된장찌개 (doenjang jjigae)—Korean soybean paste stew.
The waiter places the ttukbaegi1 on the table. The steam from the doenjang jjigae immediately curls up to meet me, carrying with it the smell of nostalgia. It is as if the smell has swirled up from the deepest depths of my memories—but how can this be? The food I grew up with is all Japanese: curry rice, oyakodon2, tonjiru3—dishes born from my mother’s skillful hands, despite her dislike for cooking. Perhaps the smell is from a place I am not fully aware of. Perhaps that place has been buried.
Tofu, potatoes, zucchinis, and onions drift in the broth—a rich, earthy brown, tinged with the fiery orange of autumn maples. It is the same color that lights up my neighborhood park each fall. I avoid the cubes of tofu for my first bite, knowing they will be burning hot, and instead scoop up a slice of zucchini. The moment the spoon touches my tongue is like a soft punch to the face. It is somehow gentle but insistent, making my heavy eyelids open just a fraction more. The spring onions cut through the bold, salty broth like a streak of bright, white paint against a dark canvas. The peppers pull slightly on my tongue. When I swallow, the warmth travels down, down, down—settling in my core before unfurling, spreading to every part of my body and mind.
It is like getting wrapped in a fuzzy blanket. It is comfort. It is a feeling of belonging I can’t quite explain.
충돌 (chungdol)—clash.
“Where are you from?” “What’s your ethnicity?” “Your nationality?” These questions, innocent as they seem, never fail to stir unrest within me. People usually ask just one of these questions, believing they are all the same, when really, my answer to each is different.
People also make assumptions: that I am fully Japanese, half Chinese, Japanese American, or Korean American. These assumptions depend on the country I am in, the people I am with, and the language I am speaking. Many mistake my last name, “Chung,” to be Chinese—though it is a common Korean name, spelled 찬—or mistake it entirely for “Chang.” Japanese people often assume I am Japanese American. Japanese, because I look Asian and speak the language perfectly. American, because I speak fluent English, go to an international school, and “look American.” I wear tank tops and shorts and have pierced ears and brown hair. The way I laugh, the way I throw my arms up in exasperation, even the way I raise my eyebrows and tilt my head, is all “American.” They call me hafu4 out of admiration and sometimes even jealousy. Hafu. Half.
These assumptions slice my background into clean, convenient pieces, only serving to make my puzzle easier to solve. The resulting image is different from the original, which may have been more beautiful in its messiness.
Though I relate to Japanese and American cultures the most, hold dual citizenship with these countries, and speak these languages best, I have never lived in the U.S., and I am not American by blood. My mother is Japanese. My father is Korean—I think.
My interactions with my father’s parents have been limited to 15-minute conversations every New Year’s or a few days after, depending on if we remembered to call. My father does not speak much about his parents or his childhood, and I rarely ask. All I know is that he grew up poor and was one of the few Asian kids in Dallas, Texas. I had always imagined Dallas to be a place of endless dirt roads, pale green shrubs, chalky rocks, and bumbleweed-looking things that tumble across the sand, but a quick Google search pulled up pictures of a neon city with skyscrapers and modern buildings.
Despite growing up there, my father can still speak and understand Korean, so the language seems to have ended with me. Every few years, my father’s close friend hosts a vacation for friends and family. I always look forward to these trips, but everyone there speaks Korean, so I tried learning the language on my own two summers ago. Unfortunately, I only got as far as learning how to read it.
Perhaps it is justified because I have never lived in Korea. I visited the country for the first time last winter, excited to explore the glamorous city of Seoul that I always saw in Korean dramas, only to be underwhelmed. Seoul, to me, was the shadow of Tokyo—slightly lacking in the diversity of foods and people, the efficiency of public transport, the sense of safety, the cleanliness, and the abundance of shopping centers. Even the food was not much better than the Korean food in Tokyo.
I felt a distance with Korea that I could not quite name. Was it because of the gaps in my understanding of the country and its culture? Could it be because of the clashing of the Japanese and Korean sides within me? I often feel the two waves churning restlessly, colliding and colliding and colliding again. Was that their natural state?
Japan’s occupation of Korea from 1910 to 1945 has left residual tensions between the two countries5. During this time, Japan deprived Koreans of their freedom and attempted to destroy Korean culture and force assimilation. They forbade people from speaking Korean, burned over 200,000 Korean historical documents, forced Shinto worship, and manipulated cultural symbols. Hundreds of thousands of Korean women were also forced into life as “comfort women”—sexual slaves who served in Japanese military brothels. It is therefore not surprising that scars remain. Arguments over war reparations, territory claims, and apologies for war crimes are still ongoing today. In such a state, how can I, someone who loves both cultures, possibly provide justice to the complexities of this relationship?
