Congee love

It's been a busy Sunday. I made Dad's (it was originally my grandmother who created it and passed down to my father) special rice porridge or congee which involves lots of prep work as a minimum of eight ingredients go into it.

I outdid myself by making it 10, and even made the chicken stock from scratch the night before in order to make the congee more flavourful.

The extra effort was worth it and I think my creative twists could be a start to a new, improved version.

Today's lunch brought back memories of Sunday lunches past, when my grandparents were still alive and my aunts, uncles and cousins would converge for lunch at our house. Dad would make bowl after bowl of congee, catering to each person's individual taste. 

As I washed, cut, boiled, sliced and sauteed endlessly, I gained a newfound respect for my father's previous efforts and a deep appreciation for his not inconsiderable labours of love.

It's one of those perennial lines that parents throw their children in frustration when the child displays an immature, narcissistic selfishness: "Wait until you become a parent then you will realize how selfish you were!"

I used to wonder when my father said it if indeed I was, as he accused, selfish, for I could not quite see it. As an adult, I can admit that there was truth in what he pronounced many moons ago.

Until we engage in acts of service for our loved ones, we can never fully appreciate the sacrifice that these acts of love involve when we are on the receiving end.
 
And that is why family traditions (especially those born out of love) should be passed down, generation after generation, so we know where we come from and how we can become active participants in perpetuating the chain of love, honouring the past in small gestures loaded with a wealth of meaning.

As we have received, so we in turn give back. As we have been loved, so we in turn do love.

There is something mystical about family traditions, especially the ones involving food. For cooking is not only the most accessible and visible gift of love but it is an alchemy that can transform humble ingredients into a sumptuous meal that captivates all the senses, nourishes the body and even brings about healing.

A bowl of congee is my way of remembering my father and his loving hospitality, of saying thank you for all his past efforts, and to say I love you to the people I cook for (especially baby bro who is back for a visit).

It is also a fitting way to pay tribute to Dad, who has gone ahead, seven years to the day come this Saturday.