By The advanced kimchi class with Misook. Three hours in a commercial kitchen in the ID, surrounded by ten students — most Korean-American, two white, one Japanese — learning to make three types of kimchi I'd never attempted. Misook is in her sixties, compact and energetic, with the no-nonsense authority of a woman who has been making kimchi since before any of us were born. She doesn't measure. She doesn't use recipes. She picks up ingredients and adds them by feel, the way a jazz musician plays by ear, and when a student asked, "How much gochugaru?" she said, "Enough," and everyone laughed but she wasn't entirely joking.
Kkakdugi: cubed radish kimchi. The radish is Korean mu — large, white, dense — cut into cubes and salted, then dressed in a paste of gochugaru, fish sauce, garlic, ginger, and salted shrimp. The cubes are satisfying to handle — chunky and firm — and the finished kkakdugi is crunchy and spicy and the perfect banchan for rice and soup. Misook's technique for the paste was different from Maangchi's — she added saeujeot (salted shrimp) rather than fish sauce, arguing that saeujeot gives a deeper umami. I tasted the difference. She's right.
Chonggak kimchi: made with small, whole ponytail radishes — cute, stubby radishes with their green tops still attached. The preparation is similar to regular kimchi but the proportions differ because the radishes are milder than napa cabbage. Misook demonstrated the technique of splitting each radish halfway, rubbing paste into the split, and tying the greens around the radish to hold it together. The finished chonggak looks like a collection of tiny red bundles. I made twelve. They're fermenting on my counter now, adding to the onggi collection that is slowly taking over my kitchen.
Baechu geotjeori: fresh kimchi salad, meant to be eaten immediately, no fermentation. Napa cabbage dressed in the same gochugaru paste but eaten raw and fresh, crunchy and spicy, more salad than kimchi. Misook said geotjeori is what Korean mothers make when they don't have time for proper kimchi — a quick fix, a fresh version, the instant gratification cousin of the slow-fermented original. I loved it. The freshness was a contrast to my usual aged kimchi, bright and sharp rather than sour and deep.
During the class, I stood next to a Korean-American woman named Grace who was about my age. We started talking while salting radishes. She asked where I learned to make kimchi and I said YouTube. She laughed and said, "Same." She's not adopted — she grew up in a Korean household — but her parents' kimchi "wasn't that great" and she wanted to learn properly. We exchanged numbers. Another Korean connection. Another brick in the wall. The community Dr. Yoon prescribed is building itself, one cooking class and one Korean café conversation at a time.
I came home with containers of three new kimchi varieties and the satisfied exhaustion of someone who has been handling chili paste for three hours. My hands were red again. The redness is becoming a badge. When Sujin sees my hands and says, "Kimchi hands!" it's a greeting, a recognition, a welcome into the club of Korean women who make kimchi with their bare hands and wear the evidence on their skin.
Saturday dinner at Bellevue: Karen's baked ziti. I brought kkakdugi — the radish kimchi. David tried a cube and his eyes widened — the crunch, the spice, the difference from the napa cabbage kimchi he's gotten used to. "There's more than one kind?" he asked. I said, "Dad, there are hundreds of kinds of kimchi." His expression was priceless — the look of a man who thought he'd reached the summit only to discover the mountain keeps going. The mountain keeps going, Dad. And I'm climbing.
Bringing the kkakdugi to Karen’s dinner table and watching my dad’s expression when he realized kimchi wasn’t just one thing — that moment reminded me how much a side dish can say. Not every table has an onggi crock fermenting on the counter, but everyone deserves something crunchy, flavorful, and a little surprising alongside their main. This oven roasted cauliflower with a golden crunchy topping is the dish I’ve been reaching for when I want to bring that same energy — something humble that earns a second look — to a shared meal.
Oven Roasted Cauliflower with Crunchy Topping
Prep Time: 10 minutes | Cook Time: 30 minutes | Total Time: 40 minutes | Servings: 4
Ingredients
- 1 large head cauliflower, cut into bite-sized florets
- 3 tablespoons olive oil, divided
- 3/4 teaspoon kosher salt
- 1/2 teaspoon black pepper
- 3 cloves garlic, minced
- 1/2 cup panko breadcrumbs
- 1/3 cup finely grated Parmesan cheese
- 1 teaspoon fresh thyme leaves (or 1/2 teaspoon dried)
- 1/2 teaspoon smoked paprika
- 2 tablespoons fresh flat-leaf parsley, chopped, for garnish
- 1 lemon, cut into wedges, for serving
Instructions
- Preheat and prep. Preheat your oven to 425°F. Line a large rimmed baking sheet with parchment paper and set aside.
- Season the cauliflower. In a large bowl, toss the cauliflower florets with 2 tablespoons of olive oil, salt, pepper, and minced garlic until evenly coated. Spread in a single layer on the prepared baking sheet, making sure the florets aren’t crowded.
- Make the crunchy topping. In a small bowl, combine the panko breadcrumbs, Parmesan, thyme, and smoked paprika. Drizzle in the remaining 1 tablespoon of olive oil and toss with a fork until the mixture resembles coarse, damp sand.
- Roast the cauliflower. Roast the cauliflower in the preheated oven for 18 minutes, until the edges begin to brown and the florets are just tender when pierced with a fork.
- Add the topping and finish roasting. Remove the pan from the oven and sprinkle the breadcrumb mixture evenly over the cauliflower. Return to the oven and roast for an additional 10 to 12 minutes, until the topping is deep golden and crisp.
- Garnish and serve. Transfer to a serving platter, scatter fresh parsley over the top, and serve immediately with lemon wedges on the side for squeezing.
Nutrition (per serving)
Calories: 185 | Protein: 7g | Fat: 11g | Carbs: 17g | Fiber: 4g | Sodium: 420mg