Let me take you back for a moment. It’s 2009, and I’ve just returned from my AYSO soccer practice, tired and hungry like any other first grader. As I walk through the door, a pungent, sour aroma greets me, unmistakable and comforting. I hear the familiar sound of pots and pans rattling in the kitchen as my mom prepares dinner. Even as a child, I could always tell when kimchi jjigae was on the menu. Maybe it was the signature strong aroma of kimchi (which, to this day, I still can’t understand how anyone could dislike), or maybe it was just a gut feeling. As soon as my family gathered around the dining table, 6-year-old me would eagerly shovel spoonfuls of the spicy, steaming soup into my mouth, trying my best to avoid burning my tongue.
But then came middle school, the dreaded tween years. I’d often invite my friends over, and as preteens do, we’d raid the fridge, hoping for something familiar like pasta or frozen chicken nuggets. But instead, the “ewws” and “what’s that smell?” would start flying as soon as they caught a whiff of the pot of kimchi jjigae sitting front and center. For the first time, I felt a pang of shame, a tiny seed of embarrassment about the food I had always loved. Kimchi jjigae, with its unapologetic aroma, was impossible to ignore. It’s no wonder some households double wrap their kimchi to keep the smell contained. While 6-year-old me barely noticed the pungent scent, only associating it with the hearty dish I loved, 12-year-old me started to notice its sour aroma. I began opting for other leftovers in the fridge, foods that betray my Korean roots, to my friends—pasta, sandwiches, even those frozen chicken nuggets. My love for kimchi jjigae didn’t disappear, but it became something I enjoyed in secret, away from the prying noses of others.
Fast forward to college, where things changed once again. Away from home and surrounded by people from all walks of life, I began to get a better grip on my identity. I discovered a newfound appreciation for cooking, and with it, a deeper connection to my culture. It’s funny how the two are so undeniably intertwined. The smell of kimchi, once a source of embarrassment, became something I sought out. It reminded me of home, of family, of who I was. Kimchi jjigae, with its bold and assertive aroma, was no longer something to hide—it was something to embrace.
Now, as an adult, I’ve developed a deep passion for cooking. In the midst of a busy schedule filled with work and school, it’s rare that I find time to cook a proper meal. But when I do, I often turn to kimchi jjigae. It’s a dish that’s always within reach—most of the ingredients are already in my fridge or freezer—and it’s the ultimate comfort food, something I constantly crave.
When I first started cooking, I did what most people do: I turned to the Internet. And sure, I made some decent bowls of kimchi jjigae following those cookie-cutter recipes, but something was missing. They didn’t evoke the same emotion, that deep sense of connection and nostalgia that food should bring. Dramatic? Maybe. But food just tastes better when it’s tied to memories. I needed my mom’s recipe.
After several back-and-forth texts with her, I finally recreated that hearty, nostalgic bowl of kimchi jjigae I’d been longing for. And now, how selfish would it be to keep this recipe to myself? So, without further ado, here is my mom’s kimchi jjigae recipe, passed down to me and now shared with you:
Note: serves 1
Ingredients:
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1 1/2 cups of anchovy stock (boiled water with Korean anchovies)
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1/2 an onion
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1 cup of kimchi
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~100 grams of samgyopsal
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1/2 tofu pack
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1 tablespoon soy sauce
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1 tablespoon sesame oil
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gochugaru, sugar, salt (all to taste but i usually use around 1 teaspoon each)
Recipe:
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Prepare the anchovy stock:
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If you haven’t made it yet, start by preparing the anchovy stock. Boil a handful of dried Korean anchovies in 2 cups of water for about 10 minutes. Once it’s done, strain the anchovies out, leaving the stock clear. You’ll need about 1 ½ cups of this stock for the stew.
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Saute the sampgyopsal:
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Heat a medium-sized pot over medium heat and add the samgyopsal (pork belly). Let the fat render out, and saute until the pork starts to brown and get crispy around the edges, about 4-5 minutes.
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Add the kimchi and onions:
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Season the base:
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Stir in the soy sauce, sesame oil, gochugaru, and sugar. Mix everything well to coat the ingredients with seasoning. Let it all cook for another 2 minutes to infuse the flavors.
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Add anchovy stock:
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Pour in the 1 ½ cups of anchovy stock, stirring to combine. Bring the mixture to a boil, then reduce to a simmer. Let it cook for 10-15 minutes, allowing the flavors to meld together and the kimchi to break down.
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Add tofu:
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Adjust seasoning:
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Serve:
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Once everything is well combined and flavorful, remove the pot from the heat. Serve hot with steamed rice and enjoy the hearty, spicy flavors of your homemade kimchi jjigae!
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