Sparkring : Chapter 5

One thing that my uncle and father were similar in was their love for cooking. I had heard vague stories about this coming about as a result from my grandmother being something just short of a legendary cook. While my father tended towards western cooking, my uncle preferred eastern style dishes. 

Thus so, when I first stepped out of the room, a wild mix of distinctly Chinese cooking assailed my nose. Making my hair and turning the corner of the corridor, I glimpsed the dining table crammed to the teetering edge with small plates filled with various types of food; half of which I couldn't even start to identify, and the midst of it all, sat a black pot of congee.

My uncle, a stout balding man in his late forties, dressed in a simple garb of a t-shirt and trousers was already halfway out of the door, fitting his left shoe on as he half-hopped, half walked out of the house. "You kids enjoy yourself ok? Just don't let me find firefighters at my gate when I come back."

As casually as he had said that, Mich replied calmly, without missing a beat, "No dad."

"Hmm." And he was out, the door closing gently behind him.

"No homework?" I said as I sild into the chair before Mich. He shrugged, giving a grunt as a reply. "What about the food?" I eyed the massive display before me; I had no doubt that this was some propaganda-ish challenge. I would mention this meal to my father, and he would in turn prepare a meal that would raise a few eyebrows. I was a messenger of sorts I suppose, in this unique style of sibling rivary.

"Pack it up, donate." He paused long enough to reply, then slurped another spoonful into his mouth.

"Ok." I replied, finding no other sources of conversation and ladled myself a bowl of congee.

With about fifteen dishes to choose from and someone used to three or everything piled on a single plate, the myriad was intimidating at best. But seeing Mich randomly picking from a different dish each time with no bias, I tried following his example and soon found out why.

Each dish was a different experience. Out of the four tastes; sour, sweet, bitter and salty, each taste was mixed in a different order to provide each dish with a exceptional taste that was its own, told its own story, whether it was from the cold mountain tops, or the placid fields; each story was like its taste, unique. I tried each one to the other, resetting my taste buds with the plain white congee from time to time. So for the entire breakfast, it was the simple click-clacking of porcelain spoons on similar bowls. Gradually, by the side of which light from the sun streamed into the living room from the balcony, the soft morning light gave way to the harsh mid-morning beams, serving to wake up those who were still lazing in bed.

I finished my meal with a sigh, it being a wonderful trip to the finish. Mich wordlessly took away my bowl to the slushing of water in the kitchen. When he had lost his mother at a young age, Mich quickly learnt the ropes of cleaning and generally keeping the house clean. When other boys were running about with their soccer balls, Mich, as I've heard, would be stuck figuring how to best unblock the toilet's drainage system without causing a devastating flood. To date, the largest event I had participated in cleaning was the sweeping out my room. 

But still, I offered my help; and yet on time like a ritual, Mich declined staunchly, stating that I would be of a better help watching the news. To that, I playfully stuck out my tongue at him while he just rolled his eyes.

"Just tell me what happened yesterday will you?" He said, precariously balancing a array of bowls and plates into the kitchen.

"Earthquake, blah blah blah. Turmoil, blah blah blah. Threat of war, blah blah blah." Now it was my turn to roll my eyes, "Honestly, why do you care?"

"Why?" He repeated my question from the kitchen as I moved to the grid-patterned couch, "Knowledge is power."

"This doesn't seem much like knowledge to me." I said, flipping through the newspapers that lay, scattered all over the coffee table. Probably the work of my uncle. "Besides, reading the news will turn your head to mush."

"A quote from your literature text?" Without waiting for an answer, he continued "Actually, it goes by reading about local news, not world news. To know the - "

"Hey yeah. Here's an interesting article." I cut across loudly. While Mich's advice was usually for the better, they were long winded in a way. 

I began to recite the article, cutting to the main points and leaving out the statistics, to me, they really weren't relevant. For example, out of a full page article, the statistics could fill up to half to three-quarters of the page. And they were only there for show, I mean who would check up on your numbers? I could just place an extra zero or put in a nine and no one would notice. The main meat was the content.

"Oh, Andrea." He poked his head out through the kitchen doorway as I turned up from the article I was reading, "We will need to do a little walking. Or cycling. Chose." His head disappeared from the doorway and I heard the tapwater being gradually turned off before he emerged again, carrying a tin carrier of sorts. It was devided into various segments, each, I suppose, for storing different kinds of foods to avoid getting them mixed up.

"What do you think?"

He looked at me for a moment, puzzled; then mock-slapped his head "Oh, I forgot who I was talking to. Going against traffic or walking?" He shook his head, "Cycling it is then."