I realized I couldn’t ask my mom for any help— the kimchi at our house came from Grandma. My mom had never made it before, and she bought most of the banchan in our fridge from the Korean market downtown. Her Korean food was not authentic enough. I hated the idea of it, but I knew who I needed to ask.
I slammed the encyclopedia shut and sunk back into my seat. I let out a huge sigh. Jason looked over at me. “You okay?” he asked.
“No, I’m not,” I replied.
“What’s up?” He put his pencil down and looked at me.
“I think I need to ask Grandma for help,” I sighed.
“Oh geez, I’m sorry about that,” he said. “Why?”
“Because my mom buys her Korean food pre-marinated and pre-made from the Korean store,” I said.
“Huh?” he replied.
“Oh sorry, I forgot you weren’t reading my mind,” I continued. “I think you were onto something when you suggested I do something food-related for my project.”
“I am quite smart.” He smiled.
“Yes, you are the smartest boy I know, and the funniest.”
“Don’t forget handsome!”
“Okay, okay, we took that too far. Anyway, I need to ask Grandma for help and it might kill me to ask her for it,” I said.
Mrs. June walked by and said, “Everything okay here, Krista? Jason?”
I hated sneak attacks by teachers. “Uh, yes! Great! Fine!” I stammered.
She didn’t look like she believed me, but she did me a favor and walked away anyway.
“Who knows,” Jason said, “your grandmother might surprise you.” How could he always manage to be so optimistic and positive?
After school, I knew what I had to do, but it took me forever. I stared at the phone for a long time before I got the courage to call Grandma. I was pretty nervous. I don’t remember ever calling her up and asking for her help. The phone rang three times, and I almost hung up. She picked up on the fourth ring. “Yoboseyo?” she said. She has lived in Canada for decades, but she still doesn’t answer the phone in English.
“Hi, Grandma, it’s Krista,” I said.
“Krista. Something wrong with your dad? Why you calling?” Grandma sounded worried.
“No, Grandma, he’s fine. We’re all fine. I just have something to ask you,” I started carefully.
I paused. There was dead air. She was waiting for me to continue.
“Um, so…we’re doing this project at school,” I said. Still nothing. I could just hear her breathing. I took a deep breath and continued. “We’re supposed to be exploring our background, for Heritage Month.” I stopped, waiting to hear something on the other end. Nothing. I kept going. “But it’s not like a normal project. I’m supposed to find out something about Korea or being Korean that is different.”
“What you mean?” she finally said.
“That’s just it. I can kind of choose what I want to do,” I said. I paused for a little bit before I said, “I want to do Korean food.”
“What ‘do Korean food?’ Eh?” My grandmother sounded confused.
“I want to learn about Korean food, Grandma. I want to find out what it is that makes me Korean, and I think it’s the food.” I was starting to ramble now. “You know how I love kimchi and rice and soup and bulgogi and I always have. I just ate it. I always just eat it. But with Jason for example, he thought kimchi was weird at first and it’s only because he’s my friend that he likes it now, because he’s not Korean. He wasn’t born knowing it or liking it. But I was. Do you understand what I am talking about?”
“Jason like kimchi?” Grandma sounded surprised.
“Yes, Grandma, he does.”
“So you want to learn something?” she asked.
“Yes, yes, I do. Will you teach me some stuff? You know Mom, she doesn’t really know how to cook Korean food.” I felt terrible saying that to Grandma, as though I was betraying my mom. But I needed Grandma on my side.
“Yes, your mom not know too much. She make Mexican food and tacos,” she said scornfully. I loved tacos, but I let that one slide.
“Okay. You have time on Friday? I pick you up after school and we go Korean store to go shopping, okay? Korean girl should learn how to make Korean food. Good idea!” She sounded almost happy.
“Okay, Grandma. I’ll come home right away after school on Friday,” I said. “Thanks.”
“Friday, we make kimbap,” she said and she hung up the phone.
CHAPTER 5
We unloaded all the groceries from Grandma’s car in the dark. We had spent a good long time at the grocery store. Too long. I was super tired and hungry and we still had a lot of work to do.
“Kimbap,” my grandmother started, as we walked into the kitchen, with our hands full of plastic grocery bags. “Everybody’s kimbap little bit different.”
“It’s like sushi right?” I asked.
Grandma had a shocked look in her eyes. “No! Not like sushi! Aigoo! Sushi use vinegar in the rice.Not in kimbap,” Grandma scolded. “Your mother not teach you anything! Korean in name only! Sushi is Jap-an-ese,” Grandma said each syllable slowly and with emphasis. “You NOT Japanese.” She pointed her finger at me.
I kept quiet. She muttered to herself some more in Korean, and I couldn’t understand what she was saying, but sometimes all you need to hear is the tone in somebody’s voice, no matter what the language, and it was pretty clear she was irritated with me. There was no use arguing with her. I was just going
