Our samgyeopsal ritual follows no calendar. We come together when the mood strikes, and contribute to the meal in a sort of potluck assembly. We gather at Hanmi’s and Jim’s house. Some bring red leaf lettuce and perilla leaves and basil, some bring vegetables, others bring the meat. The pork belly comes in long skinny bricks, two per package, and you need at least three of them if you want to ensure everyone is fat and full by the end of the night.
I am always one of those who arrive early. We help with the slicing of meat and veggies, the separating and spinning of freshly washed greens. Hanmi does the cooking. In wet winter weather the pork is air-fried, and vegetables roasted in the oven. In summer, most everything goes on the barbecue. Jim sets the table, each place setting with its own small dish of sesame oil and pink salt in which to dunk the pork.
Those who trickle in during the preparation find places to set their contributions. Fresh baked cookies, gelato, a bottle of wine. Among these is always some gluten free treat I’ve baked at home, maybe a cardamom cheesecake sweetened with dates. Our dogs wrestle and chase each other around the living room, jumping on and off the couch like children. We set the ingredients out dish by dish. The steaming pork and vegetables arrive last. We sit down to eat. The dogs gather at our feet beneath the table, awaiting samples.
Each samgyeopsal wrap is assembled individually. It begins with cradling a ruffled leaf of lettuce in your hand and filling it with pork belly you’ve dunked in the salty, nutty sesame oil. Next is the basil, perilla leaf, black garlic, and roasted vegetables du jour. You complete the assembly with ssamjang, a thick sauce made from fermented soybeans and chili paste, then roll up your wrap and take bite after bite until it is gone. Then you make another. The pork belly is crisp and chewy. The vegetables soft and earthy. The basil and perilla an herbal high note. And the ssamjang the drunken tangy bite no meat-and-potatoes American would ever expect. It's a community around the table as we pass the lettuce, reach for the basil, pile on the pork.
There is gentle reverence in Hanmi’s voice as she talks about the Korean meal we are eating. Samgyeopsal. Ssamjang. Words and foods deeply rooted in her maternal lineage. We used her mother’s ssamjang after she passed away. To make more, Hanmi says, you just add ingredients to the original batch and let it ferment. Parts of that sauce had been fermenting for years. Eating it felt ceremonial.
After the main course we move on to the desserts, accompanied by brewed cacao with cream. Decadence, indulgence, abundance. Our bellies full, we stretch out, talk, laugh, pick at what’s left on the table. Forever the introvert, I flop on the floor and roll around with the dogs, listening to the conversations and making intermittent contributions. Nobody minds. These are good people, my people, my chosen family. It’s so different from the meals of my youth.
Much of my childhood memories around meals are sparse. There are some flashes of coming together as a family to eat, at home or dining out, but no consistent memories of the warmth I feel with the friends I share food with today. My parents’ relationship was strained for as long as I can remember. I have some fond memories of things we ate, like my mom’s billowing loaves of home baked bread, or my dad’s “Mexican pizzas,” which were nothing more than a flour tortilla and jack cheese that went for a spin in the microwave. I loved the raw oysters at the fish restaurant. I also have memories of anxiety, of tension and arguments at the table. As I got older it got worse, and my dad stopped coming home for dinner. My mom made a point of setting out a place for him anyway, as if we should expect him. It was how she ensured that my little brother and I felt the devastation she expected of us.
Enjoying a meal with others has been a lifelong challenge, one I’ve brought into therapy more than once. These childhood dinner traumas were certainly a contributor. As I write about the samgyeopsal dinner, my eyes flood with tender tears. It’s one of the few ritual meals in which I have felt completely at ease. The food may be fantastic, but it’s the people that share it that make us come together again and again. Like the ssamjang, they complete the meal.
This is my entry for the #monomad challenge, held daily in the Black and White Community.
Give it a try. With pork and basil.
