Kimchi, If You Please

It seems like a lot of people got on a bread baking kick during CoronApocalypse; that’s cool. I took a different route. I have been perfecting kimchi.

First, I need to go back. To the dawn of time…or, at least my time. My sisters are probably in agreement that our favorite meal growing up was hot dogs, sauerkraut, and dumplings. Which would fill the house with the smell of sauerkraut. And while a lot of people might think, “eww,” I’m thinking, “put that scent in a candle and I would buy the heck out of it.”

Jump ahead to marrying Justin. When my parents visited us in Germany, before Shea was born, my Mom asked, “what are some meals you would like me to make while I’m here?” I already knew my number one choice! Of course this also lead to a hilarious moment, when Justin put a bite of dumpling in his mouth, made an awkward face, and said, “I don’t think I can swallow this.” My Mom still laughs about it.

But this isn’t a dumpling story. Eventually, Justin told me he did not like sauerkraut. This seemed…unacceptable. What kind of Slovak are you!? He told me the reason he didn’t like it, is because his Mom made it in his bedroom. I spent years picturing Poor Justin, heading off to kindergarten, smelling of fermenting cabbage, because his mom was keeping crocks of it in his bedroom. Poor Justin.

I decided I would only ever make my beloved meal if Justin had to work overnight…which, in the army, happens often. Especially a decade ago, when he was working 24 hours on, 24 hours off. I could air out our apartment and hide the evidence before he came home at 4am! It was a stellar plan—until the one time he got out of his overnight shift, on the exact day sauerkraut was sitting in a crockpot, stinking up the place. I decided to give up the habit, and not offend the poor man.

Years later I found out that Justin’s Mom didn’t actually start her sauerkraut production until after Justin had joined the army and moved away, and to this day I don’t understand why that was the excuse given to me as to why he didn’t like it.

We’re almost to present day. Stay with me.

Three years ago, Justin left for Korea. And he started eating all types of kimchi. We would talk on the phone and he would tell me about this food or that food, that he had tried and liked. Who are you, and what the heck did you do with my husband??

Once back in the states, Justin and I would go out for lunch dates to a little Korean restaurant in Columbus. Suddenly, CoronApocalypse. I started perfecting my bulgogi, and different banchan. After weeks and weeks of trying different recipes from Pinterest, I got myself a Korean cookbook, and I started my adventures in Kimchi.

Making kimchi is an art. I started with small batches. One would be too salty, and the next would be too spicy. Justin and I have eaten so many batches of melt your face off kimchi, but eventually I perfected the ratio of garlic and gochugaru (red pepper flakes, although Xander is adamant that it’s a character from Beyblade Burst).

Can you smell it?!

Of course, if you like kimchi, you’ll love kkakdugi, which Justin tells me means diced radish; it makes more sense than my explanation: COCK-doogie, because daikon tends to be pretty…phallic.

I have actually started planning dinner around kimchi. I cook so much Korean food these days, just so I can load a plate up with rice and kimchi! I also regret not starting making kimchi in Kentucky, simply so I could’ve asked my little Korean Aquacise ladies my kimchi questions: what’s the best container for storage? How long is it good for? Can you still eat it when it gets fizzy?? So many questions.

Of course, I’m not actually a professional, as I’ve only been at this kimchi game for less than 6 months. So, if you want to watch a pro, check out Maangchi.

I still don’t quite understand how you can dislike sauerkraut, but enjoy kimchi. But you know what?! I’ll take whatever fermented cabbage I can get!

Choose Your Own Adventure

Wednesday morning—yeah, Veteran’s Day—Justin checked his email on his work phone. “Well, I guess they didn’t accept my request to stay here. I just got an email that I need to rank my options for our next duty station.”

Another “choose your own adventure?!” But I thought this was the final adventure!?

I spent the past 48 hours going through the stages of grief: Denial and anger were obvious, and expected. The bargaining stage was…unexpected.

“Justin? What if you have a profile? They can’t PCS you if you’re injured, right?? So…who do you know that could sham a profile long enough for us to stay here until you can drop your retirement packet??”

This is when I get the you’re being ridiculous look. “Sammi. I can’t do that.”

“Ok, but what if I break your kneecaps?? Or maybe one…what injury could you stumble upon that would be enough to keep us here, but not bad enough to cause permanent damage…what about that shoulder of yours? What about that hamstring tear—is that something we could reenact??”

