As the old saying goes, the taste of food comes down to the taste of its jang, doesn't it?

But as apartment living became common, the number of households making their own jang dropped noticeably.

Eunbi and her husband, married for three years, had also only ever bought doenjang and soy sauce at the supermarket.

Then last winter, their thinking changed when they received two blocks of meju from her mother-in-law in the countryside.

The couple placed a crock on their balcony, floated the meju in salt water, and began making soy sauce.

It was quite a hassle, opening the lid on every sunny day and hurrying to cover it whenever it rained.

Two months later, they made doenjang from the meju they took out of the crock and boiled down the remaining liquid into soy sauce.

Eunbi says the stew made with their own jang tastes much richer, and that even the waiting was enjoyable.

High school student Doyun hasn't eaten meat since last year, out of concern for his health and the environment.

But the school lunch had a meat dish almost every day, so on many days he ate only rice and kimchi.

His classmates heard about it and were the first to say, “Then let's ask the school to make a vegetarian menu for us.”

The students gathered opinions not only from vegetarian classmates but also from those who wanted to eat less meat, and wrote a proposal.

The school nutritionist was at first worried the students would lack nutrients, but changed her mind after seeing materials showing that beans and tofu could supply protein.

In the end, the school set aside two vegetarian days a month and offered a vegetarian menu anyone could choose.

There were complaints at first, but as mushroom bulgogi and sweet crispy tofu became popular, the response kept getting better.

Doyun says he learned that even small voices, when gathered together, can change what's on the table.

Mr. Jeong, who has run a knife-cut noodle shop in a market alley for thirty years, opens his shop at four every morning.

That's because he has to put anchovies, kelp and radish in a big pot and simmer the broth for hours.

He knows well that these days powdered seasoning can produce a similar taste in just a few minutes.

Still, he says flatly, “When it comes to kalguksu broth, it has to be stock I've made with my own hands.”

There was a time when customers dropped off as delivery food and convenience meals spread, but he didn't change his ways.

On the contrary, as word spread about that stubborn flavor, more and more young customers now come from far-off neighborhoods.

Some customers even approach him after their meal, saying they want to learn how to make the broth.

He believes that the more an era overflows with quick flavors, the more the value of slow flavors shines.

The table at Grandma's house, where the whole family gathers every holiday, has changed a lot over the past few years.

In the past, seasoned greens, savory pancakes and braised short ribs filled the table, but the grandchildren hardly touched them.

Grandma would often sigh, “You wouldn't believe how hard it is to please kids' tastes these days.”

Then this Chuseok, Grandma herself made and served bulgogi pizza and kimchi stir-fried pasta.

She had learned from her granddaughter how to watch cooking videos on her phone and practiced several times.

The children cleared their plates in no time, and the adults, curious, each tried a slice too.

After the meal, the grandchildren even sat next to Grandma on their own and asked how to season the greens.

In a way, the unfamiliar food ended up becoming a bridge between generations.

Three days before a school picnic, elementary schooler Hajun brought home a notice from school.

His mom, who was making dinner, asked, “So what did your teacher say the theme of this picnic is?”

Hajun explained that it was a day for lunches without disposables, so everyone had to bring reusable containers.

Mom had to change her plan of simply getting a convenience store lunch box or store-bought gimbap.

The two took out a stainless steel lunch box they had at home and decided to put the fruit in a small glass container instead of plastic.

Wrapping the gimbap in a cloth wrapper instead of foil actually made it feel even more like a picnic.

On the evening of the picnic, Hajun proudly said it was fun to look at his friends' lunches because they were all different.

Mom resolved to pack lunches this way for the next outing too, even if it's a bit of a hassle.

On the Korean dining table, white rice has long been the indispensable star.

Recently, however, rice consumption has been steadily falling, and the way rice is cooked is gradually changing too.

Taeo, an office worker about to turn forty, also started to rethink his diet after being told at a checkup that his blood sugar was high.

His doctor advised him not to eat only white rice but to pick a grain, such as brown rice or oats, and mix it in.

At first the coarse texture made it hard, but he got used to it by gradually increasing the proportion of grains.

Because he had to chew longer, he ate more slowly, and naturally he overate less often.

In a test he took again half a year later, Taeo's blood sugar level had noticeably stabilized.

Now Taeo says the days he eats white rice actually feel like special occasions.

Last weekend, my father, who always said he couldn't eat a meal without meat, surprisingly suggested we try a new restaurant.

The new restaurant in our neighborhood served only plant-based meat dishes made from soybeans and mushrooms.

As soon as we sat down, Dad opened the menu, saying, “The neighbor told me the tteokgalbi here is all soy meat.”

He had heard about it from the neighbor and simply couldn't stand not knowing what it tasted like.

