|written for SheLoves|
I have this picture of my mom etched in my mind along with a myriad of childhood memories. She is standing at the kitchen stove, leaning on her right leg, bent over some kind of bubbling, dark, cloudy liquid. It is the kind of Korean soup that hid a number of odd vegetables and a few things I didn’t even know the English translation for.
I grew up eating Korean food and all of the American classics. I always thought of my childhood palate as a good representation of my ethnic make-up: mixed.
Yet aside from the two simple Korean soups I embraced as child, one with rice-cakes and another filled with sweet radishes, I was reluctant over all of the others my mom made. And she made a lot. Our stove frequently had a pot full of something boiling or simmering. These were the soups with an earthy smell and texture; the ones I was afraid to even dip my spoon into…
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