Kung Pao Chicken Spaghetti and Meatballs

Advent has started. I am not religious but I am, this year, paying attention to the idea of waiting in a structured way. Four weeks of anticipation. A rehearsal for the wedding, in a sense. A rehearsal for the first trip to Korea, in another sense. Everything in my life right now is a rehearsal for something else. I am mostly okay with it.

I have been shopping for Jisoo's Christmas gift. This is a fraught exercise. What do you send your birth mother in Busan, for the first Christmas after finding her, in an amount that is enough but not overwhelming, in a style that is yours but also acknowledges that she does not know your style? I settled on a handwritten letter; a photograph I had framed (the kimchi photo, my hands in the paste, which she had loved); a jar of my best kimchi, which I am going to ship via the agency's diplomatic-ish mail route; and a pair of handmade ceramic bowls I bought at a Seattle potter's studio. The bowls are small. She can eat rice out of them. They are the color of a Seattle evening — gray-blue, with a pale gold rim. I wrote in the card: "Two bowls. One for you, one for me, at the same table someday."

I am also shopping for Eunji and Jihoon. Books, small ones. Eunji liked the idea of a Seattle cookbook. Jihoon asked if I could send him a real baseball cap from a Seattle team — the Mariners. I am sending him a Mariners cap. It is the lowest-effort gift and somehow the most specific. I like that he asked for something I can actually deliver.

Shopping for Ming and Wei-Chen: tea from a Seattle tea shop. James's suggestion. Correct.

Shopping for Karen and David: a digital photo frame preloaded with a thousand photos from my phone. I spent four hours on Sunday curating the photos. It was exhausting. It was also a way of telling the story of our family to ourselves. I included the photo Karen took of me and her crying on July 18th, the day I told them about Jisoo. That photo has earned a place in the archive.

Shopping for Kevin and Lisa: coffee equipment (James is helping) and a houseplant (my contribution, because Lisa mentioned she was trying to keep one alive and it was dying). The houseplant is a prayer plant. Lisa will love it. She told me at Thanksgiving she wanted a prayer plant. I was listening.

Work: light. The office is wound down. I coded more this week than I have coded in two months. I had fun. I fixed a bug in a utility library that had been annoying me for a year. I felt like a software engineer again for three days. Then I had another meeting.

Dr. Yoon on Monday: I brought up the career question. I told her I was beginning to think about leaving Amazon. Not now. Someday. She said, "What would you do?" I said, "I don't know. Cook?" She did not laugh. She looked at me with what I have learned is her interested-not-judging face. She said, "Tell me more about cook." I said I had been thinking about something like a Korean meal-kit service. Bilingual recipe cards. A small company. A way for Korean-Americans and people like me to cook their way into a culture they had been separated from. She said, "That is an idea with a heartbeat." I said, "It's vague." She said, "Ideas are allowed to be vague when they're this new." She said I should tell James. I told James Friday night. He said, "Oh. Oh. That's interesting. That's really interesting." He did not dismiss it. He did not romanticize it. He said, "Let's think about that." I am thinking about it. I am letting it stay vague. I am letting it have a heartbeat.

The recipe this week is tteokbokki — spicy rice cakes. Chewy cylinders in a gochujang-soy sauce with fish cake and green onion. Street food. Cheap. Comforting. The dish I ate on my first trip to the ID in college and did not know why I cried. I made it Saturday because I was feeling soft and wanted something sharp. Gochujang, soy, sugar, gochugaru, anchovy stock. Rice cakes. Fish cake. Scallion. Twenty minutes. Done.

Tteokbokki was what I actually made on Saturday, but the hunger behind it — that need for something sharp and hot to cut through a week of softness and waiting — is a feeling I come back to constantly in the kitchen. This Kung Pao Chicken Spaghetti and Meatballs lives in that same emotional register: the heat of dried chilies and chili paste, the sticky-salty sauce, the chew and comfort of something carb-forward and loud. It is not Korean street food. But it is the same emotional logic — when Advent makes everything feel slow and anticipatory and a little tender, sometimes you need dinner to be the one thing in your life that is direct.

Prep Time: 20 min | Cook Time: 25 min | Total Time: 45 min | Servings: 4

Ingredients

For the meatballs:
1 lb ground chicken
1/4 cup plain breadcrumbs
1 large egg
3 cloves garlic, minced (divided)
1 tsp fresh ginger, grated
2 tbsp soy sauce (divided)
1/4 tsp white pepper
1 tbsp vegetable oil, for searing
For the Kung Pao sauce:
3 tbsp soy sauce
2 tbsp hoisin sauce
1 tbsp rice vinegar
1 tbsp sambal oelek or chili paste
1 tbsp sugar
1 tsp sesame oil
1 tbsp cornstarch whisked with 2 tbsp cold water
1/2 cup low-sodium chicken broth
For the pasta:
8 oz spaghetti
5–6 dried red chilies
3 green onions, thinly sliced (whites and greens separated)
1/2 cup roasted unsalted peanuts
1 tbsp vegetable oil
Sesame seeds, to finish

Instructions

Make the meatballs. In a large bowl, combine ground chicken, breadcrumbs, egg, half the garlic, ginger, 1 tbsp soy sauce, and white pepper. Mix until just combined — do not overwork. Roll into 1-inch balls (about 20–22 total).
Sear the meatballs. Heat 1 tbsp vegetable oil in a large skillet over medium-high heat. Working in batches, sear meatballs on all sides until golden brown, about 5–6 minutes total. Transfer to a plate. They do not need to be cooked through yet.
Cook the pasta. Bring a large pot of salted water to a boil. Cook spaghetti to al dente according to package directions. Reserve 1/2 cup pasta water before draining.
Build the sauce. In the same skillet over medium heat, add 1 tbsp vegetable oil. Add dried chilies and the scallion whites; cook 1 minute until fragrant. Add remaining garlic and cook 30 seconds. Whisk together the soy sauce, hoisin, rice vinegar, chili paste, sugar, sesame oil, and broth, then pour into the pan. Bring to a simmer.
Finish the meatballs in the sauce. Return seared meatballs to the skillet. Stir in the cornstarch slurry and simmer over medium-low heat, stirring gently, until the sauce thickens and the meatballs are cooked through, about 6–8 minutes. Add a splash of reserved pasta water if the sauce gets too tight.
Toss and serve. Add drained spaghetti directly to the skillet and toss to coat. Divide among bowls. Top with roasted peanuts, scallion greens, and a sprinkle of sesame seeds. Serve immediately.

Nutrition (per serving)

Kung Pao Chicken Spaghetti and Meatballs — When You Want Something Sharp to Cut Through the Soft