“Always wash it with hot water. It will remove all the remnants of food—from dried chocolate syrups stuck on coffee cups to red chili oils from ramen stained on a pot—completely, very easily,” said my mom.
While my mom leaves for Korea, the typical household chores fall to me: washing dishes and refilling teas (my family tradition). My least favorite has been washing dishes. Turning the faucet all the way to the left, the steam from the hot water would fog my glasses to the point where I could not see anything. Even worse, whenever the hot water flashed onto part of my skin not covered by the gloves, I would flinch at the fleeting pain of a burn.
I cannot deny what my mom said—the water temperature actually matters a lot. The dish soap and the scrubber may seem to be the most important part in washing dishes. Yet, in reality, the temperature of the water that demolishes even the smallest contact between the food scraps and the plates is the main contributor. It was just like how harsh words—“This is not for you,” “You’re too late,” or “You’re not enough”— burn your soul into a piece of hopelessness and the disappointing results that always bring doubts about your potential.
At the end of the day, this is how plates become clean—ready to serve another dish.
However, my mom was not always right. It was Day 3 since I promised myself to call my grandmother every morning ever since my grandfather passed away—the day when her words stuck in my head for so long.
“My mom had to raise all three kids all by herself. She woke up every day to prepare egg dishes to sell on the street. One day, when she saw a man piggybacking his son and picking for the dish, warm tears dropped down her face. It was painful to see my mom suffer.”
I tried my best not to miss a single word she said. Because I was afraid of letting this story be forgotten, letting this pain become irrelevant, letting this suffering become meaningless.
I suddenly found myself reaching for eggs to make gerrangim. As my grandmother does, I put sliced green onion, sesame salt, pepper, egg, and water, then stirred it with a spoon. Although my grandmother uses the ttukbaegi, I used the microwave. My grandmother grilled it for 20 minutes, but I microwaved it for two minutes. Finally, it became a gerrangim with the most fragrant taste ever.
That bite of enjoyment returns as another dish I have to wash. As usual, I turned the faucet all the way to the left to wash off the food with the hot water. But I realized the protein structure of eggs makes it more difficult to wash with higher temperatures. That resistance brought me back to the very moment I wanted to grasp and not slide off my hand: the unwavering belief of my great-grandmother. Her persistent belief that her suffering is only temporary. Her passionate belief that her son and daughters would live a better life. And her hope for prosperity in the distant future: my family and myself.
Her very last desperation was firm as the strengthening structure of the egg and apparent as the rich amber hue emerging from the tea bag when met by the reckless, hot water.
In that moment of washing the bowl that had gerrangim, I felt as if I was standing in the intersection of the past and future of my family’s kitchen. I am different from my great-grandmother and even from my grandmother. My grandmother uses ttukbaegi and cooks gerrangim for 20 minutes. I use a microwave and cook for 2 minutes. My great-grandmother would use the cold water from the river to wash the dishes, but I use the hot tap water. Time has separated us so far away. But I want to climb back and cling to that story of the past. Not just the happy ones, but also the painful, frustrating ones. Just like that egg that was so unyieldingly sticking to the bowl. Someday, when that hot, steaming water becomes tears crossing my cheek, I want to confront and endure that pain as boldly as the protagonist of what now has become my favorite story.
Because a child in a distant future is waiting to inherit and endure in hope while washing dishes with their pale, innocent fingers at the intersection of our kitchens.
