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.

시어머니의 팔뚝

“엄마 팔뚝 좀 봐. 너의 두 배는 넘겠다.”

LA에서 온 시어머니가 팔을 걷어붙이고 집안일을 도와주는 것을 보더니, 남편이 철없이 한마디 한다. 시어머니는 내 가는 팔뚝을 슬쩍 본 후 거북이 등 같은 손으로 입을 가리며 수줍어한다.  

함경도 함흥 출신 시어머니는 시아버님이 젊은 시절부터 외국에 나가셔서 시할머니 모시고 아이 다섯을 키우느라 무진 고생을 했다. 오죽하면 미국 이민 절차를 밟으면서 찍은 지문이 선명하게 나오지 않았으니. 다시 찍으러 갈 때마다, 직원이 되돌려 보내며 당분간 손빨래를 하지 말라고까지 했단다. 물론 세탁기가 없던 70년대 초 이야기다.

시어머니는 우리 집에 들어서기 무섭게 부엌에 있는 냄비란 냄비는 모두 꺼내 놓고 닦기 시작한다. 

“이것 봐라. 스테인레스는 닦으면 닦을수록 새것처럼 광이 난다. 옛날엔 구멍 난 양은 냄비를 때워 쓰곤 했다.”

반짝거리는 냄비를 들어 보이며 환하게 웃는다. 

눈에 보이는 곳, 내가 앉을 자리만 열심히 닦는 나와는 달리 

"구석 청소를 잘해야 집안이 깨끗하다"

쓰다 팽개친 붓으로 구석구석에 쌓인 먼지를 끌어내어 쓸고 닦는다. 화장실 변기와 욕조 그리고 싱크대에 클로락스를 발라 놓고 기다렸다가 윤이 나게도 한다.

장에 가서 잔 가자미를 사다 소금에 절이고 좁쌀밥을 넣고 삭힌 가자미에 무채를 넣어 식혜도 담근다. 비 오는 날을 기다렸다가 빗물을 받아 흰 빨래도 한다. 시어머니의 일은 끝이 없이 이어진다.
“빨래는 빗물에 빨아 방망이로 두들겨야 하얘진다.”

방망이를 찾지만 있을 리 없다. 

“뉴욕은 비가 자주 와서 얼마나 좋냐. 빗물에 차를 닦으면 광이 나는데.” 

밖에 세워 놓은 차를 닦고 싶은 걸 꾹 참으며 비 오는 창밖을 내다보며 쉬는 것이 고작이다. 

없는 부엌살림을 보고 프라이팬도 주전자도 그리고 마이크로 오븐도 사줬다. 이렇게 아들 집에 와서 일하다 보면 일주일이 훌쩍 지나고 LA로 돌아갈 때가 된다. 시어머니에게 콧바람이라도 씌어 드리려고 센츄럴 파크에 모시고 갔다. 시어머니는 벤치에 앉아 쉬지 않고, 냉이를 찾아 두리번거린다. 저녁에 된장찌개에 냉이를 넣고 끓이자며.

이웃 사람들이 인사라도 할라치면 한 손으로 입을 가리고 ‘No English’ 말하곤 다른 한 손으론 내 손을 꽉 잡는다. 시어머니와 나는 어느 때부터인가 집 밖을 나서기 무섭게 손을 잡고 다니는 습관이 생겼다.

아들 집에 와서 힘들게 일하고도 또 오시겠다니 내 손을 잡고 싶으신가 보다.

Mother-in-law's forearm

"Look at Mom’s arms. They’re more than twice the size of yours."

My husband said this without thinking when he saw his mother, who came from LA, rolling up her sleeves and helping with the housework. My mother-in-law looked at my thin arms and shyly covered her mouth with her rough, turtle-like hands.

She is from Hamhung, in North Korea. Since my father-in-law went abroad when he was young, she raised five children alone while caring for her mother-in-law. Life was very hard for her. When she applied for a U.S. visa, her fingerprints didn’t come out clearly. The staff even told her to stop hand-washing clothes for a while and come back later. That was in the early 1970s, when she had no washing machine.

As soon as she enters our home, she goes to the kitchen and starts cleaning every pot and pan.

“Look at this. The more you scrub stainless steel, the shinier it gets. Back then, we used to fix holes in aluminum pots and keep using them.”

She holds up a sparkling pot and smiles brightly.

Unlike me—who only cleans the spots people can see or where I sit—

she says, “The corners must be clean for the whole house to feel clean.”

