Ferment Me, Baby

On Monday night, I went to see Sandor Katz extol the virtues of fermentation. It wasn't really a lecture and it wasn't really a workshop, since his demonstration consisted of stuffing a pile of already-cut, already-salted vegetables into a mason jar and declaring it sauerkraut. But the man really knows his stuff, and he wants you to know it too! I confess that I might have spent most of the lengthy Q-and-A admiring his impressive arrangement of facial hair, which the internet tells me is called a 'Franz Josef,' but that is only because an anthropology major asked him to expound on the intangible connection between human culture and a culture of bacteria. In any case, I just bought his latest book, The Art of Fermentation, and it's really funny to alternate chapters of this with Faulkner, let me tell you.

All this got me to thinking that my store of kimchi was running tragically low.

Kimchi is, to me, one of the most iconic and delicious fermented foods in the world. It takes an innocent cabbage and through the magic of bacteria, transforms it into something deliciously unholy. Most people refer to it as a condiment, but it's the only condiment that I'll eat by the forkful out of the jar. If I had my way it would be a food group. In Korea, any failure of the cabbage crop--and subsequent shortage in kimchi--is deemed by their newspapers to be "a national tragedy." The New York Times reported that the country's top research institutions devoted millions of dollars over several years to develop a version of kimchi that wouldn't explode in space under the influence of cosmic rays. If that's not love, I don't know what is.

The thing about such violently national dishes is that there are a billion different recipes for them, because every family has their own. It's made with everything from cabbage to watermelon rind to octopus. The only essential ingredients common to all of these are salt and hot powdered pepper. The version most familiar to the Western palate, and also my favorite, is the one that includes ginger, garlic, scallions.... 

... and bits of tiny little salted shrimp.

I've been making batches of my own kimchi for a year now, ever since I bought a copy of the Momofuku cookbook, which pulls from whichever international cuisine suits Dave Chang's whim at that moment. His recipe for kimchi was the first I ever made, and thus has become the basis for my experimentations and adaptations. It doesn't really matter what kind of cabbage you use: napa cabbage is more traditional, green cabbage is easy, purple cabbage turns out really pretty. I am fickle and unfaithful to any particular kind, but the aesthete in me enjoys the purple ones. In fact, there are really no hard and fast rules about any of the ingredient amounts in here, but use these ratios as your launchpad and then experiment with what you prefer--maybe more carrots, less ginger, more chile powder (I generally use 3/4 cup, but I also like to kiss fire-breathing dragons), more sugar... it's up to you.

My favorite ways to use kimchi? In fried rice, in omelets, with tofu scrambles, in stirfries, in soup, with a fork, and....in a peanut butter and kimchi sandwich.

Kimchi

yield: 1.5 to 2 quarts

Some tips: you can find the salted whole shrimp and Korean chile powder at a Korean or Asian mart, along with the light soy sauce. You could use regular soy sauce, just be aware that your results may be a little saltier than mine, so adjust accordingly. I recommend buying the smallest jar of salted shrimp you can find, since it'll last even the most avid kimchi maker at least a year, and a pretty large bag of the powder (yes, a bag, not a cute little spice jar), since if you make this more than once you'll thank me later. You can store it in the freezer to retain freshness.

1 small to medium cabbage

2 tbsp coarse sea salt

2 tbsp sugar

Day 1: Quarter the cabbage, first by cutting it in half lengthwise and then cutting those pieces in half again. Slice into 1-inch segments, or smaller if you prefer. In a large bowl, toss the cabbage with the salt and sugar. Cover with a large plate or plastic wrap and let sit overnight in the refrigerator.

20 garlic cloves, cut to your preference

20 slices fresh ginger, minced

1/2 cup kochukaru (Korean chile powder)

1/4 cup fish sauce

1/4 cup usukuchi (light soy sauce)

2 tsp jarred salted shrimp

1/2 cup 1-inch pieces scallions (greens and whites)

1/2 cup julienned carrots

Either the next day or the day after.

1. In a large bowl, combine all the ingredients except the scallions and carrots. The brine should be electric red and of a consistency somewhere between sludge and creamy salad dressing. If it's too thick, adjust with water, adding 1/3 cup at a time. Stir in the scallions and carrots.

2. Drain the cabbage and mix it with the brine (in whichever bowl is largest). You'll probably want to use your hands and you probably won't want to wear a white shirt, unless you want to look like you've slaughtered a field of hot peppers and they've bled all over you.

3. Stuff the kimchi into quart-size mason jars, trying to resist the urge to lick your fingers. Leave a little room at the top for all the fizzy gasses that will result.

You can eat the kimchi right away, in which case it's known as geotjeoli or salad-kimchi, because no fermentation has taken place yet. But better kimchi comes to those who wait. I've found that I get the best results by letting the jars sit out at room temperature for a day or two to accelerate fermentation and get the fizzy spiciness I crave, then refrigerating the jars to slow fermentation and accelerate deliciousness. They'll keep for months, though my willpower is significantly weaker than that.

Really important: make sure that during the first few days of fermentation, you loosen the lid of the jar at least once. Carbon dioxide, a byproduct of fermentation and the cause for that fizziness, will cause the jars (or better-put their lids) to expand. And make sure not to perch the jars on top of anything perilous, like a refrigerator, during the first few days, because during this turbulent period of fermentation, the vegetables are particularly gassy, and the resulting expansion will make the jars really delicate and prone to break. Which means that if you thoughtlessly open the freezer door and your jar of kimchi falls to floor...it will smash into pieces and you'll have kimchi and tears all over you. Don't do that to yourself.