Food for my soul

I have never been a cook, in fact I've never striven to become one either. The whole ordeal exhausts me even thinking about it. Some things will never change. When I was young one of the biggest things my parents wanted to teach me were cooking, learning Chinese and grow up to have my own family. It looks like I failed at all three of the basic wishes of my parents. Still there's something about cooking rice that brings me back to the good old days.

I was a young kid and I was hopeless. In a way I still am. My grades weren't great and my family was always embarrassed that I've assimilated into Canadian culture. Back in the 80's and 90's being of a different culture wasn't exactly as celebrated as it is today. We were ashamed of who we are. Me and the few minorities in our elementary school would have this in common.

My mom was sick and tired of it but she understood as she would have tough times at work and general day to day activities as she wasn't fluent in English. They even named me Brian because they knew I wouldn't get a proper job if they gave me a Chinese name.

Baby steps were the way to go and my mom knew this. She wanted me to help around the house and one of the ways to do this was to cook rice. It's super simple that even a child could learn how to do this. Perfect for a little brat like me.

She came up to me asking me for some help with dinner. I came in and she told me that she was going to teach me how to cook rice. She'd ask me to wash the rice. That only made sense to me. I was a bit of a germaphobe in my youth. Millions of hands and germs must have touched the rice before getting to us. At the expense of our water bill, I washed that rice until that water was crystal clear. This rice was going to be the cleanest rice my family had ever eaten. Little did I know it was actually to wash away the starch that was on the rice.

We would then add water to the rice but I wasn't sure how much. My mom told me to plunge my index finger into the water. You have to touch just touch the rice and the water should reach the tip of the first joint of your finger. This kind of didn't make sense to me because I recognized that everyone has different sized hands so the size of the tip of the joint in your index is going to be different for everyone. Regardless I did whatever she asked me to.

I had to dry off the bowl to make sure that there's no water to cause any issues in the rice cooker. This wasn't even in a pot. The rice cooker was going to do most of the work.

When the rice finished cooking it turned out perfect. I couldn't believe how nice it was. Over the years I screwed up with putting in too much rice or too little and saw the results of my mistakes. I learned a bunch about rice from cooking it. My family was always appreciative of my help and I guess those were the last days that we were all together.

My brothers and sisters moved away and had families of their own. My mother passed away after many years of fighting cancer. Now my father is fighting dementia at the age of 90. We all know his days are numbered as we watch him wither away slowly.

Cooking rice sometimes brings me back to the time when my whole family was altogether again. It reminds me of more wholesome times that I spent with them during dinner. Rice was always a main staple of our meals so we had it pretty much every day. The taste the smell and the touch of it has so much meaning to me now than it ever has before.

It's funny how such a simple easy recipe can have such an impact on my life. Sometimes when I'm cleaning rice and cooking it I take a step back and pause. I remember all of the good times I used to have with my family and the flood of memories fill my head with joy and nostalgia. I miss those days and I'm so glad that I can associate those feelings with cooking rice.