Congee

One Sunday when I was five, my parents brought me to a little congee restaurant after my swimming lesson. Congee is a Chinese type of rice porridge that is usually eaten as a breakfast food. I recalled when I stepped into the restaurant, the strong aromas of green onions and cooked rice permeating the warm air, and the vapor of boiling congee surrounding the tiny open kitchen already made my mouth watery. We returned so many times to feast on my new favorite food that my family decided to cook it ourselves.

Every Sunday breakfast from that time on consisted of a bowl of congee, always prepared at home. My father chopped the pork, my mother crushed the ginger, and I placed the porcelain bowls and spoons on the dining table. What was at first eating it after my swimming lessons turned into a family tradition.

The procedure of boiling congee seems simple, but without adding enough water and patience, the congee can burn easily. First, the water and the rice are brought to a boil. Once the rice is boiling, the heat must be turned down to medium low, and the lid is tilted to allow the steam to escape. Garnishing the congee with ingredients like green onions, and “ zha chai”, which is the Chinese pickled vegetable, add a pinch of exotic sensation with the congee.

What may seem to others as a picky family’s habit was, in fact, a reflection of our cultural diversity. I am a Chinese who was raised in a British colony, an American who did not learn English until the 6^th grade. The blending of the different ingredients and seasonings with the congee epitomized this kaleidoscopic background. The weekly congee tradition also symbolizes the bonds and stability of our family.

I still eat congee when I come to the States by myself. After getting off the chemistry labs, or taking a break from studying for exams now, I systemically go to the only Chinese restaurant that serves congee in Pullman to celebrate my diligence or to appease my homesickness. Ironically, the congee has become a characteristic of my growing independence. And each time I breathe in the smell of green onions and cooked rice, I remember how much I have changed and yet, not changed, since my childhood days of eating congee with my family.