you’d never think twice about –suddenly become so remarkably consequential that you think you ought to repent for lack of proper exaltation of their name until now. Oh great Apple Cider, Goddess of Fall, your humble servant shall now proselytize in your blessed name. “Chilsung cider?” “Apple juice?” “Apple cider vinegar?” It proved to be quite the elusive beverage. We bought 15 apples for 5,000 won from the old man selling fruit by our house. What a steal! I then went about finding spices. “Spices?” my host mom asked. “We have red pepper powder here. Won’t that work?” My brain short circuited for a second before I realized the confusion about the word spice. This spice combination was new to my family. A lot of cinnamon and funny shaped cloves, allspice, and nutmeg that they said smelled just like black pepper. Perhaps more impressive than my family’s reaction upon tasting the finished product was their reaction to the smell of all the spices boiling in the pot. When the apple cider was all finished and bottled, they each tried a glass and agreed that it would be great when the weather got chillier or when they had a cold. I shared extra cider (and fall memories) with my Gumi friends, who in turn shared it with their friends, co-workers, and families. Though I was wary at first that no one would kneel with me in praise of the fall goddess, I heard through the whispers of Hermes’s messengers that the kids and office teachers were thoroughly convinced; “Now this is a drink we can get behind!” It seems we have reached a happy ending to the story of a girl and her mission to trade fall favorites. I have not only fulfilled my duty as a scribe to the ways of pumpkin sikhye and helping hand to its creator, but also successfully welcomed fall with my family and friends in Gumi through the warmth and flavors of spiced apple cider. However, a prophet’s work is never done. For you, my dear readers, for you I shall now share recipes for both pumpkin sikhye and apple cider. So, when fall is in full swing all my fellow Fulbrighters will be juiced up with the powers of both American apple cider and Korean pumpkin sikhye. Then, we will collectively be unstoppable. We’ll welcome the wind and the rain and the darkness of the fall season with mouthfuls of apple, pumpkin, and spice; with heartfuls of warmth, memories, and everything nice! Part 1: Korean Pumpkin Sikhye Makes about 8 liters which is a helluva lot of sikhye so either give it to friends, throw a party, drink it all yourself—pumpkin is good for digestion—or reduce the recipe. Total time: 6 hours Ingredients: 500 grams malted barley flour (엿질금 – In Korea it’s kind of chunky but in the USA you might only be able to find finely ground malted barley flour…good luck to us) 8 liters of water 2 bowls of cooked rice 1.5 steamed sweet pumpkins, skin removed 5 palm-sized pouches of dried ginger root About 600 grams of sugar Tools: Big mesh bag (like a cheese cloth) Big pot for the stove (찜통) Large bowl Immersion blender, food processor,