金昌国《辣白菜》

Immersed daily in the scent of pickled vegetables, Li Changhao seemed to have transformed into one of them. The room was littered with pots and jars, from the bed to the floor. Mingshu sat in the middle, preparing for the next day's stall. Occasionally, she glanced up at the television program and then resumed her task, head bowed.

At this moment, Li Changhao was mainly filled with resentment as he had failed to persuade Mingshu to relinquish the gambling funds, and to him, such a night seemed like a wasted opportunity. Through the open window, intermittent sounds of shuffling cards could be heard from the small shop. It reminded him of someone emerging from a desert, hearing the tinkling sound of running water but lacking the strength to reach it. Money, at that moment, was like life-saving water to him.

Mingshu glanced at Li Changhao, her mood excellent as she continued her work.

The scent within the house was a potpourri of salt, ginger, garlic, and chilli, a spicy and salty aroma that nonetheless carried a hint of sweetness for those accustomed to it. Mingshu's hands were smeared with a tangy sauce made from these ingredients as she mixed them into various vegetables, loading them into bowls for the next day's market. After a night's soak, these pickled vegetables had lost their rawness without sacrificing their freshness. Others, like balsamroot, yam bean, monkey's leg vegetable, and carrot strips, were mixed in the morning to retain their crispness.

Li Changhao's home was situated on the city's fringes, where the urban sprawl resembled a blazing inferno, casting its glow across the sky. The scattered lights of their neighbourhood resembled stray sparks caught in their wake. When the factory thrived and numerous collectively funded apartment buildings were constructed, Li Changhao could relocate to a city apartment. However, Mingshu declined. She fretted that her belongings would have nowhere to go in an apartment and that her early morning work schedule might disturb her neighbours. Furthermore, certain vegetables require the earth's temperature and humidity to ferment ideally overnight.

Her pickled spicy cabbage was highly popular at the market because of the vegetable cellar in their yard. Regular customers knew that cabbage without the cellar's influence, like a hastily made liquor lacking ageing and storage, lacked the authenticity and depth of flavour. Although it seemed that Li Changhao made all the decisions in the house, Mingshu quietly instilled her ideas into him. So, when it was time to decide, Li Changhao's voice spoke, but Mingshu's thoughts were heard.

The family of Li Changhao consisted of his parents and two elder sisters, embodying the typical Korean heritage. As a sole son, he held a special place in their hearts. When he was in his teens, his father ate separately at a small table, a custom that persisted even during mealtimes. His mother would serve his father the first bowl of rice before offering the rest to the family. During those years of scarcity, his father's table would occasionally be adorned with morsels of meat. During festivals, when fish and meat were distributed, the family would enjoy a meal, and then his mother would preserve the leftovers with salt, serving a small portion to his father on a small plate.

Occasionally, Li Changhao, as the only son, was summoned to join his father at the small table, a privilege that came with great expectations. His parents hoped he would embody their dreams, and he married a woman of his ethnicity, fulfilling one of their wishes. However, in other aspects, he disappointed them. Thin and small, with a penchant for drinking, Li Changhao seemed an unlikely match for Mingshu.

"You're just sitting around," Mingshu said, "why don't you help me tear the platycodon roots?" In truth, Li Changhao was not idle. His right hand held a glass filled with half a cup of baijiu while his left toyed with a few pickled vegetables. As he watched television and sipped his liquor, he had no mind for Mingshu's chatter, his thoughts still lingering on the gambling game he had missed.

Platycodon roots, among these pickled vegetables, were the most cumbersome to prepare, demanding much of one's time. Digging them from the mountains in autumn, drying them, sealing them in bags, and then soaking them in clear water before tearing them into strips - a meticulous process. When soaked, the platycodon roots resembled white eels, their beauty undeniable. Mingshu had always handled these tasks alone, following the traditions she had grown up with. Her mother had taught her that men were not meant for household chores, that their place was in more significant, important matters, away from the kitchen's fumes and clutter.

Yet, city life was different from the countryside, and Mingshu often found herself overwhelmed. With a jestful tone, she tried to persuade Li Changhao that if he helped her with the chores for a night, she would reward him with a bottle of packaged liquor. Li Changhao had been drinking cheap, bulk white wine, and at first, he refused, feeling insulted. "What do you take me for?" he scoffed. But eventually, he relented, proposing a condition: that the liquor cost be paid in cash. This way, over a few evenings, he could amass enough for a gambling session and a chance to play mahjong.

Li Changhao loved to play, and his gambling addiction was strong. Yet his stakes were small, with wins and losses ranging from a few dozen yuan at most. Mingshu knew she couldn't stop him completely, so she resorted to controlling his funds and limiting his gambling sessions. With the factory's fortunes waning and production halted, Li Changhao was left as a caretaker, earning only a few hundred yuan a month. There was little left after deducting utilities and their son's school fees. If not for Mingshu's earnings from selling pickled vegetables, they would have struggled to make ends meet. This was a source of frustration for him.

At four-thirty in the morning, Mingshu rose to cook the rice in the pot, her movements as delicate as a dance. Li Changhao, tired of the commotion, had long ago relocated to his son's small room for a peaceful sleep, returning only occasionally for a night. Mingshu worked quietly, yet the clang of pots and pans inevitably woke the silence. Each sound caused her to pause, a nervous glance towards her son's room. She knew he couldn't hear, but still, she looked.

When the pickled vegetables for the day were ready, it was time to wake the boy. Though steeped in Korean tradition, their home had grown informal between father and son. Each morning, the first words from the boy's mouth were a playful shout into his father's ear, "Lazy bones, rise and shine!" Despite their cultural heritage, this playfulness was a testament to the ease with which they related.

The boy's breakfast consisted of rice soaked in a savoury broth, a dish he adored, much like his father's. Mingshu's broth was a cherished family recipe.

During the morning hours, Mingshu's market was quiet, with customers slowly trickling in after ten. Then, she would ride her bicycle home, retrieve the pickled cabbage from the cellar, pack it into plastic buckets, and return to her stall just as the workday crowd emerged. Regular customers knew the routine; some were waiting patiently at the stall, and others were arriving and crowding around.

Mingshu sold only twenty heads of cabbage daily, not out of secrecy but because her regular customers numbered about twenty. She would gently smile at those who missed out and promise, "Tomorrow, I'll have it ready for you." The cabbage, from cellar to table, was best enjoyed within an hour, maintaining its freshness, crispness, and the unique aroma of the basement. Beyond that, it would take on a sticky, sour taste, resembling the pickled cabbage of the Northeast. Furthermore, her cellar could only produce a limited quantity each day. The large porcelain jars were arranged on a strict schedule, ensuring each jar was opened and sold within a specific timeframe, varying with the seasons.

The ingredients for pickled cabbage were similar, but the key lay in the cellaring process: the timing mastery.