The busy sound of large summer raindrops hitting the roof above my bedroom drags me out from a sweet, succulent dream. As if insisting that it too is a firm part of life, such dreams appear just when the existence of past images and senses fade away, slowly smothering beneath heavy reality. Last night’s dream was especially juicy, with its huge chunks of medium-rare beef sizzling on top of a wonderfully enormous charcoal grill, piles of red leaf lettuce and spiky green cucumbers fresh and ripe from the fully grown garden standing few feet away and glasses of ice cold water with tiny crystal beads sliding down the surface. However, the moment I reach out and grab a piece of whatever food that stands touchable, it instantly dissolves into space screaming out the painful truth; a dream is a dream.
Usually going to bed with an empty stomach wanders me off to food-absorbed dreams, making it likely that the subconscious state is always alive, especially thrusting when the wants of the instinct is at hand. With fingers crossed, I make a quick wish, hoping that tonight of all days I would be able to taste at least a cube of ice while dreaming. What a wonder it would be, having the ability, the sole power to jump back and forth between real life of a hungry night and filling it up with cost-free food and drinks created from an inner brain activity. No need to worry about calories, grocery costs, and yet starting a new day with a full stomach even before opening my eyes in the morning. Unfortunately it seems that even at those rare times when I am actually able to put a forkful of fluffy white potatoes into my mouth or gulp down loads of soda with ice crackling inside, it turns out to be impossible to feel the food traveling through my esophagus. Thus, no matter how hard I struggle not to be, I turn into an insatiable beast crying out desperately, ‘more’.
Those are the mornings when I spring back from the dream as if from the dead, having a particular sense of obligation to fill myself up with real, solid food despite my normal hostility towards breakfast, something that is difficult to be sensual about with a numb tongue and sleepy stomach. This morning is one of such, making my five senses even more acute for anything that is recognizable as joy to the digestive system, and also directly connected to creating the miracle that happens behind my closed lips with the staunch help of my amylase. And at that moment, as I stir and groan from the shadow of my sleep, I feel my nostrils flaring with intense delight. I detect. Wait a minute. What is it? Yes. With no doubt, I detect the smell of Doenjang jjigae, a Korean stew made with Doenjang.
I lean more closely towards the slightly opened door next to my bed, hoping to catch another hint of the preparation for the dish. Few seconds later, and there it is. The brisk knock-knocking of the kitchen knife against the wooden cutting board and instantly I can almost draw the full, vivid image of nicely cut blocks of tofu, sliced chili peppers and yellow green zucchini piling on top of it. A pot of water on the gas stove will be boiling away with small pieces of kelp and dried anchovies dancing inside to the rhythm of the fire. Or perhaps, hopefully to a carnivore like myself, my mother had found a Ziploc bag of marbled beef sitting lazily inside the freezer and decided to put that instead. Whatever choice would be fine, as long as the Doenjang was still there.
Doenjang, the Korean name for fermented soybean paste, was not always something I looked forward to tasting neither alone nor as a main ingredient of a dish. Along with Gochujang(red chili paste) and Ganjang(soy sauce), the trio deeply cuts into the center core of Korean Cuisine. Nevertheless, the muddy brownness and the vegetable friendly components swimming inside were not exactly what a sweet craving child would become excited about. While growing up, whenever I woke up to see a pot of hot Doenjang jjigae sitting right on the center of the table, I would throw a face of disgust and look for something fried, buttered, or sweetened. Wait until you grow up, my mother would say.
Now on the brink of turning into what Koreans would call ‘a tray of eggs(there are 30 eggs in a tray)’, I finally come to admit one’s taste does not stay the same forever, less process on its own in a private island. My mother had known this all along. Wise are our mothers. Anyhow, with the guess that one’s palate grows along with all the other body parts, and the more taste you experience the more keen you grow about what your tongue touches and what your set of teeth puts itself into action, only a few years ago did I touch the point of sincerely appreciating this Korean soybean paste called Doenjang.
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