Chapter 4
Chapter 4
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Translator: penny
Chapter: 4
Chapter Title: Wise Unemployed Life
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Slicing the meat.
Into bite-sized pieces perfect for popping in your mouth.
The cut is from the front leg, specifically the untrimmed front leg with the skin on. Samgyeopsal has way too much fat, and hind leg is too lean and gets tough.
Slice it into bite-sized chunks and toss them into a hot pan with a drizzle of oil.
Sizzle—
The moment the meat hits the pan, smoke billows up. Keep a close eye, flipping carefully to avoid burning, and once it's cooked through, pull it out. Then, in that same oil, add onions and green onions to infuse them with flavor.
"Mmm, smells amazing."
Part of me wants to just eat it like this.
But to make it even better, I hold back.
"Alright."
Once the onions and green onions are softened, in goes the ginger first—sauté that to layer the aromas. Once the oil's fully infused, add garlic and gochugaru chili powder.
It's more work than dumping everything in at once to extract chili oil, but doing it step by step creates something beyond just spicy: an explosive, aromatic chili oil.
With that done, toss the pre-cooked meat back in. Stir-fry once to marry the chili oil with the meat, then add the premixed sauce—soy sauce, mirin, sugar, oyster sauce, gochujang, and water—and stir vigorously.
The key here? Don't just mix the meat and veggies—shake the pan.
Give it that wok hei action.
Why? To emulsify the chili oil, the fat from the meat, and the sauce's moisture into a perfect harmony.
Screw that up, and you've got a oily sauce disaster on your hands.
While wokking away, use a wooden spatula that won't scratch the pan to scrape and flip from the bottom now and then.
When the oil and sauce finally unite into one glossy whole, it's done. Sprinkle sesame seeds on top, and you're golden.
"Delicious."
I nod in satisfaction as I dig into the finished jeeyuk bokkeum.
It's not my original recipe—it's a home-adapted version of what a chef at a bistro where I once worked taught me.
The original was too complex with way more ingredients, tough to replicate at home, but too good to give up on. This simplified take comes damn close and hits the spot so often I make it all the time.
I scoop heaps of the jeeyuk bokkeum and rice cooked in the pot onto a small tray with some lettuce, then head to the porch. Before eating, I snap a low-angle shot framing the food and sky just right.
"Whoa, this is killer."
I took it myself, but damn if it doesn't look pro.
Too good to keep to myself.
One downside: it's a road view, not ocean. Still beats eating in a stuffy room—open-air porch dining has that vibe.
"Rain would make this perfect."
Man, it'd be ideal if it rained right now.
That thought hits me—oh crap. Rain would soak the whole porch. Hmm, maybe rig up a tarp for rainy days?
"Another chore added to the list."
Grumbling, I pull out my phone to shop for tents.
Something easy to set up and fold on the porch. Not too pricey, not plain—something I can customize a bit.
Ah, this one's perfect.
I add the tent to my cart, plus daily essentials, paint and lacquer for the opposite wall, and check out.
"Three days for delivery."
Definitely less convenient than Seoul.
Back in my old place, everything arrived next day. Well, no Coupang here, so maybe I'm asking too much.
"Gotta hit the market again."
Thanks to that—or because of it—
Daily market runs for fresh stuff keep my days packed. Ugh, such a hassle. Dinner's leftovers, tomorrow's tomorrow's market trip?
Delivery works here, and settlement money means I'm flush this month. But with no gigs lined up, who knows how long it'll last? Gotta stretch it.
Plus, no clue when I'll make a comeback...
"Bad habit."
I catch myself spiraling into negativity again and stop. Always been like this. Picking uncertain paths since kid days, maybe.
Whenever I start something, worst-case hits first.
"Stay positive."
I shove the last of the jeeyuk bokkeum in my mouth and start cleaning. Dishes to the sink, wipe the tray clean, store it.
Fill a basin with water and tackle the dishes.
I'd love to chill first, but we all know how that goes—procrastinate till right before next meal.
Then what? Bugs everywhere.
Summer's closing in, so handle it now. Hot water, detergent, scrub spotless, scraps into the odor-proof bin.
"Done."
House chores wrapped, clock says 1 PM. No way. Ate and cleaned, and it's barely 1?
Can life really be this chill?
"Maybe a walk."
Planned to study editing post-meal, but with time to spare, easing up feels fine.
Digest while strolling the beach, grab a coffee at the convenience store on the way back—perfect. Mull it over, then impulse hits: snag my phone and head out.
Yeah, can't live by the plan forever.
"Huuuuh. Huuuum, parade~"
Lock the door, beachward bound. Mild breeze, neither hot nor cold. Perfect. Sky painted blue, clouds fluffy white.
Cheesy, but if "perfect weather" exists, this is it. Stunning, feel-good day.
"My childhood, by chance~"
Studio hermit days never let me soak this in—free, beautiful scenery pulls a song from me. One of my favorites.
"Tempting tales of giving me the world~"
Funny thing.
Wracking my brain in the studio, all I wanted was escape. Now? Craving to make music again. Nah, not diving in full throttle.
I know myself.
The second I commit properly, I'm back to the old grind. After that battlefield burnout, I want freedom now.
Like why I started singing.
For fun.
"Hello."
Humming along, I'm at the convenience store. Grab iced Americano and ice cup, pay up.
"Thanks for your hard work."
Nod to the exhausted clerk, out to the beach. Plop on empty sand.
Sip mediocre Americano, stare blankly at the sea.
Waves crashing on the breeze. Horizon endless under picture-perfect sky—blindingly beautiful.
"Weird."
Grinding for success, it all looked gray. Ditch it all, run, and now everything shines?
Fingers twitch unbidden.
Twitching fingers tap the sand.
Like playing piano.
"Even your failures are beautiful."
Mumbling lyrics into the sand.
Not an existing song or line. Pure improv, this moment. Lyrics, melody, fitting instruments—all flooding my head.
Opposite my usual style.
Manager called it "unsellable."
Old me would've scrapped it. But it lingers, draws me in. Ponder, then stand.
Yeah, no comeback rush.
No manager nagging.
What's to lose?
Try it, delete if it sucks. Hobbies, right? Ditch what doesn't click. Not selling or showing anyone—why fear wasting time?
Old me deemed it waste. Now? Time's all I got. Decided, I head home.
Yeah, unemployed life.
Do whatever.
Stuff I skipped as "waste," skills I craved— all of it.
What?
Didn't you just say no intense sessions?
People change minds post-bathroom break. Three-day resolve exists for a reason. Stay flexible, don't be rigid.
So, hurry home and work befo—
"Huh?"
Before the melody fades, nearing home—people clustered by my wall.
What?
Lining up?
Out of the road, queued toward my place.
Women snapping pics of my mural.
Putting it together...
"Photo line?"
So those folks...
Are queuing to photograph my mural?