I was born and raised in Poland; hence pickling is deeply rooted in my DNA. No special occasion, no ordinary Tuesday dinner, passes without a jar of pickled cucumbers, marinated mushrooms, or a heaping bowl of sauerkraut on the table. Fermentation isn’t just tradition; it’s instinct.

Few years ago, we went to South Korea as part of our continued explorations in Asia. The country certainly took me by surprise! I had never seen a country so organized, and structured, where all the cities are very well taken care of and amazingly clean. Being used to having elbow fights before entering a subway or a bus, I stood wide-eyed on Seoul’s subway platforms, watching Koreans form perfect, single-file queues on one side of the entrance, waiting calmly as if choreographed. I was in love with this country!

Local cuisine, however, was a bit of a challenge initially as not many menus were in English, and my Korean is limited to a single word. But they are very hospitable and warm nation and there was always someone helping us if in a slightly broken English to choose the right sort of dishes.

Furthermore, as I am pescatarian and do not eat any red meat, local red meat heavy cuisine seemed to rule out a whole lot of dishes for me. While the world certainly knows the Korean cuisine by their famous barbeques, historically Koreans have actually not been as meat oriented as what could be assumed from all the currently popular barbeque meat dishes. High red meat consumption is actually more of a recent phenomenon and Korean cuisine still features a very wide variety of vegetables so in this respect I discovered many a vegetarian or seafood dishes.

There was bibimbap, a vibrant bowl of “mixed rice” topped with seasonal vegetables, a fried egg, and sometimes seafood or tofu, all crowned with a dollop of fiery gochujang. There was soju, the smooth, sociable spirit distilled from rice or sweet potato, sipped in tiny glasses with toasts and laughter. Few bottles from a local kiosk ended up travelling all the way back to Europe. But the true revelation? Kimchi.

Kimchi is more than a side dish. It is a cultural cornerstone, present at nearly every meal, from street stalls to royal banquets. The Kimchi Field Museum in Seoul claims over 180 distinct varieties, each tied to region, season, or family tradition. Moreover, according to “In the Age of SARS, Korean Tout Kimchi Cure” by Mark Magnier (17.06.2003, Los Angeles Times), South Koreans consume almost 18kg of kimchi per person annually. Even for a Pole, it is a lot of fermented cabbage.

The pride in kimchi is palpable. Recipes are heirlooms, passed down like treasured jewelry. The star is napa cabbage (a crisp, mild Chinese cabbage), but the magic lies in the seasoning: brine, scallions, garlic, ginger, radish, chili flakes, and often a splash of fermented fish sauce for depth. The spicier, the better – heat is a badge of honor.

Making kimchi is a ritual. The cabbage is trimmed, quartered, and salted to draw out moisture. While it rests, a ruby-red paste is prepared—garlic, ginger, chili, and fish sauce pounded into a fragrant, fiery blend. Then comes the intimate part: massaging the paste into every leaf, every crevice, with care and rhythm, as if dressing a child for winter. The coated cabbage is packed tightly into a jar, pressed down until the brine rises like a protective blanket. Sealed and stored, it ferments for one to two weeks—transforming from sharp and raw into something tangy, complex, alive.

I will not give you a detailed recipe, but next few notes will give you an idea as to how to make delicious kimchi: The cabbage is cleaned and cut into smaller pieces and set aside in a bit of salt. While it is resting, the abovementioned seasoning is used to prepare a paste. When the paste is ready, it is mixed with the cabbage – it is gentle process, because each part of the cabbage has to be evenly covered by the paste.

After this, the mixture is packed into a jar, pressed down so the brines rise up above the vegetable. Sealed dish is now allowed to go through the fermenting process, which is similar to that of sauerkraut or pickled cucumber preparation. This mixture then has to stay in the locked jar for a week or two before one can then dig into this delicious Korean national dish!

So, do you dare to make it yourself? Roll up your sleeves, embrace the red-stained hands, and let the fermentation begin. When you finally crack open that jar and taste the crisp, fiery, funky crunch… tell me: how does it feel to hold a piece of Korea on your tongue?