Memoirs of eggplant namul

The deep purple color of eggplants always catches my eye. Every time I go to the Korean market, I find myself picking up a few and suddenly falling into an old memory.

Back in middle school, I used to stop by a friend’s house on the way to school. She had kind eyes and a generous heart, and we’d walk to school together almost every day.

One morning, I arrived at her house and found her still in bed, hiding under the covers. She quietly said, “You’re here?” but didn’t look at me. Her face seemed distant. I could tell something was wrong, but I didn’t want to make her feel worse, so I started going to school alone more often.

Later, I heard from another friend that her parents had divorced and her siblings were all living apart. She was now living with her father. She seemed more grown-up than the rest of us, like someone who had to take care of everything at home.

One day after school, she asked me to come to her new house. It was up on a hillside, and when we got there, no one else was home. She told me to wait and went into the kitchen.

I sat on the wooden porch, looking out over the village below. After a while, she came out carrying a tray with freshly steamed white rice, some kimchi, and eggplant side dish mixed with chopped green onions. I didn’t like eggplant back then—too mushy, and the color seemed strange—but I couldn’t say no to her kindness. So I took a bite. It was delicious.

Since then, every time I see eggplants at the Korean market, I think of her and that dish. The purple eggplants remind me of her—quiet and sad, but strong.

Making eggplant side dish takes time, so I only do it when I have a free day. I worry about overcooking them, so I open and close the pot lid, checking often and taking out the ones that are ready. Then I gently tear them into thin strips.

I add minced garlic and chopped green onions to bring out the color, then a little soy sauce and black pepper, finishing with sesame oil and a sprinkle of black sesame seeds. I try hard, like I’m painting a picture. But it never tastes the same as hers.

I wonder how anxious she must have been in the kitchen while I sat waiting on the porch. That old friend—I'm grateful to her, and I miss her.