Almost every time I tell my mother about meeting someone new, she asks me the same question: “Did they ask where you’re from?” If I tell her yes, the following question is also always the same: “What did you say when they asked where you’re from?”
“I told them I’m Japanese, American, Korean-ish.”
She pauses. “Korean? You’re not Korean.”
“Then what am I?”
“Japanese-American.”
“But my last name is Chung. By blood, I’m half Korean, aren’t I?”
Another pause. Then, she frowns. I hate her frown. Sometimes, she’ll say I am more Japanese American than Korean. Other times, she will say, “But your father considers himself American.” One time, she even said, “And Lina, there’s just more advantage to saying you’re Japanese-American than saying you’re Korean-American. You might not realize it now, but you will in the future.”
장 (jang)—fermented paste or sauce.
Jang has been a Korean treasure since the Three Kingdoms period (57 B.C. – A.D. 6668)6 when the country was divided into Silla, Goguryeo, and Baekje7. By the Joseon-era (1392-1910), it held such importance that the royal family had an entire storage area for jang, overseen by a court lady whose rank surpassed even those in charge of the royal kitchen. Jang is the foundation of Korean cuisine—the soul of every dish.
Korea’s culinary “holy trinity” refers to the three jangs: doenjang, ganjang, and gochujang.
Doenjang, a fermented soybean paste, is similar to Japanese miso, though Koreans argue that doenjang is superior because of its natural fermentation process. Ganjang is the equivalent of Japanese soy sauce. Gochujang, a red chili paste, is perhaps the most famous of the three.Though it is now a topic of debate among scholars, academics and Koreans alike have long believed that the red chili pepper, which revolutionized the pickling process and led to the creation of Korean staples such as kimchi8, was introduced by Japan9. Grandmothers used to tell their children and grandchildren that the Japanese spread pepper seeds to kill Koreans during the Japanese invasion of 1592. Over time, however, the peppers came to be embraced as they suited the Korean tongue10.
장담그기 (jang damgeugi)—Korean sauce and paste-making.
Jang damgeugi is now listed on the UN body’s representative list of intangible cultural heritage—a long due event11. The process differs between each household, as it is passed down by mothers and mother-in-laws. This is often reflected in the saying, “To truly know a family, one must first taste their jang.”12
The process for making doenjang and ganjang begins with the first breath of winter. First, you wash the soybeans—pale brown, medium-sized, and freshly harvested—to remove any impurities before soaking them overnight. Then, you boil them until their skins crack and pound them into a thick paste, each strike of the pestle releasing a nutty aroma.
You mold the brown paste into meju13 with your bare hands. The meju are rough and lumpy. Imperfect. Even so, you tie the meju together with rice straws and hang them from eaves where they sway with the occasional breeze, hardening with time. Like small, earthen hearts, they gather stories into their cracks.
Once dried, you take them out of their brief suspension. You prepare the jangdok14 by sterilizing it with boiling water. Or perhaps you burn rice straws or heat charcoal inside the jangdok instead—each family has different traditions, after all. You then rinse the meju thoroughly under running water, and before you know it, it is time.
You open the huge jar of brine and place a single egg inside—an old trick of the trade to test the brine’s salinity. If the surface of the egg above the brine is the size of a 500-won coin, it is perfect. You then stack the meju inside the jangdok, pour in the brine, and throw in a few red chili peppers and lumps of heated charcoal—the former to prevent molding and the latter to absorb toxins. You place the lid.
The meju sit at the bottom for months—settle in the darkness but never forgotten. The wind whistles low through the jangdokdae15. Snow blankets the ground in quiet white, softening all the edges and muffling sound. Eventually, it melts away, flowers bloom, and the days turn long and heavy, saturated with the sun’s golden light. Then, the trees begin to shed, and the whole country takes another breath, bracing once again for winter. You lift the lid.
The brine has darkened to the color of black tea; the meju has almost completely broken down. You carefully strain the liquid and pour it into a separate jangdok to let it ferment for longer. You knead the solid that is left with your hands, feeding it occasionally with small amounts of light ganjang, before leaving it to ferment once again16. The longer it matures, the richer and more flavorful it becomes. All the while, you listen patiently to your jang. You hear it whisper and sing so you can give it the attention it needs—and yet, there are some things that are out of your control, and you let them carry their course.
