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We have a rickety, plastic stool that I climb on when my mother makes kimchee.

I lean against the counter as she washes the large pieces of Napa Cabbage, breaking them into smaller pieces. She massages them in her yellow kitchen gloves, cleaning off the dirt, or the larvae of insects that have been tucked within the vegetable�s folds.

She throws the pieces into a large tub, a washed-out blue one that my sisters and I filled up in the driveway once when my mother wasn�t looking. We dragged the garden hose across the lawn and filled the container to the top, jumping in and sticking our faces underwater to see who could hold their breath underwater the longest.

Now my mother sets the tub on the floor as I climb down from my stool and sit on the floor beside her. She pours copious amounts of salt and garlic over the mound of cabbage, rubbing it in with her gloves, making squeaking sounds. She then adds the red pepper, telling me to move back, so it doesn�t waft up and sting my eyes. Suddenly my nose is cleared with the scent of something strange: tart and bitter, yet familiar.

She covers the tub up with an overturned pan and we let it sit for a few days- to let it pickle. When it is finally ready, she places the pieces in glass jars and stores them in the refrigerator.

Later on that evening, with white rice and buckwheat noodles, she eats the pickled cabbage. I watch the delicate dance of her chopsticks as I stab a strand of green bean with my fork. She offers some to me but I crinkle my nose, disgusted.