She takes an old brush and scrubs out dust from every corner.

She puts bleach on the toilet, the bathtub, and the sink, waits, then wipes everything until it shines.

She goes to the market, buys flounders, salts them, and prepares fermented fish with radish and millet rice. When it rains, she collects rainwater to wash white laundry. Her work never seems to end.

“You must use rainwater and beat the laundry with a stick to make it truly white,” she says.

She looks for a laundry stick, but of course, we don’t have one.

She says, “It’s nice that it rains often in New York. Rainwater makes your car shine too.”

She looks out the window, holding back the urge to go outside and wash the car in the rain.

She saw our small kitchen and bought us a frying pan, a kettle, and even a microwave. After working hard all week at her son’s house, it’s time for her to return to LA. Before she left, I wanted to give her a break, so I took her to Central Park. She didn’t sit and rest on the bench. Instead, she looked around for wild herbs called naengi (shepherd’s purse).

“Let’s put these in doenjang-jjigae (soybean stew) for dinner,” she said.

When neighbors tried to greet her, she would cover her mouth with one hand and say, “No English,” while holding my hand tightly with the other. At some point, we started holding hands every time we stepped out of the house. Even after all the hard work at our place, she still wants to come again. Maybe… she just wants to hold my hand.

의사 부인, 화가 부인

의사인 육촌 오빠가 중매쟁이를 통해 결혼했다. 서로 조건만 보고한 결혼인데도 천생연분인 듯 잘 살았다. 내가 결혼할 나이가 되자 아버지도 육촌 오빠를 결혼시킨 중매쟁이 수첩에 내 이름을 올렸다. 중매하는 사람이 집에 왔다. 집안을 둘러보고 이것저것 물어보며 메모했다. 나를 아래위로 훑어보며 키가 몇 센티냐고 물었다.

“153센티데요.” 

“다른 조건은 그런대로 괜찮은데 키가 문제네!  일단 156센치 라고 기록할 테니 선보는 날 높은 구두를 신어요.”

의사와 선을 보라고 연락이 왔다. 옷 한 벌 얻어 입고 높은 구두를 신고 불편한 걸음걸이로 선보러 갔다. 남자가 시큰둥 말이 없다. 술이나 한잔하며 이야기하고 싶은 생각이 굴뚝같은데, 상대는 저녁도 먹지 않고 일어섰다. 내게 흥미가 없나 보다. 며칠 후 중매쟁이로부터 연락이 왔다. 우리가 아파트 한 채 사주는 조건으로 결혼하는 게 어떠냐고.

“너 아파트 한 채 사서 의사와 결혼할래? 말래? 네가 원하는 대로 해 줄게.” 

아버지가 물었다. 아무래도 의사와 나를 저울질 하니 나에게 아파트 한 채를 얹어야만 저울추가 평형이 될 수 있었나 보다. 나는 아버지의 눈치를 살피며 

“말래요.” 

아버지의 얼굴이 갑자기 환해졌다.

단지 화가라는 이유만으로 애인 부모가 극구 반대해 결혼하지 못한 채 외롭게 지내는 대학 남자 동기를 뉴욕에서 만났다. 그의 여동생도 그림을 전공하니 함께 어울리다 친구가 되었다. 

"내 오빠지만, 화가와 결혼하면 힘들어. 전공을 살려 그림을 계속하려면 경제적으로 뒷받침해 줄 수 있는 사람과 결혼을 해야 해.’

충고했다.

결국, 그녀는 의사와 성공적인 결혼을 했다. 그러나 아파트 한 채를 얹어야만 의사와 결혼할 수 있는 나는 천생화가를 남편으로 택할 수밖에 없었다. 화가와 결혼한 것이 나쁘지만은 않을 줄이야! 항상 그림 그리는 분위기에서 사니 ‘서당 개 삼 년이면 글을 읊는다’고 자연스레 붓을 도로 잡을 수 있었다. 남편이 사 온 재료들을 슬금슬금 빼돌려 부엌에서 작은 그림을 그렸다. 남편이 스튜디오를 비울 때는 커다란 화폭에 신나게 그어 대며 스트레스도 풀었다. 그림 그릴 수 있는 분위기는 물론이고 화가 부인이라는 이름으로 변명할 수 있는 일도 많았다. 부모 형제 일가친척들에게 시달리지 않았다. 잘못 건드렸다가는 오히려 도와줘야 하니 살아주는 것만도 고마워했다. ‘잘 되면 아내인 내 덕이고 안되면 화가라는 남편의 직업 탓’이니 당당하고 마음이 편했다.

