If Korea was my genesis, then Korean barbecue is my scripture: The snap-snap-snap of the grill pilot light, the deep exhale of the periwinkle flame peeking from below the cast iron grate, the crackling sheen of the oil when it catches the heat, the sizzling of the meat, the clattering of dozens of small banchan dishes hitting the table. Like a cherished verse of onomatopoeia, this ritual of sight and sound settles my soul.

I’m a late convert to Korean food. I was born in a small, working-class enclave outside of Seoul, South Korea, and sent over to the U.S. as an infant to be raised by my adoptive family in central Pennsylvania. Our home was surrounded by the rolling hills and farmlands of Mennonite country, where cell phone service and modern internet didn’t arrive until well after I left for college in the late aughts. There was one Chinese restaurant in a 15-mile radius and no one I knew could locate Korea on a map.

The side dishes I grew up with were large and rectangular, quietly placed on potholders after slow baking in the oven. They filled our living space with the savory aroma of bone broth or Campbell’s cream of mushroom soup. I spent most of my childhood and adolescence devouring whole plates of my aunt’s ham pot pie, a hearty stew of slow-cooked pork broth and homemade flour dumplings. My family’s favorite desserts were apple dumplings and shoo-fly pie, which had a custard filling made almost entirely of molasses. As a kid, I accepted life as a spectrum of casseroles and desserts that were “not too sweet.”

I knew I was adopted from an early age, but I never questioned my origins—at least not out loud. I wanted my parents to see me as content and grateful to them for saving me from abject poverty. I parroted all of the right aphorisms when strangers asked me about my white parents or my adoption: I’m a child of my mommy’s heart, not her belly. Other kids are born, I was chosen. 

But I longed to know what I was made of. What made me grow black hair? Who put me on a plane? I felt like a mythical creature or some kind of ersatz kid, made in some dusty factory overseas. I remember, when I was just finishing the fourth grade, I finally built up the courage to ask my parents where my birth country was. They told me I was very loved, but I’m not sure they ever answered. I never asked again.

Those questions never stopped bubbling in the back of my mind, until I found myself sitting in a Korean restaurant with some classmates during my junior year of college. My face glowed red. I blamed it on the beer, but really I was just embarrassed about this being my first time trying food from the mysterious country where I was born. I was 21 years old.

I marveled at the table, which was carefully arranged like a shrine to the grill built into the center. Curled edges of romaine lettuce leaves towered like pagoda eaves, looming over ponds of sesame oil and gochujang and ssamjang soybean condiments. Metal banchan dishes dotted the surface of the table, hosting a rainbow of bright-red kimchi, bright yellow pickled daikon slices, verdant sautéed spinach massaged with toasted sesame oil and garlic, and the silvery tones of fried anchovies. Small, spherical bowls with flat lids over the top were placed at each seat. When the lids were lifted, the bowls erupted with puffs of steam revealing luminous pillows of white rice. I sat mum while my table-mates and servers buzzed about, preparing the grill, cutting strips of meat with scissors, and taking small samples of banchan.

Someone passed me one of the small metal banchan plates filled to the brim with cabbage swimming in a fiery red liquid. I leered at its pungent smell, which reminded me of the sauerkraut my mom served on New Year’s Day.

“What is it?” I asked.

“You’ve never had kimchi?” someone asked.

I shook my head. I felt my cheeks burn hotter.

“Just try a bite,” they said, scooting the dish closer to me.

Trying not to make a face, I pinched a small sliver of the fiery red cabbage with my chopsticks and popped it in my mouth. The cold, tangy bite elicited a rush that started in the nerves of my teeth and coursed its way through my body. I could feel it in the space between the angles of my jaw, in my hair follicles, behind my cheekbones.

It was a feeling I’ve never experienced, but I think I witnessed it once, years after that dinner. When I was pregnant with my son, I craved mangoes and ate so many that my husband had to buy them by the case from H-Mart. I’ll never forget the wide-eyed look that washed over my infant son’s face when he first bit into the scored flesh of a juicy champagne mango, and how hard he cried when it was all gone. My son didn’t have the words for how he felt then, but watching his reaction brought me back to how my 21-year-old self felt devouring kimchi at the Korean restaurant that I forgot I was supposed to share.

It wasn’t just the kimchi. It was the chewy bite of jjapchae, glass noodles bathed in sweet and savory sauce. It was the samgyeopsal, crisp pork from the grill smothered in gochuchang and wrapped in crisp lettuce. It was the red-hot bubbling cauldron of spicy jjamppong, a noodle soup spiked with shellfish and squid. It was the soft, nutty flavor of the rice and how easily it cozied up with the fiery flavors of kimchi. 

The table pulsed to its own electrical grid. We passed plates, we stacked plates, and we eyed the grill for our favorite cuts of meat. We nervously took turns flicking the twisted metal from the seal of the soju bottle lid being passed around, because the one who breaks it has to take a shot. Our stomachs were full, but we couldn’t stop eating. We reeked of smoke and grease, even though the server gave us bottles of Febreze so we could spray our jackets. 

All of the flavors, textures, smells, and activity whispered answers to the questions that seasoned my whole life. My beginnings were no longer something I needed to be afraid to ask about. It was all on the table.