Honoring Heritage
From Survival to Offering
I was recently asked to host a kimchi workshop at one of our local herbal and acupuncture centers.
And I surprised myself by saying yes.
In the past, whenever people casually asked if I made kimchi—or if I would make some for them—my answer was always no. Not because I didn’t know how. But because kimchi was never a joyful memory for me growing up.
We were that family.
Large stainless-steel vats of cabbage sitting out on the lawn, filled with water from the garden hose. Bamboo mats stretched across our driveway, covered in drying chili peppers, baby ferns, and things that likely looked very strange to the neighbors. The scent of garlic and fermented spice lingering in the air for days.
While other kids were outside playing, I was inside—sitting on the kitchen floor.
Peeling garlic. Not a few cloves, but mountains of it. Toasting sesame seeds. Pounding garlic and seeds down in a heavy mortar and pestle. These were not small, decorative kitchen tools. They were solid, weighty, meant for real work.
My mother is fully Korean and grew up very poor. For her, making kimchi wasn’t about preserving culture in a romantic way. It was about survival. It was about ensuring there would be enough food stored, enough nourishment for family and community. It was practical, necessary, disciplined.
So when I wanted to go outside to play, the answer was no. There was work to be done. Kimchi to prepare. A refrigerator outside filled with jars for who-knows-who.
At the time, it felt like obligation.
Even when I expressed curiosity—What are you doing, Mom? I want to learn—the lessons came through repetition and responsibility, not softness. She was a survivor, and she mothered in the way survival had taught her.
When I moved out on my own at 17, I realized something important: I could cook. I could feed myself. I carried skills many of my peers did not. And even then, I felt grateful.
Now, as I approach 50, something has shifted again.
I am being asked to share my gifts with community.
I hadn’t made kimchi in a very long time. But recently, I stood in my kitchen and began again. My hands remembered before my mind did—the salting, the mixing, the rhythm of folding cabbage into spice. The scent of garlic and chili rising up in a way that felt both familiar and new.
And all I could think was this:
My mother would be very proud of me.
What once felt like burden has softened into reverence.
What once felt forced now feels like lineage.
What once pulled me away from play now connects me back to ancestry.
Honoring heritage, for me, is not about recreating the past exactly as it was. It is about integrating it with awareness. It is about recognizing the survival embedded in those lessons—and choosing to carry them forward with intention rather than resentment.
It is about standing in my own kitchen, decades later, and understanding that what I resisted was, in many ways, a gift.
And now, I am ready to offer it.
With Love,
Jade
