Over a pot of rice
Like my ABCs, I learned to cook rice at my mother’s knee. But cooking rice then was not the easy and simple task we know today. Since local rice was usually poorly milled, it had to be winnowed first. As a child, I would watch with awestruck eyes as the grown-ups separated the chaff and bran streaks by repeatedly tossing the rice grains up into a light wind with a nigo, and deftly catching the grains as they fell back down.
Afterwards, we children would comb through the grains to remove dirt and other byproducts of substandard milling, and prepare the rice for washing.
After thoroughly washing the rice in a basin, we added it to the pot in small amounts with our cupped hands, starting from the top layer and gradually working down to the bottom, lightly shaking the basin at intervals. This way, pebbles, dirt particles, and other residues remained at the bottom of the basin and did not go into the pot.
Adding the exact amount of water was crucial: Too little would result in undercooked rice, and too much would make it soggy. The technique is to add just enough water to cover the rice and shake the pot gently to level it. Next, dip the tips of your fingers into the pot, making sure they are just touching the rice, then add more water until it reaches the first joint of your middle finger. The rice is now ready for cooking!
We cooked our food on clay stoves fueled by firewood brought to our doorstep by a suki who sold it in bundles. The firewood came from the mangrove trees growing in the swamps, back when people were unaware about ecology, and years before the biggest source of mangrove firewood in our town was declared a fish and bird sanctuary.
When good kindling was scarce, or the firewood was not dry enough, starting a fire was double the trouble. Moist firewood burned poorly and produced dense smoke, which hurt and stung the eyes. To keep the fire burning properly or increase its intensity, we would blow air into it every so often, usually with a contraption made from bamboo called tayhop.
We always kept a close watch on the cooking to ensure that the fire was burning properly, and that the water did not spill over when it reached a rolling boil. We removed some of the firewood to lower the heat and opened the lid slightly to let the steam off. The rice would continue to cook slowly over the dying fire for some time. Then we would spread the embers thinly to keep the rice from being burnt and leave it that way until mealtime.
My father was fastidious about his rice. As he chewed the first few spoonfuls, we would watch his impassive face, searching for a hint of emotion as we awaited his judgment with bated breath. Silence meant a thumbs-up. But if he crunched on a pebble or felt the roughness of chaff, he would make no bones about his displeasure!
Thankfully, in this age of rice cookers and a wide variety of good quality rice, my past struggles with cooking rice have become the “good old days” that I recall with warmth and affection.
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Delia T. Combista, 69, is a retired college professor.
