Heirlooms, page 14
DJ nodded, and from behind him, his mother nodded, too. He held up his hand for a high five.
I high-fived him.
“You might need to use a stepladder because some of the bird feeders are high. I have one with rails on the side and enclosed steps that my gran used when she felt a little unsteady.”
DJ looked up and grinned. “I laugh in the face of danger.”
I looked at his mom. “The Lion King,” she mouthed. “Why don’t you see what Annika is doing?” Marcia said. “Then we’ll come and find you in a few minutes.”
“Okay.” DJ headed over to his friend.
Marcia turned toward me. “You didn’t fill in his sentences when he spoke slowly.”
I nodded. “Every summer, when I came to stay with my grandmother, we volunteered with the Special Olympics. Just like any team, I learned from the athletes, and they learned from me, but most importantly, we grew into a crew of friends and family. It’s always been in my heart to return to that, and I hadn’t had time to. Maybe this summer I am, but I’m building a team in a different way.”
Marcia’s eyes filled with tears, which she blinked away. “Yes. That’s right.” She’d been sizing me up, and the farm, to see if it would be a safe place for DJ as much as I’d been figuring out if he would fit here. “He’s a hard worker,” she told me. “I’m only ten minutes away if something comes up.”
“Saturdays? Starting with a few hours today?”
She nodded. “Thank you. DJ likes to play The Lion King soundtrack while he’s working. It’s soothing. It’s on his iPad. Is that okay?”
“Hakuna matata!” I replied.
She grinned and I motioned for DJ and Annika to rejoin us. “Let me show you where all of the bird feeders are,” I said. “I’ll go around and do each one with you today.”
“Okay. This is . . . great!” DJ said.
“It’s helpful if there is a whiteboard or something that shows the tasks,” Marcia said.
I knew just what to do. I looked at Annika and her camera. “Annika, could you take a picture of each kind of feeder and then the food that goes in each? We could send them to his iPad, and he could scroll through to match them. Would that work?”
“Sure,” Annika agreed.
I looked at Marcia and DJ for confirmation and they both nodded. We walked through the garden, the orchard, and the barn, pointing out each bird feeder to DJ. “You can come and ask me anytime if something gets confusing.”
He nodded and then looked a little nervous. “Remember who you are,” he said, seemingly to remind himself.
We headed into the little lean-to next to the barn and across from the honesty stand, where I’d begin selling flowers in a month or so. “We can set up a table here for you to fill the feeders, and I’ll bring all of the food in here for you.” I dragged a stand from the corner. “You can set up your iPad here.”
He took his backpack off and unzipped it. He pulled his iPad out, but as he did, a large aluminum sign fell out.
“What is that?” Annika picked it up for him.
I recognized it. Signs like it hung on the docks to board the ferry to and from the island. It was a huge white sign with seagulls on it. It said, Do NOT feed the birds!
“DJ, what is that?” his mom asked.
“They . . . put it in here.”
“‘They’ from your last job?”
He nodded.
A flush of anger rolled through me. Mean people indeed. “DJ, can I change this sign into something that I think is better for you?” I asked.
He nodded again.
“I’ll be right back.” I headed into the greenhouse, where I had drawers of supplies, and grabbed a Sharpie and a piece of twine, and then I headed back to the lean-to. I marked out the NOT so that it was completely covered. “There. Now it’s your office sign. DO feed the birds!” He clapped with joy, and we joined him. I hung it on the building wall before we left so I could show him where the hoses were. “You can start today,” I said. “If you like.”
He nodded, and his mother said she’d be back in a couple of hours. It would be just enough time to show him how to fill the feeders with Nyjer seeds, sunflower seeds, or hummingbird syrup. Annika took pictures, and we sent them to DJ’s iPad, Lion King soundtrack playing in the background.
“Can you start by weeding the lettuce and other greens and then the beds with the herbs?” I pulled the weed wagon over and showed Annika what I meant. “We only have a few CSA subscriptions now, but I’d like to keep these thriving in hopes that we’ll get a few more buy-ins soon.”
