[Caring the Korean Way] A winter kimchi-making ritual preserves more than cabbage

What does it mean to care -- deeply, instinctively, and culturally?  In this series, "Caring the Korean Way," we explore the distinct practices, beliefs, and values that shape how Koreans care for themselves and each other. From time-honored folk remedies to modern reinterpretations of healing, each story offers a window into the unique ways care is expressed in Korean life. -- Ed.

If you only know kimchi as a fiery side dish, you are missing the larger story. Once a year across Korea, families still gather to make the winter’s supply in a single push. The practice, known as kimjang, preserves food, passes down technique and ensures households have enough when the air turns cold.

In one east-side apartment, Lee Su-mi, who learned in her grandmother’s kitchen in the 1970s, keeps the calendar. You start before winter so the cabbage keeps, she said in an interview. An overnight brine, then about five hours of draining so “the chili paste does not weep.” A day of rubbing seasoning into each leaf until the containers stack. “You stop when your arms do.”

Lee talks in ratios more than recipes. Chili first, then garlic and ginger. A little anchovy or shrimp sauce. The broth matters. Her stock simmers dried pollock heads with mushrooms and roots, then cools before it meets rice paste and the sliced vegetables. 

She likes a clean finish, which means lighter on fermented seafood and heavier on radish, chives, and scallions. In her grandmother’s Gyeongsang kitchen, the flavor ran fishier and bolder. Both are right, she said. There is no single kimchi. There are thousands.

A few subway lines away, Kim Ha-yeon described a cadence that looks nothing like Lee’s and still lands on the same result. Her grandmother does “one or two heads at a time” every couple of months because doing it alone is heavy. She sweetens the paste with sugar and pear.

The family does not buy kimchi, she said. Two large batches a year, plus those top-ups, carry them roughly six months. In the United States, where the family once lived, her mother used boxes of cabbages over two or three days. 

Kim, one of four sisters, was the regular helper. Day one was salting and draining. Day two was mixing and packing. Sometimes day three was portioning and storage. “We only use Korean ingredients,” she said, noting she plans to carry a five-kilogram bag of chili powder on an upcoming trip.

Beyond those kitchens, the map widens. Park Do-yeon lives in Bucheon but takes her family to her grandmother’s yard in Pyeonghae, Uljin County, where three generations split the jobs and send everyone home with labeled containers. The flavor there leans saltier and more seafood-forward than Lee’s cleaner profile. Neighbors still trade jars and tips over the fence, Park said.

For readers outside Korea, the health context mirrors the practice. In a randomized Stanford trial, adults who spent 10 weeks on a diet rich in fermented foods, kimchi included, saw gut-microbiome diversity rise and inflammatory proteins fall. 

The comparison is familiar: a vegetable cousin to yogurt’s live cultures, built on cabbage and radish rather than milk. The social piece is measurable as well. People who eat with others more often report higher happiness and stronger support networks. Kimjang is organized around the meal that ends the work.

Modern life introduces friction. Urban apartments shrink balconies and time. Many younger Koreans buy kimchi rather than stage a full day of salting, mixing and packing. 

Lee skipped kimjang during a stint in the United States when trusted ingredients were hard to find and shipping felt wasteful. Kim’s family relies on parcels from Korea and careful planning. Park’s family moves the work from city to ancestral town, where know-how and extra hands are available.

Even within single neighborhoods, rules diverge. One home cook uses shrimp sauce only. Another swears by anchovy and nothing else. Some families skip extra vegetables and trust chili alone. Lee recalls elders tucking pieces of hairtail into the leaves. Kim’s family prefers brightness and crunch with radish, chives and scallions. Variation is how techniques travel across regions, generations and apartments of different sizes.

Storage links tradition to city life. Lee lets the jars begin for a day at cool room temperature, then moves them to a dedicated kimchi refrigerator. Most households hold kimchi just above freezing, roughly minus one to six degrees Celsius, which slows souring and preserves texture. The appliance turns a village habit into an apartment routine and gives families a measure of control that once depended on buried crocks and weather.

Use ingredients you trust. Make enough to share. Write down what worked so next winter goes faster.