Chapter 22
As soon as we get home, Dad opens the door, and we do a double take at the state of the place.
It doesn’t look—doesn’t smell—like our house.
Unlike the usual grab-and-go station set up for us on the kitchen counter, the table is neatly set with plates and silverware.
And the aroma…it’s interesting and strong in a good way that makes my mouth instantly salivate.
Stepping back outside, I check to see if I’m at the right house.
Yep, it’s unfortunately the same house on the outside.
Dad and I stare at each other, perplexed.
“You’re back,” Gavin says, greeting us from the kitchen with an apron tied around his waist.
“What are you doing standing out on the porch?” Mom says from behind him. “Come in.” She motions for us to join them.
Slowly Dad and I reanimate. So this isn’t a dream. This is our home. Er, temporary home.
“Sit,” Mom urges us when we are inside.
“Did you buy new stuff?” I ask, noticing the plates and silverware have a shine the ones from before didn’t.
“I used an old trick with baking soda and apple cider vinegar to buff out the scratches. It’s simple, really.” Mom waves it off as if it’s something she does on a daily basis.
“Wow,” I say, genuinely impressed. I didn’t know my mom knew how to deep clean. Since we had a staff of maids, I didn’t know she knew how to regular clean.
“And these lights. They work now.” Dad points to the janky fixtures hanging above the dining table that are now fully functioning.
I didn’t realize how much of a difference lighting could make, but the soft glow on the table instantly brightens the place.
“Gavin, I’m so proud of you,” Dad starts, but Gavin’s quick to cut him off.
“I can’t take any of the credit. Mom did that too.”
“Mom?” I crane my neck to stare at her.
“We had very poor electrical connections when living on the farm, so I know what to look for. Turns out the wire had gotten disconnected, so I reconnected it.” Again Mom downplays her ability.
“Okay, that is seriously cool,” I say.
She smiles appreciatively.
Dad seems puzzled. “What about dinner, then? When did you have time to—”
“That’s all Gavin.” She gestures to him by her side. He smiles nervously.
Despite Mom’s very clear explanation, Dad still doesn’t seem to understand. So she explains, “Dale, just wait until you try what your son cooked for dinner. I have never seen anything so different and yet taste so familiar at the same time.”
“I call it spaghetti-bokki,” Gavin says more confidently after Mom’s strong endorsement.
“It’s like ttuk-bokki, but I replaced one starch with another, taking out the rice cakes and exchanging them for spaghetti noodles.
” He presents a platter with the same cheap lattice design around the edges that all our other plates have.
Except it doesn’t look like a cheap meal.
Far from it. Tiny garnishes of thin slices of green onion sprinkled with parmesan make this meal reminiscent of our former life.
Dad jabs a finger into the saucepan on the stove and puts it to his lips. “This reminds me of the street vendor we used to go to.”
“I know. I didn’t even teach him how to do it; he just knew what to do,” Mom says to Dad, and Gavin’s smile is so wide, it’s about to rip his face into two.
“Don’t take her word for it. Try it,” Gavin urges.
Dad and I just came from sampling an array of delectable bites from our meeting, and yet we both find ourselves sitting down, eager to eat.
Mom, Dad, and I begin twirling the pasta onto our forks while Gavin watches us with anticipatory interest. Dad is the first one to take a bite, slurping the longer noodles that aren’t neatly wrapped around his fork. Mom and I do the same. Holding his breath, Gavin intensely studies our faces.
“I don’t know whether I should be eating this with a fork or chopsticks,” Dad says after swallowing.
He wipes his lips on a napkin, leaving a dark crimson stain.
He shakes his head in disbelief. “The flavor, the texture. Even the color of the sauce takes me back to Korea.” He holds up the napkin to show us.
“Right?” Mom leans in excitedly at the shared emotion. “While he was making the sauce, I felt like I was fourteen again, hovering around the ttuk-bokki stand and eating the hot rice cakes slathered in the spicy sauce.”
“It’s definitely familiar but also has something else,” I say, thinking aloud.
I’ve had ttuk-bokki before, but I’m not as familiar with it as my parents are.
I’m more familiar with the American aspects of it.
Like the al dente noodles and garnishes that aren’t normally paired together but make unique and surprisingly good flavor combinations.
