Essay On Cooking Mishaps

At first, there was the constant supply of staple food courtesy of our ever-present big brother and helpers of the house. Every day, we were all of us dependent on whichever meal our mother had brought home or cooked for us. The necessity of food in our humble abode came only during dinner time when all have come from a day’s work or school. To be honest, none of us regarded cooking rice as a mandatory passage to independence. We all thought, “Rice in a rice cooker? Too easy!”
A couple of months after, there came the change of schedules. School subjects were reorganized; workloads doubled, and job shifts, well, shifted. Helpers were not always present anymore. Big brother would always be at work (night shift). We never realized that there would eventually come a time that we would NEED to do the “simple” task we casually shrug about if we wanted to satisfy our hunger.
It was my younger sister who took the initiative and let the dutiful task off our plates. One ordinary night, while I was sleeping my tiredness away, little sister cooked rice armed with only my mother’s instructions on how to work the rice cooker. There was no me to guide her into accomplishing the job. To briefly summarize the outcome of her experience, can I just say, it was a disaster. She placed too much water in the pot allowing the rice to cook but not the water to dissipate from it. That night, my sister, mother and housemate all ate watery rice for dinner. It was kind of a good thing that the viand my mother bought kind of complemented the rice.
The following day, as fate would have it, mother was running late from work once more. We were again instructed to cook rice so that we could already eat once they arrive. This time, I was awake. However, oblivious of the fact that they had a little unpleasant dinner last night and because it was only the two of us in the house, I let little sister cook rice. I thought, “She must have developed a penchant for cooking rice.” She, on the other hand, was probably trying to redeem herself.
Soon thereafter, afraid that she might “ruin” dinner that night, little sister turned to me for assistance on placing the water. I only managed to tell her what our mother told me last time she had taught me how to cook rice. Use the first line of your middle finger for measuring the water level, feel the rice if it is loose enough in the water.
My mother said the trick was passed on to her by our grandmother. I remembered my mom scooping the rice then in her hands and letting it swirl around the pot as if testing if it will go smoothly with the motion of the water. I remembered trying the swirling thing for myself, and thinking, “how exactly do you know if it is the swirling enough, too much, or too little?” To me, it was just rice and water joining my hands in rotating. But then again, it was the first time my mom told a family history, I did not want to spoil the moment.
Thus, little sister did what I instructed her to do and the rice was cooked once more. And to cut the story short again, it was a disaster again. In all fairness, the rice was not that watery. IN my opinion, it just needed a little evaporation, which we allowed by taking the lid of the rice cooker for a while.
It was my sister’s worried look that night, even if we tried to assure her, which struck me most. Her face was a beam of comedy and a hint of grim; saying it was again her fault. A part of me also blamed myself. I was the one who gave her the instructions in the first place and it should have been my duty to check on her and the water.
I decided then that I will take all the credit, or blame, for the rice. Hesitantly, little sister agreed. And although the others seemed to point fingers on her at first, when we told them I was the one who cooked it, they seemed to accept it all the way. Either I was really good in acting the part or my cooking reputation was just like that. Either way, I was glad they bought it.
The next night, I guess three’s really a charm because for the third time that week, our mother cannot come home early again. That time, all of my siblings were there. Since the mishaps of the previous nights were already notorious around the house, I think all of us wanted to make sure that the rice we would eventually be cooked right.
Finally, as if to cap that moment in our life, my brother joked little sister saying, “You should try and cook rice at 6 o’clock in the morning.” Naturally, we were all perplexed by his statement and were all thinking why. As if reading our minds then, he added, “You know, rice porridge?” And that was that.
There’s always a first in everything – first step, first try, first failure, and first success. Through all the firsts of our rice cooking mishaps, some part of me still wanted to relive them again because, as I now realize, first steps become milestones when taken together.