I'm part-Korean, part-white. I guess I took after my mom's white trash side more though, because when I was a kid I absolutely DESPISED Korean food, I refused to eat any of it. My dad would always cram our fridge full of his own various Korean foodstuffs, from kimchi, to army soup, to highlighter-yellow colored radish. It produced... a very interesting smell.
Dad would always take me with him to the Korean market whenever he went. I, being the little kid I was, would idly stand around while he tried to try to decide which of the 97 kinds of kimchi he wanted. But the thing I always hated about standing in the kimchi aisle was the jars of shrimp that were right next to them. Staring at me, with their soulless, dead, terrible, horrible shrimp eyes. And I had no choice but to stare back.
The only thing that would catch my interest in that market was what awaited me by the exit. A little bakery/cookery which sold fried pastries in the shapes of fish, with red bean paste coating their fish-insides. Their fishsides. These fish were blessings upon this great, green, Earth.
I love these things. They're probably my favorite food to this day. If I could marry one, I could. Then I would eat it. Then I would mourn it for a very long and serious amount of time. For what other purpose do I live, than to eat and think about red bean fish? To live, or not to live?! My mind is an endless revolving chasm which I may only satiate by eating silly-shaped cakes.
Today, I eat a lot more Korean food than I did when I was younger (I'm especially a fan of pajeon and kimbap!), but these fish still have a huge place in my heart. Also, the shrimp at the market still kind of freak me out.
Please don't haunt me, dead shrimp ghosts. Thank you very much.
