The calligrapher's daughter_ a novel - Eugenia Kim [88]
“What you’re cooking smells wonderful. Even the finest city restaurants with the best ingredients can’t match your skill.”
Cook’s lips spread wide, showing a new gold tooth at the edge of her smile. It made me notice that her neck was bare of the fine hair chain she had always worn, from which had hung a gold cross. When I was little, Cook had often told me the story of the little cross, her eyes sparkling.
From a poor peasant family, at the age of nine she had joined my maternal grandmother’s household in Nah-jin, originally taken in as a nanny for my mother, who had just been born. It was soon apparent that her skills were more suited to the kitchen than to child care, which required a patient, persistent personality, and one not so prone to outspokenness. She was trained in diet and food preparation to become a competent cook in Mother’s future household. “You should see your grandfather’s house,” Cook used to say. “Sixty-six rooms and land the size of a village. Four kitchens and every winter a straw pantry twice bigger than this kitchen! Your grandmother treated me and all her servants with kindness and generosity, and I wondered how I came to be part of such goodness.” Cook would finger the cross and wipe it with her apron. “Your grandmother taught me about God and Jesus, and then I understood where her goodness came from. She allowed me to be baptized when I was fifteen and gave me this cross, the first gift I ever received.” She would show me tiny indentations on both sides. “See that? I couldn’t believe it was real gold, so I bit it! Oh, she was generous! And your mother is exactly the same as her mother, so you are a doubly blessed child.”
I silently vowed to replace the cross and wondered why my mother hadn’t provided for the dental work. It seemed things were worse than I’d suspected. “I learned a lot doing midwifery, and have many new remedies to add,” I told Cook, who had a memorized catalog of several hundred recipes to create a healthy, balanced diet according to the old way.
“Anything for peptic ulcer?” said Mother, as Cook shot me a pointed look.
So, Father had lost his gastric battle. “There’re quite a few things. We can visit the pharmacist tomorrow.”
“You should hear that man complain about business,” said Mother.
“Isn’t he still the best in town?” I wandered through the kitchen handling familiar pots, utensils, bowls and cups, noting empty pegs where sacks of meal and grain should’ve hung. True, it had been a long winter and our pantry would likely be replenished soon, but I could feel my ribs protruding. Children had come to class with nothing to eat since the day before when I’d fed them. We bartered books, pencils and paper for noodles and barley.
“He says his access to suppliers is limited ever since Manchuria,” said Mother about the herbalist. Her pursed lips signaled me to wait for further discussion. Brightly, she complimented the earthy pepper blends in the gimchi.
“Kira’s first crop of cabbage, not my handiwork,” said Cook.
“True, she and Byungjo perform miracles in the garden,” said Mother, “but it’s you who mixes everything perfectly.”
“Your recipe!” said Cook, blushing.
“Your touch!” We all laughed.
“Let’s eat. I was waiting for you, Daughter.” She arranged two sets of bowls on trays, and when Cook went outside to retrieve spiced anchovies from a cold-storage urn, Mother laid out another set. “Now she’ll have to eat something tonight.” She lowered her voice. “You see how she’s shrunken. She pretends to have no appetite, thinking to save food.”
My expression was so full of questions that Mother whispered, “It’s not as bad as that. She just thinks so. Later—”
Cook returned, her fingers red with spice and fish oil, and placed the anchovies on young lettuce leaves. She sprinkled steamed bean sprouts with vinegar and soy sauce. Mother portioned the food into threes as Cook quickly chopped scallions and sprinkled sesame and pepper on the noodles, ignoring the third setting. With the trays apportioned, she cracked raw eggs into our noodle bowls. “I saved these for you from this