A few days before Lunar New Year, the mill roared with the grinding of rice. The air was thick with the smell of steamed rice and the restless excitement of the holiday. Women arrived with basins of rice soaked overnight balanced on their heads. They formed a long line in front of the mill. Even after night fell, the basins, draped in patterned cloths, stretched in a long, endless row.
The mill owner tilted the basin into the machine, then quickly moved it underneath. When he pulled the heavy lever, the entire mill rattled. The vibration traveled through the soles of my feet and made my heart tremble.
Crushed rice slid down the metal chute like a playground slide, piling high in the basin. The nutty scent of rice flour filled the air. Right beside it, long rice cakes were being made. As the flour was pressed from above, warm white cylinders pushed out through round holes under water. The man cut the soft, elastic rice cakes into long pieces the length of his forearm and lined them up neatly in the basins.
When Mother returned, she carefully lowered the basin from her head. Steam seeped through the cloth. She pulled out a long strand, cut it into finger-length pieces, and handed them to us. The warm, chewy rice cake slid easily down my throat.
Overnight, the cakes hardened. Mother brought a cutting board and a knife into the middle of the room. She and my sister sliced the white logs diagonally.
Tok, tok, tok.
Thin oval slices fell beside the blade. My brothers insisted on trying too, but after a few clumsy cuts, they quietly slipped away.
On New Year’s morning, we put on our cleanest clothes. Mother held the youngest in her arms and sat beside Father on the warm floor. The five of us stood in a line and bowed, nudging each other with our elbows as we bent forward.
Father half-rose and pulled coins from his pocket — our New Year’s money. My younger brother and I each received a single coin. The older siblings received a little more, according to their age.
We sat around the table, excited to eat rice cake soup. There was not a single piece of meat. On the surface floated yellow drops of margarine oil, round like the coins we had just received. The smell of ramen seasoning mixed with the greasy sweetness of margarine and filled the small room.
Soon after, we ran toward our aunt’s house. We flew down the steep hill, kicking up dust. I held my pocket tightly so my coin wouldn’t escape. My shoes scraped along the dirt road as I slid, the coin tapping happily against my thigh.
My aunt’s house stood on a wide road among other large houses. When you pushed open the heavy gate, rows of massive clay jars stood on the right. Ten steps down led to a yard wide enough for children to run. There was even a water tap where water poured out in a heavy, endless stream.
Behind the glass sliding doors was a polished wooden floor. Crossing that shiny, dark brown floor led to my aunt’s room. It was bigger and warmer than our entire house combined. She was usually bedridden, but that day she was sitting up, watching us with a blank expression.
Whenever we visited, there was always a box of small medicine bottles by her pillow. Empty bottles and sharp metal caps were scattered near her head. When we greeted her awkwardly, she looked at us with hollow eyes, her face thin and sunken. A faint sweet, medicinal smell hung in the room.
That day, however, the house smelled of oil, fried food, and warm dishes. We lined up again and bowed. She gave us much more money than we had received at home. We tried to hide our smiles as we glanced at each other.
I had never seen my uncle; he was absent even on holidays. My aunt told my cousin's wife to serve the meal. She brought out rice cake soup topped with yellow egg strips and neatly arranged beef. Then came colourful skewers of grilled meat, glistening with oil.
In front of those bright colours, I couldn’t lift my chopsticks. I hid behind my siblings and managed to pick up only one piece of pancake. The rich, oily taste filled my mouth, but it stuck in my throat and would not go down.
My cousins were much older than my sister. She had already slipped into their room, chatting happily. I couldn’t follow. I stood alone on the wooden floor, not knowing where I was supposed to be. Touching the coins in my pocket, I slowly stepped backward out of the house.
At the corner of the street, there was a small food stall. Fish cakes and rice cakes were skewered on sticks, each one bobbing in the hot broth. The cold street stall felt more comfortable than my aunt’s table full of food.
I picked up a skewer and ate. The hot broth ran down my throat, warming me from the inside. The tight knot in my chest slowly loosened.
On the way home, children were flying kites in the empty field beside the school. As the spools spun, the white strings unrolled toward the edge of the sky. Watching the kites sway gently in the air, my steps felt lighter.
Read this story in Korean (한국어 버전 읽기)
About this series:
These stories are part of my childhood memoir about growing up poor in 1970s South Korea.
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