Simple Recipes: Stories
Stories
Chapter One
There is a simple recipe for making rice. My father taught it to me when I was a
child. Back then, I used to sit up on the kitchen counter watching him, how he
sifted the grains in his hands, sure and quick, removing pieces of dirt or sand,
tiny imperfections. He swirled his hands through the water and it turned cloudy.
When he scrubbed the grains clean, the sound was as big as a field of insects.
Over and over, my father rinsed the rice, drained the water, then filled the pot
again.
The instructions are simple. Once the washing is done, you measure the water
this way - by resting the tip of your index finger on the surface of the rice.
The water should reach the bend of your first knuckle.
My father did not need instructions or measuring cups. He closed his eyes and
felt for the waterline. Sometimes I still dream my father, his bare feet flat
against the floor, standing in the middle of the kitchen. He wears old buttoned
shirts and faded sweatpants drawn at the waist. Surrounded by the gloss of the
kitchen counters, the sharp angles of the stove, the fri ... read full excerpt from Simple Recipes: Stories ebook
