Last week, my husband and I zipped over to Eastern Virginia to visit our younger son who is doing a summer internship at the NASA Langley Research Center. He’d gotten a 4-hour window of clearance for us.  but we had to stop by the welcome center to show them our IDs and get visitor badges printed and issued. 

Once in, it was a little startling how run down the campus was. Our son had warned us about this — “Everything here is so old!” “The sidewalk system is terrible!” — but even so, it was surprising. It seemed like only a fraction of the place was being used. 

After our lunch at the cafeteria, we stopped by my son’s office — a windowless cubby in the depths of a nondescript 1950s block building. Not that my son seemed to care about the lack of natural light — no, he was just thrilled to show us the stuff he’s been playing with: a little lever the size of a half-dollar, and some sort of ancient-looking box with a screen that boasted some dancing wavy lines. 

Then he took us to his lab where he’s working on a stepper motor. He explained it in great detail with words I didn’t recognize and can’t recall. I do know he was referencing (or creating) some sort of computer program, and he had a notebook full of his hand-drawn sketches and codes, and instructions for the engineers who will be using The Thing* he’s working on. 

Oh, and there was a fancy joystick he was enamored with, which cracked me up. Here we were, surrounded by a staggering quantity of expensive high-tech gear, and my son was excited about a joystick the size of a eggplant. What the heck!

He riffled confidently through tables overflowing with cords and gadgety contraptions, gave us a demonstration of The Thing (when it moved, it made musical beeps up and down the scale), and then took us into a side room to show us a leaky roof that had been bugging him for weeks. He’d reported it, he said, so NASA set out a bucket to catch the drips. 

He’d gotten special permission for us to see one of the windtunnels. When we arrived, the team was preparing to run one of the last tests of the day, and while they waited for the plane to cool from the previous test, the lead researcher took us into the wind tunnel to see the plane. It was very hot (down to 95F from the 116F), and there wasn’t much to see — just long, garage-like room lined with black panels and windows with cameras, and in the center, a small black jet fastened to a steel pillar called a “sting.” 

Back in the control room, we watched on screens as the technicians did a final check in the tunnel (because you certainly don’t want any random bits of anything floating free when the fans fire up!), and then, once cleared, we watched them run the test. The wings would occasionally tilt a little, and the wind speeds varied, but mostly, all there was to watch was a bunch of people taking measurements on their computers. Our guide described the process of experimentation and development, pulled up photos from other tests, and answered our questions. It was fascinating, but in an non-climactic sort of way. There were no explosions and no mistakes, so yay?

Next, in The Maker’s Space, we admired the rows of whirring 3D printers (arranged like library stacks), the 3D microscope, and a plethora of yet more tools, wires, and gadgets. 

And then while our son finished his work day, my husband and I napped in a nearby parking lot before driving to a SweetFrog and buying ourselves some frozen yogurt — twice. (It was good.)  

Back at our son’s place, the tour continued: through the goose-poop pocked yard down to the water and then back to the house where he fed us a luxurious supper of Oreos, leftover chips, and stale movie theater popcorn.

(And yes, I’m being sarcastic with my use of the word “luxurious.” All summer, the kid has been subsisting on air and shredded wheat and sandwiches, so we knew what to expect.) 

The next day, we hit up a bakery before heading to Colonial Williamsburg where…

• We learned about dyeing cloth, making bricks, building shoes, printing, blacksmithing, cooking, etc. 
• My husband was served a raw sausage (and then they, perhaps accidentally, refunded us for the entire meal). 
• I couldn’t get over how the workers were dressed to the teeth in period-appropriate clothes and had to repeat the same information over and over to tourists, all while standing in the hot sun. It bothered me so much, I almost felt ill. 
• Our son begged to ride the bus system that ringed the perimeter of the grounds. He’s recently fallen head-over-heels in love with urban planning, and could not stop talking about that bus. So at the end of the day, we took the bus back to the parking lot for (our son’s) kicks and giggles. 

^{_{I want to ride the bus! Can we ride the bus? LET’S RIDE THE BUS.}}

And thus concludes our two-day adventure spanning our crumbling present all the way back to our glorified, uncomfortable past.

*The Thing = The Klinger Cube

This same time, years previous: one step further, the coronavirus diaries: week whatever, the quotidian (7.29.19), the quotidian (7.30.18), in the kitchen, injera and beef wat, my deficiency, do you strew?.

Quotidian: daily, usual or customary;
everyday; ordinary; commonplace

La Buena: my signature flavor.

It’s a fact: nobody eats more kale than me.

Heatwave survival techniques.

Eucefe’s last Sunday breakfast, made by my younger son.

When the local grocery store’s refrigerators go out and the family’s got dumpster divers.

The pile-up: what “sheeting out pastry” looks like.

Mascarpone, five ways (and all good).

In the works: bacon.

