THIS IS SUPER URGENT... GREAT THX! ESP THE LANGUAGE AND FLOW... THE BOLDED ARE WHAT I THINK VERY AWKWARD... PLS HELP ME IMPROVE IT
I put the congee on the table. Soon a sticky layer forms on the top. As I sup this essence slowly, warmth coats my mouth. For years, I have eaten my congee like this, slowly and mindfully, like a ritual.
But cooking it is another side of the story.
I have a knack for burning congee. It always ends up overcooked because my heart drifts away with the steam. When I should be listening to the whistle of steam, I blast my ears with BBC for news updates; when I should be keeping an eye on overflowing, I revise aphasia and amnesia on flashcards. Only when the faint smell of burning reaches me, I groan and return to the reality, and become even more horrified at the black inedible crust left in the pot.
This burnt smell flavors whatever food I cooked in the pot for weeks, and I wonder how mum casted her spell on the timing and heat. In my memory, every time as I clinked the empty bowls at the dinning table and yelled hungry, she was standing there and stirring the simmering mixture, undisrupted. When the gooey mixture was about to overflow, she turned to the smallest flame and dislodged the stuck grains using a wooden spoon. The heat, water, and time all seemed to be under her control. They are not just trifles, but the difference between a hearty bowl and a disappointing mess. She gave the food her attention, so she noticed.
And I think about how I sometimes "burn" relationships in similar ways. I recount how my friends' bubbly chatter dropped to an embarrassing whisper when I took out my flashcards in the dinning queue; I recall how many voice messages my parents sent me when I forgot calling them during full-time research attachment. "You're always ahead of us. You walk so fast, eat so fast and do everything so fast." Someone wrote it on my birthday card, and that made me realize: amidst my "go-go" life, I had become less attuned to how others feel.
Now to me, cooking congee feels like a necessary balancing ritual when my life swirls into frenzy. Slowly, I learn to smell the fragrance of grains, to listen to the breaking-down of starch, and to see the thickness of congee-consistency. My senses are intensified, and continuously enriched by new observations and insights.
Slowing down my walk, I notice friendly "hi"s and when I return people with my smiles, I find that for light to come in, you need to let light go out. Relationships, like congee, need careful maintenance and mindful attention. As the sweet aroma wafts across the dorm, I develop greater intimacy with other foodies by sharing our delicious experience together into a copious meal.
Now, when I cook congee, all I think about is congee. It deserves attention and insights, so I am learning it with simmering patience.
I put the congee on the table. Soon a sticky layer forms on the top. As I sup this essence slowly, warmth coats my mouth. For years, I have eaten my congee like this, slowly and mindfully, like a ritual.
But cooking it is another side of the story.
I have a knack for burning congee. It always ends up overcooked because my heart drifts away with the steam. When I should be listening to the whistle of steam, I blast my ears with BBC for news updates; when I should be keeping an eye on overflowing, I revise aphasia and amnesia on flashcards. Only when the faint smell of burning reaches me, I groan and return to the reality, and become even more horrified at the black inedible crust left in the pot.
This burnt smell flavors whatever food I cooked in the pot for weeks, and I wonder how mum casted her spell on the timing and heat. In my memory, every time as I clinked the empty bowls at the dinning table and yelled hungry, she was standing there and stirring the simmering mixture, undisrupted. When the gooey mixture was about to overflow, she turned to the smallest flame and dislodged the stuck grains using a wooden spoon. The heat, water, and time all seemed to be under her control. They are not just trifles, but the difference between a hearty bowl and a disappointing mess. She gave the food her attention, so she noticed.
And I think about how I sometimes "burn" relationships in similar ways. I recount how my friends' bubbly chatter dropped to an embarrassing whisper when I took out my flashcards in the dinning queue; I recall how many voice messages my parents sent me when I forgot calling them during full-time research attachment. "You're always ahead of us. You walk so fast, eat so fast and do everything so fast." Someone wrote it on my birthday card, and that made me realize: amidst my "go-go" life, I had become less attuned to how others feel.
Now to me, cooking congee feels like a necessary balancing ritual when my life swirls into frenzy. Slowly, I learn to smell the fragrance of grains, to listen to the breaking-down of starch, and to see the thickness of congee-consistency. My senses are intensified, and continuously enriched by new observations and insights.
Slowing down my walk, I notice friendly "hi"s and when I return people with my smiles, I find that for light to come in, you need to let light go out. Relationships, like congee, need careful maintenance and mindful attention. As the sweet aroma wafts across the dorm, I develop greater intimacy with other foodies by sharing our delicious experience together into a copious meal.
Now, when I cook congee, all I think about is congee. It deserves attention and insights, so I am learning it with simmering patience.
