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Sounds like Wansu wouldn’t mind humming the same melody.
“I don’t have to attend tomorrow.” Hiding in my room or even going to stay in a hotel and enjoying the spa services sounds pretty grand to me right now.
“No. You’re my daughter and you have every right to attend a celebration of family in this, my own home.” That’s the end of the discussion for Wansu.
“Next year we should go to Jeju,” suggests Yujun. “These traditions are old-fashioned. Send the money in the mail and no one will complain.”
“Money?”
“Every year, Eomma hands out the red envelopes of money to every person. Most families do it for solely the kids, but Appa”—he points upstairs—“started it ever since IF Group went public as sort of a thank-you for their support. Eomma has carried the tradition on.”
“I’m sure they come for other reasons.” Wansu is mildly reproving.
Yujun pops a piece of pork belly into his mouth and considers this possibility. He swallows and shakes his head. “No. I don’t think so. These are miserable affairs, which is why when you said that I wouldn’t be able to attend these in the future if I stayed with Hara, I didn’t mind much. Hara and I can honor the ancestors by ourselves. Our offerings aren’t less valuable because we make them together instead of with spiteful relatives.”
“I mind,” Wansu replies. “I do not approve of the two of you together.”
I tense up, not wanting to get into an argument at dinner, especially after the day we’ve had.
“We know. About that pork, did you watch that series on pork with Chef Baek, Hara? He talks about how a lot of the pork is going to waste because there’s low demand. In the early days of the Gor-yeo dynasty, only the royals ate the pork belly and the rest of the pig was given to the poor villagers. They ate everything from the head to the hoof, but now we’ve reverted to eating only a certain cut. In America, you eat other parts, right?”
I appreciate Yujun’s attempt to change the subject, but I don’t think I can eat without making it clear to Wansu where I stand. “I want to be part of this family with you, Wansu, but when I met Yujun, I didn’t know he was your son. He was a boy from Seoul who opened his heart to me. I can’t change my feelings for him. Or, even if I could, I don’t want to. Where do we go from here?”
A muscle in Wansu’s jaw flexes. “Perhaps this is a conversation we can have after dinner.”
“Besides, I heard Kim Seonpyung hates animals,” I add.
Yujun muffles a cough. I know he’s laughing behind his hand.
Surprise flares in Wansu’s face. Her eyebrows arch slightly. “Well, we can disregard him.”
“All of them,” Yujun presses.
“Have you had intestines, Hara?” Wansu lays another piece of pork belly on my rice. “It’s supposed to be good for your skin. It has a lot of collagen in it.”
“We can go to one of those pojang machas and have intestines and soju this week,” proposes Yujun.
“Is that one of those blue soju tents with the temporary tables?” I allow myself to be led away from the topic of Yujun and me. It’s not a fight worth having now. At least we all know one another’s positions. It’s a question of who is going to bend first.
* * *
• • •
AFTER DINNER AND the plates and dishes are cleared, Mrs. Ji brings out three platters full of a number of small bowls. “Mrs. Ji has made everything else, but we have to make the songpyeon ourselves or the ancestors might smite us.” Yujun lays out strips of wax paper. “Here is the dough.” He points to five bowls of purple, deep green, pink, yellow, and white rice-flour dough. “Chuseok is called hangawi and it is held on the day of the harvest full moon. The rice-cake dough is made of ground rice and it’s used to make the tteok in tteokbokki and the tteok in our soups. The dough is dyed only by natural means. The purple comes from blueberries and the yellow from pumpkin powder and so on. Mung bean, honey-roasted sesame, and chestnuts in syrup are the fillings. Song is for ‘pine tree.’ After we make the half-moon cakes, Mrs. Ji will steam them on a bed of pine needles.”
“You make pretty. Pretty songpyeon, pretty children,” Mrs. Ji declares.
Yujun winks at me, his dimple popping out. “The saying goes if your songpyeon is beautiful, then you will have beautiful children.”
“Wow. I’m sweating. No pressure here.” The late Mrs. Choi must have made award-winning songpyeon in order to have conceived Yujun. “How do I do this?”
He hands me a pair of gloves. “You take a small bit of dough about the size of a golf ball and press it into a disc.” His fingers spin the small circle of dough in his palm until it’s flattened into a circle. He folds his fingers slightly together so that the dough forms a cup. A spoonful of the filling is placed in the middle, and then he closes it, pinching the edges together. Some of the filling is spilling out and there’s a tear developing in the center, but the end result is a mandu-shaped delicacy that looks like a stuffed half-moon.
