Ever since I was a little girl, I can remember sitting on the couch and watching television at noon on Independence Day. It was the exact same thing every year. The strong aroma of ginger and green onions would make its way toward me, luring me into the kitchen. Then I saw it- my father's special kal bi. I smiled as I walked back to the couch, anxious for later tonight. For the duration of the afternoon, I heard the sound of chopping knives and sizzling pots. When the major components of this main course were ready, my parents would pack them into the car and drive over to my uncle’s house. I’d greet my cousins in a warm and friendly manner, ecstatic to see them again.
While the adults unpacked the car and set up in the kitchen, my cousins and I would play with the sparklers and fireworks, lighting up the dark night sky with vibrant explosions. No matter what year it is, the 4th of July was always exciting and fun when you were with my family. I remember one year where my cousin Noah and I took some smoke bombs and rolled them under police cars. The bright smoke slowly seeped out of the small, colorful sphere; the air thick and filled with laughter.
Walking back to the house for a snack, I would sometimes peek into the kitchen where my uncle Mike was helping my dad out. Laughing gleefully, I would watch as they cut green onions with dead accuracy. As if they were dancing around the kitchen, they took each pan of marinated meat and sauce and placed them in the oven.
Excitedly, I burst out the door to where all the other kids were. “My Daddy’s almost done with the kal bi!” I’d exclaim. Each of my cousins turned to each other with a thrilled gleam in their eyes as I’d lead the way back to the house.
I found Noah in the crowd of my cousins and friends. Both of us cackling from earlier, we ran back to my uncle’s house; the smell of my father’s kal bi was wafting through the air. We looked at each other with delight as we raced to the kitchen, letting nothing stand in our way.
“Whatcha making, Daddy?” I asked.
“Kal bi. But don’t tell anyone, it’s a secret!” he tittered.
We nodded yes and giggled as we headed back to the living room. All of my cousins were already inside and staring blankly at the television with no idea of what was to come. Noah turned toward me and we both nodded knowingly. The best part of the night was almost here.Marching into the house, we’d all find a place on the huge couch my uncle owned and wait intently for the satisfactory “ding” of the oven. Too focused on the television, the ding went unheard. Sighs of happiness were faintly heard from the kitchen. The padding of feet gradually got louder; smiles lit up the room as the food was brought to the table.
When everyone was gathered around the table, we all linked hands, closed our eyes, and said grace. Halfway through, I couldn't stand it any longer and I opened my eyes, scanning the room. The rest of the kids were getting antsy and couldn't wait to eat. The minute my uncle said "Amen," all the children rushed to the front of the line, anxious to get the delectable kal bi.
His father, my grandpa, had created the dish before he died fighting in the Vietnamese War when my dad was only ten: "My father taught me. As you know, your grandfather died fighting in the Vietnamese War. He died when I was ten, which is a young age to lose your father. These are one of the few things I have left of him, and I'd like to pass this on as a way to remember." Because of this, I see kal bi as a part of my father. There are some sweet sides that should be savored and some sides are a little bitter, but that's what makes them what they are. Without him and his kal bi, I feel that we would be incomplete as a family; we would be without a father and a tradition. It's like his own mini mascot; the one thing that completely represents him exactly for who he is. It's only a coincidence that he's the one that cooks it.
