Day 900, November 29, 2022

Making Kimbap

I made three kinds of gimbap today. One with bulgolgi-chicken, spinach, radish, egg, and carrots. One with avocado, crab, spinach, egg, and carrot. And one with spinach, radish, egg, and carrot. And one with everything, so technically four variations, I guess. Today’s version was much more successful than my last attempt. I followed my mother’s advice on preparing the rice and I think that made the biggest difference.

I grew up thinking of it as kimbap, rather than gimbap. It was a special occasion food, something that was packed for summer outings to the beach. I think it was too precious to be wasted on the wanton mouths of children, except for special occasions. So, when I eat kimbap, it makes me think of Nantasket Beach or Plum Island. It makes me think of the smell of ripe seaweed, sand under my fingernails, and lying on my bare belly on the warm pier staring down into the depths where the crab trap sat with a raw chicken wing tied to its center, just beyond where one could see. Somewhere down there the world was teeming with crabs.

Kimbap makes me think of the sand worms that were used for bait and that looked suspiciously like some kind of marinated kimchi dish, especially when they were nestled in a clump of seaweed. It makes me think of driftwood and sea glass, back when you could find sea glass on every beach. I don’t really remember swimming in the ocean as a child, but I do remember the feeling of warm sand against my entire body, the coolness of the damp sand underneath. I remember staring into the breathing holes of clams. I remember that once the kimbap was finally unwrapped from the tinfoil it disappeared almost instantly and my hands were sandy and left their residue on the kimbap and made them gritty on my teeth. Each person was only allotted a piece or two before it was all gone. 

I remember coming home with the dried shell of a horseshoe crab, my father and mother cleaning fish with the hose in the front yard. The day ending with my parents marveling at the skate my father had caught, or debating the best way to cook the catch.

Kimbap embodies my childhood. Perhaps that is why my gimbap never tastes quite as good as what I remember. But then, my food never is quite like my mother’s food. Inside my mother’s rolls, there is something special made with far more attention and care than I have been able to muster.