Korean-Style Kimchi Gochujang Chicken Wings — The Dish That Says “I Made This With My Hands”

The week before Christmas. Capitol Hill is dressed in lights — every storefront, every apartment balcony, the trees on Broadway strung with white bulbs that make the rain sparkle. I've been walking home from work through the lights, deliberately, slowly, letting the season soak in. This is my first Christmas since starting the Korean cooking journey, and it feels different. The holiday feels less like a performance and more like a celebration. The difference is subtle but real: I'm celebrating from the inside rather than performing from the outside. The Korean food on the table — the japchae, the tteokguk — is not a challenge or a statement. It's just Christmas dinner. My version of it.

I've been prepping all week. The japchae vegetables are cut and ready. The tteokguk broth is made — a double batch of anchovy-kelp stock, clear and golden, cooling in the fridge. The rice cakes are soaking. The kimchi (my latest batch, perfectly aged, four weeks at room temperature then refrigerated) is portioned into a jar for Bellevue and a jar for home. The preparation feels ceremonial — not religious but ritual, the kind of repetitive, intentional work that marks a transition. I am preparing food for my family. That sentence used to mean: I am bringing a Costco pie. Now it means: I am bringing dishes I made with my hands, from recipes I learned myself, from a culture I claimed as my own. The transition is complete, or beginning to be, or in process. It's always in process.

At work, the last day before holiday break. The office had a potluck. I brought kimchi fried rice — a crowd-pleaser, easy to make in bulk, spicy and satisfying. Jenny brought her mother's spring rolls. Priya brought biryani. Derek brought store-bought cookies, because Derek is Derek. The potluck table was a map of the team's cultures: Korean, Chinese, Indian, American-via-Safeway-bakery. I ate everything. The fried rice went fast — people asked for the recipe. I said, "It's just old kimchi and rice and an egg and sesame oil," and they said, "No, it's not just anything," and they were right, it's not. Nothing made with intention is just anything.

Dr. Yoon's last session before the holiday. She asked me how I'm feeling about the year. I said: "Different. Better. More me." She asked what "more me" means. I said, "It means I know things about myself that I didn't know in March. I know I love Korean food. I know I'm angry about things I used to be fine about. I know the gratitude is real but it's not the only thing. I know I'm Korean. I always knew that but now I know it in my body, in my hands, in my kitchen." She smiled. Dr. Yoon rarely smiles — she's too professional for that — but she smiled, and I saw in her face something that looked like pride, and I didn't need her to say it. She said it anyway: "You've done good work this year, Stephanie." I have. I have done good work.

Kevin confirmed he's coming for Christmas. He's driving up on Friday, staying through Sunday. Maria is going to her own family's Christmas in Eugene. Kevin asked what I'm making and I told him about the tteokguk and he said, "Save me some. Actually, save me a lot. I'm hungry." Kevin is always hungry now — hungry for food, hungry for life, hungry in the way that sober people get hungry when they realize the world has flavors they couldn't taste when they were using. I'll save him a lot. I'll save him as much as he wants.

Tonight I made a test batch of tteokguk — one more practice run before the real thing. The broth was perfect: clear, fragrant, deeply savory. The rice cakes were tender. The egg ribbons spiraled through the soup like party decorations. I ate it at my desk, alone, in my lit-up condo, the week before Christmas, and I thought about the woman in Korea who might be eating soup tonight too, and I sent a thought across the Pacific — not a prayer, I don't pray, but something adjacent to prayer, something that travels on a frequency between hope and longing — and the thought was: I'm here. I'm eating. I'm cooking. I'm okay. I hope you're okay too.

But the soup I made that night was quiet food — healing food, the kind you eat alone at a desk sending thoughts across oceans — and what I wanted to bring to Christmas, to Kevin and the table full of people I love who are still here, was something louder. Something with heat and funk and the kind of bold, unapologetic flavor that feels like showing up. These kimchi gochujang wings are that dish: fermented, fiery, a little funky, and completely alive in the way I’m trying to be.

Korean-Style Kimchi Gochujang Chicken Wings

Prep Time: 15 min (plus 1 hr marinating) | Cook Time: 45 min | Total Time: 1 hr 15 min | Servings: 4–6

Ingredients

• 2 lbs chicken wings, tips removed, split at the joint
• 1/2 cup well-aged kimchi, finely chopped (4+ weeks fermented gives the best depth)
• 3 tbsp gochujang (Korean red chili paste)
• 2 tbsp soy sauce
• 1 tbsp sesame oil
• 1 tbsp rice vinegar
• 1 tbsp honey
• 4 cloves garlic, minced
• 1 tsp fresh ginger, finely grated
• 1/2 tsp black pepper
• 1/4 tsp kosher salt
• 2 green onions, thinly sliced, for garnish
• 1 tsp toasted sesame seeds, for garnish

Instructions

1. Make the marinade. In a medium bowl, combine the chopped kimchi, gochujang, soy sauce, sesame oil, rice vinegar, honey, garlic, and ginger. Whisk together until fully incorporated and smooth. Set aside about 1/3 of the marinade in a small bowl for glazing later.
2. Marinate the wings. Pat the chicken wings thoroughly dry with paper towels — this is essential for crispiness. Season lightly with salt and pepper, then toss in the larger portion of marinade until every piece is coated. Cover and refrigerate for at least 1 hour, or overnight for deeper flavor.
3. Prep the oven and rack. When ready to cook, preheat your oven to 425°F. Line a rimmed baking sheet with foil, then set a wire rack on top. Arrange the marinated wings in a single layer with a little space between each one — crowding leads to steaming, not crisping.
4. Bake. Roast for 25 minutes. Flip each wing carefully, then return to the oven for another 15–20 minutes, until the skin is deep golden and the juices run clear (internal temperature should reach 165°F).
5. Glaze and finish. In the last 5 minutes of baking, brush the reserved marinade over the wings for a sticky, lacquered finish. For extra char and caramelization, switch the oven to broil for 2–3 minutes, watching carefully.
6. Garnish and serve. Transfer wings to a platter and scatter sliced green onions and sesame seeds over the top. Serve immediately — these go fast. Nothing made with intention is just anything.

Nutrition (per serving)

Calories: 318 | Protein: 23g | Fat: 18g | Carbs: 13g | Fiber: 1g | Sodium: 672mg