The first time I tasted kimchi, that infamous spicy fermented pickled Korean condiment, I was in my early twenties and rather clueless about the whole thing. In theory, I knew what kimchi was but as a Chicago born-Arizona bred-Polish girl, we hadn’t yet crossed paths. An acquaintance had a highly coveted homemade jar of the stuff, scored from a distant Korean relative. It had been buried – yes, buried – in a backyard for 6 months and was such a special treat he said, though I was skeptical. As he opened the jar, I was hit with a thick cloud of … funk. There is no other way to describe what assaulted my senses. I involuntarily cringed as a forkful came my way – and believe me when I say that I, the brave eater, was a bit frightened. I took a tentative bite and was completely off put. The texture was mushy yet squeaky, the flavor unbelievably spicy and downright funky. I didn’t particularly care for it in the least bit.
STRESSCAKE 