We Are What We Eat (and what we have done)

     Typically at the dining table of a Korean household or restaurant, there are a variety of banchan¹ that adorn its surface; strings of green from the seaweed salad, speckles of yellow from the pickled radish—yet one particular figure remains the same, almost encapsulating the entirety of Korean culture itself. A familiar, bright and deepening red that accents a delicate petal of white-translucency: kimchi. This Korean staple, representing perseverance through fermentation, acts as the core and almost pride of Korean culture. But what happens when the conditions for persistence in nature have changed, when the sun has started to swelter and the soil has become parched, and when time has become scarce, even for such an ageless product?

     Kimchi is essentially a broad term that refers to an endless variety of fermented vegetables. Nappa cabbage, the main produce for traditional kimchi, thrives in cooler climates because hotter weather increases the decay of the vegetable overall. However, due to the recent intensive changes in climate affecting the agriculture and food systems around us, researchers in the Rural Development Administration in South Korea are now predicting that the cabbage farms growing this beloved dish would diminish by 2090. Harvests of this cabbage have already reduced by less than half of what it was 20 years ago, and other factors such as the increase of lower-priced kimchi imports from China encourage the shrinking of the traditional style in making the food.

     At the young age of 10, being born and raised in America, I used to dislike kimchi. If someone were to ask me why, I’d say: It tastes too much like Earth. It tastes too much like the ground we so frequently stomp upon, too much like halmeoni’s² wrinkled hands, too much like the place that feels so close, yet so far. The taste would linger, and the scent would fill the pores of my clothes. Yet now, kimchi to me has become something stable, and I’ve come to appreciate its earthly flavor. It tastes like home, the son-mat³ providing comfort like a mother’s hug rather than something foreign, and even when the classic American fried chicken feels too much, it acts as a refresher.

     It’s difficult to imagine a world without kimchi, even worse to imagine a world without other cultural foods declining, such as the wild honey of China or the maple sugar of North America. What will happen once our Korean pride has wilted? What will happen once our roots and identity become mushed, pulped, into nothingness? It’s only once we notice that things will cease to exist, that crops won’t grow as vigorously as they used to, that the health of people are diminishing from what we consume. Only once we have seen the extremities of it all, will we realize that we are no more than how we treat the nature of the foods we consume, in all of its entirety.

¹ (in Korean cuisine) a small side dish served along with rice as part of a typical Korean meal.

² "grandmother" or "grandma" in Korean.

³ a Korean culinary concept that translates to "hand taste". When someone has son-mat, it means their cooking has a unique, special flavor that comes from their individual skill, care, and love.

Sources:

1. Choi, Sebin, and Hyun Yi. “Kimchi No More? Climate Change Puts South Korea’s Beloved Cabbage Dish at Risk.” Reuters, 3 Sept. 2024, www.reuters.com/world/asia-pacific/kimchi-no-more-climate-change-puts-south-koreas-beloved-cabbage-dish-risk-2024-09-03/. ‌

2. Levy, Jessica. “Google Food Lab.” Food Tank, 20 Mar. 2025, foodtank.com/news/2025/03/how-climate-change-is-transforming-food-flavor-and-tradition/. ‌