After one bite of the tteokgalbi, Dad was amazed, saying the texture was almost like real meat.

He did say, though, that it was a pity the marinade was a bit sweet and it lacked the juiciness you get when chewing.

Still, he said it would be fine to replace meat with this kind of food once or twice a week.

Tastes don't change easily, but that day I learned that curiosity can be the first step.

Last month I went with my mother and younger brother to a Buddhist temple cooking class at our local community center.

On the first day of class, I tilted my head in confusion when I saw there was no garlic or green onion among the seasonings.

Then my brother said, “I heard that at temples the rule is not to use green onion or garlic.”

The monk explained that instead of strong-smelling vegetables, they use mushrooms and kelp for flavor.

That day we made greens stir-fried in perilla oil and a clear soup brewed with shiitake mushrooms.

The first spoonful tasted bland, but the more slowly I chewed, the more I could taste the vegetables themselves.

The monk said that using everything, even the peels, without wasting ingredients is also an important spirit of temple food.

These days, once a week, simple side dishes with less seasoning appear on our family's table.

Sujin and her husband, who both work, buy most of their side dishes these days from a neighborhood side dish shop.

That's because after work they have no time to make soup and several side dishes.

At first, Sujin's mother, an excellent cook, disapproved of this.

But after tasting some pickles bought from the shop, she asked, “Where did you say the owner is from?”

When Sujin said she'd heard the owner was from Jeolla Province, her mother nodded, saying no wonder it tasted like home.

After that, her mother came to see buying side dishes as a wise choice suited to a busy life.

These days, it's her mother who asks her to buy the shop's new side dishes.

The way meals are put together has changed, but the eye for the care put into food remains the same.

Quite a few university students skip breakfast and get through morning classes on just a cup of coffee.

Jihun, who lives on his own, had also not eaten breakfast for years because he overslept and couldn't be bothered.

Then one day a friend said, “I heard breakfast at the school cafeteria is just a thousand won these days,” and suggested they go together.

When he went, only half believing it, students were standing in a long line even though it was early.

It was a simple meal of rice, soup and three side dishes, but eating a warm meal made him feel full and energized right away.

After that, Jihun even developed the habit of getting up early to make it in time for breakfast.

He says he concentrates better in morning classes and wolfs down a big lunch less often.

In effect, a cheap meal changed the whole rhythm of his life.

I'd always been curious about a dish my middle-school daughter apparently eats every time she meets her friends.

At dinner, my husband told me, “I heard the most popular food among kids these days is malatang.”

To me, malatang was just an unfamiliar foreign dish so spicy it numbs your tongue.

So on the weekend, I decided to follow my daughter to a shop and try it myself.

What struck me was the system: customers pick ingredients like vegetables, mushrooms and fish cakes into a basket, and the price is set by weight.

You could also choose the spice level, and even though I ordered the mildest, my mouth went numb.

My daughter explained that what she likes most is being able to choose only the ingredients she wants.

After finishing a bowl together, I felt glad, as if I understood my daughter's world a little better.

These days you can buy strawberries and watermelons at the supermarket any time, regardless of the season.

Perhaps because of that, I had never really known when each vegetable or fruit is in season.

Then, on a coworker's recommendation, I visited a farmers' direct-sale store on the outskirts of the city.

I'd heard it was a place where local farmers bring in vegetables harvested that morning, and sure enough, there was dew on the lettuce leaves.

Each product was labeled with the grower's name and village, which made me trust it.

Prices were similar to or a little lower than the supermarket's, but since they only sold what was in season, there wasn't much variety.

When I made doenjang stew with the new potatoes and zucchini I bought that day, my family said it tasted better than usual.

Since then, when I go grocery shopping, I first stop to think whether a vegetable is in season right now.

Seongmin, a graduate student living alone in Seoul, had a rare visit from his grandfather in the countryside.

Looking around the kitchen, his grandfather clicked his tongue at the sight of nothing but triangle gimbap, cup noodles and instant rice piled up.

“Who ever said getting by on stuff like this counts as a meal?” his grandfather said, his voice full of worry.

Seongmin made the excuse that when he cooks just for himself, he usually ends up throwing away leftover ingredients.

So the next morning his grandfather went to the market and bought just a little tofu, zucchini and eggs.

Then he patiently taught him how to make just one meal's worth of doenjang soup and how to make a rolled omelet.

It was simpler than he'd thought and no ingredients were left over, so Seongmin felt a little embarrassed.

These days Seongmin says he sends his grandfather photos of meals he's made himself three times a week.

I've run a rice cake shop in a market alley for over forty years.

In the past, it was mostly older people buying rice cakes before holidays or feasts, but lately customers in their twenties have sharply increased.

Finding it odd, I asked my granddaughter, and it turns out yakgwa is a trendy snack among young people these days.

