Antipasto Platter

One week until the anniversary. March 28, 2017 will mark one year since I started this project — this unnamed, ongoing, increasingly consuming project of learning to be Korean through food. I'm not planning a celebration. The project doesn't have a finish line. But the milestone matters. One year of kimchi. One year of therapy. One year of Dr. Yoon and H Mart and Maangchi and metal chopsticks and the slow, stubborn accumulation of a cultural identity that should have been given to me at birth and wasn't.

This week I made everything. Not literally everything, but I made a full Korean meal — the kind that a Korean family would serve on a special occasion. Rice (of course). Kimchi jjigae (the master dish, the one I've perfected over dozens of iterations). Bulgogi (marinated overnight, seared hot and fast). Japchae (glass noodles, vegetables, the sweet-savory sesame sauce). Hobakjeon (pan-fried zucchini). Bean sprout namul. Kimchi (my own, three weeks aged). Myeolchi bokkeum (stir-fried anchovies). And tteokguk, because why not, because I can, because a year ago I couldn't make rice and now I can make eight dishes in one afternoon and serve them on Korean ceramic dishes with metal chopsticks and it's not a performance anymore, it's just dinner.

I invited Sujin and Tom. And Daniel, from the Korean class. And Jenny, from work, who has been wanting to try Korean home cooking. Four guests. The most people I've had in my condo at once. I bought a folding table because my desk isn't big enough, and I set it up in the living room and covered it with dishes, and when the guests arrived and saw the table — the colors, the steam, the spread — Sujin said, "이거 진짜 한식이다!" (This is real Korean food!) and the sentence, spoken in Korean by a Korean woman about my cooking, was the best review I have ever received or will ever receive. Better than "exceeds expectations." Better than anything. 진짜 한식. Real Korean food. Made by me.

We ate for two hours. Everyone tried everything. Daniel and I had a moment over the kimchi — he tasted it and looked at me and said, "This is better than mine," and I said, "Liar," and he said, "No, seriously, what's your fermentation time?" and we got into a twenty-minute discussion about kimchi fermentation that the non-adoptees found adorable and we found essential. Jenny asked me to teach her how to make japchae. Tom asked for seconds of everything. Sujin ate quietly, nodding, the way Korean people nod when food is good — not effusive, just steady acknowledgment. Yes. This is right. This is food.

After everyone left, I sat in my kitchen, which was a disaster — every pot and pan used, the cutting board stained, the stovetop splattered — and felt full. Not just from the food. Full of something larger. Community. Connection. The evidence that the project is working, that the dishes I've learned and the identity I've built can hold other people, can nourish other people, can bring people to a table and keep them there for two hours on a March evening in Seattle. The kitchen was a mess and the apartment smelled like doenjang and sesame and gochugaru, and I was alone again but the alone felt different now. Populated. The chairs were pulled out. The dishes were in the sink. People had been here. People I fed. That's what a kitchen is for. That's what I built this year — not just a repertoire but a table. Not just skills but a place to use them. Not just food but a reason to make it.

One more week until the anniversary. I'm going to make something special. I don't know what yet. Something that captures the year. Something that says: I started. I'm here. I'm Korean. I'm still going.

The thing I keep coming back to, days after that dinner, is the table itself—the way it looked covered in dishes, the way it stopped my guests in the doorway. That moment of abundance, of a full spread laid out for people you care about, is something I want to hold onto and recreate in every form I can. An antipasto platter captures that same spirit: many things, many flavors, arranged together to say you are welcome here, I prepared this for you. It won’t smell like doenjang and gochugaru, but it will do what all good food does—pull people around a table and keep them there.

Prep Time: 20 minutes | Cook Time: 0 minutes | Total Time: 20 minutes | Servings: 8

Ingredients

6 oz thinly sliced prosciutto
6 oz thinly sliced salami or soppressata
4 oz sliced coppa or mortadella
6 oz fresh mozzarella, sliced or in bocconcini form
4 oz provolone, sliced or cubed
1/2 cup marinated olives (mixed green and Kalamata)
1/2 cup marinated artichoke hearts, drained
1/2 cup roasted red peppers, sliced
1/4 cup pepperoncini peppers
1/2 cup cherry tomatoes
3 oz sun-dried tomatoes in oil, drained
1/4 cup Castelvetrano olives
2 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil
1 teaspoon dried Italian herbs (oregano, basil, thyme)
Flaky sea salt and freshly cracked black pepper, to taste
Sliced crusty bread or crackers, for serving
Fresh basil leaves, for garnish

Instructions

Prepare your board. Choose a large wooden board, slate slab, or wide platter. If using a wooden board, wipe it clean and dry thoroughly before arranging components.
Anchor with cheeses. Place the mozzarella and provolone in two separate areas of the board, spaced apart so they act as visual anchors. Fan or stack slices slightly for an inviting look.
Add the meats. Loosely fold or roll the prosciutto, salami, and coppa into ruffles or rosettes and nestle them between and around the cheeses, filling large gaps on the board.
Fill in with marinated items. Spoon the marinated olives, artichoke hearts, and roasted red peppers into small clusters or individual ramekins placed on the board. This keeps flavors distinct and prevents sogginess.
Tuck in the accents. Scatter cherry tomatoes, sun-dried tomatoes, pepperoncini, and Castelvetrano olives into any remaining open spaces, working toward a full, abundant appearance with no large empty patches.
Dress and season. Drizzle olive oil lightly over the mozzarella and artichoke hearts. Sprinkle dried Italian herbs over the cheeses and a pinch of flaky sea salt and black pepper across the board.
Add bread and garnish. Arrange sliced crusty bread or crackers along the edges of the board. Tuck fresh basil leaves throughout for color and fragrance just before serving.
Serve immediately. Bring the platter to the table at room temperature—remove mozzarella and meats from the refrigerator 15–20 minutes before serving for the best flavor and texture.

Nutrition (per serving)

Antipasto Platter — The Table I Spent a Year Learning to Set