In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Childhood Revisited.”
My mother died when I was 11 or 12 ( I’m not very good with dates, never have been and certainly never will be) but as the oldest daughter I was to help out with some of the dinner preparation to help the family.
One memory I have was when my father came home from work and asked me to help him get the rice ready for dinner. “You need 2 cups of rice, then rinse with cold water a couple of times to get rid of the starch before you can start to cook”. I think I must have washed the rice about 5 times when my father said “that must be the cleanest rice in town”. We both giggled and then he told me to put it in a pot and put water up to the first joint of your thumb, bring it to the boil until little craters appear, then simmer on low for 20 minutes….no peaking… and that was how I learned to cook rice.
I left home when I was 16 not knowing or really understanding him or our life. He died when I was 35 but I wish I could have washed more rice with him.