The year I went back to college after a long absence, I was pretty socially isolated, being about five years older than most of the other students. However, even that lonely campus three hours away was preferable to being at home with my Dad over the entire holiday break, so I paid to stay at school during intersession. For the most part it was several weeks of enjoyably tranquil me-time – a commodity I value like silk – but problems arose toward the end when my jobless self ran out of both money and food. I had loose change enough to get me almost through, but for a sizable portion of the final week, I had nothing to eat and several days until the dining halls reopened. I guess I miscalculated a little.
One evening, as my stomach nagged me in much the same way my Dad might have been doing if I’d gone home, I searched hopelessly through the empty packages on the shelves in my room, hoping to discover some previously overlooked morsel. Suddenly, something rattled at the bottom of one of the boxes I grabbed–wait! Way down at the bottom of a box of boil-in-bag Success Rice, there it was: one more package. With a triumphant cry I snatched it out and held it above my head. Oh, how to make this come alive as wonderful, beautiful food? I would need to cook. I remembered the kitchenette on the other side of the lounge, and made haste there with my prize.
Place water in pot. Place pot on hot stove. Place bag of rice in boiling water and remove when finished. At no point did I suspect the process to require any more knowledge than this. So I fetched said pot from the cabinets, turned on said stove to high, poured said water, and put it in to boil.
I stood there, and I waited; waited for that churning water that would tell me it was time to drop in the bag. The only sound in the kitchen was that of my stomach still harping on me, but after awhile even that began to wait in silence. I know it’s said that a watched pot never boils. The truth is, neither does an unwatched pot, because I even tried turning my back. By my watch it was 8:14. An hour later I looked again and it was 8:16. I checked the burner to make sure it was working. Each second lingered mockingly before ticking away, and still that water would not boil.
Now I’ve mentioned that I was older than most of the other students. At the beginning of the year, the school offered to put me up in the “mature students’ dormitory”, which sounded great since I was not especially interested in weaving through kids bouncing around the halls, or listening to lots of late-night noise. What this actually meant, as I discovered, was putting me in the international students’ dorm, so most of those “mature students” were Korean, Thai or Chinese, with little command of English.
As I waited for my water to boil, a slender Asian girl swept past me into the kitchen bearing two heaping armloads of grocery bags. Without a word, she set her own pot on the burner beside mine, putting a cover on it, and quickly went to work unpacking a variety of vegetables, spices, fruits and other ingredients. Within two minutes, the pot beside mine was boiling away merrily, while the surface of my water remained undisturbed. I began to stare at her in amazement.
What I witnessed was not so much cooking as it was an ancient and mystical art being practiced. Time slowed down to watch along with me as the girl spun in graceful arcs and circles, performing the ritual. Like water she flowed effortlessly from one form to the next, from Chopping The Greens to Stirring The Sauce to Adding The Spices. Not a single movement was wasted. I tried to determine whether it was a martial art, a dance, or a prayer to some god of food-and-plenty that I was seeing, and concluded that it was all three. I wondered if this was meant for my eyes and briefly considered leaving. But as I stood there, lips parted in awe, a succulent Southeast Asian feast emerged in less than ten minutes.
The last clean dish clanged back into place in the cupboard and the spell was broken. As she gathered up her dishes piled high with steaming Oriental delicacies and turned for the doorway, she seemed to notice me for the first time and paused, looking quizzically at me and my rice. I raised the little cellophane bag and peered down at the few dozen gritty, sad grey grains contained within. Then I looked back up and we locked eyes for a moment. I think I saw dancing within them the light of oneness with the Universe. She forced a little smile and then was gone.
My uncovered water was at last boiling unenthusiastically, so I reached over and dropped my pathetic little bag of rice in with a plop. I even managed to throw a little salt and pepper in to jazz it up a little, and let me tell you, it was the best rice I’d ever tasted…as any food will be when your stomach has been twisting itself into angry knots for a day or so. But that sacred, intimate dance with food at which I stole a peek kept running through my mind. I felt that I had, for a fleeting moment, touched fingertips with the infinite, and that I had been measured and found wanting.
And ever since that distant day, it has been my life’s mission – my quest, if you will – to always put a damn lid on the pot.