의사와 결혼한 시누이는 집 사고 아이들 키우며 차고에서 그림 그린다. 그림과는 거리가 먼 분위기에서 시작하느라 준비과정이 오래 걸렸다. 사소한 모임에서도 그녀가 의사 부인이라는 것을 사람들이 알면 다음 날로 당장 ‘우리 아이가 열이 있는데 어떻게 하지요?’ 하며 전화가 온단다. 일가친척들도 아프면 연락해서 도와 달라니 남편에게 미안해 사람 만나기가 두렵다며 피해 다닌다. 뭐 시누나 나나 아직은 무명으로 뜨지도 못한 채 붓을 잡고 있지만. 먼 옛날 아파트 한 채를 조건으로 의사와 할 뻔했던 결혼, 아버지의 제안에 ‘말래요.’라고 한 대답이 나를 이렇게 자유롭게 할 줄이야.

A doctor's wife, an artist's wife

My sixth cousin, who is a doctor, got married through a matchmaker. It was a marriage based only on conditions, but they lived happily as if they were meant to be. When I became of marriageable age, my father also gave the matchmaker my name — the same one who arranged my cousin’s marriage.

The matchmaker came to our house. She looked around, asked questions, and took notes. She looked me up and down and asked how tall I was.

“153 centimeters,” 

I said. She frowned and replied, 

“Other things are okay, but your height is a problem. I’ll write down 156 centimeters, so wear high heels on the day of the meeting.”

I was contacted to meet a doctor. I bought a nice outfit, wore high heels, and went to the meeting uncomfortably. The man didn’t talk much. I wanted to relax and have a drink, but he didn’t even eat dinner and just left. I guessed he wasn’t interested in me.

A few days later, the matchmaker called. She asked if we could give the doctor an apartment as part of the marriage deal. My father asked,

“Do you want to marry the doctor if we buy an apartment for him? I’ll do what you want.”

I guess to balance the scale, they thought I needed to add an apartment to match the doctor. I looked at my father and said,

“I don’t want to.”

His face suddenly lit up with relief.

Later in New York, I met a male friend from college who was also an artist. He couldn’t marry back then because his girlfriend's parents strongly opposed him — just because he was an artist. I became close friends with his younger sister, who also studied art. She said,

“He’s my brother, but marrying an artist is hard. If you want to keep painting, you need to marry someone who can support you financially.”

In the end, she married a doctor. But for me, since I needed to offer an apartment just to marry a doctor, I had no choice but to marry a fellow artist. And it turns out, marrying an artist wasn’t such a bad choice! Living in an environment filled with art, I naturally started painting again. Like the saying, “Even a school dog learns to read after three years,” I picked up my brush again. I secretly used the art supplies my husband bought and painted small pieces in the kitchen. When he wasn’t in the studio, I painted freely on large canvases and relieved my stress.

Living with an artist gave me freedom — and the title “artist’s wife” was a good excuse for many things. No one in the family or relatives bothered me. They even felt thankful that I stayed with him, thinking I was doing him a favor. If things went well, it was thanks to me. If not, it was because of his job. I felt confident and at peace.

My sister-in-law, who married the doctor, paints in the garage while raising her kids. It took her a long time to get into painting because her environment didn’t support it. Even at small gatherings, once people found out her husband was a doctor, they would call the next day saying, “My child has a fever — what should I do?” Her relatives also call whenever someone is sick. She says she feels bad for her husband and tries to avoid meeting people.

Neither of us is famous yet, but we’re both holding brushes. Long ago, I could’ve married a doctor if we gave him an apartment, but I said “I don’t want to” to my father. Who knew that answer would lead me to such freedom?

철 없는 친구

“뭐하니?” “그냥 앉아 있어.” 아니면 “누워 있어.”

친구에게 전화가 오면 내가 늘 하는 대답이다. 그림을 그리다 안되면 구상한다고 천장을 보고 누워있다. 글을 쓰다 안되면 책이라도 보면 도움이 될까 하여 소파에 누워 책을 뒤적거리기 때문에 대답은 거의 똑같다. 이렇게 별 볼일 없이 누워 있거나, 앉아 있는, 바쁘지도 않은 내가 전화 한 통화 안 하는 것을 친구들은 이상하게 생각한다.

