Congee

In the middle of last week, my husband, who is generally the kind of person who will work whenever he has a chance, changed his tune and came home early. I was surprised to see him sitting in the dim quiet living room when the baby and I got home, with a plastic sack in his hand. He was waiting for us to come in on him, sitting in the dark. He does things like this from time to time. It's part of living with a scientist. Although he communicates in very direct and explicit language to convey the results of his research, his regular communication to me is less direct. On rare occasions, he does things like sit in the dark, signals that I have come to understand like a code over the years of our marriage. The baby was caught up in the moment of seeing papa unexpectedly and threw himself onto his lap. "It's a stomach virus." he said, and handed me the sack, full of medicine fresh from the pharmacy. I knew that his waiting for us like that meant that he needed to be babied himself. After settling him on the sofa with a blanket and fixing him a cup of herbal tea, I went to the kitchen to get supper on.

Congee came to mind as the best choice for him. It is one of those dishes I have carried to France with me, collected during my years in China. It always brings up complex emotions, because it is a kind of genre food, one of those things that in the lives of the people in China I knew and loved, carried symbol and meaning. You know, it's typically a breakfast food in that country. But beyond that, when you start delving into soul searching with a Chinese person, you'll probably find congee there in very tender places. In a very intense time in my life, congee sprang up a lot. The little pickles and preserves people add to the savory ones came in different shapes and consistencies. I am not Chinese, but my senses awakened in China. I speak Mandarin Chinese. I fell in love in Beijing, a story that's still simmering, trying to find a way to organize itself. That story did not have a happy ending, and I am not sure that there was a life lesson. I should not be afraid of congee, although, like I said, when it pops into my head in this innocent way, something mild and nourishing to soothe the love of my life, I can't help but take a breath, with a start.

On the way to a distant poor province to visit Haibo's parents, we shared an old sedan from a place near Shanghai, rented by his sister and her Hong Kong sugar daddy. The sedan bounced like a boat above the pitted road. The landscape was empty.

They are in the front seat. She reaches up, pretending to adjust the rear view mirror, and turns her hand to and fro to make her diamond sparkle. Hai Bo receives this like a signal. He and I had a quarrel the night before. We will never know each others' secret codes. He has bought a can of congee to eat for breakfast and he offers me a taste. We are bouncing against light blue velour, my sight is drawn to the blemishes, a couple of gum stains and the occasional cigarette burn. I can feel the springs. I take a sip from the can. It is sweet, light, and silky. Nothing like this moment, but very much like it too. He smiles.

I prefer my congee on the savory side. This recipe is the congee Ayi used to prepare for me from time to time in Beijing. There is no secret or technique. It just takes awhile. It is very soothing and filling, but easy on the stomach, so if you're feeling a little under the weather, it can be just the thing.

Basic Congee

2 tablespoons plump white rice
4 cups of water
2 1/2 teaspoons light soy sauce
1 thin slice of ginger
1 teaspoon sesame oil
1/4 teaspoon salt
1 tree ear mushroom, soaked and cut into slivers
3 scallions, chopped
Pickles of choice for garnish

Rinse the rice until the water flows clean. Soak it in enough warm water to cover it for awhile, 15 to 20 minutes. Add the rice and its soaking liquid to the 4 cups water that you've brought to a boil. Lower the heat and simmer it for an hour or two, until the grains dissolve completely. Stir every 10 to 15 minutes to keep it circulating. It should form a gruel. At this point, add the remaining ingredients except for the scallions and pickles, which you can add to the individual bowls just before serving. Simmer, stirring occasionally, for another 20 minutes.

A more rich variation on this recipe is to use unsalted chicken stock in place of the water and add lean chicken meat cut with the grain into very thin slivers at the very end of cooking.