Springtime at Sinho-ri

Letter 9: Twenty-five Degrees Celsius & Sunny

Spring has come to the little yellow villa in Sinho-ri.

The zinnias on our balcony are almost a foot tall. The olive tree, though leaning just far enough to the right to drive me insane, is covered in new, baby green leaves. The succulent leaves have turned slightly red, I think from a tad too much sunshine.

Fluorescent yellow pine pollen covers every surface in our home. Last night, I spent 20 minutes clicking through pediatric medical websites, making myself sweaty, evaluating the possible reasons why Sarah falls 4500 times a day. Only this morning, when I slipped myself, did I realize the floor, already worn smooth as it is, was blanketed in pollen. One mystery solved.

“Let the wind have its way, then the earth

that invades as dust and then the dead

foaming up in gray rolls underneath the couch.

Talk to them. Tell them they are welcome.”

- Louise Erdrich, offering herself some advice on the writer’s life

The herons have quieted themselves. A small number remain, tending to their nests and gliding here and there. No hatchling sightings yet.

Every weekday, I walk past this bus stop at least four times, walking S. to and from school. The door to the home behind the bus stop is always open to the kitchen, where a small group of elderly men and women sit around a white Formica table, usually engaged in boisterous conversation, though about what I can only guess. A white Pomeranian is almost always sprawled on top of the table until I walk by, at which point it lifts its head and barks at me before getting shooed out the back door (which is also always open) presumably for barking. The pink bicycle belongs to a young woman and is usually parked outside only in the morning. The pink flowers are bleeding hearts.

At the open-air market, the gooey, finger-searing hotteok pancakes that I’d only just discovered have made way for steaming, glutinous rice flour chapssal balls. It seems I’ll have to wait until the weather cools again to find out how the lady who owns the hotteok cart keeps from burning her fingers. She arrives at the market with the chapssal already cooked, nestled warm and sweet in a parchment-lined basket on her stand, her flattop frier retired for the season. If you want them sugared, she tosses the steaming chapssal into a plastic bag of sugar and gives them a good shake before scooping them out and handing them to you in a white paper bag.

At the kimchi pancake stand, a man stands behind an oiled griddle, flipping pancakes that are more cabbage and scallion than dough. When each pancake is finished, he stacks them on parchment-lined tin plates two feet high. If you would like to eat your pancake fresh off the griddle, a scattering of red plastic tables sits behind the stand, topped with tin bowls of sliced hot green peppers, chili paste, and a stack of wooden chopsticks.

Black roof tiles are commonly found for purchase at Korean temples. Most have drawings or inscriptions on them, and I believe traditionally, they’re used to repair a temple’s roof. By purchasing one, you’re supporting the temple and are invited to inscribe an intention or hope on a tile that will one day be part of the temple’s architecture. I think today, the practice might also be decorative.

The rice and taro paddies have been flooded, rectangle after rectangle of sky reflected on the ground, dotted with rows of bright green tillers. The air smells like scallions, cold creek water, and fertilizer.

Last week, it seemed the entire city of Pyeongtaek was out on the sidewalks, sitting on low stools next to plastic laundry baskets stacked high with cabbage. Many of the homes on our street now have onggi pots lined up outside, fermenting kimchi. Gimjang, the kimchi-making holiday, takes place in the fall, so I can only guess what the occasion was. Maybe something in honor of the Buddha’s birthday, which was celebrated last weekend, in advance of his birthday this Sunday.

Onggi pottery, likely filled with some combination of baechu cabbage, whole crushed cucumber, radish, gochugaru pepper, cheonilyeom—coarse Korean salt—garlic, ginger, salted anchovies, and fish sauce. I personally prefer cucumber kimchi, but it’s all good.

Not unlike fermenting kimchi, over the last few weeks, another creative project needed some space to marinate and grow. That has found a flow of its own now, and I’m thrilled to return to your inbox again. Thanks so much for having me.

A delightfully happy Mother’s Day to everyone who had to wipe up something this week they never thought they’d have to wipe up; and a nod of compassion and love to all those who once mothered, do mother, will one day mother, or deeply wish to mother something, in all the myriad manifestations mothering can take.

Olaeji anh-a and a bow, for now.

Preparing to make scrambled eggs one morning this week, I discovered I’d purchased a carton of eggs that were no longer available for scrambling. Roasted eggs are, in fact, more appropriately known as sauna eggs—and they are not cooked in flames but for a few hours in a rice cooker. Nonetheless, they have a slightly nutty, fire-roasted flavor. Yet another mystery solved.