“It also kind of reminds me of the pasta at Wolfgang’s. ”
“Exactly. It’s classy comfort,” Gavin says. “It’s my version of Roy Choi’s ‘food that isn’t fancy.’ ”
“That is seriously brilliant,” I say, staring at him as if for the first time. This version of Gavin differs from the boring, predictable person I thought I knew. He’s creative and innovative when he’s passionate about something.
“Thanks. That means a lot,” he says. His sincerity catches me off guard, making me supremely awkward.
“Oh, I— You’re welcome,” I say clumsily before twirling my fork aimlessly on my plate. I didn’t realize my support meant so much to him.
Between bites, Mom and Dad take turns saying things like “Unbelievable” and “How remarkable” and other comments about how uncanny it is that Gavin was able to so accurately capture in a dish a memory that only existed in their minds.
Eating dinner together is unusual, but the conversations that accompany it are even more out of the ordinary for us. “This is nice,” I say.
“I agree. We haven’t had a family dinner like this in…” Dad drifts off.
“It’s long overdue,” Mom says, finishing his thought. A reflective lull takes over our table. I can tell by the thoughtful expressions on everyone’s faces that we’re enjoying this rare family dinner together.
“In Korea,” Mom says, breaking the silence, “the word for family is shik-gu, which translates to mouth to feed, because we share our food with people who are the closest to us. It means food is essential, but so is family.” She looks around the table before staring directly at Dad.
His features soften, and for the first time in a while, Mom and Dad exchange a glance that conveys more hope than despair.
After we’ve finish eating, in a completely unprecedented turn of events, Dad offers to wash the dishes. And I help.
“I didn’t know you knew how to wash dishes,” I say semi-jokingly. Actually, come to think of it, I don’t know how to wash dishes either. I’m just making it up as I go along. Soap, sponge, water. I mean, it’s pretty self-explanatory, right?
“It’s true,” Dad says. “Men aren’t supposed to wash dishes.”
My skin prickles. “Excuse me?” I lean back to stare Dad in the eye.
“I mean, that’s what I was taught growing up,” he goes on to explain. “Kind of like how your mother and the other women in our village weren’t supposed to deal with the merchants when selling our produce to the markets. Everyone had a job on the farm, which is how we managed the endless work.”
As disappointed as I’ve been with Dad for his lack of interest in me, it occurs to me that I’m no better. I haven’t asked him about himself since, well, ever.
“You never told me you grew up on a farm.”
He nods, then goes back to washing the plate in his hand. I deflate, thinking he’ll revert to engaging only in conversations that are limited to a need-to-know basis.
“Men were responsible for financially supporting their families, so we left the housework to the women,” he continues, surprising me.
“It’s why I wasn’t expecting to meet with those women today.
Because I’m used to dealing with men when it comes to business and farming.
But if I didn’t change my perspective, I would have missed out on an opportunity with the co-op.
And it’s making me curious to try other things I’m not used to.
” He hands me a dish to dry after washing and rinsing it.
“Maybe you’re better in boardrooms than in kitchens.” I point at the food stains on the dish he just handed me.
He grimaces. “It’s my first day on the job. Cut me some slack?”
“Okay.” I laugh. “How about I wash the dishes and you rinse?”
“Deal.” He smiles.
Mom hears us laughing and comes over to us. “I take it the meeting went well.”
I glance over at Dad, who meets my eyes with a smile. “It did,” he says. “It went really well. Elena was right to introduce me to this group of women.”
My smile stretches wider. I’m still not used to hearing the unfamiliar words of praise from him.
I hope we’ll be able to join the co-op soon, since it’ll give me many more opportunities to show Dad what I’m capable of.
Most surprising of all is my excitement over my involvement in farming.
I mean, who am I? Guess it really means I can turn any bad situation into a good one.
And it feels good to finally be included in the family’s business.
When we’re done with the dishes, we dry our hands, and Dad joins Mom in their room while I go to mine, where Gavin is reading in bed. I’m about to tell him about my day when I suddenly remember his.
“So? How’d it go?” I singsong as soon as the door closes behind me.
“Must I?” He drops his head back dramatically.
“Yes, you must. It’s my payment for playing matchmaker.” I poke him in the chest. “Now spill.”
“Argh.” Gavin makes a face, pretending to be annoyed. “Fine,” he says, putting his book away. He rolls over onto his side and glances at me casually. “It was…nice” is all he says.
“Are you serious?” I throw my pillow at him. “Try harder. Did my plan work?”
“Surprisingly it did,” he says, sitting up and tossing my pillow back to me.