Cinnamon Biscuits

I am writing this from Busan. It is Monday night, June 6. I have been here seven days. I did not post last week because I was in the middle of the meeting-Jisoo week and my hands could not type. I will try to capture these seven days.

Sunday, May 29: we landed. We cleared customs. We walked toward the arrival gate in Gimhae International. James pushed our cart. I walked a little ahead of him, scanning the crowd. I saw Jisoo first. She was holding a small cardboard sign with my name on it — STEPHANIE in English, 다희 (Dahee) in Korean. She was wearing a cream blouse I recognized from photos. Her hair was pulled back. She was small. Smaller than the camera had let her be. I walked faster. I dropped my carry-on. She saw me. We walked toward each other and then we ran. She was crying before we met. I was crying too. We met in the middle of the arrivals hall. I folded down into her. She folded up into me. She held my face in her two hands. She said, in Korean, "Dahee-ya. Uri ddal." My daughter. My daughter. She kissed my forehead. She kissed my cheeks. James stood back with my carry-on and was crying. The Busan travelers streamed around us like water around a rock.

Jun-ho — her husband, my step-father in a sense I have not formalized — was there. He bowed to me. He said, in careful English, "Welcome home." I bowed back. He shook James's hand. He put a hand on my shoulder. He did not say much. He is a quiet man. I liked him immediately.

We drove to the apartment. I cried for most of the drive. Jisoo held my hand in the back seat. She did not speak. She just held on.

Monday: Jisoo cooked. She made doenjang jjigae, japchae, and a small plate of her homemade kimchi. I ate. I ate everything. I cried into the doenjang jjigae because it was what I had been making in Seattle and it was hers, the real hers, in her kitchen, coming out of her pot, and the taste was a version of my own cooking and also the purest version I had ever tasted. I had been rehearsing her cooking for a year from afar. This was the meal she had been waiting to give me for twenty-eight years.

The week blurred after that. I have eaten at least three meals a day in her kitchen. I have gone to the Jagalchi fish market. I have met four of her neighbors. I have been to her church and met her priest, a kind man named Father Kim who said, in English, "God has been listening." I have walked along Haeundae Beach with Jisoo holding my arm. I have cooked with her three times. I have cut kimbap rolls with her. I have rolled mandu at her kitchen counter while she taught James to pinch them correctly. James has been, throughout, a patient, careful, warm presence. Jisoo has started calling him "James-ah" with affection.

I have taken a thousand photos.

I have spoken more Korean than I thought I could. I have been corrected constantly and laughed at affectionately. I have called Jisoo "umma" so many times now that the word is a muscle in my mouth. I will come home with a Korean accent to my English for a week.

The recipe this week, for my readers back home, is Jisoo's doenjang jjigae — the one I have been making for a year from her instructions. I finally ate the original. It has more garlic than mine. It has a touch of gochugaru that she never told me about. It has a small anchovy she adds whole and removes before serving. I have noted all of this. I will update my kitchen in Seattle with her instructions when I return. The recipe is a living document. The recipe continues.

I am not yet back in Seattle — I am writing this from Jisoo’s apartment, with her in the next room — but when I imagine walking back into my own kitchen, jet-lagged and full and changed, I know exactly what I will make first: something warm, something simple, something that asks my hands to work without asking my heart to keep up. These cinnamon biscuits are that recipe for me. They are what I have always made when I needed to feel like someone was taking care of me, even when that someone had to be myself. This week I finally had a mother’s kitchen to sit inside. Next week I will bring that feeling home and bake it into something I already know by heart.

Prep Time: 15 min | Cook Time: 14 min | Total Time: 29 min | Servings: 12

Ingredients

2 cups all-purpose flour
1 tablespoon baking powder
1/2 teaspoon fine salt
2 tablespoons granulated sugar
1 1/2 teaspoons ground cinnamon, divided
1/3 cup cold unsalted butter, cut into small cubes
3/4 cup whole milk
1 teaspoon pure vanilla extract
2 tablespoons unsalted butter, melted
2 tablespoons light brown sugar, packed

Instructions

Preheat. Heat your oven to 425°F (220°C). Line a baking sheet with parchment paper and set aside.
Mix dry ingredients. In a large bowl, whisk together the flour, baking powder, salt, granulated sugar, and 1 teaspoon of the cinnamon until evenly combined.
Cut in butter. Add the cold cubed butter to the flour mixture. Using your fingertips or a pastry cutter, work the butter in until the mixture resembles coarse, pea-sized crumbs with some flat shaggy pieces remaining. Do not overwork.
Add milk. Pour in the milk and vanilla extract. Stir gently with a fork just until a shaggy dough comes together — a few dry streaks are fine. Do not overmix or the biscuits will toughen.
Shape. Turn the dough out onto a lightly floured surface and pat gently to about 3/4-inch thickness. Cut into rounds with a 2 1/2-inch biscuit cutter, or drop by heaping spoonfuls directly onto the prepared baking sheet for a more rustic style.
Add cinnamon topping. In a small bowl, stir together the melted butter, brown sugar, and remaining 1/2 teaspoon cinnamon. Brush generously over the top of each biscuit.
Bake. Bake for 12 to 14 minutes, until the tops are golden and the biscuits have puffed and set. A toothpick inserted in the center should come out clean.
Cool and serve. Let the biscuits rest on the pan for 3 minutes before transferring. Serve warm, as-is or with a little extra butter.

Nutrition (per serving)

Cinnamon Biscuits — The Warmth You Return To