Desperate times call for desperate measures, and while it really isn’t that desperate, I’m being a big whiny baby. I don’t want to move. I feel like we just got here. Can’t we shout COVID and just stay here long enough to retire from here?

Of course not.

An army wife friend of mine shared this last week. And I almost spit my coffee everywhere.

This morning, Justin texted me to notify me that he had ranked his job options from 1 to 50. The top two would keep us here (yey). Then there are some university gigs: Alabama, Montana, Pennsylvania. This chapter of the adventure book is somewhat new, since Justin usually gets three options to choose from. Ranking 50 jobs and then holding your breath while duty stations fight over you? This is new. Or do you rank your jobs and then battle the other soldiers who chose that same duty station. Is this when Justin can put his combatives skills to the test? Is this like a Pokémon battle, Army duty station style? Fort Carson! I choose YOU (just kidding—everyone wants Fort Carson)!

As every soldier or spouse knows, nothing is set in stone until orders are in hand and the movers are at your door.

In the meantime, Justin and I will be looking at houses in Tuscaloosa…for funsies.

And now we come to stage 5: acceptance. I might not love the idea of moving again, but if it has to happen, might as well suck it up and embrace it…eventually…around March…when we actually find out if and where we’re going.

Emphasis on the If, since we definitely did the unthinkable when we spent six years at Fort Knox.

Walking Into Spider-Friends

I foolishly allowed myself to give in to temptation today. Yes, I attempted not one, but two social media debates today. Hi, I’m Sammi Steeves, and I’m an addict.

I don’t even know why I allow myself to get caught up in these things. First and foremost, I love a good debate. My best friend can attest, as she has seen her husband and me battle it out well into the night. However, there is a difference between a debate, and just repeatedly slamming your head against concrete…which is what “debating” on social media usually gets me.

So, while I allow my blood to stop boiling, and let my blood pressure drop below the we’re all going to die level, let’s discuss spiders.

I know. What?! I’ve lost it…possibly.

Yesterday morning went like most. I woke up to Rufus grumbling and bringing me pants (which actually belonged to me AND weren’t sweaty and gross, so we’re making progress on that front). I went downstairs, and opened the garage to feed the–spider?!

When you live in the south, you have to pick and choose what terrifies you. Spiders now fall into two categories: Spiders that might want to kill you, and spiders that can be my friends. Wolf spiders fall into the “friends” category……most of the time.

This friendly neighborhood spider-friend was a little more than I was willing to handle at 5:30 in the morning. I am not exaggerating when I say he would have filled the entire palm of my hand, and I have pretty decent sized hands!

I have concerns…also, I brought you this sock I found. I believe you wore it to mow the lawn.

I froze. I looked at him (or her–how do you even know); it looked at me. I looked at the container of dog food, and then back at Rufus, who was looking extra concerned about the breakfast delay (although honestly, he always looks concerned). Rather than stepping past the giant wolf spider that just whispered to me, “I could eat you and no one would ever know,” I quickly reached over him, grabbed the dog food container, and slammed the garage door as he ran full speed at me!!! I nearly died. The door shut just as he reached the doorway. Maybe he was rabid, because I have never seen them run directly at a human. Hey Siri, can wolf spiders contract rabies??

With dogs fed, and my heart rate back down to normal (well, normal for me–it’s rather high, for no reason other than it likes to see me sweat), I decided that yoga was cancelled for the day. Or maybe for life. I can’t go back out there. Also, Someone better tell the cats that I can never feed them again.

No. I am better than this! I have dealt with Black Widows with more courage than this.

Shea came down for breakfast, and I tried to sucker her into feeding the cats. But, I opened with, “there’s a giant wolf spider in the garage…want to feed the cats??” She turned down that winning opportunity.

I’m not kidding, wolf spiders are all massive. But this was the Godzilla of wolf spiders. Clifford the Big Giant Wolf Spider. Arachnis Deathicus. And again, I conquered my fear of spiders a decade ago! Just ask the jumping spider who visits the living room every afternoon. We’re cool. We coexist. But this particular individual spider was just too big.

When I faced my fears and opened the garage door to feed the cats, he ran under a shelf. Since 7am yesterday, I have been praying to the spider gods every time I go into the garage: please don’t let him run out and touch my feet.

Spider Yoga is not something I am yet prepared to attempt. Thanks, Mr Wolf, you broke me.

