Red Peppers
By Kim Heung-sook
My mother becomes more demanding as autumn deepens. Whenever she meets her daughters or daughters-in-law, she asks if they have procured red peppers for ``kimjang" or kimchi making for the winter.
Even if the answer is yes, she doesn't stop there. She always asks if the peppers are ``taeyangcho" or the sun dried ones.
Last month, she was again going through her annual pepper questioning. ``Don't worry, mom, I know where I can get the right ones," I said to her soothingly and her eyes seemed to get a sudden flare.
``You mean you can get the real hot peppers? I've bought some taeyangcho, but they are so mild that they will ruin the taste of kimchi," she said deploringly. ``Take it easy, mom, I'll get some real hot ones for you!" I told her confidently.
However, it wasn't easy to come by the right peppers. I met several dealers but they said theirs were mild, too. ``People don't like the severe peppers these days," I was told repeatedly. Being someone's oldest daughter is like being a happy subject.
You try to obey your parents even while complaining inwardly. I kept on searching and finally spotted a plastic bag of red ``cheongnyang" peppers at a small open market vendor's stall. The ``cheongnyang" peppers are famous for their burning quality.
Presenting perfect contrasts between their red bodies and green handles, the peppers were simply beautiful, hiding their fiery smell inside. The only problem was that they needed drying. I had never done that before, though I knew I could.
I've seen scenes of pepper drying a thousand times. Just spread them on the rooftop and the sun will do the rest, I thought to myself jubilantly. I purchased the whole bag and the vendor gave me a discount before I requested.
Looking back, I can't help thinking that she knew the sunlight was too lukewarm to dry the peppers and was very happy to sell them.
The next morning, the sky was fair. Since the sun didn't feel as warm as it should be, I waited for the temperature to rise. By around noon, the weather seemed to be at its best.
I hurriedly went up to the rooftop and carefully spread the peppers on a large plastic sheet on the wooden floor. Despite the sunrays, the autumnal breeze was cool and I felt jittery for a moment.
It was disappointing that one day in the sun didn't make any difference to the peppers, but I wasn't worrisome as there were days of autumn remaining. Fortunately, the next day was sunny, too, followed by nearly a week of unpredictable weather.
Every time I spread and packed the peppers on the rooftop, I was closely studying them, trying to find any hint of change in their texture. Then at some point of the scrutiny, I realized I was in love with them as if with a slowly growing child.
The second week started with rain drizzles. I had always loved autumnal rain falling on leaves and opened all my windows to inhale the fragrance. However, on that day, I kept the windows closed for fear that the wet air would affect my peppers.
The next day was sunny but the air seemed to contain too much moisture. Without consciousness, I began a daily ritual of pushing my hand out of my window and sensing the weather as soon as I woke up. When it felt warm and dry, I was happy, whereas chilly and dewy mornings made me nervous.
One evening while gathering the peppers on the rooftop, I was suddenly reminded of an essay by the widely respected monk, ``Beopjeong." He lived as freely as the cloud in a little mountainous cottage, leaving or returning to his hermitage as he wished, until he was presented with a potted orchid.
He took care of the plant well, providing it with the right amount of sunshine and wind. Then one day, he became aware of the fact that he wasn't free as he used to be because of his love of the orchid. He gave it away and retrieved freedom.
I wanted to do likewise. I wished I could give up the peppers and return to the person I truly am, the person who loves autumnal chill and drizzles. But then, I wanted to make my mother happy.
I was still cherishing the tie that Beopjeong had severed. So, instead of throwing the peppers away, I tendered them until they dried into perfect cayenne. When I delivered the burning red package to my mother, she greeted me with a roar of sneeze that pushed me onto the top of the world. Now, mom, you know I have every right to relish this winter's kimchi!