“Sure.” She pulled her gloves up over her elbows and got right to work.
“It’s only a better home and garden if it’s used to nurture others,” Gran always said. I looked out over the muddy promise and saw hope. As DJ filled the feeders, birds excitedly flocked around him. Annika methodically worked with the greens. In the distance, through the window to the yellow room, Grace studied.
I was nurturing others. But also, they were nurturing me.
An hour later, I glanced up at Annika. She stood far away from the raised box that held flowering thyme. “I can’t do those,” she said matter-of-factly. In her hands was an object that looked like a Rubik’s Cube but with pretty pastel colors instead. She twisted it, making the patterns align.
“That’s okay but—” I started.
She didn’t wait for me to finish. Instead, she tucked the cube back into her pocket and beelined to the lettuce and tomatoes and the perennials, which were not yet in bloom.
Well, they needed weeding, too. I could do the herbs.
I rounded out the day by checking on the strawberries, which were coming along nicely. We should earn a couple hundred dollars selling them in the honesty stand. I had every confidence that, along with a healthy CSA commitment, we’d make enough money to pay the tax deferment by the end of the year.
After seeing my new crew off, I hopped into the shower. Grace was sitting on the couch, all ready to head to Federal Way and her family home, before I’d even blow-dried my hair. “Am I late?”
She shook her head. “Let’s just finish getting ready and get going before I lose my nerve.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Grace drove, and I was in charge of the music. “I can’t wait to see your parents again,” I said. “They’re not going to do anything crazy. Even if they know something, it will all be okay.”
She looked at me over the rim of her glasses. “Yeah. I’m just going to float the name Mi-Ja tonight and see if anyone reacts. We are carefully balanced between love and honor, expectations and respect. A baby out of wedlock is nothing anyone in my family would expect from my halmoni, and I’m not in a hurry to figure out if anyone’s going to kill the messenger if it’s true. I just want to get out of here without raising any suspicions if they don’t know and head back to my regularly scheduled life.”
“Why say anything, then?” I asked.
“It bothers me,” she said. “Your gran left it for me to find. Why? My lawyer’s mind wants to know. Maybe they do know, and it was a long time ago, so no one said anything. Best possible solution.”
“I get that. I’m worried you’re talking yourself into believing there’s an easy fix, but I admire you for doing the right thing, even when it’s hard.”
She nodded. “Thanks. What happened with that man who came to apply today? Did you hire his mom too?”
I laughed. “No, it wasn’t like that.” I explained about his situation and his Down syndrome and how he loved birds and that I’d reassured his mom with my own happy experiences with the Special Olympics. “He’s going to make a great team member. The birds were already flocking to him.”
“You always enjoyed working with the athletes when our grandmothers took us to volunteer. Me? I was just trying to figure out how to exactly mark the spaces where the athletes were to run so no one got hurt.”
“You and I made a good team,” I said.
“Still do,” she answered.
Forty-five minutes and half a playlist later, Grace drove off the ferry and then onto the highway to her hometown. Shortly after, we walked to the front door, stepped inside, kicked off our shoes, and slipped on some soft house socks from a basket near the door. “Umma? Appa?” Grace called into the house.
“Here we are!” her mother sang as she came to greet us. I gave a little bow to her, and she bowed back and then kissed Grace, and then she kissed me. “How are you doing, Cassidy? I worry about you. But when I think that Grace is with you, helping you and keeping you company, I feel better. I just hope she’s able to focus on her studies too.”
Mrs. Kim smiled, but with a particular maternal smile that revealed that the bar exam was never far from her mind.
Grace’s dad came into the room and greeted us. I bowed, as was their custom. “Hello, Mr. Kim.”
“Hello, Cassidy,” he said, bowing back. “I’m so glad you are joining us for dinner.” He then pulled Grace into a hug, which I had never seen him do with his sons. “My favorite lawyer,” he boasted. “I tell that to everyone. They know you, so they believe it.”
