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The aromatic broth steams around the kitchen, reminding me of the times when I was young and Ellen cooked Korean food for me, before I grew dumb and ashamed of my heritage. My childhood wasn’t solely bacon and corn; it was also kimchi and seaweed soup and japchae and bulgogi.
Heat pricks my eyes and I honestly don’t know if it’s emotion or the soup. I press the back of my hand to my eyelids and keep moving, scooping out the mushrooms, slicing them thin. The jeon mixture is next. As I mix the batter, Mrs. Ji heats the earthenware for the soup. We don’t talk—at all—but there’s no need to. Our language right now is cooking. When the jeon batter is ready, Mrs. Ji has a frypan with oil prepared. I thank her and she gives me another brief nod. She’s not beaming but she’s lost the worried expression. She no longer believes I’m out to poison the family she’s been taking care of since long before I arrived. While I fry the fritters, she tosses radish and mushrooms into the soup.
We move together as a team, readying the small side dishes and then ladling the soup into the heated stone bowls.
Yujun wanders in as I plate the jeon. “This smells amazing. Did you make it?”
“With Mrs. Ji’s help.”
“Ani.” She shakes her head. “She did all work. I watch only.”
“She helped,” I repeat.
Yujun’s dimple pops out. He’s delighted I’m getting along with Mrs. Ji. “Can I do anything?”
“Go change. We’ll be ready in ten minutes.”
“Yes, Captain.” He gives me a smart salute and then escapes before the dish towel I throw in his direction lands.
By the time dinner is completely ready, Wansu is at the table wearing a soft blue silk pant set while Yujun is in jeans and a long-sleeve faded green cashmere sweater with the sleeves pushed up to his elbows.
The individual stone bowls are so hot that the soup is still bubbling when we set them on the table.
Yujun rubs his hands together in anticipation. “Smells delicious. Masitgyeda.”
The banchan is a mix of my jeon and seasoned soybeans and scallions and Mrs. Ji’s gamja jorin, baby potatoes she roasted first and then braised with soy sauce, rice wine, and brown sugar. The soup is the main course along with marinated and grilled galbi.
Wansu’s approach is more measured, maybe even hesitant, as if she can’t quite shake off the bad memory of the other night when I nearly killed her with the gochujang I’d added to the stew. I pretend not to care, but I will be crushed if she doesn’t like it.
“It’s good, Samo-nim. I tasted it myself,” Mrs. Ji encourages Wansu, using the term “lady of the house,” as Mrs. Ji always does.
I almost want to cry at this visible sign of support. Yujun gives Mrs. Ji a thumbs-up on my behalf before she retires to the kitchen.
“I am sure it is delicious. I was waiting for the soup to cool down.” Wansu dips her spoon into the bowl and takes a small taste. When the spice doesn’t blow the back of her head off, she takes a large one and then another. Her stern mouth lifts slightly and she gives me a gentle nod of approval. “Very good. The flavors are very good . . . very Korean.”
If I have stars in my eyes, everyone look away. “Thank you.”
Yujun is beaming; both dimples are showing. This time when the table falls silent and the sounds are only brass spoons against fired clay, I don’t feel any discomfort. It’s a companionable silence and it doesn’t last long. Soon, Yujun is talking about the pool party, sharing a funny story about how Sangki almost fell into the water trying to avoid a flamingo floatie and that I saved him by grabbing his shirt, only for it to rip. Wansu smiles, which is the equivalent of a laugh from her, and even though I spend the night alone, I go to sleep happy. Yujun is only down the hall. Wansu lost the tightness around her mouth that seemed like it would be permanent. There’s only one small pebble in my happiness shoe, and that’s the situation between Bomi and Jules. That will work itself out. I fall asleep dreaming up new things to make. Maybe an apple pie. I’m really good at apple pies.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Wear sneakers, Yujun texts me on Friday.
ME: This sounds athletic. You know I’m no good at those things.
YUJUN: You’ve said so but I have not seen any evidence
ME: Is this a test
YUJUN: It will be fun
Anything with Yujun is fun. Jumping out of a plane would be fun with him, and I’m scared of heights.
Yujun’s surprise date is at a virtual reality arcade. There are private rooms for group activities but we stick to the main space, filled with rows of simulated racing machines and experience pods. A staff person straps me to a waist-high railing shaped in a half circle and Yujun helps me don a pair of goggles and special gloves. Because of my fear of heights, I opt to swim on the ocean floor. Yujun skydives. He tries to get me to jump with him but the VR is too real and I refuse to do anything more adventurous than a hot-air balloon. Even that has me clinging to him. He laughs in my ear, the small puffs of air reassuring me that I won’t fall, that he’s holding me.
