Chocolate Chip Banana Bread

Thirty years. May 15, 2023. Thirty years since David and Karen Park flew to Seoul and brought home a five-month-old baby in a yellow onesie. Thirty years since I became Stephanie Grace Park. Thirty years since I stopped being Baby Girl #4719 and started being someone's daughter.

I did not plan to do anything special. I am not the kind of person who marks this anniversary with ritual or ceremony — it's not a birthday, not an accomplishment, more like a pivot point, the hinge on which my entire life swings. But David called on Monday morning and said, "Thirty years, kid. Your mother and I want to take you to dinner." Karen got on the phone and said, "We're going to Canlis." Canlis. The fancy restaurant on the hill overlooking Lake Union where David and Karen go for anniversaries and significant events and absolutely nothing else because David finds the parking stressful. Karen said, "This is significant. Thirty years of you. We're celebrating."

We went Thursday. David wore a tie. Karen wore the blue cardigan she wears to everything nice. Her hands shook on the menu. David ordered for her — not because she couldn't, but because he knows what she likes and it was easier, and Karen has reached the stage of the disease where she chooses her battles and the battle of holding a heavy menu is not one she chooses. We ate. We talked. We did not talk about the adoption, exactly — we talked around it, through it, in the way our family has always navigated big emotions: by approaching them sideways, through stories, through jokes, through the safe medium of food.

Over dessert David said, "I want to tell you something, Steph. Your mother and I — we didn't know what we were doing. We read the books. We went to the seminars. We talked to other adoptive parents. But nobody told us the things that mattered. Nobody told us to teach you Korean. Nobody told us to cook Korean food. Nobody told us you'd need to see yourself in the world." He paused. "I'm sorry we didn't know." I reached across the table and held his hand. I said, "Dad. You gave me everything you had. And then I went and found the rest. That's okay. That's how it works." Karen was crying quietly, her head down, her napkin in her lap. I said, "Mom. It's okay." She looked up and said, "I know it's okay. I'm crying because it's okay. I'm crying because you forgave us and we didn't earn it." I said, "You earned it. You earned it thirty years ago in an airport in Seoul."

James waited up for me. I came home and told him everything. He listened. He said, "That sounds like it was exactly right." It was exactly right. The dinner was exactly right. The timing was exactly right. Thirty years is enough time to stop being angry, to stop performing gratitude, to arrive at something honest: my parents were imperfect and my life was good and both things are true and I am the product of both things and I am okay. I am more than okay. I am a woman who knows where she comes from — two places, two mothers, one kitchen — and I am building something new from all of it.

Jisoo and I talked on Wednesday. I told her about the anniversary. She was quiet. Then she said, "Thirty years ago I gave you away and Karen received you and that is the saddest and best thing that has ever happened in my life." I said, "Umma." She said, "I am grateful to Karen. Tell her I am grateful." I said, "She knows. She has always known."

The recipe this week is doenjang jjigae, because it is always doenjang jjigae on the weeks that matter most. The stew that cracked me open in college. The stew I have made every week for six years. The stew that tastes like Korea and like home and like the thing I was searching for before I knew I was searching. Soybean paste. Tofu. Zucchini. Onion. Garlic. Anchovy stock. Gochugaru. Simmer until the apartment smells like belonging. Eat. Exist. Continue.

I came home from that dinner and told James everything, and then I could not sleep — not because anything was wrong, but because everything was so exactly right that my body did not know what to do with it. So I did what I always do when I need to let something settle: I went to the kitchen. The bananas on the counter had been waiting three days. I made this bread at midnight, with the lights low and the windows fogged, and I stood at the counter eating a warm slice at 1 a.m. thinking: thirty years, and I am here, and it is enough. This is the recipe for those nights — the ones that are too full to sleep through, the ones that need something warm and made by hand before they can be put to rest.

Prep Time: 10 minutes | Cook Time: 60 minutes | Total Time: 1 hour 10 minutes | Servings: 10 slices

Ingredients

3 very ripe bananas, mashed (about 1 1/2 cups)
1/3 cup unsalted butter, melted
3/4 cup granulated sugar
1 large egg, beaten
1 teaspoon pure vanilla extract
1 teaspoon baking soda
1/4 teaspoon fine salt
1 1/2 cups all-purpose flour
3/4 cup semi-sweet chocolate chips, plus extra for topping

Instructions

Preheat oven. Heat oven to 350°F (175°C). Grease a 9x5-inch loaf pan with butter or non-stick spray and set aside.
Mash the bananas. In a large mixing bowl, mash the ripe bananas thoroughly with a fork until only small lumps remain. The riper the bananas, the sweeter and more flavorful your bread will be.
Combine wet ingredients. Stir the melted butter into the mashed bananas until combined. Mix in the sugar, beaten egg, and vanilla extract until smooth.
Add leavening. Sprinkle the baking soda and salt over the batter and stir to incorporate evenly.
Fold in flour. Add the flour and gently fold until just combined — do not overmix or the bread will be dense. A few streaks of flour are fine.
Add chocolate chips. Fold in 3/4 cup of the chocolate chips, reserving a small handful to scatter across the top of the loaf before baking.
Bake. Pour the batter into the prepared loaf pan and smooth the top. Scatter the remaining chocolate chips over the surface. Bake for 55–65 minutes, until a toothpick inserted in the center comes out clean or with just a few moist crumbs. Tent loosely with foil after 40 minutes if the top is browning too quickly.
Cool before slicing. Let the bread cool in the pan for 10 minutes, then turn out onto a wire rack. Allow to cool for at least 20 minutes before slicing — though eating a warm slice straight from the pan at midnight is entirely acceptable.

Nutrition (per serving)

Chocolate Chip Banana Bread — The Recipe I Made When I Finally Came Home to Myself