Apparently it goes well with coffee, and the nostalgic taste they remember from their grandmothers' houses feels fresh to them.

So, as my granddaughter suggested, I started making yakgwa in small bite-size pieces and selling them in pretty boxes.

As photos taken by customers spread online, some people even started coming from far away just to visit.

Seeing a traditional confection loved like this again makes me feel it was worth keeping the shop going.

I've learned that even an old flavor can become new again when it's dressed for the times.

While working on an assignment about future food, elementary schooler Yerin learned about edible insects.

The material said insects can be raised with little feed and little space, and are rich in protein.

Hearing this, her grandfather laughed, “Ha, so the silkworm pupae we snacked on as kids are the food of the future now, I hear.”

Her grandfather told her that in the old days, there were carts selling boiled silkworm pupae in every alley.

Yerin found it fascinating, but the idea of eating insects made her hesitate.

So on the weekend, she decided to buy and try some cookies made with insect powder together with her grandfather.

Since she couldn't see what the insects looked like, her aversion faded, and she quickly finished a whole bag thanks to the nutty taste.

In presenting her assignment, Yerin emphasized that even unfamiliar foods can be accepted more easily if their form is changed.

It was the first time I went to a Korean restaurant with my friend María, who came from Mexico.

When several small plates filled the table before the stew we'd ordered, María's eyes went wide.

María worried that we hadn't ordered them, so I told her again and again, “It's fine, I'm telling you, side dishes are free.”

María was surprised once again to hear that they don't charge even if you ask for more side dishes.

I explained that in Korea, sharing several side dishes along with rice and soup is a long-standing way of eating.

These days, more restaurants let customers take only as many side dishes as they'll eat themselves, to reduce food waste.

María said both the culture of sharing and the effort not to leave food behind were impressive.

Since that day, María has gotten into the habit of taking only as much of the side dishes as she'll eat whenever she goes to a Korean restaurant.

My mom checks the dates on the food in the fridge more carefully than anyone.

Even if the date had passed by just one day, she would throw it out right away, while saying what a waste it was.

But a few years ago, food packaging in Korea began to show a use-by date instead of a sell-by date.

The use-by date is how long the food can be safely eaten when stored properly, so it's generally longer than the sell-by date.

Yesterday I stopped Mom from throwing out a yogurt, but she asked me again and again whether it was really okay to eat.

Saying, “I'm telling you, that's not something to throw away yet,” I pointed to the use-by date on the package.

Only then did Mom smile sheepishly and put the yogurt back in the fridge.

It struck me anew that just reading the date correctly can cut down quite a lot of wasted food.

For a while, my family ordered late-night food like fried chicken or braised pig's feet every night.

It was easy and tasty, but every morning our stomachs felt bloated and our bodies heavy.

So this spring we held a family meeting and promised not to eat anything after nine at night.

The problem was that on every day a soccer match was on TV, Dad would sneakily open the delivery app on his phone.

Whenever we stopped him, Dad pleaded again and again, “Come on, I keep telling you, today's a national team match.”

In the end, we compromised: only on match days would we eat a little fruit or boiled corn instead of a late-night meal.

After about three months, mornings felt lighter, and not eating late at night became a natural habit.

Now even Dad says with a smile that a plate of fruit is plenty while watching a game.

Our team dinners always started with grilled pork belly and soju and went on until late at night.

But Haeun, a new employee who joined this year, had been a vegetarian who didn't eat meat for a long time.

At first, our team leader asked whether it wouldn't be enough to just order her doenjang stew instead of meat.

But since she herself said she was the type whose stomach gets upset just from the smell of grilling meat, we couldn't insist on a barbecue place.

In the end, the team decided to hold the gathering at a Korean set-menu restaurant at lunchtime instead of in the evening.

Eating and chatting for an hour and a half without alcohol actually made the conversation more meaningful.

Everyone was also glad not to feel tired the next morning.

In effect, a small change made out of respect for one person's eating habits transformed the whole team's dining culture.

In Korea, there are set foods people make sure to eat on each holiday or seasonal day.

For example, rice cake soup on Lunar New Year, red bean porridge on the winter solstice, and ginseng chicken soup on the first of the dog days.

These days, though, more people eat these foods whenever they feel like it, regardless of the date.

Last July, my husband suddenly said he wanted rice cake soup, and I laughed, asking why he wanted it when it wasn't even New Year's.

Then my husband said, “Who says rice cake soup is only for New Year's?” and got out a pot himself.

The rice cake soup, which we hadn't had in a while, was still warm and filling, even in a different season.

Of course, the tradition of eating holiday foods on holidays has meaning, letting us feel the start of the year and the change of seasons.

But it occurred to me that enjoying the happiness those foods bring all year round isn't a bad thing either.