mushroom kimchi jjigae

recipes

Oct 9

*hi*

two blog posts in a week. we are on a roll~

i’ve been thinking a lot about what motivates me to keep the lights on here when most of everyone consumes recipes by way of short form vertical videos these days. isn’t it a bit wild to think about how quickly social media platforms gained power over determining which mediums our generation will consume? then looking inward, that in turn has become the vehicle of delivery that creatives have formed their work around. ah, the social media vortex we’ve all been swept into…

but here y’all, on dearsaturdays, an old lady writes in a space that is on its way to obsolescence. it still feels like a vast open canvas that i’ve used to connect my heart to you out there in the world because there’s only so much that can be expressed through a 15-second video. although this pays nickels, i have enough motivation to plop down on my chair on a sunday morning, open my laptop, and feel as though i’m sharing a cup of tea with you.

and on that note, i want to share a little story about this kimchi jjigae recipe because let me tell you, it’s been brewing. i am now ready to pour. if you came for the recipe, you can scroll all the way down because otherwise, you’ll be entering a space where unexpected grief will now be the guest star of this post. it was written during a time i was indulging in my own stupid melodrama to which i chuckle about now, but there’s still merit in extending this human experience to you.

tender mushrooms

how lucky was i

to know you so intimately

to eagerly slip my coat on for you

and run to the store to pick up your favorite ingredients

to be so sure of myself in this affection

knowing the varietals i carry will send you over the moon

to stand over the stove, imagining your face lighting up

and how i’m about to make your afternoon

to love(cook) from the utmost tender part of my heart

saying a quiet prayer to nourish you with warmth

when i cook for someone, i try my best to key into that person’s fondest taste memories gathered from mental notes from shared meals and conversations; noticing patterns around what they order from a menu, their reaction to an ingredient or method of preparation, and for brownie points, remembering favorite meals their mother cooked for them as a child.

amy likes warm squishy pita bread with a fine crust and char. ashley likes having an array of sauces to complement the components of her sandwich. mom likes medium well steaks and will send it back if she sees a single drop of blood. he loved the versatility of mushrooms and how they remind him of his mom. he made it a point to wake up early on saturday mornings to make sure he got the best pickings from the mushroom lady at the mccarran greenmarket.

we bubba gumped the shit out of mushrooms. mushroom tartine, mushroom crisped like bacon sprinkled atop our soup, mushroom omelettes, pickled mushrooms in a light stock. on that day, it was mushroom kimchi jjigae.

there was steam on the windows and it was chilly out that day. we sat together to share the jjigae over his lunch break, but i first glanced over, observing him spoon the hot soup over his rice and take in his first bite.

do you like the addition of the mushrooms and anchovies? isn’t it so freaking rich and umami? i’ve never had mushrooms in kimchi jjigae before, but i knew you were going to love it.

he agreed that it was delicious, paused, and out came the words.

you didn’t make this for me.

i toss around in bed staring up at the ceiling at night recounting the words, trying to deeply understand what was meant by them. to him, dedication looked like a meal fully devoted without a trace of expression beyond the two of us. that is the kind of love he craved, one untethered to dearsaturdays. i tossed around some more and broke even attempting to digest how differently we saw things.

(1) yes, i can shut the rest of my brain off and solely think of only you. that is easy. but that doesn’t feel like a resolve. while my truth seemed to be clear as day, i erroneously fumbled the delivery from not knowing my audience, then spiraled into picking apart every small and minute intention, now no longer being sure of where i stood.

(2) having to decipher between real life, love for another, and if the two become diluted when used a source of inspiration. between he and i, i wondered if it was it possible to acknowledge them not as separate parts, but as a whole. i craved more than anything, the latter.

as you can see, this recipe was born out of an intimate bond, twisted with layers of grief that sparked a fire. but it’s still fucking delicious. and i hope you get to enjoy it too.

xo, christine