Recipe from my grandmother
Get a large bowl out, and pour two cups of warm water into it.
Set one cup of barley (in a cheesecloth bag) into the large bowl.
After 10 minutes, take the bag out and squeeze out the water/strain the barley. Set the bag containing barley off to the side, you will not need it anymore.
You should get a thick liquidy mixture left in the bowl, from the strained barley mixture.
Add 1/2 cup of sweet rice flour to the bowl and mix it in with the barley mixture.
Pour the mixture onto the stovetop at low heat, and pour a little water into the mixture if it starts getting extremely thick.
Cook for 1 hour and 45 minutes at low heat, and then let it sit until it is cool.
After it is cool, add a dash of sea salt and 4 tablespoons of fine gochugaru.
Mix it all up!
It can be eaten now but tastes better after being fermented for at least 6 months. For fermenting, it is best when left outside in the sun and covered with a mosquito mesh (something that will prevent bugs or contamination in the mixture, but still will let the sun in).
Done! (enjoy!)
Huff. Huff. I was taking my Grandma's dog Nico out for his nightly run. The only thing that prevented me from slowing down and succumbing to my exhaustion was the knowledge that when I came home, a steaming bowl of bibimbap would be ready to eat.
Finally, I saw the familiar yellow house in the distance. As I neared it, I could already taste the pungent, spicy, and warm food that was waiting for me inside. I eagerly sped up, opened the door, and was hit full force with a symphony of different smells. The contrasting notes of earthy vegetables swirled around me, and I could detect underlying hints of sweetness. “Eat, eat!” my grandmother urged, coming into my view with a wide array of food in her hands. My excitement grew as I saw her special homemade gochujang sauce.
It may seem strange that out of all of the homemade food my grandmother makes, my favorite is a spicy sauce that can easily be found in stores. But as my mom would say, Halmoni’s gochujang was “liquid gold.” We use this term to describe her gochujang because of its complexity of flavors and the patience and time needed to nurture it; No storebought or restaurant gochujang is able to come close to its premium quality. I always longed to learn my grandmother’s recipe, so that I could make it on my own even after my visit was over. But I never asked because it seemed like such a difficult process.
For the bibimbap dish (which in Korean, literally translates to “mixed rice”), I mixed the veggies, meat, and a fried egg that my grandma prepared into my rice before adding the gochujang. The first bite was just as heavenly as I remembered from each yearly visit. With this bite, I made a promise to myself. This will be the year I finally learn Halmoni’s gochujang recipe. It doesn’t matter how difficult it will be, the end result will be worth it. I savored each spoonful of my meal, knowing that I would soon be able to make food this delicious at my house.
The very next day, I was determined to be on the side of the kitchen where food was made, not eaten. I pulled an apron on and handed another to my grandmother. Then Halmoni showed me how to start the process—firstly, straining the barley in warm water, then mixing in the sweet rice flour, and finally, cooking it on the stovetop with low heat. I was so surprised at the smell wafting upwards from the cooking mixture on the stove. It didn’t smell spicy like I had imagined. Instead, it smelled faintly sweet and salty, like caramel. “Is this all there is to making gochujang?!” I asked my grandmother, shocked at how easy it was.
“Almost. This will finish cooking in an hour and 45 minutes, but we need to keep a constant watch on the sauce to ensure it’s hot enough, but not so hot that it burns.” She gestured to the mixture on the stovetop. As she taught me how to make gochujang, I could clearly see the shine in her eyes. She was so passionate about cooking and the different sensories it evoked, whether it was the array of colors in the ingredients, or the different smells they created when blended together and cooked. I could feel the excitement rubbing off on me as well! My interest for her recipes continued to grow, and I started to ask questions about other recipes she made.
Before we knew it, an hour and 45 minutes had passed. We added the final ingredients: gochugaru and a dash of Korean sea salt. The mixture turned from a sandy, straw color to the bright, deep maroon red that I was used to seeing. The caramel smell faded too and was replaced by a sharp, spicy smell. Halmoni and I got chopsticks and carefully tasted our work. I closed my eyes, savoring the way my tongue burned from the spiciness. I could taste an underlying note of something sweet, like caramel. I smiled, finally knowing where the sweet taste came from. My eyes met with my grandmother’s, and we each shared this moment of pride and passion for the food we had created. I was surprised at this deep connection we had gained from making a single recipe—I felt closer to my grandmother than ever before. She mainly spoke Korean and I mainly spoke English, so it was difficult to talk with her. But we found a way of connecting that did not involve words. We communicated through our excitement from making this recipe, from creating something delicious from nothing. I knew this recipe wouldn’t be the only thing I would take home. I would also have new memories with my Halmoni to cherish and remember always.