Lion dancing, red packets and lanterns – Chinese New Year has had the limelight a little too long. Don’t get me wrong, I’m grateful it catapulted Asian customs into the mainstream, but, just as I imagine Liam once felt, it’s easy to forget there are other Hemsworths out there.
Lunar New Year has become almost synonymous with the Chinese celebration, maybe even Vietnamese Tết for some, but us Koreans mark the occasion just as big. Families near and far converge, ancestors are honoured and food devoured – it truly is the most wonderful time of the year.
As an only child and cousin to dozens, Seollal, or Korean New Year, was the one family gathering I never missed. Sure, there were envelopes brimming with cash and buffet-style banquets, but playing games and chewing the (pork belly) fat with every Kim in Sydney’s inner west until the wee hours of the morning will always remain some of my most treasured memories.
Growing up, the day started early for us kids: being driven around to each relative’s home and wishing everyone a prosperous year with a deep bow, which led to the best part – collecting money from elders afterwards. This is called . It’s a ritual I learned to cherish early on, because I knew that once I entered the workforce, I’d be the one giving out the cash to kids.
When lunchtime came around, tteokguk (rice cake soup) was served and consumed at our most immediate relative’s place. The rice cakes in the soup resembled old Korean coins and therefore wealth, but it was the inimitable taste of my grandma’s cooking that always made me ask for seconds.
It was the inimitable taste of my grandma’s cooking that always made me ask for seconds
A hard-earned meal always warranted a nap. After all, this was merely the intermission. The evening culminated at my aunty’s house where we were greeted with a waft of barbecued meat and insufficient parking space. Shoes of all sizes and colours piled clumsily on top of each other at the door. I quickly scanned for those belonging to my cousins and nephews.
Before the fun began, however, there were festive formalities to deal with. As a Christian family, church and prayers are mandatory before meals. My uncle is the patriarch of our family and happens to be super religious. Dozens of us crammed into his living room, often sitting on armrests or sharing chairs to make a circle for the grand prayer preceding the even grander feast.
Being a stubborn Taurean, I always kept my eyes open during prayers – especially the one at Seollal. As my uncle led the 10-minute long orison naming each ancestor, I caught my cousins’ eyes and leered at the food: mandu (dumplings) so plump they resembled our soon-to-be-bursting bellies; a massive dish of japchae – glistening glass noodles tossed with a colourful medley of vegetables; galbi jjim – the sweetest, softest braised short ribs; and jeon – little egg-and-flour-coated, pan-kissed nuggets of fish and vegetables.
Later, joining the buffet-style queue in the kitchen, I preemptively filled only half my plate – making room for the real party to come. As I got older, I learnt that the fun and alcohol only came out after my uncle and aunty left. Once the coast was clear, we made our way to the living room once more, helping ourselves to more rounds of food and drinks.
