Your Brain On Kimchi

Each day in the United States, families squash in front roadside attractions for a photo op before hearing 'say cheeeeese!' and in knee jerk fashion, repeating the command. I never gave it much thought until I came to Korea and a few Korean friends asked to take a picture. Per usual, I tussled my hair, turned my body to highlight my good side, and put my pants back on for a memorable shot of us in front of the carousel. To my surprise, the photographer said "...1, 2, 3...KIM-CHIIIII!!!" At the time, I was quite surprised but after thinking about it for a few seconds, it makes total sense. If you've heard of more than five things from Korea, I'd be surprised. Before coming here, my short list was...

1. Kimchi

2. Taekwondo

3. Samsung/LG/Kia

4. Soju

5. Free overtime

Kimchi, however, easily takes the top spot as the most important and identifiable staple to Korean tradition. If the government decided to change the country's flag tomorrow, kimchi would be in its center. If Koreans weren't too busy eating it, I'd imagine I'd find it in shampoo, hand moisturizer, or envelope glue. In fact, many foreigners think the natural scent of a South Korean citizen is the tangy aroma of kimchi, when in fact they have probably just come from having a bit to freshen up. South Koreans think all Americans smell like cheese and eggs, when in fact we smell like cheese, eggs, AND blood pressure medication.

The history of kimchi can arguably go back to the first century, the beginning of the Three Kingdoms of Korea. Early varieties were created from fermented napa cabbage and beef stock; the appearance of the vivid red pepper flakes came into the mix after Japanese invasions in the mid-16th century. Bringing it up to modern day, the proud citizens created the Kimchi Field Museum in Seoul to celebrate all 187 varieties of this superfood. A true inspiration to fermented foods everywhere!

Thus far, I have eaten almost a dozen different kinds. I can't say for sure because since it is omnipresent at every dining establishment, I don't really have time to discuss with the waiters the finer points of their offering. Without a doubt, each eatery purchases or makes their favorite kind and will never reveal their preparation techniques. Not to mention, this is one of the most healthy foods in the world. Health magazine (I'm assuming they know a thing or two about...health) named it in the top five for healthiest foods because of nutritional value, natural digestion properties, and potential cancer fighting qualities. And in my own personal research, if you like kimchi, Koreans like you - win, win!

In order to Koreanize myself, I decided to prepare my own. It would be much disgraceful if I had over Korean guests and had no kimchi to throw in their face. After some minor interwebz research, I had a short list of veggies I needed to acquire and like in every Asian country, there is a vegetable lady right around the corner from me who had my merchandise. To make matters even easier, I was browsing the cabbages and mumbled the word 'kimchi' under my breath while she was in earshot. Faster than you can say 'Hyundai', she gathered up everything I needed in order to make my dream a reality. Packaged and ready to chop was the napa cabbage, radish, green onion, carrot, garlic, and ginger. The other ingredients (fish sauce, salt, hot pepper, flake, sugar) could be picked up at the local store with the stuff in it. I'll spare you the process of making the product and skip right to the review of my first batch of 'mak kimchi'.

The Results: Many dishonor points to you and your ancestors. Certainly I wouldn't say the result was terrible, but it didn't have that Korean-ness that I had in restaurants. Where theirs had sauce that was paste-like, mine was a bit watery. Theirs was spicy and crisp, mine was acidy and spongy. Theirs smelled like sour vegetables, mine smelled like sour toe nails. Theirs looked bright and inviting, mine looked like octopus roadkill. NONE THE LESS, this was my child, my creation, and I loved it dearly. And I ate all of my child, usually on rice.

Not a bad first effort, I've already got the next batch in the works. This kind is made from cubed Korean radish called 'kkakdugi' (kak-doo-gee).

