As we enter the new year, many of us are reflecting on the past and seeing how we can renew ourselves and our lives in 2025. This is a common human affliction, and I can assure you that it will pass. On January 1st, I myself did a 3-minute youtube dance workout, then immediately googled how to become a zumba instructor. So you can see that I, too, am not immune.
Soon we will all go back to normal, which consists of:
Still using “2024” in document file names and sheepishly apologising, forgetting that literally everyone makes that mistake in January, and also sometimes February and March (yours truly)
Going back to work and embellishing the answer to “how did you spend New Year’s Eve?”, by claiming that we stayed in a remote hut with no phone reception, doing breathing exercises and specifically timing the moment between exhale and inhale for exactly midnight, and then journaling about how the first inhale of the year felt (✨ inspirational ✨), and then sneezing
Discovering that colleagues also spent it at home watching the fireworks on TV and going to bed at 12.04 after phoning relatives overseas
Lamenting that everyday life is too much like it was in 2024
Periodically checking that the fire alarm is still working
Periodically checking that the portal to the other dimension is still safely tucked behind the full-length mirror
Continuing to watch all the episodes of Brooklyn 99
Chasing up on that delayed delivery of 24 toilet rolls
That last one definitely has nothing to do with me and is completely hypothetical.
Until we get back to normal, though, January 1st feels a bubble outside of time, a day of anticipation - whether that’s dread, optimism, or both. But we can’t physically exist in an ether of anticipation. No matter how much we think about the future, we’re still here. So, what does ‘being here’ look like?
Well, I can only answer that question based on my personal experience. And the one thing I did not expect to encounter on that momentous day of January 1st, 2025, was slime.
When I shuffled out of bed that day, it was lunchtime and I realised there were only 2.65 hours of daylight left. I really wanted to go out and catch the last rays, but the skies offered only rain. I felt a little cheated. Nevertheless, I still had something fun planned: for the first time, I would cook pajeon - a Korean crispy pancake, often made with spring onions (aka green onions or scallions).
A few days before that, I’d seen a video of someone making pajeon and, uncharacteristically, didn’t share it with the foodie friends group chat as an aspirational recipe I will never make. No - I actually went out and bought the ingredients, intending to make it on January 1st.
The only slight setback was that the spring onions in the shop were a little… limp. I could have tried another shop but was impatient to go home and exist in the ether of general end-of-year anticipation. Also, it was cold. So I bought the suspicious scallions and figured I could just cut off the straggly bits and use the rest.
You know what happened. It was January 1st, it was raining, I got around to washing and chopping the spring onions, and I started wondering if this was a normal amount of slime.
At first I was in denial about how much slime I was washing off, and then how much more slime was still on the spring onions as I chopped them. The inside of a spring onion can have a little coating of slime that is safe to eat, as long as the vegetable is still robust, green and dry on the outside. I eventually had to come out of denial and acknowledge that these critters were definitely past their prime.
Grumbling, I chucked the whole bunch and assessed my options. I couldn’t make the pajeon without this essential ingredient. I could skip making it entirely and do something else - some January 1st-esque activity, like journaling or buying a zumba instructor course that I would later regret but still complete, get the certification, begrudgingly add it to my LinkedIn profile to appear ‘well rounded’, and then forget about it until I attend someone else’s zumba class and grumpily think about all the ways I could have done it better.
But it was the very promise of pajeon that had gotten me out of bed that morning. So, with respect to my former self, I decided that I must at least try to get some new, fresh spring onions, even if it meant stepping out into grim weather without knowing if the shops were even open.
Donning my hooded jacket and wielding my umbrella, I emerged to meet the elements. Battling wind and rain, I followed my north star: the bright light of Tesco.
Seven minutes later, I was warm, dry and relieved Tesco was open, with a stock of robust, healthy-looking spring onions. 90p and seven minutes later, I was back home and ready for round 2 of Operation Auld Lang Slime.
That went by without much trouble, and delivered a wonderfully crispy pajeon. Behold:
I am feeling pretty smug about it right now, but in all honesty this is a classic case of “if I could do it, so can you”. It was very easy. So if you feel an urge to make pajeon, do it. Even if it’s just your new-year optimism talking. Ride that wave!