눈치 없이 그것도 길게 열심히 전화해대던 시절이 있었다. 그러다 어느 날인가부터 하지 않게 됐다. 친구들 모두가 바삐 장사한다. 이상하게 내가 친구에게 전화를 걸면 없던 손님이 들어와 바빠진다. 금전등록기 찍는 소리, 돈 통이 열리고 닫히는 소리가 들린다. 간간이 손님들과 대화하는 소리도 들린다. 한가한 손님이 왔는지 대화가 끝이 없이 길어지면 난 슬그머니 수화기를 내려놓곤 했다.

세탁소 하는 친구는 세탁물을 찾아서 돈 계산을 해야 하고, 포토샵 하는 친구는 여권 사진을 찍겠다는 손님이 들어왔다. 리커 스토어 하는 친구도 손님이 들어왔다고 잠깐 기다리란다. 그리고 네일 살롱 하는 친구는 손님과의 약속 시각이 됐다며 나중에 얘기하잔다. 이렇게 친구들은 돈 버느라 바쁜데 난 이 친구 저 친구에게 전화나 해대니. 그러다 어느 날 한 친구가 내게 쏘아댔다. 

“너 왜 이렇게 철이 없니. 돈 안 벌어?”

며칠 전 가게를 셋이나 하는 친구에게 전화가 왔다. 몸이 서너 개라도 모자랄 정도로 바쁜 친구다. 가끔 가게에서 필요한 물건을 사러 갈 때 나를 옆에 태우고 그동안 밀린 사연을 줄줄이 늘어놓는 사이다. 운전하는 친구를 옆에 앉아 자세히 보니 눈은 피곤해서 충혈되었고 살이 빠져 예쁘던 얼굴에 주름살도 많이 생겼다. 종업원이 며칠 출근을 하지않아 찾아가니 뇌출혈로 쓰러져 혼수상태로 병원에 누워있단다. 마흔두 살의 중국인 종업원은 돈을 벌어 중국으로 보내야 하는 데 요즈음 손님이 없어서 경제적으로 힘들었다고 한다. 게다가 가슴 통증을 호소하며 괴로워했단다.

“너무 걱정하지 말고 긍정적으로 살아야 하는데…이젠 나도 쉬고 싶다.”

친구는 한숨을 쉬었다. 

“쉬면 되잖아.” 

나는 철없는 말을 내뱉었다. 

“그게 그렇게 네 말처럼 쉬우냐? 벌려 놓은 게 많은데.” 

‘너 왜 이렇게 철이 없니.’ 하는 소리가 친구의 입에서 나오기 전에 어두워져 가는 창밖을 내다보며 입을 꼭 다물었다.

An immature friend

“What are you doing?”

“Just sitting.” Or “Lying down.”

That’s what I usually say when a friend calls.

If I can’t paint, I lie down and stare at the ceiling, trying to get ideas.

If I can’t write, I lie on the sofa and flip through a book, hoping it might help. So, my answer is almost always the same.

My friends think it's strange that I'm just lying around or sitting around doing nothing and not even making a single phone call.

There was a time when I used to call friends a lot, and talk for a long time without thinking much. But then, I stopped. All my friends are busy running their businesses. And strangely, every time I called, they suddenly got customers. I would hear the sound of a cash register, the opening and closing of money drawers, and small talk with customers. If the customer stayed a while and the conversation dragged on, I would quietly hang up.

One friend runs a dry cleaner, so she had to find clothes and take payment. Another friend, who runs a photo shop, said a customer came in for a passport photo. A friend who owns a liquor store told me to hold on because a customer just walked in. And a friend at a nail salon said she had an appointment and would talk later.

While they’re all busy making money, I was just calling from one friend to another. One day, a friend snapped at me,

“Why are you so childish? Don’t you make money?”

A few days ago, a friend who runs three stores called me. She’s so busy, it feels like she needs three bodies. Sometimes she gives me a ride when she goes shopping for her stores, and during that time, she shares all her stories.

I looked at her closely as she drove. Her eyes were red from tiredness, her face had lost weight, and fine wrinkles had formed. She told me one of her workers hadn’t come to work. When she went to check, she found out the man had a brain hemorrhage and was in a coma. He’s a 42-year-old Chinese man who worked hard to send money to his family in China. But recently, business was slow, and he was under a lot of stress. He had also complained about chest pain.

“I try not to worry too much and stay positive… but now I just want to rest,”

my friend said with a sigh.

“Then just take a break,” 

I said without thinking.

“That’s easy for you to say! I’ve got so much going on.”

Before she could say again, 

“Why are you so childish?”

I looked out the window, which was slowly turning dark, and stayed silent.