Not All Kimchis Are Created Equal

Political discourse is beginning to heat up, new episodes of the Jersey Shore are being broadcasted, and, finally, Andrew has returned to Asia. This year's soup de jour is Seoul, South Korea, and I'm picking up right where I left off: communication breakdowns, questionable parts of animals disguised as food, and a butchering of local customs and traditions.

Since my last post, I returned to the east coast to pursue the job I'm most qualified for - professional temp. Cubicle occupier? You couldn't typecast a better example; I departed early, showed up late, had indiscernible sauce stains on my white oxfords, and a general sense of distrust towards executive management (henceforth, 'the man'). Nevertheless, my effots impressed my handlers. I can only imagine the calibre of interns that came before me and have moved on to greener pastures, these fallen fools are the real heroes.

In typical fashion, I invited dozens of my closest associates to Rhode Island for a quiet, sentimental farewell. This year, the police only came once! Because I'm a little bit behind in my blogging efforts, I anticipate to pull some Quentin Tarantino tricks by skipping to the present and slowly unveiling the missteps made to get here. As before, I'm back to being Teacher Andrew. This time around, however, I wield a red pen like a samurai sword, cutting and slashing inferior homework, dishing out extra work to be completed within an unreasonable amount of time. Vocabulary tests? Quizzes? Essays? These are my torture devices manipulated with excruciating precision. Play time is over...unless we are on break time during which we can play...BUT after that, no more play time. More to come on the seriousness of studying in Korea.

Hat level: Master

For many of you know who know about my affinity for sweet hats, this is easily a top three ballot. Upon a crusty blue, denim hat resides a living, breathing kitty cat who seemed quite comfortable. Kitty's role as forward lookout is important, but her trusting nature causes her to lose focus easily. The locals were blown away by this purring Stetson seen in a local park just outside a popular nightlife area around 3:00AM. The wearer calmly explained that anybody is capable of making an avant garde piece of headwear; the real challenge is keeping a pocket litter box in case of emergencies. I'm sure we'll be seeing this upon Lady Gaga's head at the next major music award show. I wonder if this is what Dr Seuss meant by his most famous work.

My TV Has A Cell Phone: You can tell a lot about a Korean by the kind of cell phone they have. A user of an iPhone 5 is trendy, fashionable, and takes considerable effort curating their style. A user of a Galaxy S III is hip, energetic, and embraces complete integration of technology in day to day activities. And if a person in Korea doesn't own a cell phone, they're probably from North Korea. On a daily basis, I see couples texting each other back and forth, giggling at the smiley emoticons that light up their LED screens. Normally this would be criminally cute, the effect is lost when the lovers are sitting next to each other on the subway. Most phones, including my own, has an expandable antenna which enables live TV watching around the clock at no additional charge. I didn't even have a TV in my last apartment! Even while jogging along the Han river at any point in the day, other 'walkers' pretending to exercise have a iPad-sized cellular device at arms length to be able to watch...something. My phone has apps out the wazoo, I have apps for my apps, and their apps have back-up apps in case of an app-related crisis. If tomorrow all of the cell phones in Korea disappeared, everybody would spontaneously combust into a cloud of ionizing radiation.

Some Like It Hot: At first glance, I thought to myself, 'red is an odd color for a toothpaste. But, remember Andrew, this is a different culture, things are and will get weird.' Embrace change, they said. This'll be a learning experience, they said. This deceiving tube of fiery Crest is actually gochujang, the national sauce of Korea, if there was such a thing. Thankfully I didn't confuse it with facial moisturizer or hemorrhoid cream. During my average inflight meal of bibimbap, the lovely attendant handed over this unassuming tube to add 'flavor of spice' so I can 'burn off foreign ass'. And I didn't even pay extra, must have been my charm.

Most of Korea is blanketed in a Siberian winter, spicy food is a taste preference as much as a necessity to keep warm during the unforgiving winters. In the local big box supermarket, they sell gochujang in twelve liter buckets. As a spice aficionado, I've come to embrace the Korean palate and can't wait to smear this goo on a roasted cow ankle or pig throat.