Take Me to Court

For the past year, Justin and I have enjoyed multiple Friday morning dates. These aren’t breakfast dates, or movie dates. Oh no–these are court dates.

Let the record show that we are not criminals. We are there as witnesses. Or victims. Whatever you want to call us. It doesn’t really matter why we’re there (I mean, it matters to us, and someday when this is all over, I will be happy to share). The point is, we’re there.

It was exactly one year ago today that I got to sit in front of a Grand Jury (the grandest), and tell them my tale. While it was a relatively uneventful visit, the next three would not disappoint.

In January, we had our very first date in traffic court, which you would think would be for traffic offenses. Oh no, not at all! Justin and I waited for the court room to open, and we were instructed to stand against the wall. Suddenly, a line of prisoner, chained together, were being escorted into the court room. How many traffic stops end in arrests?!

The final prisoner was brought in alone, wearing a Hannibal Lector mask. The officers escorting him kept telling everyone to move back…what in the world is happening!? This kid weighed a solid 85lbs–what could he have possibly done (the answer–resisting arrest, on meth charges, among other things)!? This date is about to get super exciting!

Justin and I love checking the Russell County Mugshots; this was turning out to be Russell County Mugshots in real time! Most of them were what we expected–possession of meth, possession of a controlled substance, public intoxication. And then the judge read the next offense: discharging a weapon into an occupied vehicle. Ooh, can we get some back story?!
The judge said, “remember at the beginning when I said you can request a lawyer? You are definitely going to want to fill out that paperwork when you get back to jail.”

Justin and I also got a kick out of the Judge’s reactions to people. One young lady (from the “I came from prison” side) was there for drug possession. He asked her how she wanted to plead. “Um, guilty??” He responded, “are you sure about that? This is your first offense, and it’s a misdemeanor. I’m going to enter a not guilty plea, and you can talk to a lawyer about taking drug classes.”

We sat through two hours of drug charges, resisting arrest chargers, and all sorts of other charges. Justin and I were sitting in shock and awe the entire time. “Justin, I’m coming here every Friday! This is better than Dateline!”

The judge asked, “is there anyone whose name I didn’t call?” I stood up, told him who I was and explained our situation. The assistant district attorney said, “oh–that case was continued. You’ll get another subpoena to return February 14th.”

Valentine’s Day Court Date it is! This time. the prisoner chain ended with a young woman sobbing. Absolutely bawling. We were super excited to find out what she did. Whatever it was, she was in a great state of shock, which is how I would be if I had spent the night in jail. When her name was called, the judge said they would be pushing her case until last–oh shoot (three days later, when the mugshots were uploaded, we found out what she was there for: Attempted Murder. Yup, I’d be crying too).

Once again, we waited and waited. The criminals were less criminally the second go-round, but we did get a kick out of a couple who had pressed charges on their neighbor, for supposedly allowing his dogs to jump on and scratch their car.
Judge: “Do you have proof?”
“I have these pictures of the scratches.”
“How do I know his dogs made these scratches??”
Then the man’s Korean wife started yelling about how she saw it. The judge asked her three times to stop interrupting, and to stop talking out of turn. Then she was made to stand in the back. Then she was told to stand outside, and they would allow her back in when they were ready to hear her. Older Korean dependents are my favorite style of Army wife. The sass is intense, the accent is thick, and the inability to listen is expected.
Also, their case was thrown out, because even Justin and I knew it sounded like nonsense.

On this second date, I also made a court friend–the man next to me was a witness in a dog attack case. His neighbor on multiple occasions had set his dog out to attack children on the street. The man said, “he’s a racist.” He also told me he’d heard the judge was super strict. Well, it’s only my second time watching the man in action, but he seems like a super fair gentleman. But I’m not a criminal. Maybe the criminals see him in a different light.

Once again, we wait. And wait. This time, the correct name is called, but then the judge mumbles something and moves on. I stood up: “excuse me sir, I’m a witness in that case.”
“Come up here.”
Can I said I’d rather not? Why do I feel like I’m getting called to the principal’s office? He continues: “this case was continued,” and I sighed. We knew it was headed in that direction, when we looked around the court room and didn’t see the police officer we expected to see.

That’s fine! We’ll be back!

……except that we couldn’t, because of Covid. I had the next court date, which would have been March 23rd. I wasn’t going to be subpoenaed to testify at that one–just wanted to be a fly on the wall and see how it went down. But it didn’t get to go anywhere, because the world came to a halt.

