Dinner in Toronto: My First Traditional Korean Meal

Dates, months, or events rarely hold a “special space” in my life, but May 21st changed that

As I sit to write this, I began questioning my experience; as an onlooker, active participant, and “family member.” The only Korean-related events have been tucked away in Manhattan's Koreatown, where I don’t stand out too much, and where I can devour slivers of East Asian delicacies. You may be wondering how all of this ties into the bigger picture...

In May, I went to visit a big brother, who is married into a Korean family which may not mean much to the average person, but this means something. I was asked if coming over for traditional Korean food would be something I’d make room for on my traveling schedule. Without hesitation, I responded, “hell yes!” Leading up to the visit, I knew I’d have to flex the Korean introductions, give a few head nods, and mumble a few “oh” and “ah.” The last reminder was to breathe.

We pull up to the house, where purple and pink tulips hug a large tree in the front yard. I walked into their beautiful and warm home. The mother is chopping away and prepping the food to be cooked. I was asked to eat the sweet goods that were nicely placed and to “try this.” In the moment, it didn’t dawn on me that this was my first time being with a Korean family, who spoke fluent Korean, cooked Korean, and wore house slippers. I couldn’t tell if I was wrapped up in the
pastries or the kitchen chaos, but it was overwhelming, in the best way.

“This was my first time being with a Korean family, who spoke fluent Korean, cooked Korean, and wore house slippers”

I was asked if I wanted to lend a hand or two, of course, what kind of house guest would I be? I put on plastic gloves expecting to cut vegetables or prep kimchi, instead, I come face to face with octopus and green onion. How could I be so naïve? Of course, it would be something with tentacles! I felt like I was in the middle of a Korean cooking show, being taught how to gently wrap green onion around slippery legs. My hands were shaking with a facade to be perfect and pressure to not screw this up. His wife chimes in at just the right time, “It doesn’t need to be perfect. My family will shove it in their mouth and not think twice.” I went on to fry pieces of zucchini and mushrooms while mastering the art of dipping and shaking.

Once the meal was reaching its final preparation phase, I was left in the kitchen alone, where I observed the mother standing at the stove. More than likely, I became more cognizant of my feelings and thoughts because the rush had slowed down. "Is this what my life would be like had I never been given up?" "Would my mother love me like this?" "Is this what having a mom feels like?" "Would I come to visit and see her in the kitchen?" "Can I hug this woman, right now?” “Don’t be weird, stop staring!” “Do I say thank you again?” “What would a mother/daughter conversation be like in this context?” “Is this normal?” “Snap out of it!”

The mother came over to the table, where I was taking sips of cold coffee, and I watched as she mixed the japchae. The dedication she placed to this meal was mesmerizing. She was going to see this through to the end and I could not believe I was here witnessing it all.

We all grab a plate and dive in to enjoy the hard-earned labor. It was the most amazing food my palate ever experienced. It was a combination of repressed yearning, longing for home, and fairytales of my homeland. She asked if the food was good and with a stuffed mouth I say, “맛있어요! (Delicious!)” You can bet, that the octopus was the very last item on the plate to be eaten. She was watching me work my way around it, but I was buying time to mentally prepare. “MMM!” I felt and heard its loud snap. “Don’t make a face, don’t make a face.”

“It was a combination of repressed yearning, longing for home, and fairytales of my homeland.”

I sat there listening to the father share his opinion about Korean chopsticks being the best because of their length and visually taking in their smiling faces. I can’t forget Jindori, the family's four-legged child, who sat nearby, waiting for a piece of galbi or bulgogi. He offered a few hugs during the visit. At one point, I wondered if he could feel the sense of needing connection or simply being afraid of these new emotions and experiences.

The evening wrapped up with a bear-shaped, sweet potato cake, which was a birthday surprise. I couldn't believe his family shared a cake with a total stranger. I couldn't remember the last time I had an actual birthday cake.

Before I left their home, big brother and his wife enjoyed a final cup of coffee outdoors, where we talked about the day together. They shared the last time they saw this type of meal, the effort and thought that went into it from the mother, and how much I was loved. At that moment, I expressed deep gratitude for their hospitality and thoughtfulness. For some, this was just an extravagant dinner, but for me, it was an unforgettable gift. Spending a weekend in Toronto proved to be more than just sightseeing, but was full of love. "You're family now, sis!"

“For some, this was just an extravagant dinner, but for me, it was an unforgettable gift.”

An invitation to Christmas was given, a long embrace, and a bow. For the first time, I don’t have “just a place” to visit for the holiday.

Oh, the house slippers...I was gifted a blue, polka-dotted pair that read, "Made in Korea."