like banana leaves reminding me of christmas time
nurungji reminds me of my childhood
cornik bites
of toasted puffed corn sprinkled with salt
maybe a hint of garlic
but it’s that toasted taste that stands out in my mind
snack bar stands of american cornnuts
in shiny plastic packages
ranch, bbq, original flavored
but it’s that toasted taste
the crunch
that toasted taste
almost scorched taste
that crispy rice at the bottom
of the kettle
that my homestay pops prepares in the mornings
before we leave for work
at the school where i teach and absorb
participate but not interfering
only tasting what i can see
reaching into my memory
typewriter
matching ink to feelings to words to
memories
nurungji
a new food
but similar to
the lelut that mom made for me when i was sick
stomach ache or fever
cold days
rainy, windy, chilly afternoons
in sacramento
early mornings in gwangju
a hot bowl of nurungji
water steaming, bits of browned rice
with spoonfuls of hot fluffy white rice
the perfect accompaniment
to the many side dishes, soup, and kim chi
but the nurungji tastes familiar
like a marcel proust madeleine moment
i’m trying to remember
it’s just rice, after all
but to me it’s everything
and i can’t understand why
because one’s made of corn
the other’s made of rice
one’s a snack
the other’s a side dish
this one’s from my present
that one’s part of my heritage
languages korean and kapampangan mixing together
but i’m trying to connect to you in english
nurungji
that crackly, crunchy, toasted taste
that dr. linton said, for upset stomachs, it’s medicinal
but for me it’s magic
like time travel while standing still
between sips of hot green tea
and handfuls of apple slices
my four months’ photographs
slide show in my brain
of rice fields
pyo, sar, pap
like a slide show in my brain
of rice fields
pyo, sar, pap
like a jigsaw puzzle in my brain
piecing together
a california-warm july afternoon
laying on my stomach on the carpet
feeling the sun’s heat
stepping through the sliding glass doors
hearing porcelain dishes clinking together
water gushing from the faucet
two generations of mothers
laughing and chatting
the click of the rice cooker
signaling that the food can now be ready
a rush of children’s joyful voices
mix with the jingle of dad’s keys in the lock
cousins arriving from sfo airport
people i’ve never seen before
whom i’m meeting for the first time
with three-year-old eyes i see them
and speak with them
for the first time
the language that i’ve heard
since birth
and taste with them
the bag of cornik that they’ve brought
that toasted crunchy taste
almost scorched taste
now, with four eyes, i scrutinize
delicately holding the disk of nurungji
of browned cooked rice
nourishing
remembering
how i learned to speak.
Reflections Told 