From San Diego to Seoul: The Unexpected Ways Kimchi Changed My Breakfast Game
The Morning That Shifted Everything
I wasn’t chasing inspiration that morning in Seoul. I was just trying to shake off jet lag in a quiet apartment with cold tile under my feet and a head full of fog. It was early—too early for my brain, but my stomach had other ideas.
I opened the fridge hoping to find something familiar, but instead saw leftover rice, a single fried egg, and a jar of kimchi I’d forgotten I bought. It wasn’t the breakfast I knew, but it called to me in a way I didn’t expect.
I sat on the floor and ate slowly, cross-legged and half-awake, while the city outside murmured to life. That first bite? It surprised me. Spicy, sour, cold against the warmth of the rice—an odd but perfect contrast that hit somewhere deeper than just taste. It wasn’t just a meal; it felt like something inside me clicked into place. Somehow, it woke me up better than coffee ever could.
Until that moment, I’d never considered kimchi a breakfast food. In San Diego, mornings were soft—avocado toast, yogurt, maybe pancakes on weekends. Comforting, predictable, familiar. But Seoul showed me a different kind of morning, one that didn’t whisper but sang. Kimchi was bold, loud, and unapologetic—and suddenly, I needed that energy more than I knew.
A New Rhythm in a Foreign Kitchen
I was in Seoul for work, styling food for a local brand campaign. It was one of those whirlwind projects where you lose track of days, survive on market snacks, and try to make sense of unfamiliar grocery labels. My temporary kitchen was barely functional, but it held space for little routines. I began starting each day with a bowl of rice, an egg, and a scoop of kimchi. It grounded me more than I expected.
At first, I treated kimchi like a garnish—something to balance the meal. But with each passing day, it crept closer to the center of my plate. There was something wildly comforting in its fermentation, its funk, its ability to jolt my palate awake. I began to look forward to it more than the eggs or rice. It stopped being an addition and became the main character.
Kimchi made my mornings bolder—sharper, unexpected, full of life. I wasn’t just eating it, I was learning something from it. It reminded me that meals don’t need to be mild to feel like comfort. They can be assertive, complex, even confusing—and still wrap you in warmth.
Back Home, Something Stayed
Flying home felt bittersweet. I missed my own bed, my full spice rack, and familiar sidewalks—but I also feared losing the spark that kimchi had lit in my mornings. So, before I even unpacked, I drove to H Mart and grabbed a jar of napa cabbage kimchi like it was a souvenir. Not for show, but because I genuinely didn’t want to go back to my old way of starting the day.
Back in my kitchen, surrounded by the scent of California citrus and beach breeze, I stood barefoot again—just like that morning in Seoul. I spooned rice into a bowl, fried an egg, and topped it with a heap of kimchi. The first bite felt like a reunion. The second felt like I’d brought a piece of myself back from that city, something more lasting than photos or souvenirs.
It didn’t stop there. I started sneaking kimchi into everything: folding it into scrambled eggs, pairing it with toast and avocado, even adding it to breakfast tacos. Nothing was traditional. Everything was intuitive. It was less about following rules and more about honoring flavor and feeling.
More Than Just a Side Dish
What surprised me most was how much this shift reflected something deeper. I’ve always clung to morning rituals—measured, peaceful, soft. But I’d been craving change, not just in my cooking, but in my pace, my creativity, even in how I viewed comfort. Kimchi reminded me that comfort doesn’t always mean gentle. Sometimes, it means intense, alive, and a little unexpected.
As a food stylist and a storyteller, I’m used to curating meals to fit a mood or aesthetic. But kimchi didn’t care about perfection. It was messy, raw, alive—and that’s exactly what I needed. My breakfasts didn’t have to be dainty. They could be full of character. They could be loud. They could be mine.
I think we underestimate how small changes in our routines can reshape the way we see ourselves. For me, a jar of fermented cabbage became a new kind of morning mantra. It told me it was okay to break from the familiar. That spice could belong with sunrise. That tradition can meet invention halfway. And that sometimes, something that smells wild can bring surprising peace.
Final Thoughts
Not all changes have to be loud or planned. Sometimes, they arrive in the form of a new taste, a new place, or a new kind of morning. Kimchi wasn’t just a food I tried—it became a part of how I returned to myself.
A reminder that comfort can have an edge, and breakfast can carry meaning beyond the plate. These days, when I open the fridge in the morning and see that bright red jar waiting, I feel grateful. Not just for the flavor—but for the story it brings with it, every single time.
