Egg Foo Young — Something Asian, Something Yours

I didn't call Dr. Yoon on Monday. I looked at the Post-it and picked up my phone and put it back down. I did this three times. The compliance engine in my brain — the one that says be fine, be grateful, don't make a fuss — was running at full capacity, generating a hundred reasons not to call: you're not broken enough for therapy, other people have real problems, you have a job and a condo and parents who love you, what do you have to complain about? The gratitude trap. The thing I don't have a name for yet because I haven't met Dr. Yoon yet because I didn't call.

I called on Thursday. Four days later, but I called. The receptionist was pleasant, asked for my insurance information, and scheduled me for an intake appointment in two weeks — September 13. Two weeks. Fourteen days to prepare for the conversation I've been avoiding for twenty-three years. I hung up and stood in my kitchen and felt — lighter? Terrified? Both. I ate kimchi straight from the jar, which is becoming my emotional regulation mechanism, the way some people smoke cigarettes or bite their nails. I eat kimchi from the jar when I don't know what to feel. The sourness is grounding. The spice is clarifying. The kimchi doesn't care about my feelings. It just is what it is — fermented cabbage, ancient and indifferent and exactly what I need.

This week's cooking was comfort-oriented. I made congee — not Korean specifically, but a rice porridge that exists in various forms across Asia, and I made it because I was tired and emotionally wrung out and congee is the easiest thing in the world: rice, water, time. I added ginger and scallions and a soft-boiled egg and ate it on the couch at 8 PM on a Wednesday and felt nourished in the way that only simple food can nourish — not impressed, not challenged, just held. Food as a hug. That's what congee is.

I also made jeon — Korean savory pancakes — using a recipe from the cookbook Karen gave me. Scallion jeon (pajeon): scallions held together by a thin batter, pan-fried until crispy on the outside and soft and scallion-sweet on the inside. The pancakes are served with a dipping sauce of soy sauce and vinegar and sesame seeds, and eating them — crunchy, dipped, umami-rich — felt like eating in a Korean home. Not my home. A home. The idea of a Korean home that I've been constructing from recipes and YouTube videos and imagination, a place where someone makes pajeon on a rainy evening and the kitchen is warm and the family gathers and everyone eats with chopsticks, which I still can't use properly but I'm practicing, every meal now, because chopstick proficiency feels like a skill I should have and the fact that I don't is one of the smaller but more persistent embarrassments of being a Korean person raised by white people who eat with forks.

Saturday in Bellevue: Karen made her beef stew. Hearty, thick, the American counterpart to Korean jjigae — same concept (protein, vegetables, broth, warmth) but executed with different ingredients and different values. American beef stew values heartiness, thickness, the feeling of being full. Korean jjigae values depth of flavor, fermentation, the complexity that comes from aged ingredients. I love both. I need both. The beef stew is where I come from (raised). The jjigae is where I come from (born). The dining table holds both because it has to, because I have to, because there is no version of my life where I choose one and abandon the other.

I told Karen I made an appointment with a therapist. She was quiet for a moment — that Karen pause that I've learned to wait through — and then said, "That's a good idea, honey. Is everything okay?" I said, "Everything is okay. I just want to talk to someone about the adoption stuff." She nodded. Her eyes were bright. She didn't cry. I didn't cry. We ate beef stew and talked about David's golf game and Kevin's coffee job and the weather in Bellevue, and the therapy appointment sat between us like a small, important object that we both acknowledged and neither needed to pick up again.

Two weeks until Dr. Yoon. I'm going to cook a lot between now and then. Cooking is the bridge between the self I am and the self I'm becoming, and I need the bridge to be sturdy for the crossing.

So I made egg foo young. I wanted something that felt like both worlds at once — a dish that is wholly American-Chinese, that exists because of collision and adaptation and people making something new out of what they had — and that’s exactly where I am right now. There’s something grounding about the process too: cracking eggs, folding in the sprouts and scallions, watching the edges set in the pan, making the gravy slowly. Here’s how I made it.

Egg Foo Young

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

Ingredients

• 6 large eggs
• 1 cup bean sprouts
• 1/2 cup scallions (green onions), thinly sliced
• 1/2 cup mushrooms, finely chopped
• 1/2 cup cooked shrimp or pork, roughly chopped (optional)
• 2 tablespoons soy sauce, divided
• 1 teaspoon sesame oil
• 1/4 teaspoon white pepper
• 3 tablespoons neutral oil (vegetable or canola), for frying
• For the gravy:
• 1 cup low-sodium chicken broth
• 2 tablespoons soy sauce
• 1 tablespoon oyster sauce
• 1 teaspoon sesame oil
• 2 tablespoons cornstarch
• 2 tablespoons cold water

Instructions

1. Mix the egg base. In a large bowl, whisk together the eggs, 1 tablespoon soy sauce, sesame oil, and white pepper until well combined. Fold in the bean sprouts, scallions, mushrooms, and protein if using. The mixture should look loose — that’s right.
2. Make the gravy first. In a small saucepan over medium heat, combine the chicken broth, soy sauce, oyster sauce, and sesame oil. Bring to a gentle simmer. In a small bowl, whisk the cornstarch with cold water until smooth, then stir into the simmering broth. Cook, stirring constantly, 2–3 minutes until the gravy is glossy and thick enough to coat a spoon. Remove from heat and keep warm.
3. Pan-fry the omelets. Heat 1 tablespoon of neutral oil in a large non-stick skillet over medium-high heat until shimmering. Ladle about 1/2 cup of the egg mixture into the pan per omelet. Cook undisturbed for 2–3 minutes until the edges are set and the bottom is golden and lacy-crisp. Flip carefully and cook another 1–2 minutes. Transfer to a plate. Repeat with remaining oil and batter, making 4 omelets total.
4. Plate and serve. Arrange the omelets on plates or over steamed white rice. Spoon the warm gravy generously over the top. Garnish with extra scallion slices and a few sesame seeds if you have them. Eat immediately, while the edges are still crisp.

Nutrition (per serving)

Calories: 230 | Protein: 15g | Fat: 15g | Carbs: 9g | Fiber: 1g | Sodium: 710mg