This food-based narrative essay aimed to tell a story with vivid detail that often includes a conflict and a solution.

Just Rice and Water

As a granddaughter of an immigrant rice farmer in China, I have heard countless stories of my grandma farming on rice fields. My grandma often told stories of starving nights and lost crops as a lesson to her grandchildren. My grandma loves to exaggerate, but I like to keep herstories close at heart. One of the stories was about congee or as she preferred to call it, “Peasant Food” because it was all they had to eat when rice was low. Using the remaining rice in their pantry, my grandma would pour out a ratio of 1 cup of rice to at least 6 cups of water to make congee. Making congee was the only way to conserve rice for the winter and feed her kids as a full meal, with just rice and water. However, I never thought that something as simple as congee would teach such a big lesson.

I can remember coming home from a long day of school one afternoon in January of 2019, seeing my grandma staggering up the stairs bringing out her big pot to prepare the rice. As she opened the faucet, the water came down like a waterfall, raining on each grain of rice. She began to swirl her prune-like hand in the pot of rice, rinsing each grain thoroughly. My grandma would whip her hand in the rice to clean the silt and dirt that clung onto each grain. Each grain would splash against the silver pot embarrassing the sounds of maracas. Each hand movement moved swiftly along with sound of a whip, cracking at every loop she makes. Eye bags clung onto her face as she squinted while cleaning the rice. Although she could not see well, her technique in cleaning the rice was well efficient enough. After she cleaned the rice, she measured the water without batting an eye and placed the pot onto the stove. I was stunned to see how shewas able to make good congee without looking at the measurements. I quickly pushed aside hertechnique and murmured, “Why congee again? I thought we just had it the other day.” She responded, “Your mom is not feeling well. So, I thought we would all eat congee with her. It isalso good for digestion.” I never understood the purpose behind eating congee besides theconcept of an Asian take on chicken noodle soup. I felt that eating congee was nothing but a replacement for negligence and casualness. I groaned at the sight of congee, thinking that it was too dull for my taste buds. The thought of my grandma and her struggles never appeared in my mind at that time. This interaction quickly passed by as the months began to roll in.

Reaching the middle of April of 2019, I began having abnormal symptoms of pelvic pain and constant bloating. Nothing was able to cure it after visiting countless doctors, so I had to go for consecutive pelvic scans. I had a health issue that needed to be treated with surgery by the end of April. The news hit me harder than my grandma whipping the rice in the pot. The first thing when I walked through the door of my house my grandma rushed to me asking what the condition was. I pushed aside her questions and responded through my glassy eyes with,“Nothing is wrong.” I knew that she cared about me, but I could not bring to words of how I felt. No home remedies or a regular doctor’s visit is going to fix this. She knew something was wrong and said to me, “Whatever problem there is, grandma will always be there for you. I will giveyou the courage of a tiger so that you would be able to conquer anything.” Each day leading upto the surgery, my grandma would find ways to cheer me and offered to make me congee as a form of comfort. I would always reject her offer by saying, “What would congee do? It would not cure me anyways.” These foolish words had me replaying it in my head with regret and guilt.The days leading up to the surgery date went by fast as I found myself riding in the car up to the dreaded place that we call a hospital. My gray sweatshirt and black sweatpants soon replaced bya thin blue plaid hospital gown and I knew that the surgery was soon. Taking the cold and dark elevator up to the operating room was nerve wrecking. Feelings of dread and anxiousness filled my mind as the surgeons prepared their shiny tools. The last thoughts I had before falling into a deep sleep was a memory of my grandma bringing me a bowl of congee telling me that everything was going to be alright as my eyes forced itself to close.

After my nice nap on the operation table, I woke up to the side effects of anesthesia, slurring sorry here and there for worrying everyone. More importantly, I felt apologetic forputting down my grandma’s gestures the days leading up to this. I was up all night on the hospital bed missing home and the comfort and care I was put in. To make matters even worse, I was put on a strict liquid diet for the upcoming days, but the strict diet did not last long. When my mom came to visit me on the second day, she pulled out a warm silver thermos. Inside this thermos was congee prepared by my grandma. Unfortunately, my grandma was not able to visit me as her foot pain limited her mobility. Therefore, with my mom as the messenger, she explained that it was a different form of congee. It was a well-blended mixture of rice water that there were no apparent rice grains visible. It tasted sweet with the consistency of syrup. The corny aroma filled my nostrils as I took a big sigh and took a sip. One sip into my mouth had never tasted better before. It filled me up with warmth immediately as if my home was just a millimeter away. I never imagined that there could be such warmth in a depressing place. I felt the love and care that I had never been able to appreciate. It made me sigh to what I had once thought to be laziness was wrong. There is more to making to congee. It’s more than rice and water.

The next few days of my hospital stay; all I could think of was congee and how much Ilonged for my grandma’s congee. It was not that the hospital food was necessarily bad, it was just that I missed the simplicity of food. Being able to feel this comfort and family love from just rice and water is more than enough. I learned that congee is more than treating a sickness or for a casual dinner. Congee, for me, is meant as an appreciation for family, love, and warmth. Making congee was harder than it seems, the technique itself was hard enough, but the love and care put into making this simple meal is more than anything in the world. I finally got to leave the hospital after four long days. The first thing I walked home was to the smell of congee. The grainy, fresh rice smell filled the air, releasing a sweet corny aroma. The air filled with never- ending warmth that I will always treasure. I have never felt happier than before hearing mygrandma say, “More congee.”