It was early winter. When I felt my phone vibrate, I had a hunch it was my mom—and I was right. She was calling to say the kimchi was ready and we should come pick it up. I didn’t even need to check the caller ID, because for the past three days, she’d been calling regularly with updates on the kimchi-making process.
A few months earlier, Mom had given me a sack of dried red chili peppers—some she and my brother had grown over the summer, and another sack gifted by the neighbor. She had also left me with a heartfelt reminder:
“Sweetheart, if I were still healthy, I’d clean and grind these for you. But I don’t have the strength anymore. So you and your husband should take care of it yourselves and make some good kimchi, okay?”
Despite her words, the peppers were left untouched in the storage room. She asked me several times if I’d trimmed them yet, and each time I deflected with, “Don’t worry, I’ll take care of it.” As winter crept in and kimchi season began, our family gathered at Mom’s for an event.
“You’ll need to start on your kimchi soon. Have you cleaned those peppers? Take some cabbage from our field and make a batch for your family.”
Honestly, Mom was directing those words more to my husband than to me. He’s more of a homemaker than I am. The previous year, when I was suffering from a herniated disc, he rolled up his sleeves and took care of everything—salting the cabbage, chopping the ingredients, mixing the seasoning—without a single complaint.
But this year, he too had back problems and declared, “I don’t think I can do it this time.” With that, we officially gave up on making kimchi ourselves. That’s when something remarkable happened—Mom transformed. The weak, frail woman who usually spent her days lying down due to complications from diabetes became the strong, energetic Mom I remembered from childhood. At least during the kimchi-making period, she truly came back to life.
A few days after we left, my sister and brother’s families went to help. Mom had already enlisted the help of her village neighbors in advance. In her neighborhood, even those in their 70s are still considered young. The “younger seniors” helped with splitting, salting, and rinsing the cabbage, as well as preparing the seasoning. The more elderly ones helped mix the seasoning into the cabbage. Though my siblings had helped every year, their clumsy hands always made it feel like their first time. With the skilled hands of the elders guiding them, the work was finished much faster than expected.
“Sweetheart, the kimchi’s ready. Come and get it. I don’t know if it’s exactly to your taste, but I used plenty of seasoning and fish sauce. Everyone says it turned out great.”
“Mom, I didn’t even help this year. I can’t just come and take it. Please give more to Sister and Brother. They did all the work. I can get some from somewhere else.”
“What are you saying? I made it for you! As long as I’m alive, don’t say anything. Just come and take it and eat. When are you coming?”
I couldn’t argue anymore. My husband and I packed some containers and headed to her house. We also brought some tangerines and snacks to share with the neighbors who had helped. That night, in the biting cold, Mom—still unwell—was bundled in a coat and hat, waiting for us at the gate.
“Why are you outside? I told you not to come out in this weather!”
My words came out colder than the wind, and regret hit me instantly. But Mom just smiled and led us to the shed where the kimchi was stored, lighting our path with a flashlight to make sure we didn’t trip in the dark. Inside, huge tubs were neatly packed with kimchi. Though I said we had enough, Mom insisted we take more. In the end, our car trunk was packed full.
As I watched her, my heart swelled. She’s at an age where she should be the one receiving care, but still, she only thinks of her children. My mom who had seemed too weak to even walk down the porch somehow found the strength to make kimchi for all of us. Later that night, packing her love into the kimchi fridge, I whispered a quiet truth to myself: we are sustained by a mother’s love.