There is already an endless supply of shocking, surprising, confusing, and heart-warming (maybe not) collection of observations and tales. Being a collector of strangeness, I'm very excited to relay my experiences, and I hope you are looking forward to reading them. From K-pop to kimchi, this should be a great year and you should come along on my journey. You didn't think I was going to come halfway around the world and not do a bunch of embarrassing stunts along the way, did you?

xoxo

The Mekong's Floating Market

The sun rises in a cloud haze over the wide Mekong. Its brown water moves swiftly sending branches and clusters of white water lilies with it. Not a minute of this early morning is spent ‘waking up’ – the river calls and locals always answer without a moment’s hesitation. Boats filling up on fuel, repairmen without shirts restoring the open vessels, merchants loading up on cargo, stubby boats filled to the brim with pineapples – one of 365 mornings in Cai Be. The boat full of tourists I’m on quietly takes in this humbling scenery, all of them lifting their cameras in unison to take a picture of a floating refueling station. Another boat we pass is filled with orange brick, half-covered with a turquoise tarp. A middle-aged couple is navigating, the missus squatting on the edge brushing her teeth in a small red dish. The smaller, row boat sized craft bob through the turbulent water, most have what can only be described as a weed whacker for an engine; the body of the motor, throttle, steering is mounted waist high for a skipper standing at the aft, the long aluminum neck positioned on a swivel and a tiny prop at the end dipping into the water.

I am alarmed and amazed how close homes and buildings are to the water; they are the actual shoreline, nothing to buffer the relentless tides and currents. Any influx of water from rain or tributary flooding could easily rise above the few centimeters spared. Some homes are so low, it seems like the river is part of the house, spilling through the doorway and into the living room. As our boat gets closer to the center of the floating market, we are swarmed by smaller row boats that latch on the sides of us shouting ‘hot coffee’ or ‘water’ or ‘fruit.’ As quickly as they came, they detach, zip away to find another boat full of groggy, tourist faces. The floating market is clusters of anchored barges. They are packed with bundles and bags of multi-colored produce of every shape and size imagineable. Some easy to recognize: carrots, green onions, sweet potatoes, small watermelons, pineapples. Others are tough to identify on first glance: green oranges, bumpy melons, oblong root vegetables.



The larger boats have motors the size of a house generator, no covers to protect their tiny innards. One noisy motor revs up next to me, spewing black diesel smoke on my arm, the same volume as an aircraft engine. A Mekong woman sits in the aft of her 40 foot boat loaded with wicker baskets overflowing with green and yellow durian. One of the few passengers on my boat who is Vietnamese is having a fantastic time ordering all the tasty snacks that float by. Long bamboo poles lay down lengthwise along the boat’s gunnel to assist in transactions too far away for a hand exchange. Other poles stick into the air like flagpoles with the flag replaced by whatever produce is their catch of the day.


Ten pound bags of garlic in red onion bags, huge sacks of potatoes, large grocery bags holding bright pink dragon fruit all pass me at arm’s length. The larger boats serve as the hubs, smaller boats coming to buy and sell. Small boats are mostly the farmers, coming to sell their crop then returning to the fields. The sun creeps over the palm hillsides, allowing the untrained observer to take in all the details of one of the world’s most unique marketplaces. Laundry dangles off rusty metal hooks jutting off the back of most boats. Some of them are named, the white paint turning into a dusty etching. Most have paint chipping away, peeling back slowly to reveal knotted teak wood. Something about their weathered appearance makes them appear unsinkable.



Now and again, garbage is tossed around by the currents and wakes. A floating black sandal misses his other half, empty plastic bags unable to escape the water’s suction. Looking towards shore, citizens of the land are starting to get busy; they should know they are a few hours behind already. By the edge, men are unloading cargo, women washing clothes in shallow plastic basins. The only thing not recycled by the Mekong River is time.