Seoulmates (Seoul 2)

In the time that Yujun has shown me how to make one, Wansu has set five perfectly shaped songpyeons on a sheet of wax paper.

“Eomma makes pretty songpyeons, doesn’t she?” Yujun winks at me.

“What are some of your Thanksgiving traditions, Hara?” Wansu invites.

“Mom—Ellen—and I would go to her parents’ until they passed. For the last few years, we’ve experimented with cooking turkey different ways. We’ve done the deep fry, where you dunk a turkey into a vat of hot oil. It didn’t work out. The outside was crispy and delicious but the turkey meat was raw and we were both afraid to eat it, so that was a disaster. Last year, we cooked one with a mayonnaise mixture and it was really good. Other than that, I guess the only tradition is Ellen spending a few weeks ahead of the holiday decorating the house with fall leaves and a variety of stuffed, ceramic, and clay turkeys and then taking all the decorations down the day after.”

“We should invite her here for Thanksgiving. She can stay with us until after Christmas. I know you Americans spend that holiday with family as well, yes?” Wansu wipes her gloved hands on a wet towel and moves on to the purple dough.

“That’s right.” It’d be nice to have Ellen here, but it might also mean that Wansu is calling in reinforcements. I cast a worried look in Yujun’s direction, but he’s bent over his songpyeon. While Wansu has made nearly a dozen and I’ve somehow managed to put out half that, he’s still on his first one.

“I’m worried about your children, Yujun,” I tease.

He sets one mangled songpyeon onto the table. “Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, Hara. It’s still the same inside. What does it matter that it’s a little”—he pauses to pat another piece of dough onto a crack that’s appeared in his dessert—“imperfect here or there?”

He’s right. Mrs. Ji delivers the first batch of steamed songpyeon. The steaming process has brought out the colors of the natural dyes and made the small pouches of dough and sweets glossy and vibrant. They’re almost too pretty to eat; even Yujun’s malformed ones somehow came out well, although some of the cracks in his overstuffed pockets are covered with flower petals made from excess dough.

As he said, they all taste the same whether he made them or Wansu did or even I did. A sense of peace settles over me, and heat pricks behind my eyes as I savor the chewy sweet. I’m sitting here with my love and my biological mother eating a traditional Korean dessert, about to celebrate one of the most Korean of holidays. This is my home. I can come here whenever I like. Mrs. Ji knows me. I have a bedroom here. I have family here. I’m only an outsider if I make it so.

“Do you like it?” Yujun asks. Wansu waits for my response as well.

I nod because I can’t speak with my mouth full of songpyeon and my heart full of love.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

“How many people are coming?” I squeak. There’s a literal army of staff here.

“Thirty-four.” Wansu directs a man wearing black pants and a vest to move a flower arrangement she doesn’t like.

“Thirty-four?” No wonder we made so many songpyeon last night.

“Two brothers, two wives, a grandmother, a great-grandmother, four sons, three daughters, twelve grandchildren, assorted other relatives.”

“That’s nearly forty people.”

She doesn’t spare me a glance at that inane comment. If Ellen were here, she’d be running around, leaving half-finished projects in her wake—a flower arrangement here, canapés half-done there, the back part of her hair still in Velcro rollers. Wansu is directing this production like a general, and not a single glossy strand of hair is out of place. Dressed in a navy hanbok with elaborate silver embroidery of birds sweeping across her bodice, she consults with florists, caterers, and hospitality staff and has even approved the wine selections.

It’s not quite dawn and everyone is working hard. The ancestral rights occur in the early morning hours.

My hanbok is possibly one of the most beautiful creations I’ve ever seen. Mrs. Ji helped me dress. It consists of a diaphanous ombre silk top called a jeogori in deep blue at the top bleeding to light pink almost white at the bottom.

The overskirt, or chima, is that same sheer cream over a multicolored tiered ruffled underskirt that makes the most delicious swishing sound when I walk. On my feet are a pair of cream Miu Miu kitten heels that are so cute it is a crime they’re hidden under the voluminous fabric. My black hair is pulled back into a neat ponytail and secured with a white jade clip. Matching jade earrings dangle from my lobes.

Yujun is dressed in a severe navy hanbok with elaborate navy embroidery outlined in silver. He looks like a historical prince and I feel like I should be kneeling at his feet and waving a palm frond in front of him. His eyes shine when they land on me. “Ippeusi neyo,” he murmurs. You’re beautiful.