All over Chunjinam’s grounds, there are sacks of dried vegetables – dried aubergine, dried potato stems, dried aster scaber, dried radish, dried seaweed, dried fern bracken. If it’s an edible vegetable that grows in Korea, it has been dried in alarming volume and housed in a dark storeroom or refrigerator at Chunjinam. Before we started prepping Buddha’s feast, Jeong Kwan seunim pulled out sack upon sack of dried vegetables from all over the property. I discovered rooms that I didn’t know existed filled with vegetal treasures.
I discovered rooms that I didn’t know existed filled with vegetal treasures
Before this trip, I had assumed I could cook vegetables for bibimbap with my eyes closed. I was wrong. At the beginning, I saw that one volunteer wore disposable plastic gloves as she cooked, so I found a pair and put them on. I began to season one bowl of vegetables when Jeonju bosalnim came over. “What are you doing?” she asked incredulously. In the US, for hygiene reasons, you are usually mandated by law to wear gloves when cooking for the public, and I was confused by her confusion.
Jeonju bosalnim lifted her right hand and pointed to her palm. “All of your energy comes from here.” She circled her palm with her pointing finger. “You pass your energy to the food from here. The positive feelings that you have, that’s what gives the food its flavour. If you wear gloves, you block that energy.” I mentioned that I had seen one woman wear gloves, and Jeonju bosalnim looked at me and explained very patiently that that volunteer had cut herself so of course had to wear gloves. But everyone else was not to wear gloves. “Keep sliced lemon close to you and clean your hands with the lemon to disinfect them. But absolutely, never ever wear gloves. This is how we make our food delicious.” I disposed of the gloves quickly.
Before this trip, I had assumed I could cook vegetables for bibimbap with my eyes closed.
I was wrong.
After seasoning the vegetables and massaging them with my bare hands, I found myself sweating over three oversized woks filled with vegetables, heated by gas flames. I ran from one end of the wok station to the other stirring the contents of each wok quickly, in turns, and my arms ached from tossing and lifting the hefty mountains of vegetables. Even with the hours ticking closer to the feast, I was told not to rush when cooking. “We have to remain calm. Don’t rush. We have to do things properly and with a clear and calm mind.”
I worked methodically and didn’t move from the woks for hours. The repetition of manning the woks—seasoning the vegetables, sautéing the vegetables, adding water to the vegetables and letting it evaporate several times, then starting over with another batch—became like a meditation.
We worked mostly in silence in the kitchen, and every now and then Chef Kwang would yell out in Korean: “Everyone good?” We shouted back, “Yes Chef!” And then he would call out people individually to make sure that everyone was still alive and not drowning in work. “Mina, are you good?” “Yes Chef!”
Jeong Kwan seunim buzzed around attending to every detail of the preparation and tasting each dish. While we didn’t take many breaks in the days before Buddha’s birthday, there was always time to eat a fresh staff meal together. The night before Buddha’s birthday, the whole team fatigued, we sat on blue tarps on the floor of the terrace eating bibimbap made from vegetables we wouldn’t be using the next day. There was a slightly cool breeze, I leaned back and we all enjoyed the fresh air after being in the kitchen all day.
The next morning, we congregated at 6 am. With most of the cooking done, I spent the morning putting up flowers in the temple hall, decorating the prayer area with bright blooms at Jeong Kwan’s seunim’s direction. The seunim and I decorated a statue of an elephant with pots of flowers, and she giggled as she put one pot underneath the elephant’s tail so they looked like they were growing out from the elephant’s bum. “Mina, look!” and she laughed like a young girl.