Grace kept her head down. “Not yet, Appa,” she said.
“Soon. Very soon.” He let go of her and we wandered into the kitchen.
Grace took plates of banchan out of the refrigerator. Banchan was my favorite part of any Korean meal, and Grace’s mom always had a big selection on hand for her family. A dozen or so platters filled with all kinds of tastiness—sour, soft, firm, plump, fried, fresh, greens, protein, pickled vegetables and eggs, kimchi, glazed lotus root, radishes, bean sprouts, various preparations of tofu, and . . .
“Oh, hooray!” Grace turned to me. “She hardly ever makes pajeon. Umma likes you better than she likes me. That’s why she’s made them for tonight.”
“True, true,” her mother teased with a glint in her eye. “Cassidy is my favorite.”
Pajeon were thin, savory green onion pancakes. I loved them. “Thank you for remembering. I’ll bring green onions and Korean chives next time I come.” I was so happy I’d grown them, and the perilla, in my little veg patch.
“Thank you, Cassidy. That is very kind.”
“Ooh—doraji namul,” Grace said. Sauteed bellflower roots.
“Your grandmother grew that especially for Mrs. Kim,” Grace’s mother said to me. I’d never heard her refer to her mother-in-law as anything other than Mrs. Kim.
“Yep. We still do—grow bellflowers. I’ll bring some roots for you next time too.”
“Thank you, Cassidy.”
Grace rolled her eyes. “Umma, Cassidy’s gran and mom made notes in their cookbook for her, and she thinks there’s a recipe from Halmoni too.”
“Oh?”
I took it out of my bag. “I cooked some with Gran in the summers, but after that, I was just too busy and had no one to cook for anyway. I think Gran was too sad to look at the book again after my mom died.”
Grace’s mom wiped her hands on her apron, set down the jar of kimchi she’d been holding, and put on her reading glasses. “Your mom was my dear friend.” She opened the cover. “This is a lovely treasure, Cassidy, and shouldn’t be hidden any longer. Yes, yes, here is seaweed soup in Mrs. Kim’s hand. And all of your grandmother’s best and most delicious recipes are in here. Look—I remember eating these chicken croquettes she’s made notes on soon after I was married. Mr. Kim was doubtful that he would enjoy them but ended up eating seconds. I soon made them often for my family.”
Mrs. Kim flipped through the pages and murmured, “Oh yes, yes, I remember your mother making this creamy chicken dish for your father and then for you when you were a little girl. It was wonderful.”
I remembered her making it too. My dad loved it, so she made it for us often. Did he remember Mom making it? Did he remember Mom at all?
Mrs. Kim continued, “And this dressing, I still use it. With a few changes.” She winked at me. “I see here that your mother made a note on one of your grandmother’s recipes, saying she should add avocado, and your grandmother crossed it out and wrote, ‘No!’”
“Gran hated avocados,” I said.
Mrs. Kim turned to the final section. “Will you add recipes of your own here?”
“I will,” I said. “I think it made Gran sad to read these, but for me, it brings hope. I’m starting with my sourdough bread and then maybe my hand pies. I always made hand pies for Gran, and I hope to make them for my own family someday, too.”
“I would like to try one,” she said in a kind voice. She browsed backward. “I don’t think I have seen anything like this before—grandmother, mother, daughter. Mrs. Kim learned to cook at her mother’s elbow. In Korea. She had no daughters, of course, but when her other daughters-in-law and I married into the family, she taught us.”
“Didn’t you know how to cook already?” Grace asked.
“Yes. I had learned at my mother’s elbow. But your halmoni wanted to make sure I prepared food in the way her son was used to.”
“Oof,” I said. “Mothers-in-law.”
Mrs. Kim’s smile was a little cheeky, and I knew that while she’d never say it aloud, she agreed.
“So you didn’t change anything at all?” Grace asked.
