Gajami-sikhae and Natto

"Since you're so bad at cooking, your husband doesn’t have any adult diseases."

My mother-in-law, who is just as bad at cooking as I am, tasted the food I made and indirectly expressed. Just as she said, no one but my husband can eat the food I make. Of course, I don’t even keep sugar, sesame oil, or seasonings in my kitchen. Every time my mother-in-law visits from LA, she brings Hondashi with her.

"Your food has no flavor at all, so at least add a little of this—just while I’m in New York."

For me, stepping into the kitchen feels like a cow being dragged to a slaughterhouse. My husband has long given up complaining about my cooking, realizing my skills will never improve. Now, he says the same thing as my mother-in-law.

"Men who marry good cooks' wives end up taking handfuls of pills for adult diseases when they get older, but thanks to your strange cooking skills, I stay healthy. Luck comes in all forms."

"You only need two meals a day anyway. They say eating less helps you live longer and healthier."

Even though I’m terrible at cooking, I never fail to argue back as if I know better.

But there are a couple of dishes I do make well. My mother-in-law, who is from Hamgyong Province and also lacks cooking skills, at least knows how to make gajami-sikhae. Since I like the dish, I learned it by watching her. However, I don’t go through the elaborate process she does. I simply buy flatfish, grill or fry it, and when there’s any left over, I cover it generously with salt and shove it into the back of the fridge. Once the flesh starts to soften, I cut it up, add more salt, and push it back into the fridge. Sometimes, I forget about it entirely, and after a month, I hurriedly make mejo rice, mix it with red pepper powder, minced ginger, and garlic, and then cut the radish into thick pieces and mix it. My husband and I, who are used to eating my tasteless food, actually enjoy this dish. My logic is that, since everything is left to ferment together, the flavors naturally deepen. The tasteless kimchi I make, on the other hand, get neglected in the fridge for ages. When they start smelling too sour, they get repurposed into kimchi stew.

Another thing I do well is making natto. Every winter, I make and store it in the freezer, adding a generous spoonful to miso soup. My husband loves the chewy texture of the soybeans. First, I soak the soybeans for a day. Then, I cook them in a pressure cooker like rice. While the beans are still hot and without any excess moisture, I mix in two packs of store-bought natto, since I don’t have straw to use as a starter culture. I cover the container with several old blankets and leave it on the steam radiator in a draft-free room for over a day until the sticky strings appear.

My husband insists that being able to make gajami-sikhae and natto is proof of great cooking skills and constantly praises me. His real motive, of course, is to make sure I keep making them.

"Isn’t it about time to make natto? I think it’s been a while since you made sikhae."

Watching my expression carefully, he subtly hints that I should make them again. But since I only cook when I feel like it, I shrink back like a neglected piece of kimchi hiding in the fridge, pretending I don’t exist.