Oatmeal Pancakes

I've been processing the Korea trip through cooking — making Korean dishes with new intention, new knowledge, the taste memory of the originals informing every decision. This week I revisited tteokbokki, which I've made dozens of times but never with the specific sweetness I tasted at the street stalls in Seoul. The secret, I now think, is corn syrup — not sugar, which I've been using, but the specific sticky sweetness of mulyeot (Korean corn syrup), which gives the sauce its glossy, clinging quality. I bought mulyeot at H Mart and made tteokbokki with it, and the difference was immediate: the sauce was glossier, stickier, with a sweetness that was round rather than sharp. One ingredient. One adjustment. The kind of refinement that only happens after you've tasted the original in its native context. Korea was the best cooking class I've ever taken.

At work, the SDE II title is settling in. More responsibility, more visibility, more meetings (so many meetings — the ratio of meetings to actual coding increases exponentially with title, which is the worst-kept secret in tech). I'm leading a pod of four engineers on the personalization team, which means I'm part engineer, part manager, part therapist, part cheerleader. The management part is growing on me, surprisingly. Watching a junior engineer solve a hard problem with a hint rather than a solution — the light that comes on, the "oh!" moment — is satisfying in a way that's different from solving it yourself. It's the same satisfaction I feel teaching Karen to make Korean food: the joy of shared knowledge, the multiplication of competence.

Korean class: Hyunjung asked me to present about my Korea trip entirely in Korean. Ten minutes. I prepared for three days — writing and rewriting, practicing pronunciation, memorizing the key sentences. The presentation was halting and imperfect and grammatically suspect, but I spoke for ten minutes in Korean about eating bindaetteok in Gwangjang Market and crying, about the Busan fish market, about the feeling of being invisible in a country of people who look like you, and the class understood me. They laughed at the right parts and went quiet at the emotional parts and at the end, Hyunjung said, "정말 잘했어요" (You did really well), and Daniel clapped, and I felt — accomplished. In Korean. Accomplished in Korean.

This week I also tried to replicate the Gwangjang Market bindaetteok more faithfully. The key difference from my pre-Korea version: the grind. The halmeoni's mung beans were coarsely ground, not smooth, giving the pancake a textured interior rather than a uniform one. I adjusted my blending — fewer pulses, more texture — and the result was closer. Not there. But closer. The gap narrows. It narrows with every trip, every meal, every iteration. The gap is the work. The gap is the rest of my life.

Saturday: Bellevue. I brought the improved tteokbokki. Karen tried it and said, "These are stickier than last time." She noticed. She noticed the change in corn syrup, the difference in texture, the refinement that Korea taught me. Karen Park notices the details of Korean food now. Two years ago she didn't know what gochugaru was. Now she can detect the difference between sugar-based and mulyeot-based tteokbokki sauce. That's not just my growth. That's hers. We're both learning Korean food. She's just learning it by eating and I'm learning it by making, and the learning meets at the Bellevue dining table every Saturday, and the table is where the culture crosses — from my kitchen to her plate, from my hands to her mouth, from Korea to Bellevue, one sticky rice cake at a time.

The lesson Korea keeps teaching me is that texture is a decision — coarse vs. smooth, sticky vs. glossy — and that the right decision only becomes obvious after you’ve tasted the original in its place. I came home from Gwangjang Market thinking about grind, about pulse counts, about the way a rougher texture carries more flavor and more presence on the tongue. That thinking has spread into everything I cook now, including weekend breakfast. These oatmeal pancakes are where that instinct lives outside the Korean pantry: a batter with real texture, real body, a satisfying nub of rolled oat in every bite — the kind of pancake that rewards the same close attention I’ve been bringing to bindaetteok.

Prep Time: 10 minutes | Cook Time: 20 minutes | Total Time: 30 minutes | Servings: 4 (about 12 pancakes)

Ingredients

1 cup old-fashioned rolled oats
1 cup buttermilk
1/2 cup all-purpose flour
1 tablespoon sugar
1 teaspoon baking powder
1/2 teaspoon baking soda
1/4 teaspoon fine sea salt
1/2 teaspoon cinnamon
2 large eggs
2 tablespoons unsalted butter, melted and slightly cooled
1 teaspoon pure vanilla extract
Neutral oil or butter, for the pan

Instructions

Soak the oats. Combine the rolled oats and buttermilk in a medium bowl. Stir to combine and let soak for at least 5 minutes (up to 15) so the oats soften slightly but retain texture — this is the step that determines your interior. Do not rush it.
Mix the dry ingredients. In a separate bowl, whisk together the flour, sugar, baking powder, baking soda, salt, and cinnamon until evenly combined.
Combine the wet ingredients. Add the eggs, melted butter, and vanilla to the oat-buttermilk mixture and whisk until the eggs are fully incorporated.
Fold together. Add the dry ingredients to the wet mixture and fold gently with a spatula until just combined. The batter will be thick and a little lumpy from the oats — that is correct. Do not overmix or the pancakes will tighten.
Heat the pan. Heat a large skillet or griddle over medium heat. Brush lightly with oil or butter. When a drop of water skips across the surface, the pan is ready.
Cook the pancakes. Scoop about 1/4 cup of batter per pancake onto the pan, gently spreading into a round about 4 inches wide. Cook until bubbles form across the surface and the edges look set, about 2 to 3 minutes. Flip and cook 1 to 2 minutes more, until golden on the second side. Adjust heat as needed between batches.
Serve. Transfer finished pancakes to a warm oven (200°F) while you cook the remaining batter. Serve stacked with maple syrup, fresh fruit, or a pat of butter.

Nutrition (per serving)

Oatmeal Pancakes — The Texture You Can Only Learn by Tasting the Original