A Korean-Chinese women’s handmade Yanbian-style water tofu symbolizes family unity

‘The best way to enjoy tofu is to make it yourself’

Originally published on Global Voices

On December 28, 2025, I visited Helan village in Yanbian, the homeland of Lee YJ, a Korean-Chinese woman whose story was shared on Global Voices this past May. It had been seven months since we last spoke, but her family warmly welcomed me, and kindly invited me to take part in a ritual that marks the boundaries of a family: the making of tsodibi (초디비), Yanbian-style water tofu, which is called sundubu (순두부), in standard South Korean.

Tsodibi is not tied to a specific season or calendar festival. Choi MJ explains that it is made when relatives gather together, regardless of the time of year. When family members return home, tsodibi becomes the centerpiece of the meal — typically handmade by the women of the extended family, it symbolizes family unity and cooperation.

It takes more than a day to make water tofu. First, you need to soak the soybeans overnight, then grind them into a velvety, thick paste.

Grinding twice is the key step for extracting the rich flavor from the beans. You can see the transformation: the first pass is coarse, but the second yields a creamy, refined texture that retains the full richness of the bean. We added hot water to make it smoother and easier to strain.

The second step is straining. “You’re doing this job too,” Lee invited me to work together on this step.

We put the bean paste into a cloth bag, and I pressed and squeezed the soybase out while Lee held the opening. We then transferred the liquid into a finer-meshed bag for a second straining. It was physically demanding work, especially given that most women in Lee’s family were over seventy. Yet they handled it with strength and patience, which they have cultivated from decades of experience.

Then came the heating. In their traditional kitchen, a large pot sits atop a furnace, which also serves as a floor-heating system.

“We have a modern kitchen, too, but we don’t use it much,” Lee’s youngest sister, Lee YN, commented proudly. “Our traditional way is more efficient and eco-friendly.” (Though I noticed she eventually slipped into the modern kitchen to prepare the extra side dishes!)

Lee’s brother, CS, went down to light the furnace. Tsodibi is traditionally prepared by women in Yanbian, and men’s involvement is usually limited to practical tasks such as tending the fire. 

While the pot slowly warmed, Lee and her sisters started cooking side dishes on the iron plate next to it, mostly fried kimchi made from various wild plants. Outside of Korean culture, many people believe kimchi refers only to spicy fermented cabbage, but in reality, it just means “pickles,” so the vegetables used can vary widely, and the resulting dishes are not necessarily spicy.

Lee’s family took the soybase out before the pot boiled. She quickly skimmed the foam that had risen to the top of the soybase mixture and added bittern (a coagulant). As she gently stirred, the magic happened: liquid began to clump into snowy white curds. She kept stirring, occasionally lifting out the tofu skin that bloomed on the surface like parchment.

To serve, you scoop away the excess water and serve it with a homemade sauce. The sauce was a mix of soy sauce and chopped fragrant vegetables such as onion, garlic, and chilli.

Freshly made Tsodibi has a tender, cloud-like softness, offering a rich, nutty flavor that store-bought tofu simply cannot replicate. “The best way to enjoy tofu is to make it yourself, isn’t it?” said YN.

Lee’s daughter, Choi MJ, explained that Tsodibi is usually served with a light sauce, because its flavour is already rich and nutty on its own. This is different from Chinese-style water tofu, which is more commonly stir-fried or cooked with spices and other ingredients. The Yanbian water tofu can also only be made in a traditional kitchen, using the traditional iron plate. “Modern equipment simply does not produce the same result,” said Choi.

To preserve the tofu, we ladled the curds into a square, cloth-lined box. Then filled another bowl with excess water and pressed the tofu into a solid, meaty block.

The name “water tofu” best depicts the nature of Tsodibi. Like the women who make it, the dish possesses a fluid tenderness underpinned by a quiet, solid strength. As the winter chill settled outside, the warmth of the furnace and the rich, nutty aroma of the soybeans reminded me that the most indulgent meals often aren’t found in luxury restaurants, but in the slow, patient hands of those who remember where they came from.