Breaded Pork Chops

The question. I asked the question on Thursday evening, after dinner, after Jun-ho had gone to bed, after Jisoo and I were alone in the kitchen washing dishes the way we do every night — she washes, I dry, we talk in our halting mix of Korean and English about things that matter and things that don't, and the distinction between what matters and what doesn't gets blurrier every visit.

I said, "Umma. I want to ask you something." She turned off the faucet. She looked at me. She knew — I could see in her face that she knew something important was coming, the way mothers know, the way the body knows before the words arrive. I said, "Will you name the baby?" She set down the sponge. She put both hands on the counter. She was very still for a long time. Then she said, in Korean, slowly, "You want me to name your child?" I said, "Yes." She said, "Dahee. I could not name you. They did not let me name you. They took you and gave you to someone else and someone else named you." I said, "I know." She said, "And now you want me to name your baby." I said, "Yes. I want you to name my baby because you should have named me and you couldn't and this is the thing I can give you that nobody else can give you. Name the baby. Name your grandchild. Give them the name you would have given me."

Jisoo sat down at the kitchen table. She put her head in her hands. She cried for ten minutes. I sat beside her. I did not touch her. I let her cry. The crying was not sadness — or not only sadness. It was the sound of a wound healing, the sound of something that was taken being returned, the sound of thirty years of silence being answered with a single question: will you name the baby?

When she stopped crying she looked at me and said, "I will think about the name. I will choose carefully. I will choose a name that means what I want to say to your child." I said, "What do you want to say?" She said, "I want to say: you are the first. You are the one who was given back. You are the proof that love does not end when it is separated."

I flew home on Sunday. Fourteen hours in the air. I slept and dreamed of kitchens. James picked me up at Sea-Tac. He saw my face. He said, "Something happened." I said, "I asked Jisoo to name the baby." He was quiet for a long time. Then he said, "That is the most beautiful thing you have ever done." He drove us home. The house smelled like his beef noodle soup — he had made it while I was flying, timing it so it would be ready when I walked through the door. I ate a bowl at 11 PM. I was home. Both homes — the one I came from and the one I live in — were inside me at once.

The recipe this week is Jisoo's mandu — Korean dumplings — which she taught me to make on my last day in Busan. Ground pork, tofu (pressed dry), kimchi (chopped fine), glass noodles (soaked and chopped), garlic, ginger, soy sauce, sesame oil, scallions. Mix the filling with your hands. Wrap in round dumpling skins — pleat the edges, press to seal. Steam or pan-fry. Eat with a dipping sauce of soy sauce, rice vinegar, and chili flakes. The pleating takes practice. Jisoo's pleats are perfect. Mine are acceptable. The baby's pleats, when the baby is old enough, will be messy. The mandu will still be good. The mandu will be a lesson: perfection is nice; presence is better.

I came home from Busan with Jisoo’s mandu recipe folded in my notebook and something larger folded inside my chest — something I am still finding words for. James had made soup while I was in the air, and that act of care, of timing warmth to meet my arrival, reminded me that food is how we say the things that don’t fit in language. In the days after I landed, when I needed to cook but couldn’t yet bring myself to attempt Jisoo’s pleats alone in my own kitchen, I came back to this: breaded pork chops, golden and steady, the kind of recipe that asks your hands to stay busy and lets your mind be still. Pork was already in my bones from that last afternoon in Busan. This was my way of holding onto it.

Prep Time: 15 min | Cook Time: 20 min | Total Time: 35 min | Servings: 4

Ingredients

4 bone-in pork chops, about 3/4 inch thick
1 cup plain breadcrumbs
1/2 cup all-purpose flour
2 large eggs, beaten
1 teaspoon garlic powder
1 teaspoon onion powder
1/2 teaspoon smoked paprika
1 teaspoon kosher salt, plus more to taste
1/2 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper
3 tablespoons neutral oil (vegetable or canola)

Instructions

Season the chops. Pat pork chops dry with paper towels. Season both sides generously with salt and pepper. Let rest at room temperature for 10 minutes while you set up your breading station.
Set up the dredge. Place flour in a shallow bowl. Beat eggs in a second shallow bowl. In a third bowl, combine breadcrumbs, garlic powder, onion powder, and paprika; stir to mix evenly.
Bread each chop. Working one at a time, dredge a pork chop in flour and shake off the excess. Dip it in the beaten egg, letting the excess drip off. Press it firmly into the breadcrumb mixture, coating both sides completely. Set on a plate and repeat with remaining chops.
Heat the pan. Warm oil in a large heavy skillet (cast iron works well) over medium-high heat until shimmering but not smoking, about 2 minutes.
Pan-fry. Add chops in a single layer — do not crowd the pan; cook in batches if needed. Fry without moving for 4 to 5 minutes, until the underside is deep golden brown. Flip and cook another 4 to 5 minutes, until the second side is equally golden and the internal temperature reads 145°F on an instant-read thermometer.
Rest and serve. Transfer chops to a wire rack or paper-towel-lined plate. Let rest 3 to 5 minutes before serving. The crust will stay crisp. Serve with a simple green salad or roasted vegetables alongside.

Nutrition (per serving)

Breaded Pork Chops — What We Make When We Are Learning to Be Whole