Every Type of Cabbage

“They hate me, don’t they?”

The burn of the kimchi jigae still coats my tongue in fire despite the ginseng tea I try to douse it with. I feel a similar burn in my cheeks as Minjun’s parents patter around in the kitchen but the tea doesn’t help much in extinguishing that. My Korean skills are minimal but even I pick up the occasional, “isanghan” – strange. As in, the isanghan blue-eyed, blonde-haired girl their son somehow, inexplicably fell in love with. As in, the isanghan way he lets her call him MJ instead of his full name. As in, the isanghan way he plucks the tofu off her plate and replaces it with one of his mandoo dumplings. Maybe it’s my own insecurities filling in the blanks, but every time Mrs. Choi’s – or “Che” as I was supposed to pronounce, I wish MJ would have corrected me beforehand – sharp eyes cut into me, I swear I could almost hear them mutter a disapproving, “isanghan.”

MJ pokes at a leftover dangmyeon noodle on his plate with a chopstick. “No, of course not,” he says gently but his voice lacks its usual conviction; he’s never been able to lie to me with much success –but I suppose there are worse qualities to have in a boyfriend. He must see the skepticism in my eyes because he rushes to add, “Really, they don’t. Look, my mom made all our special dishes just for you. She was so happy making the galbitang all day.”

I let out a hard chuckle, clinking my spoon against the bowl that held the short rib soup; I nearly choked when MJ said it’s usually served for special occasions such as wedding receptions – I think Mrs. Choi nearly choked too at the prospect of her son even mentioning the word “wedding” to me. “Bet she wishes the beef was better spent now that she’s met me.”

“Stop,” MJ takes my hand tenderly across the table. “You’ll see that we’ll be eating galbitang with gołąbki on our wedding day.”

“What wedding day, MJ? You think your parents would be happy with us getting married? Getting engaged? Even buying a house together? Because right now, I can’t possibly see them calling me their daughter-in-law. Right now, I can’t imagine them calling me anything other than isanghan. I’ll always be isanghan, won’t I? No matter how much Korean vocabulary I learn or how much tofu I force myself to eat, they’ll never make galbitang for me again. They hate me.”

“Anna, don’t be ridiculous – they don’t hate you.”

“You aren’t saying they like me,” I point out and he has to avert his eyes, letting his jet-black hair fall into them like a curtain. I wish he’d disagreed with me. I wish he could repeat that I’m being ridiculous, that of course they love me because he does – because if they don’t, will he? I know that I would fight for our relationship if he and my parents didn’t get along, but that’s so easy to say when my parents already treat him like a son - “If she likes you, we love you,” my mom had told him around a dinner table similar to this one except it was a bowl of dill pickle soup instead of short rib soup. I don’t know what I would actually do if they didn’t though. I’d like to believe that I wouldn’t give up on us, but then again, I want to believe that about him too. On the other hand, at some point, it shouldn’t be a fight either.

“We aren’t teenagers, Minjun,” I say quietly, and he looks up, surprised at one of the rare instances I use his full name. “This isn’t some puppy love, this isn’t high school sweethearts, this isn’t a dad flickering porchlights after prom night. We’re too old for this: we’re talking about marriage and our kids’ middle names because we already have their first names picked out and spending the rest of our lives together. But how can I spend the rest of our lives living under the scrutiny of your parents?”

“I’ll work on it,” he tries to reassure me but I shake my head.

“You shouldn’t have to,” I say quietly, serving myself another small portion of japchae to keep my fidgety hands occupied around the chopsticks – how I wish I had a fork right now as I chase a scallion around the plate. “I don’t want to be the reason you don’t get along with your parents or have you fighting about me. And what if you have to choose? What if I want you to do one thing and your mom or dad wants you to do another? Who will you choose? I hate to even put you in the position that you have to choose, but eventually it happens when two sides don’t get along! How will I know you’ll have my back when it matters to me the most?”

“Because saranghae, kocham cię, I love you – I don’t know any more languages to say it in but if I did, I’d say it all. I’d shout it from the rooftops, from my parents’ rooftop. I’d be like a rooster waking them up every morning to hear me say ‘I love you, Anna.’” He actually manages to get me to crack a smile at the image. "Because it’s my life, aniyo, it’s our life: yours and mine. You’re right, we’re not teenagers, which means it’s my choice who I love and how I build my life with her, not my parents’ or anyone else’s. And I see a life where I’ll make you hotteok with brown sugar every day just how you like them, and you’ll make kluski z serem for dinner because I always burn the onions, and our kids will grow up loving every type of cabbage, from kimchi to kapuśniak.”

“Or they might absolutely despise cabbage by then,” I raise an eyebrow and he laughs, hugging me close.

“That’s also a likely possibility,” he plants a kiss on my cheek and gazes into my eyes. “I know you want us to be one big happy family – I do too. But, for now, can it be enough that I love you?” 

I sigh but weave our hands together. “For now, yes, it can be enough.” 

“It’s enough for us too,” Mr. Choi’s voice suddenly speaks up from behind us. “All we’ve wanted for Minjun is to find someone he can create a good life with; it looks like he needs to search no further.” He stands at the doorway from the kitchen with his arm draped around Mrs. Choi, whose sharp eyes have lost some of their intimidating glint as she reaches a hand out to me. 

“I was just about to plate the yaksik for dessert,” she says. “Dowajugo sipnayo?” Do you want to help?

I smile, rising out of my chair to follow her into the kitchen. “Mullon-ijyo.”

“We can sneak some dasik cookies before those two notice,” she whispers mischievously with a wink.