ROLLING, SPRAWLING HILLS OF CABBAGES NO MORE by Alex Park

As the year nears its end, Eomma¹ and I make an all too familiar trip to Halmeoni’s² farm. We arrive late at night, then wake up early the next morning to a landscape muffled in mist. The air is just cold enough to keep us awake. Halmeoni invited us to her village’s kimjang, a centuries-old culinary tradition, deep in the mountains of North Gangwon Province.

Before the invention of modern refrigeration, my ancestors salted, seasoned, and fermented vegetables to preserve them through Korea’s long and harsh winters. This was how kimchi, a staple of Korean cuisine, was born. The kimchi-making process was arduous, especially in the frigid temperatures of winter. Kimjang—the communal act of kimchi making—is how my ancestors learned to live in harmony with nature. However, the timeless custom of kimjang is now under threat as climate change has disrupted the balance of our environment in recent years.

“Kimjang symbolizes the tough Korean spirit," remarks Halmeoni, her back stooping with age but eyes bright and young. “Kimjang united entire villages and neighborhoods. We, together, turned hundreds of heads of cabbages into kimchi for the winter months ahead.”

Halmeoni says, in a passionate voice, “Kimjang, we didn’t do it alone. One person cut the cabbages, one person trimmed the gingers, one person clipped the radish. We shared the back-breaking task. We made sure every household had enough kimchi to last until the following spring.”

Eomma and ajumeonis³ pull on their bright pink and red rubber gloves and, squatting down, start mixing all the ingredients. Halmeoni takes a scoop and samples the seasoning. She scrunches her mouth the way she does when she is disappointed. She thinks it’s a little bland.

“More red pepper flakes,” instructs Halmeoni, standing tall over Eomma. It’s a family recipe that’s been perfected through generations of kimchi-making days. During kimjang, kimchi-making recipes are passed down from mothers to daughters and daughters-in-law.

“It’s sad young people don’t know how to make kimchi,” Halmeoni grimaces. As the size of

families shrinks and families migrate to cities, more Koreans prefer to purchase kimchi from

supermarkets conveniently.

“Halmeoni, but it’s so much easier to buy kimchi at supermarkets...” I say, my voice tapering

into a whisper. Halmeoni rags at me, “But there is nothing like your homemade kimchi, the taste,

the ingredients, and the family and community bonding.”

The centuries-old Korean practice of kimjang has been under pressure from not only people’s changing preferences but also extreme weather conditions in recent years. I sense Halmoni's frustration, “We’re only doing 150 heads of cabbage instead of 200 heads this year.”

She has no choice but to pay through the nose.

Halmeoni makes sure to get hold of the best quality ingredients for kimjang, “To make good kimchi, you need the best ingredients. It takes time and effort all year round. Kimjang reminds us to live in harmony with nature.”

Traditionally, Korean prepare the ingredients for kimjang following a yearly cycle. In spring, households collect shrimp and anchovy used for salting and fermenting. In summer, they buy sea salt for brine and red chili peppers to later dry and grind into powder. Cabbages, radishes, and onions are procured in autumn. Halmeoni sources cabbage, the chief ingredient of kimchi, just a mile away from her village. This picturesque alpine region of Korea is home to the country’s famous Nappa cabbage, a hardy variety that yields incredibly crunchy kimchi with a uniquely sweet flavor.

“Here was a land of rugged mountains and brilliant seaside. And lots and lots of cabbage. Sprawling, rolling hills of the cabbages,” reminisces Halmeoni, “But no longer.”

“This cabbage loss we see is not a one-year blip,” worries Mr. Nam, a second-generation farmer and Halmeoni’s neighbor. His voice is heavy. “I thought the cabbages would be somehow protected by high elevations and the surrounding mountains.”

Nearly half a million cabbages that otherwise would have been spiced and fermented to make kimchi sat wilted in Mr. Nam’s fields before harvest in August. Climate change, which brings higher temperatures and heavier rain, has damaged crops, cutting down the cabbage supply. Cabbage prices have soared to the highest level in 25 years this summer. In response to the cabbage shortage, the South Korean Ministry of Agriculture has been providing subsidies to farmers to stabilize the price of cabbage and salts, both key ingredients in making Kimchi. Also, imported cabbages from neighboring China have been steadily rising.

Mr. Nam manages to smile during kimjang. With an eye to climate change, some farmers in Gangwon highlands are already abandoning cabbages for apples traditionally grown in the warmer southern tip of Korea. Still, Mr. Nam, who takes pride in Gangwon highland cabbage, insists.

“I will continue to grow cabbages as long as the weather and my ailing health allow me. But I see no hope to pass the cabbage farm to my two children.”

At the end of the day, exhaustion takes over, and my back aches from hours of hunching over pungent vegetables. A feast follows in the village—steaming chunks of boiled pork belly are sliced and served with fresh oysters, leftover cabbage leaves, and fresh kimchi.

“Ah–,” Halmeoni signals me to open my mouth and feeds me an edible bundle of joy—a piece of fatty pork smeared with kimchi filling and wrapped in cabbage leaves. “We are all set until this time next year.”

Halmeoni looks contentedly at the neatly stacked boxes of kimchi.

“Nothing makes Koreans feel secure like a good stock of kimchi does.” Although our hearts are full from a day of making and sharing kimchi, I sense the troubling reality. Will there be enough cabbages next

year? What will happen to Mr. Nam’s farm? What about the centuries-old tradition of kimjang?

¹ Eomma is mother in Korean.

² Halmeoni is grandmother in Korean.

³ ajumeoni is married, or middle-aged woman in Korean.

Alex Park is a writer based in California. Participant of the Kenyon Young Writers Summer Residential Workshop, he has been recognized by the Alliance for Young Artists & Writers among others. Outside of writing, he is passionate about public speaking, culture, and advocacy.