Yeongeun Jorim (Braised Lotus Root)

The waiting begins. GOA'L says the matching process can take weeks, months, or years — there's no timeline because the matching depends on whether a birth family member has also registered, and there's no way to predict when or if they will. The waiting is different from the DNA test waiting — that had a defined timeline (four to six weeks). This waiting is open-ended, indefinite, the kind of waiting that could last a week or a decade or forever. Dr. Yoon says the open-endedness is part of the work: "You can't control the outcome. You can control how you live while you wait." How I live while I wait: I cook. I work. I study Korean. I go to therapy. I go to the adoptee meetup. I visit Bellevue on Saturdays. I exist in the fullness of the life I've built, and the waiting happens inside that fullness, not instead of it.

This week I tried something new: I attended a Korean temple food class. Temple food — sa-chal-eum-sik — is the Buddhist vegetarian cuisine of Korean monks, and it's a world away from the bold, spicy, meat-heavy cooking I've been doing. Temple food is delicate, plant-based, uses no garlic or onion (which are considered stimulating), and emphasizes the natural flavor of each ingredient without masking it with sauce or spice. The class was taught by a Korean Buddhist nun at a temple in Lynnwood, and we made: yeongeun jorim (braised lotus root), baechu kimchi without garlic, tofu seasoned with nothing but sesame oil and salt, and a clear vegetable broth that tasted like patience. The food was quiet. After two years of bold, spicy, loud Korean cooking, the quietness was revelatory. Korean food can whisper. Korean food can be gentle. Korean food can taste like a monastery in the mountains, like meditation, like the sound of no sound. I didn't know this. The cooking keeps showing me new rooms in the same house. The house is bigger than I thought.

At the meetup group on Thursday, I told the group about the GOA'L submission. The room went still — the reverent stillness of people who understand the magnitude. Claire said, "When I submitted, I couldn't eat for two days." Daniel said, "I haven't submitted yet. You're braver than me." Helen said, "It took me eight years from submission to match. Be patient." Eight years. The number was sobering. Eight years of waiting, checking email, wondering. But Helen also said, "The match was worth the wait." Worth the wait. I'm holding onto that.

Saturday: Bellevue. I brought the braised lotus root — yeongeun jorim — from the temple food class. It's a simple dish: lotus root sliced thin, braised in soy sauce and rice syrup until glossy and tender. The lotus root is beautiful when sliced — the cross-section reveals a lace-like pattern of holes, natural lacework in a vegetable. Karen was fascinated. "This is gorgeous," she said, holding a slice up to the light. David ate three slices and said, "This is like a sweet potato chip but fancier." It's not like a sweet potato chip. It's Korean temple food, made by a Buddhist nun in Lynnwood, brought to a Bellevue dining table by a Korean adoptee who is waiting for a birth mother match and processing through lotus root and patience. But David doesn't need to know all that. He just needs to eat the lotus root and like it. He likes it. That's enough.

After the temple food class, I couldn’t stop thinking about the lotus root — how something so simple could feel so complete. No garlic, no gochugaru, no loud flavors fighting for attention, just soy sauce, rice syrup, and patience. It felt like the right thing to cook during a season of open-ended waiting: a dish that asks you to stand at the stove, watch the glaze slowly thicken, and trust that the quiet transformation is enough. This is the recipe I brought to Bellevue, the one Karen held up to the light, the one that taught me Korean food can whisper.

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

Ingredients

1 lotus root (about 8 ounces), peeled
1 cup water
2 tablespoons soy sauce
2 tablespoons rice syrup (jocheong) or substitute 1 tablespoon honey
1 tablespoon rice wine (mirin)
1 teaspoon sesame oil
1 teaspoon toasted sesame seeds
1 tablespoon vinegar (for soaking)

Instructions

Prep the lotus root. Slice the peeled lotus root into 1/4-inch rounds. Place slices in a bowl of cold water with 1 tablespoon vinegar and soak for 10 minutes to remove starch and prevent browning. Drain and rinse.
Blanch briefly. Bring a small pot of water to a boil. Add the lotus root slices and blanch for 2 minutes. Drain well.
Build the braise. In a wide skillet or shallow pan, combine 1 cup water, soy sauce, rice syrup, and mirin. Bring to a gentle boil over medium heat.
Braise the lotus root. Add the blanched lotus root slices in a single layer. Reduce heat to medium-low and simmer, uncovered, for 12 to 15 minutes, turning the slices occasionally, until the liquid reduces to a glossy glaze and the lotus root is tender but still has a slight bite.
Finish and serve. Remove from heat and drizzle with sesame oil. Toss gently to coat. Transfer to a serving dish and sprinkle with toasted sesame seeds. Serve at room temperature as a banchan (side dish).

Nutrition (per serving)

Yeongeun Jorim (Braised Lotus Root) — A Recipe for the Kind of Waiting That Has No Timeline