Chapter 5
Chapter 5
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Translator: Ace
Chapter: 5
Chapter Title: Awakening the Ability (5)
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From his expression, I could tell there'd been some kind of misunderstanding.
I let out a chuckle and waved it off.
"Nah, it's not like that. I really like it, so I eat it. Koreans make Spam dishes all the time. And I'm Korean-American myself."
"Oh, Korean! Got it. BTS country!"
He nodded like it all made sense now.
But his face still looked puzzled.
"Just outta curiosity, though—why do Koreans love Spam so much? To us, it's just... you know. Kinda trash food."
"Sit down first. I'll explain. You look hungry—let's eat and talk."
"Uh... yeah, okay? But honestly, Spam is kinda..."
He hesitated.
His stomach was growling, but he still looked unsure.
"Don't worry. I'll make something special."
He cautiously took the seat across from me.
"Name's Marcus. Marcus Washington. From LA Compton."
"Jake Winch. From Texas."
We bumped fists.
His hand was as big as a baseball glove.
"You drive trucks too, bro?"
"Fifteen years now. You?"
"Same here. See that red Peterbilt 379 over there? That's my baby."
It was flashy, covered head to toe in chrome.
American truckers treated their rigs like kids.
Especially owner-operators—they valued their trucks more than their houses.
"Damn, that's slick. How much she set you back?"
"Bought her used for eighty grand. Five-year loan, paid off last year. All mine now. Pulls in three to four K a week."
"Impressive."
Suddenly, a massive rumble came from his gut.
Groooowl—
"Whoa, sorry. Just two truck stop hot dogs since breakfast. And that was six hours ago."
"Haha, hang on a sec. Man, this country's got such a bias against Spam."
Marcus sighed at my words.
"You know it as well as I do, but honestly... Spam's white trash food. People think it's just for poor whites in trailer parks."
"Can't argue there."
"My grandma said they ate it like staple food back in hard times. So my family never touches it. Now we can afford 'real meat.'"
"I get it. Funny thing is, it's the opposite in Korea."
"Opposite?"
"During the Korean War, Spam from U.S. troops was top-shelf stuff. Civilians could barely get it. That's why it's still popular in holiday gift sets—goes for good money too."
"No way! You gift Spam?"
"Sets run fifty bucks easy."
"Insane! Fifty bucks? Here a can's three."
Marcus shook his head.
"Cultural gaps like that are wild. But hey, bro—you said something special earlier?"
"Got some grilled Spam too, so I'm thinking Budae Jjigae."
"Budae what now?"
"Food born from the old war days... A stew mixing leftovers like Spam, sausage, bacon with Korean traditional sauces."
"War-born survival grub, huh."
"Yep. But now it's one of Korea's signature dishes. Ironic, right?"
I headed to my truck and grabbed more ingredients.
"Got anything on hand? Whatever you've got."
Marcus jumped up.
"Hell yeah! Truck's loaded with eats. One sec."
He came back from his rig with a bag.
"Bacon, sausage, empty cans... Oh, and this—Belvita cheese!"
"Perfect, we can use it all."
I filled the pot with water and set it boiling.
While it heated, I prepped the ingredients.
"What's this? Looks like brown paste?"
"Doenjang. Fermented soybean paste. Traditional Korean sauce."
"Fermented? Like cheese?"
"Kinda. But from beans. Good for you too."
Once boiling, I stirred in the Doenjang, added Spam, sausage, and bacon.
Threw in some Kimchi and onions too.
"And this?"
"Jeotgal. Fermented seafood like shrimp or anchovies salted down."
"Whoa, all Korean food fermented? Gotta be gut gold."
It bubbled up, filling the air with savory, spicy aroma.
"Oh my God! That smell's insane! This really has Spam in it?"
Marcus's eyes lit up.
I tossed in a can of beans, then a dash of ramen soup mix for the final seasoning.
And a chunk of Belvita cheese.
"Cheese too?"
"Adds depth to the flavor. Common in Budae Jjigae."
"Fusion!"
"Done! Dig in."
I microwaved some Instant Rice into a bowl and ladled it full of stew.
Handed it to Marcus, who was practically dancing with impatience.
He scooped a careful spoonful.
Popped it in—eyes went wide.
"Holy shit! What is this? That's the Spam? It's a whole new food!"
"Good?"
"Good? Damn, this is art! Spicy, nutty, creamy... Bro, you're a genius!"
He started scarfing it down.
"This red stuff, Kimchi? Weird at first, but addictive now! Sour and heat cuts the richness perfect!"
"Told ya. That's the key."
"What sauce makes it this umami bomb? Doenjang? Jeotgal? Mind blown!"
He polished off the bowl in no time.
"More?"
"Obviously."
Second bowl vanished just as fast.
"Jake, this is revolutionary. Spam like this? Fifteen years trucking, eaten nationwide—top ten easy."
"Haha, you're too kind."
"Dead serious. Gumbo in NOLA, Texas BBQ, Chicago deep dish... This is special."
Then an elderly couple from the next site wandered over.
"Excuse us... That smell's incredible. What're you cooking?"
Marcus beamed proudly.
"Hey, Korean food! Budae Jjigae, made by my buddy Jake. It's art!"
