Turd Furgeson
English 1350
Every Saturday morning, I’d awaken to the smell of crushed garlic and piquant
pepper. I would stumble into the kitchen to find my grandma squatting over a large
silver bowl, mixing fat lips of fresh cabbages with garlic, salt, and red pepper. That
was how the delectable Korean dish, kimchi, was born every weekend at my home.
My grandma’s specialty always dominated the dinner table as kimchi filled every
plate. And like my grandma who had always been living with us, it seemed as though
the luscious smell of garlic would never leave our home. But even the prided recipe
was defenseless against the ravages of Alzheimer’s that inflicted my grandma’s mind.
Dementia slowly fed on her memories until she became as blank as a brand–new
notebook. The ritualistic rigor of Saturday mornings came to a pause, and during
dinner, the artificial taste of vacuum-packaged factory kimchi only emphasized the
absence of the family tradition. I would look at her and ask, “Grandma, what’s my
name?” But she would stare back at me with a clueless expression. Within a year of
diagnosis, she lived with us like a total stranger.
One day, my mom brought home fresh cabbages and red pepper sauce. She brought