“Oh yes, some,” her mother replied as she set the table. “Because of son-mat.”
“Hand taste?” Grace set the long steel chopsticks by each place. I blinked away my anxiety. I wasn’t a pro with them.
“So! You did learn something in Korean school,” her mom teased. “Yes. Hand taste. Or the taste of the hand. It means that each woman takes a recipe or a way of making food, and then if she feels it should be different, if she’s confident she can make changes that will be an enhancement for her time and family, she changes it, maybe just a little, maybe a lot to make it her own. To make it better. I think the root of the concept is in kimchi, where each woman blends her spices and then massages them in by hand, which stains them if she’s not wearing gloves. Therefore, anything she touches afterward tastes of ‘her’ hands. But it’s bigger than that now. It can mean each cook, each woman, may change things to her tastes. Her life to her own tastes.”
Mrs. Kim sat down at the table and patted the chair next to her for me. I sat next to her, blinking back tears, and she pulled a soft dish towel from a nearby drawer and handed it to me with gentleness and love. “Thank you,” I said. “I wish I could have learned to cook at my mom’s elbow.”
“But you can.” She tapped the cookbook. “It’s all here.” She handed the book back to me. “Here you have one of your family heirlooms—like a necklace, for example. You keep the jewels but have them reset to your tastes and the era in which you live. In this case—” she glanced at the book—“you take their recipes and their instructions. You follow some, and then you take your own path sometimes, too.”
I nodded. Yes. Sourdough was much like that. It took on not only the taste of the land, which gave its wild yeast, but the hands of those who kneaded the dough.
Mine.
We chatted happily, and half an hour later, the meat was grilled on their indoor grill, and we all sat down to eat. Mr. Kim led the prayer of thanksgiving for the meal and also asked for the healing of his father, Grace’s grandfather, who normally lived with and ate with them. The plates were passed. After a few minutes, Grace casually asked her mother, “Do we know anyone named Mi-Ja?”
Her mother finished placing food into her mouth deftly with the chopsticks and then said, “No.” She looked at her husband. “Do we?”
He looked toward the ceiling and then back down. “Maybe some distant cousin of my father. I’m not sure. I don’t think so. I can’t be certain.” He turned to Grace, and his gaze grew firm and wary. “Why?” It was a tone that expected an answer.
“Oh, just wondering. I heard the name and wondered if it was familiar or whatever.”
The room grew silent. I could tell he was going to press her with a follow-up question, so I jumped in. “How is school going?” I asked Grace’s youngest brother.
“Fine, fantastic,” he answered.
“Except when he’s playing on his Switch for too many hours.” His older brother poked him.
The youngest brother looked at his parents before quickly starting a long discussion about the success of his current robotics project. Grace gave me a look I knew meant thank you.
On the way home some hours later, I said, “I’ve been thinking about dinners. I wish I had a family like yours. When I worked in California, Chef would always make family dinner for the team before service. Maybe some Saturdays I could make family dinners for all of us—anyone working at the farm, visiting, living at the house. You, me, Annika, DJ, Nick, whoever happens to be around? Justin could come someday. If I add more crew next year, they can come too. Our own family dinners. The thought of cooking for my friends and building a little community family really excites me.”
Grace smiled. “This the happiest I’ve seen you since Gran died, so yes, it’s a fantastic idea.”
We chatted about Justin and then about Nick. “How are things going with him?”
“He’s been traveling,” I said. “And working a lot. But we text or talk every day. I mean, it almost feels to me like we never broke up.”
“Are you thinking about getting back together?” she asked.
I shook my head. “No . . . not yet, anyway. I’m really loving connecting as deep friends, but I haven’t forgotten why we broke up. He moved abruptly to chase success. He didn’t want to commit. He stayed incommunicado.”
“And you didn’t want to do long-distance,” Grace said.
“True,” I said. “He’s been really helpful with the CSAs, though, reaching out to friends and such to see if we can sign up more subscribers.”
“How is that going?” Grace asked.