"Wow, looks amazing. First Korean food we've seen."
The husband spoke up.
"We're full-timers. RV across the country. Three years retired now."
His wife added,
"Sampling local eats is the fun of travel—hitting gold like this at a campground!"
I checked the pot.
Still a bit left.
"Want some? Got a little remaining."
"Really? Thank you!"
I served them too.
One bite, same reaction as Marcus.
"Unbelievable! Spam in this?"
"Yeah, it's the star."
The husband said, astonished,
"Young and broke, lived on Spam sandwiches. Vietnam C-rations had it too. Couldn't look at it after."
"Trauma from poverty and war, huh."
"Yep. But transformed like this..."
The wife chimed in,
"Food's great, but strangers gathering to share? That's the RV life charm."
Marcus fetched beers from his truck.
"Gotta toast nights like this! Just Miller Lite though..."
"Plenty good!"
"Cheers! To new friends, killer food, and open minds!"
"Clink!"
Cans rang out under the desert night sky.
The husband shared his tale.
"Accountant thirty-five years. Sold the house post-retirement for this RV. Folks called me crazy—best call ever."
"America's huge and diverse. Every state, city a new culture."
His wife added,
"Stories from truck stops and RV parks are the best. Everyone's got their own."
Marcus nodded.
"Yeah. Grew up LA Compton—gangsta rap central. Real meals were scarce."
"How'd you get into trucking?"
"Uncle was a driver. Told me, 'Don't wanna die on the streets? Drive trucks.' Got my CDL and rolled."
CDL was the commercial driver's license.
Class A let you haul semis.
"Started company rigs. Swift, Schneider, Werner—all done. Saved up, bought my own."
"Respect."
"Trucking saved me. Still in Compton? I'd be jailed or buried."
Mood turned serious.
The wife shifted gears.
"Jake, how'd you become a trucker?"
"Born in Korea, adopted to the States at fourteen. Foster dad was a trucker—learned from him."
"Adoption? Must've been tough."
"At first. No English, culture shock. But great folks."
Marcus asked,
"Still speak Korean?"
"Yeah, work at it to not forget. Part of who I am."
"Dual culture's a strength. Broader view."
The husband agreed,
"True. Travel taught us—diversity's America's power."
Stories flowed on.
Trucking tales, road trips, life lessons...
"Makes me wanna learn more about Korea."
The wife said,
"War ruins to Samsung, Hyundai, BTS land..."
"Miracle fits. Korea's probably changed since I left too."
Marcus added,
"America too. Grandpa's gen had Depression, WWII. We stand on their sacrifices."
"That's why Spam matters. War and poverty food, now memory and culture."
The husband marveled,
"So much history in one dish."
Night deepened.
Desert sky blazed with stars.
"New Mexico nights are magic."
The wife said,
"No light pollution—Milky Way shines."
It did. Faint galaxy glow.
Marcus yawned.
"Gotta roll at four a.m...."
"Me too, early start."
The couple stood.
"Special evening. Thanks, Jake."
"Pleasure's mine."
Marcus last,
"Bro, number? Stay in touch. Hit LA, Compton tour on me."
"Haha, deal. I'll hook you up with rural Texas. Hit me up."
Exchanged cards.
"Send that Budae Jjigae recipe. Making it at home."
"For sure. Email it."
"Next time, my soul food. Grandma's recipe."
"Sweet. Can't wait!"
Everyone headed back.
I cleaned up and hit the tent.
In my sleeping bag, I reflected.
One can of Spam sparking deep talks and bonds like this.
America was diverse as hell.
People from all backgrounds, stories colliding.
Truck stops, RV parks—where they met, shared food, swapped tales.
Maybe that's the road life's appeal.
Embracing strange cultures, outsiders with open hearts.
Even controversial grub like Spam turns special shared.
Checked my phone.
Eleven p.m. Roll out at five a.m.
Set alarm, closed eyes.
Crickets and distant train rumble lulled me.
Four-thirty a.m.
Alarm blared.
Still pitch black outside.
I threw on clothes and stepped out.
Cold desert air filled my lungs.
Stars still twinkled.
Headed to showers.
Token in—hot water poured.
'Truck stop showers are top-notch.'
Spacious, clean private stalls. Towels, soap provided.
Trucker perks.
Packed tent and gear.
Marcus's truck was gone.
'Already rolled.'
Fired up my rig.
Engine purred smooth.
Pulled out to I-10.
Headlights pierced the dark ahead.
Keyed the CB.
"Good morning, westbound. Anyone out there?"
[Night Wolf here. Headed to Phoenix.]
"Phoenix too. Road clear?"
[Good so far. Watch for dust storm alert entering Arizona.]
"Ten-four. Appreciate it."
Phoenix: four hours.
Radio on—dawn talk show.
[Today's topic: 'Is the American Dream still alive?'...]
Sunrise as I crossed into Arizona.
'The Grand Canyon State – Welcome' sign greeted me.
Arizona's beauty differed from Texas.
Red rocks, massive saguaro cacti. Straight out of a Western.
Eight a.m., Phoenix skyline shimmered in the haze.
Giant city in the desert.
Nav announced arrival.
South Phoenix industrial park—massive logistics center.
"Jake Winch here. Delivery from Houston."