I was beginning to think there would never be an end to this. Or maybe that it would be forgotten (which I would not be ok with). Imagine my surprise when a sheriff knocked on my door and delivered yet another subpoena. We’re so popular.

Today was the big day. And it would be the final day, since the judge told me back on Valentine’s Day that there would be no more extensions. Justin was once again unimpressed with needing to go back. He can’t remember things that happened last month, so how anyone expects him to stand up and tell them what happened nearly 18 months ago is beyond me. But that’s why I’m there–to do the talking. He’s just there to look pretty.

Upon entering the courthouse, Justin was stopped by the security guard. “I can’t allow you in. You’re wearing shorts.”
He’s wearing golf shorts. “Excuse me?”
“You’re wearing shorts. What are you here for?”
“To testify.”
“Go run down to the dollar store and get yourself some sweatpants.”

Wait wait wait. He cannot go to court in his golf shorts, but he can show up in sweatpants? What kind of dress code is this!? I told Justin to just go to work, and I would be the big kid and do this date solo-style.

So, golf shorts are not allowed. Because the dress code says so. But the next person to walk into the court room behind me was a man wearing Pornstar joggers. And for those of you who were not teens in the 90s, Pornstar is a brand that often has the silhouette of 2 naked ladies sitting back to back. So, this man showed up to court in joggers with 100 ladies down the sides of his pants. Also, he had 6 inches of camouflage underwear hanging out when he sat down. I’m pretty sure “No visible underwear” is also on the dress code. As well as t-shirts, and 50% of the men in there were wearing their fanciest dirty t-shirts. Justin’s visible calves were more than the courtroom would be able to handle.

With Coronapocalypse policies still in full effect, the prisoners weren’t brought to court, but instead did their stuff through video conference. Today’s life lesson came when a man was charged with felony possession of marijuana. He asked why it was a felony, and the judge said, “you had synthetic marijuana–that is a felony. You would’ve been better off with the real deal.” This could be an educational show on PBS! I learn so much at traffic court!

The proper name was called yet again, and I told him I was a witness: “do you see the person here?”
“Sir, I don’t even know what they look like.”
And just like that, I was told that I would be receiving a subpoena to come back. Justin will probably never come with me again, which is fine–we wouldn’t have even been able to sit next to each other, and what’s the fun in enjoying Real Time Mugshots, if you can’t gossip with your husband while people are being sentenced!?

Teach Your Covid Well

We’ve made it all the way to day……oh my gosh, it’s only day 4. I have lost track of how many times I have said, “ok, keep going.” Or, “Xander, where are you??” Shea is much better with the whole schoolwork at home thing. Thank goodness, because I don’t know what I would do if I had to keep two kids on task—I struggle enough with keeping myself on task!

Xander doesn’t love school. He would rather be doing backflips, as stated in the very first school assignment.

Tuesday, he attempted to answer the question, “If I could meet anyone in history, I would meet..” with Naruto. Naruto. An anime character. From history. “Xander, it has to be a real person.”

I have also lost track of the number of times Xander has said, “ohhhhhhhhh!”

This morning, his first assignment was to read a passage about Covid-19, and then answer the questing, “how has your life changed because of Covid-19?” Easy enough. I had to coax a response out of him. But that isn’t the issue.

My issue is the fact that this particular passage about covid contains the absolute nonsensical statement: Older people, not kids, have been getting sick from covid-19. Liar liar pants on fire.

I don’t know where his teacher found this info sheet, and I’m sure most people just read over it and answered the question. The thing is, kids can and do get sick. We’re a solid 5 months into Coronapocalypse: USA Edition, and we all Know kids are not immune. This is not a magical virus that avoids tiny humans. They’re some of the grossest humans on the planet. The American Academy of Pediatrics says there has been a 90% increase in cases among children in the last month! That is the month before southern schools reopened!

Kids need to know why schools aren’t reopening. Or why schools are reopening, only to shut right back down again. Telling them they can’t get sick is confusing. Obviously Xander would be happy if school never reopened, but there are plenty of kids (Shea included), who can’t wait to get back to school.

In the time it took me to write this, Xander was supposed to locate 5 items that are special to him (and that could fit in a paper lunch bag)—he just appeared with a Nerf Bow that is bigger than him. Yes, Xander. That is the perfect sized item.

176 school days to go!!!