아빠 (Dad)

As a young child, I used to play “musical conductor” with my dad.  A vinyl Wellington’s Victory would be taken out of its weathered sleeve, placed on the turntable, and blasted at a minimum 50 billion decibels through a set of speakers that outsized my five-year-old-self.  At the sound of the first trumpet, dad and I would raise our bamboo chopstick “batons” and wave them at an imaginary orchestra.  We would conduct our way through the reverberating sounds of booming cannons, strings, wind and brass.  When the symphony ended, we would take a bow.

I doubt I had the best sense of rhythm in my youth (or even now, for that matter), but those are some of the fondest memories of my childhood. Beethoven was my dad’s favorite of the classical composers, and mine as well.

Adventurous in spirit, dramatic and romantic in thought, doing whatever it took to make things happen no matter what the odds, that was my father, and those are some of the traits which I’ve been told I inherited.  It wasn’t until this year, however, that I fully understood that my Love for Food came from him as well.  There can be no question about it:  I learned to love the heat of the kitchen and the preparation of meals from my mom, but the Unadulterated Joy of Eating?  That was dad.  Like me, his daily satisfaction revolved around food.  The notion of a single favorite dish never failed to exhilarate.  He cherished the ritual, as I do;  breaking peanuts out of their shells was more fun than eating them already cleaned, he used to say.

There was nothing more precious than sharing a Korean meal with him. We would pick our way through banchan, a traditional array of small accompaniments:  small blocks of tofu dressed in soy and toasted sesame seeds, fried seafood pancakes, kimchi (chives being our favorite), roasted squares of seaweed, pickled sesame leaves, soybean salads, spicy pickled crab, bubbling mini-crockpots of steamed eggs sprinkled with scallions…When it came to the main course, we always shared and served each other, whether it was marinated short ribs barbecued at the table, bowls of soup made of beef or seafood, or a hot-weather favorite, mul naeng myun, a cold buckwheat noodle dish served in beef broth, doctored up with a hard boiled egg, slices of beef, pear, radish, cucumber, a squeeze of hot mustard and a dash of rice vinegar.

There was one afternoon in late October, when we went to a favorite restaurant, where the rice came in a hot stone bowl.  The server divided up the rice into individual portions, and then poured water into the vessel that now had bits of rice stuck on the interior.  The water bubbled up immediately, releasing copious amounts of steam and allowing a few, crispy grains of browned rice to separate.  Dad emptied out our teacups into an empty dish, and then filled them with the liquid that was in the stone bowl.  Never had I seen anyone do this before, in this place where I had eaten so many times.  The roasted rice tea was a delicious surprise, and one I will never forget.

In the last couple weeks of his life, the sight, sound or smell of food were one of the few things that would bring him back to old, familiar excitements.  At the crinkling sound of a brown paper bag that carried a glazed donut, he opened his eyes, leaned forward in his chair and exclaimed, “What is that?!”  Even when he was too weak to move, the comforting smell of oxtail soup made him smile and gave him the energy to eat, if only a few spoonfuls.

Early this December, when he still had some strength, I brought over some kimchi bokumbap, a Korean fried rice made with kimchi and pork.  He hadn’t expected my arrival at that moment and was already bundled up in a puffy jacket, scarf and hat, walking cane in hand, ready to go outside for his daily puff of smoke.  When he saw the plastic container full of steaming rice, he decided that his cigarette could wait and took a seat in his chair while I brought him a spoon.  Fully clad in winter gear, he sampled a few bites.  He nodded, said it was good and thanked me.  That was the last dish I ever cooked for him.

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