I had been saving the return of Succession the way one saves a silk dress or a perfectly timed disappearance—waiting for the right conditions. Thanksgiving weekend offered the necessary quiet: a lull in obligation, a cultural permission slip to indulge. Kendall Roy’s season-two coup left me hungry for Logan’s reckoning, but what arrived instead was far more unnerving. Kendall’s jittery insistence on relevance—his compulsive self-exposure masquerading as strategy—was exhausting to witness. I paused the episode more than once, breathing through it. The turtleneck and gold chain were almost beside the point, though culturally unforgivable. What lingered was the ache of watching someone unravel in public, mistaking visibility for redemption.
Families are often our most elegantly disguised hazard. For years, I mistook endurance for virtue and proximity for love, believing that self-erasure was the price of belonging. It took time to understand that choosing myself was not a rupture but a correction. I am not required to make peace with harm simply because it is familiar. Accepting that my life is mine, untethered from inherited dysfunction, allowed me to step out of a childhood that once dictated the limits of my interior world. Kendall’s unraveling unsettles me because it mirrors the humiliation of wanting pain to be seen and finding no witness equal to it.
Navigating the space between familial devotion and self-preservation fractures memory itself. What comforts us is rarely clean; it arrives layered with obligation, silence, and loss. Japchae occupies that liminal space in my history, a dish that holds warmth and weight in equal measure, carrying both nourishment and the residue of what lingered unspoken.
Families are often our most elegantly disguised hazard. For years, I mistook endurance for virtue and proximity for love, believing that self-erasure was the price of belonging. It took time to understand that choosing myself was not a rupture but a correction. I am not required to make peace with harm simply because it is familiar. Accepting that my life is mine, untethered from inherited dysfunction, allowed me to step out of a childhood that once dictated the limits of my interior world. Kendall’s unraveling unsettles me because it mirrors the humiliation of wanting pain to be seen and finding no witness equal to it.
Navigating the space between familial devotion and self-preservation fractures memory itself. What comforts us is rarely clean; it arrives layered with obligation, silence, and loss. Japchae occupies that liminal space in my history, a dish that holds warmth and weight in equal measure, carrying both nourishment and the residue of what lingered unspoken.
With the exception of Thanksgiving, Christmas, and New Year’s Day, japchae appeared at nearly every family gathering. It was expected, dependable, quietly ceremonial. Here, I depart from tradition and make it vegan, trading meat for mushrooms that bring their own gravity and depth. Spinach is traditional in japchae, but I leave it out. I like spinach, just not here; its tenderness dulls the pleasure of the noodles’ chew. The result is unapologetically savory—elastic noodles glossed in sesame oil, vegetables yielding just enough, the mushrooms rich and insistent. It is generous enough to persuade even the most devoted carnivores to forget what is missing.
INGREDIENTS
[serves 3 as a main course or 4 as a side]
[serves 3 as a main course or 4 as a side]
seven ounces sweet potato glass noodles
four ounces king trumpet mushrooms, thinly sliced
two ounces wood ear mushrooms, thinly sliced
two carrots, julienned
half a yellow onion, thinly sliced
one tablespoon green onions, finely chopped
one tablespoon vegetable oil
additional sesame oil, for finishing noodles
Marinade for King Trumpet Mushrooms
two tablespoons soy sauce
one tablespoon mirin
two teaspoons sesame oil
one tablespoon sugar
one garlic clove, finely chopped
Stir-Fry Sauce for Japchae
three tablespoons soy sauce
one tablespoon mirin
one tablespoon sesame oil
one tablespoon + two teaspoons sugar
four ounces king trumpet mushrooms, thinly sliced
two ounces wood ear mushrooms, thinly sliced
two carrots, julienned
half a yellow onion, thinly sliced
one tablespoon green onions, finely chopped
one tablespoon vegetable oil
additional sesame oil, for finishing noodles
Marinade for King Trumpet Mushrooms
two tablespoons soy sauce
one tablespoon mirin
two teaspoons sesame oil
one tablespoon sugar
one garlic clove, finely chopped
Stir-Fry Sauce for Japchae
three tablespoons soy sauce
one tablespoon mirin
one tablespoon sesame oil
one tablespoon + two teaspoons sugar
Before beginning any slicing, soak the glass noodles according to package instructions and set them aside. In a bowl, combine the marinade ingredients and toss with the king trumpet mushrooms. Let them sit.
Bring a medium stockpot of water to a boil. While the water heats, warm a wok over high heat and add the vegetable oil. Add the green onions, stirring briefly as you reduce the heat to medium. Add the marinated mushrooms, followed by the carrots, onions, and wood ear mushrooms. Stir-fry until the mushrooms are tender and the carrots are just cooked, then remove from heat.
Cook the glass noodles in the boiling water for one to two minutes. Drain and rinse under cold running water, then drizzle lightly with additional sesame oil.
Return the wok to medium-high heat and add the noodles. Toss gently, then add two-thirds of the stir-fry sauce. Reduce the heat and stir until evenly coated. Taste and adjust with the remaining sauce if desired.
Japchae holds more than it asks. Bon Appétit.
Return the wok to medium-high heat and add the noodles. Toss gently, then add two-thirds of the stir-fry sauce. Reduce the heat and stir until evenly coated. Taste and adjust with the remaining sauce if desired.
Japchae holds more than it asks. Bon Appétit.
_____
Elsewhere on the blog: Vietnamese Style Flank Steak
Elsewhere on the blog: Vietnamese Style Flank Steak
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