CHAPTER 113

2025-12-12

When we were children, the three of us brothers sometimes burned the pot of Teochew congee, and our mother would punish us physically.

Today, December 12 on the Gregorian calendar, is my late mother’s birthday—she would have been ninety-five. Every nineteen years marks a full cycle, and today her birthday coincides on both the lunar and solar calendars.

When we were young, if we committed a “serious” mistake, Mother, as the disciplinarian of the household, would punish us—the eldest, the second, and the third, which was me. The instrument of discipline was a rattan cane hung on the side of the tall wardrobe, a sight that struck fear at a glance.

My younger siblings were, by and large, spared such punishment. Our fourth sister passed away before she was two, departing this world early. The fourth brother, nearly four years younger than I, was naturally handsome and quiet, never rebellious, never provoking Mother’s anger. The fifth brother, six years younger than I, belonged to yet another generation. The sixth brother was born in the Year of the Rat; I, a Pig, belong to an animal sign more than a full zodiac cycle apart. Except for the fifth brother—who, having lost his status as the youngest, sometimes teased or ambushed the sixth out of jealousy—all of us older brothers doted on the sixth while also keeping him in line, sparing our parents the trouble. By then our parents were older, and Mother, worn down by years of heavy housework, no longer had the strength.

The main reason the congee got burned was usually this: the three of us were so engrossed in playing animal chess that we forgot Mother’s instructions before she went out to buy groceries: “Attend to the pot of congee on the stove—turn off the fire ten minutes after the water boils.” The idea was to let the residual heat soak through the rice grains, so that when she came home to cook, lunch would be ready.

Typically, the three of us would be squatting on the floor just outside the kitchen doorway, heads down over an animal-chess game, when the smell of scorched rice suddenly hit us. Only then would we remember the congee. The two older brothers would rush to assess the damage, hoping to salvage the pot.

Punishment was inevitable. The wait for Mother to come home must have been agonizing—thankfully, I retain no memory of that waiting at all.

Once you master the technique of cooking Teochew congee, cooking rice is not difficult. Congee, however, if left to sit too long, can quickly turn into mushy rice. About twenty years ago, Victoria and I stopped using electric rice cookers.

It started when my younger son was at elementary age, Victoria and I bought a cheap rice cooker. It broke after half a year. We bought another; that broke too. We also felt that electronic rice cookers with a warming function were overpriced and not worth it. So we switched to cooking rice in a pot. After a period of uneven results, things eventually stabilized. A few years ago, my younger son also mastered the technique and now cooks rice on his own.

For a family of four, one meal’s worth of rice can be ready in about twenty minutes. Is there a method or a set of procedures for cooking rice? Below are some basic understandings and principles.

The main cause of burnt rice is this: before the grains are fully cooked, they absorb water and expand; at the same time, any water not absorbed continues to evaporate. If the grains can no longer circulate up and down within the pot and the cooking temperature is not lowered in time, the sustained high heat will dry them out or scorch the grains stuck to the bottom of the pot, leading to the following outcomes:

(1) If all the grains are cooked, the rice at the bottom turns into a golden-brown crust. This was my mother’s favorite. She would often hold the pot, rice paddle in hand, scraping off the crust to eat as an after-meal snack.

(2) If the rice is overcooked, the bottom layer turns to charcoal, and the burnt smell permeates every grain. This is how you end up with a pot of burnt rice, leaving everyone at the table with a scorched taste and expression.

(3) If there is too little water or the heat is too high, heat circulation becomes uneven. Uncooked grains float while cooked grains sink; those stuck to the bottom burn into crust or charcoal. This produces the ultimate burnt-rice disaster—“half-raw, half-burnt rice,” fit only for “ghosts,” meaning no one will eat it.

The widespread success of the electric rice cooker lies in its precise control of the interplay among capacity, temperature, and time. The key to cooking rice in a pot is to let the water-laden grains cook through without being scorched by the bottom of the pot.

The most crucial technique is this: start counting from the moment the half-cooked grains begin to stay in one place and no longer move. Before the “crab-eye” bubbles disappear from the surface, lower the temperature. This can be done by adjusting the stove control, shifting the lid to release steam, or raising or lowering the pot—propping it up or suspending it (useful when camping outdoors).

Basic temperature reduction can be done in two stages: when the surface of the rice levels out, halve the heat; when the crab-eye bubbles disappear, halve it again. When no steam is visible, turn off the fire. Let it sit covered for ten minutes, and it is ready to eat. Practice makes perfect—raw rice can indeed be cooked into rice.