발효 (balhyo)—fermentation.
I sweep my eyes across the restaurant. In Korea, food is meant to be shared—chopsticks and spoons bump against each other in the pot. Here, each person has their own bowl, and each dish reflects order and precision. In Korea, the spoon takes the leading role, and it is bad manners to raise bowls or plates. Here, chopsticks play the main role, and it is typical to hold dishes while eating, so you do not spill. The Korean side of me tells me to leave the bowl of bap17 on the table. The Japanese side tells me to pick it up. The Korean side tugs at me, urging me to not care about speaking loudly and to not hold back. The Japanese side whispers to me to speak softly out of respect and to not draw attention to myself. I feel the push and pull. Push and pull. The push and pull of the currents.
Have I felt my thoughts, my emotions, shifting over the seventeen years I have lived? Slowly, imperceptibly, but undeniably. What has settled in me, growing denser with time? What has risen to the surface in exchange?
Now I turn back to the doenjang jjigae in front of me. I lift my spoon and take another bite. It is still hot, though not enough to burn, and the flavors settle nicely on my tongue. It is a complex blend—both familiar and ever-changing.
1 Ttukbaegi—Korea’s iconic earthenware pot, used for both cooking and serving stews and soups. Though traditional in nature, it continues to be used for its ability to retain heat throughout a meal.
2 Oyakodon—simmered chicken, onions, and egg in a soy-sauce based broth, served on rice. The name “oyako” means “parent and child” and refers to the combination of chicken and egg.
3 Tonjiru—a heartier version of miso soup that includes ingredients such as pork, Japanese radish, carrots, and potatoes.
4 Hafu—a Japanese term for a person with half-Japanese and half non-Japanese ancestry.
5 Blakemore, Erin. “How Japan Took Control of Korea.” History.com, 28 Feb. 2018, www.history.com/articles/japan-colonization-korea. Accessed 11 Apr. 2025.
6 Kim, Hyelin, and Hee-eun Hahm. “Making Soybean Paste Becomes a National Heritage Item.” Korea.net, 5 Nov. 2018, www.korea.net/NewsFocus/Culture/view?articleId=165008. Accessed 10 Apr. 2025.
7 The Editors of Encyclopaedia Britannica. “Three Kingdoms Period.” Encyclopaedia Britannica, 11 Oct. 2024, www.britannica.com/topic/Three-Kingdoms-period. Accessed 15 May 2025.
8 Kimchi—a Korean side dish made by salting and fermenting vegetables, most often cabbage.
9 Yang, Hye Jeong, et al. “DNA Sequence Analysis Tells the Truth of the Origin, Propagation, and Evolution of Chili (Red Pepper).” Journal of Ethnic Foods, vol. 4, no. 3, Sept. 2017, pp. 154-62, https://doi.org/10.1016/j.jef.2017.08.010. Accessed 11 Apr. 2025.
10 Song, Won-sup. “A Heated Debate.” Korea JoongAng Daily, 20 Feb. 2009, koreajoongangdaily.joins.com/2009/02/20/fountain/A-heated-debate/2901307.html. Accessed 11 Apr. 2025.
11 Choi, Si-young. “‘Jang-making’ Gets UNESCO Recognition.” The Korea Herald, 4 Dec. 2024, m.koreaherald.com/article/10012340. Accessed 11 Apr. 2025.
12 Park, Yerica. “Not All Soy Sauce Is Created Equal.” Michelin Guide, 14 June 2019, guide.michelin.com/kr/en/article/features/not-soy-sauce-created-equal#:~:text=Jang%20%E2%80%93%20The%20Foundation%20of%20Korean,air-dried,%20and%20fermented. Accessed 11 Apr. 2025.
13 Meju—a brick of fermented soybeans.
14 Jangdok—traditional earthenware pots used to store jang, otherwise known as hangari or onggi. They have thousands of micro-holes that give them a unique porosity and breathability, which are essential to the fermentation process.
15 Jangdokdae—an area specifically used to store jangdok, typically outside in a well-ventilated area and under trees to keep the jangdok out of the harsh sun when summer arrives.
16 “Taste of Wisdom Ep02 Secrets of Golden Doenjang 황금 된장의 비밀.” YouTube, uploaded by Arirang TV, 26 Jan. 2014, youtu.be/SafxD279uFI?si=H7CQ-B3qymTtvyMt. Accessed 11 Apr. 2025.
17 Bap—Korean white rice.