김장 [kim•jang] is the process of preparing and sharing massive quantities of kimchi in late autumn to last through the long, harsh winter months. Growing up in Gwangju, this was the rhythm of the year: late November or early December, when we'd harvest the cabbage and radishes. That's when they're at their sweetest. The cold makes them store more sugars, and you can taste the difference.
Before refrigerators, Kimjang wasn't optional. It was survival. Kimchi would be packed into large earthenware jars called onggi and buried up to their necks in the ground. The fermentation would slow down as temperatures dropped, nearly halt in the dead of winter, then pick back up in spring. It's brilliant, really, but the amount of work this required meant no one could do it alone.
I've been making kimchi since I was little, learning from my grandmas. Kimjang is a massive social event. The extended family, relatives, and neighbours all gather to share the labour. We'd chop, salt, wash, and season hundreds of cabbages together. This collective effort is a living expression of jeong (정), that deep emotional bond of connection and care that's so central to Korean culture. Sharing the burden of Kimjang strengthens ties and shows a real commitment to looking after each other.
The preparation starts months in advance. Shrimp and anchovies get salted in spring, sea salt is gathered in summer, 고추가루 [go•chu•ga•ru], the Korean red chilli peppers, are dried and ground in late summer. The entire process follows the seasons. You can't rush it.
In 2013, UNESCO recognised Kimjang as an Intangible Cultural Heritage of Humanity, which felt like validation for something we already knew was precious. Even with factory-made kimchi everywhere now and specialised kimchi refrigerators in every apartment, the tradition persists. Mostly as the main way families connect and pass down their unique regional recipes.
But it's dying. As women entered the workforce from the 1960s onward, especially in cities, Kimjang became less common. I get it. It's backbreaking work. Lifting heavy loads of ingredients, mixing hundreds of kilos of paste, stuffing dozens of salted cabbages, and packing them into fermentation vessels. Industrial kimchi is cheap and convenient. The country's progress is incredible, and I'm proud of it, but I can't help feeling the loss. All those insights, all those little tricks my grandmas taught me, they're disappearing with each generation that doesn't gather to do this anymore.