High-tech setup: my first livestream.

Sweet dreams, courtesy of “Wheels on the Bus” (my version).
^{This version is WAY better. Warning: it’s an earworm.}

First time: World Cup watch party.

Backseat parents.

Clutch.

This same time, years previous: nine fun things, no matter what happens, yogurt: the water-bath method, Magpie, happenings, hill of the martyrs, movie notes, dance party, the quotidian (7.27.25), a riding lesson, we’re back!, the girl and her friend, July evening, some sweet stuff.

Please tell me you made the kimchi, yes?

Oh, good, because this next recipe I’m sharing showcases kimchi. 

But first, two things:

1. If you haven’t yet jumped on the kimchi bandwagon, hitch up those skirts and jump.
2. If you’re toying with making it, but unsure how to use it, or if you’ll even use it, this recipe’s got you covered. Even if you don’t like eating straight kimchi [clutches pearls and swoons], you should probably make it anyway — just so’s you can make this.

Alright. Now for the deets. 

Kimchi jjigae is a stew (jjigae means “stew). Which, to the uninitiated, sounds plain wrong — take a bright vegetable ferment and then kill all that goodness? It makes no sense! 

Until you do it. Then it makes perfect sense.

See, you gotta understand: kimchi is not just a fresh ferment condiment — it’s also a ready-made soup mix. A ready-made soup mix! Add kimchi to soup and, BAM, you’ve just exploded your humdrum soup with vegetables, umami, salt, and briny acidity. 

The general idea: saute aromatics with Korean red pepper. Add the same ingredients again, but this time in the fermented form of kimchi. In other words, you’re layering flavors. It sounds stupid simple — and it is — but it’s also wondrously rich, satisfying, and comforting, aka, soul food with a twist, and I adore it. 

Kimchi jigae can be served over rice, or thinned with more kimchi broth or water for a lighter soup. Cook it low and slow for silky-tender vibes, or give it a brief simmer for fresh crunch. Pair it with pork, or go rogue and toss in some cubes of fried paneer. Since learning to make it, I’ve cranked this out at least three or four times, both with and without meat, and never the same way twice.

There are a couple special Korean ingredients — and they are worth purchasing. 

• Coarse gochugaru is Korean dried red pepper. It sparkles like sequins and fairy dust, and the heat is steady and punchy-deep (not hysterically sharp and piercing like cayenne). You can use a lot of it without making enemies.
• Gochugang is a paste, and it’s not authentic to kimchi jjigae, but I often add a hefty squirt anyway — because it’s delicious and I can.
• The green plum syrup (often called an “extract”) is optional, but I have been adding it to all sorts of things besides jjigae: seltzer water, sauteed kale, etc. It checks the boxes for both sweet and acid, so it comes in handy in all sorts of dishes, not just the Korean ones. 

P.S. It’s slowly dawning on me that I may have a “Thing” for Korean food. I’ve never been particularly drawn to the flavors of Asian cuisine, but there’s something about the flavors and textures of Korean food that’s making my skirt fly up. Stay tuned.

Kimchi Jjigae
Adapted from Eric Kim’s recipe in NYT Cooking. 

If you’ve got some kimchi that’s slightly bitter, jjigae is a fantastic way to use it up. In the jjigae, the flavors meld and deepen, and any trace of funkiness or bitterness completely disappears.

Eric makes his jjigae with pork ribs. I’ve made it with leftover pork chops. Also, ground beef (or was it leftover beef roast? can’t remember…). Also, no meat. It’s good any which-a way.

4 cloves fresh garlic, minced
2-3 tablespoons minced fresh ginger
1 tablespoon butter (or olive oil)
2-3 cups of well-fermented kimchi, rough-chopped and juices reserved
1 heaping tablespoon coarse-ground gochugaru
3 tablespoons gochugang paste, optional
2 cups water
pinch of salt
1 onion, sliced thinly into rings
1 tablespoon fish sauce
1 tablespoon green plum syrup (or extract)
3-5 green onions, sliced

Melt the butter and then add the ground gochugaru, garlic, and ginger. Saute for a minute, or until the butter is a pretty red. Add the gochugang paste, kimchi and its juices, 2 cups of water, and a pinch o’ salt. Bring to a simmer and cook for 5 minutes. 

Sprinkle the thinly sliced onion over top, cover with a lid, and then let it simmer another 10-15 minutes, or until the onions are cooked through and they’ve released all their oniony juices into the stew.

Stir in the fish sauce, plum syrup, and another couple pinches of ground gochugaru. Remove from the heat, shower with green onions, and serve over rice. 

This same time, years previous: the quotidian (7.22.24), milk sabbatical, mamma mia, peach pie with bourbon and fresh rosemary, Italian meringue buttercream, the quotidian (7.23.18), lemony cream cheese frosting, all practicality, vegetarian groundnut stew.