Sunday, January 16, my friend Young Sook (far left) brought me to her small church for a time of prayer, fellowship, and worship, Korean style. The coldest day of the year at -17 degrees Celcius (1.4 degrees F), we huddled warmly on the ondol floor in an apartment at the back of the sanctuary. It was in this tiny space, presumably the pastor and his wife's parsonage, that I met Jimin (center) and Jihyun (right), sisters five and seven years my junior, respectively.
As we prepared for a second service in the afternoon, Jimin started the list of polite questions that I've come to expect from Koreans: Where are you from? How old are you? and the like. Then I asked her one. "What kind of American food do you like?"
"Cream suh-pah-get-ty," she told me, beaming. "I love cream spaghetti."
I remembered the ample supply of spaghetti noodles in my pantry that I had inherited from a friend who had recently emigrated back to the States. "Would you like to come over for dinner this week? Tuesday?"
As soon as she heard my offer, Young Sook instantly wanted to come along. This also meant Jihyun would like an invitation, too. I briefly pictured my postage-stamp apartment in my head and shuddered to think how extra people might fit. "But I only have room for one other, maybe two other people," I protested.
My friend stood up in mock defiance and held up her hand as if she were pledging loyalties. "I'll stand!" she proclaimed.
"But what about Frankie?" I asked her, knowing how much she disliked him. She hadn't come over during the holidays just for that reason.
"Oh," Young Sook said sadly. "Fooh-rank-y."
"It's okay. I can put him away in the laundry room. He'll be fine." After a few more minutes to work out the details, everything was set: a dinner party at 7:30 P.M., Tuesday, the 18th for a place setting of four; the menu, cream spaghetti, spinach salad, and pan-fried hobak (호박)--a soft, neon green, zuccini-like squash that Koreans call "sweet pumpkin." It would be the first time so many people had come to visit my apartment in Korea.
I had just enough plates and bowls for each of us, if you counted the one oddly shaped, ivory-colored plate amid its porcelain white companions, and my collection of mismatched bowls. But I only had two pair of chopsticks, one knife, and two forks and spoons each. I also lacked sufficient glassware, possessing just two cups and three mugs. Making the entree and side dishes for four would be easy enough; however, my lack of adequate tableware posed a bit of a problem. As I served tea later that night, my three guests were given the mugs, while I happily sipped from my last clean bowl.
The night of the 18 arrived, expectation scenting the air of my apartment as I entered. After putting away my things from school and petting Frankie, I quickly dusted my cubby-hole bookshelf, cleared away the electronics from the T.V. stand that served as my dresser, and positioned my computer atop my short refrigerator. I then moved the stand to the middle of the room and arranged my four "chairs" around it--the corner of my bed, a small living room armchair, a gray and black folding chair, and my plastic red stool used for reaching the bar in my closet. A small space about a two feet wide was left open to the right of my huddled furniture, what could be used to squeeze in and out of. Provided that no one wanted to get up during the meal, we might have just enough room.
Once my guests arrived, Young Sook claimed the the corner of the bed; Jihyun, the folding chair across from me. Jimin sank into the armchair across from Young Sook and I took the remaining seat, my red stool. Situated as I was, I had only to twist to my right and take two steps to be in the kitchen stirring the food. If I twisted left, I could conveniently stack used plates and bowls on a portion of my bookshelf. If I needed something from the refrigerator across the room, I had only to ask Jihyun to find it. My apartment could fit a party of four, it seemed--though just barely.
L to R: Young Sook, Jimin, and me.
I knew how much Koreans savored tasty food, particularly how highly they valued the Western variety. This in mind, I had done my best to present an elegant, American-style dinner to my guests that evening, complete with homemade honey mustard dressing for the salad and store-bought flan (incorrectly labeled "pudding" on the package) as dessert's finishing touch.
Of my three friends, Jihyun was the most vocal in her reaction. "Mashisoyo!" she declared as we began the meal. It's so delicious! "Oh-tooh-keh?" What should I do? She was so impressed with the salad dressing that she asked which bottle it came from. When I confessed it had none, at Young Sook's sugestion she searched my refrigerator and cabinet for the deli mustard and sweet honey I had used, to take pictures of them for future reference. I hadn't the heart to tell her that the mustard had actually come from the States.
Though I enjoyed the whole evening and its pleasant conversation, the thing I found most delicious was what came with our tea after dessert: lavender-colored blueberry roll cake from Paris Baughette, one of the foremost bakery's of the country. Its texture was spoungey-soft, with bits of blueberry in the batter and a light purple cream between the layers to hold it all together. Its flavor was tangy-sweet, berry-like yet buttery and fluffy. It felt as if I were eating my favorite color. Amazed at the delicacy in front of me, I declared, "It tastes like purple!"
I was happy the girls had brought the cake as a house-gift, yet much more happy to have them as guests in my home. If the adage is that "two's company [but] three's a crowd," four must double the camaraderie. I will gladly welcome their fellowship again, whatever spacial issues may come.
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