A man teaches his child how to cook rice, and the child never quite masters it. That is all there is to this modest, particular tale. It concerns a memory of quick hands and clouded water, and of a boy who watches and learns but never quite equals the care his father put into the task.
Rinsing the Grains
Swirl your hands through the rinse water until it runs cloudy, then drain and fill again. The water measurement comes from the tip of your index finger: it should reach the bend of your first knuckle. Without measuring cups, the father relied on feeling alone. He closed his eyes and let his sense of touch guide him to the waterline.
Each evening, the father performed the same nightly ceremony before supper, and the boy observed him closely. When the boy himself reached an age where he could take up the duty, it was handed over to him, yet he failed to match the attention his father had shown. He merely followed the steps, drenching the vessel with water, then thrusting his finger down to check the water level. On certain nights, the grain turned into a thin porridge. He feared he could not manage so plain a task. “Sorry,” he would tell the others at the table, his voice low and ashamed.
He kept eating, moving the rice into his mouth without pause, as though nothing had happened at all. Every grain was consumed, his chopsticks working fast across the plate. Then he got up, whistling, and cleared the table, each motion so smooth and confident that the boy became convinced by him that everything remained fine in the world.
The Kitchen Memory
His father’s memory is so powerful that it takes him by surprise. The man stands within the kitchen, enclosed by the gleam of the counters, the harsh edges of the stove, the fridge, and the bright sink. He wears worn buttoned shirts and faded sweatpants pulled tight at the waist, his bare feet resting flat upon the floor. He appears out of place amid that polished setting.
The Fish
One afternoon, the father stands in the center of the kitchen with a plastic bag full of water in his hand. Within the bag sits a live fish, nearly lifeless, its mouth moving faintly as if gasping for air. The boy lifts his arm and presses his fingers against the bag’s surface, tracing the gills, the soft, muscular body, and pressing his finger across the eye. The fish stares directly at him, thrashing slowly from one side to the other.
Water pours into the kitchen sink while the father turns the bag over, sending the fish sliding out with it. The creature curls and leaps through the flow. The boy stands close by, on his tiptoes, chin resting on the counter, watching every movement. The fish measures the distance from his wrist to his elbow. It drifts motionless in the basin, its body touching the sink’s walls as it moves.
The father and the boy spent long stretches together alone. His mother was working and his older brother was playing outside while the two of them sat on the couch, channel surfing. The boy loved watching cooking shows, and they settled in to watch Wok with Yan. The father would offer his opinion on Yan’s techniques.
“I can do that,” he said. “You don’t have to be a genius to do that.”
He placed a sprig of green onion in water and showed the boy how it bloomed like a flower. “I know many tricks like this,” he said. “Much more than Yan.” Still, the father made careful notes when Yan demonstrated Peking Duck. He chuckled heartily at Yan’s punning.
Yan pointed his spatula at the camera and said “Take a wok on the wild side!”.
“Ha ha!” the father laughed, his shoulders shaking. “Wok on the wild side!”
The School Days
Every morning, the father escorted the boy to school, and at three o’clock, when they returned home, the boy reported everything he had learned that day. “The brachiosaurus,” he told him, “eats only soft vegetables.”
The father nodded. “That is like me. Let me see your forehead.” They stopped and faced each other in the road. “You have a high forehead,” he said, leaning down to take a closer look. “All smart people do.”
He marched along with pride, matching his father’s pace step by step. His delight came from his feet falling in rhythm with his father’s, right, then left, then right, so that the two moved as one body. The father was the man of tricks, who sat for an hour cutting a watermelon with a round spoon, who shaped its peel into a castle.
The Family Story
His parents arrived in Canada several years before he was born, moving from Montreal to Vancouver. He came into the world under the persistent Vancouver rain, while his father was born beneath the sweep of a monsoon country.
As a child, the boy struggled with his parents’ language, no matter how often they attempted to instruct him. His father would run his thumb tenderly across the boy’s mouth, his expression gentle and kind, as though he were searching for some clue to explain why the boy found speech so difficult.
He came to Canada with his parents from Malaysia, and the language deserted him then. It could have been that he forgot it, or that he turned away from it, both of which happen often, and this made the father angry.
“How can a child forget a language?” he would ask his mother. “It is because the child is lazy. Because the child chooses not to remember.”
Twelve years old is when his brother would leave during the afternoon hours. The boy would then kick the soccer ball up and down the back alley until evening arrived, coming home just for dinner. Throughout the day, his mother held a job as a sales clerk at the Woodward’s store downtown, situated in the building topped by a red revolving W.
The Weight of the Air
The ceilings in the house had turned yellow from years of grease settling on them. The air itself carried the scent, thick with it. The boy recalls that he loved how heavy the atmosphere felt, packed with the odor of many meals cooked in a small kitchen.
The boy’s embarrassment at the table, his father’s silence through it, and the clearing of the dishes afterward — these small moments add up to a picture of a relationship built on watching and learning. The father’s patience is the thread running through the whole story: he keeps eating, he keeps laughing, he keeps working, even when the rice is wrong and the boy cannot get it right.
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