Chapter 40: Rice Noodles

There is a saying circulating in the weight loss circles of girls: "If you can eat rice, don't eat noodles; if you can eat noodles, don't eat rice; if you can eat vegetables, don't eat meat." Although I don't know what scientific basis it has, and because experts nowadays seem less credible, I always feel there is something unfounded about it. However, since it has been passed down, it must not be entirely baseless; I might as well take it as a light-hearted belief. But in recent years, as food safety issues have appeared more frequently in social news, I have become increasingly anxious. Perhaps because of this reason, my attitude towards certain experts has gradually shifted from indifferent to deeply resentful. Based on this reason, I tend to trust the wisdom of the working people. Is this another form of "returning to simplicity"?

Back to the point. I remember that I first ate rice noodles after entering university. The food back then was still quite pure, or perhaps I wasn't sure if it was pure; in any case, compared to the five yuan bowl of pickled vegetable and shredded pork noodles in the cafeteria, the three yuan bowl of sauerkraut rice noodles from a small eatery outside was still cheaper. Plus, with a tea egg costing one fifty for two, it seemed more reasonable than the cafeteria. But logically, this doesn't make sense! It wasn't until many years later, when I found a job in the back kitchen of a large training school, that I gradually uncovered the mystery of that time.

In fact, the school cafeteria is also privately contracted, not much different from the small restaurants nearby. With the "school" aura surrounding it, the contractor took advantage of the psychology that students and parents naturally believe that the cafeteria's food should be safer and more affordable than that of outside restaurants. To seek more profit and to save costs for "other" uses, the cafeteria's food is often both expensive and unappetizing. In contrast, the small restaurants around the school, while also profit-driven, are more attentive in terms of food quality and portion size due to competition, in order to retain more customers.

A girl I was familiar with in high school opened a fast food restaurant near the school many years ago, selling milk tea, fried chicken, fries, and other snacks. In the initial period, she was very tired every day, partly due to being unfamiliar with the processes after just opening. About half a semester later, although still tired, she had clearly become much more skilled and was reaping significant rewards. I remember the last time I returned to my hometown, I wanted to invite her for tea, but she was as busy as a "headless chicken." It is said that she has opened several more branches and is making a fortune, living a fulfilling and happy life every day.

This inevitably reminds me of my parents' strong opposition to my involvement in the food industry. Even now, whenever this topic comes up, my parents still strongly oppose it, but there is a hint of envy in their words. This makes me reflect: do they really think that working in the food industry is an unworthy profession, or are they just opposing me for the sake of opposing? If it is the latter, what is the reason for their opposition? Is it simply the traditional preference for sons over daughters? I feel that, to some extent, I have inherited this stubbornness and shortsightedness from my parents.

In fact, I have planned an entrepreneurial path for myself. When I had no money, I pushed a small cart, like the street vendors of earlier years. Or I could set up a stall at the entrance of a neighborhood after work. As for what to sell, I haven't decided yet; I just want to take the first step, accumulate slowly, and rent a storefront once I earn some money. During economic downturns, haven't various local governments introduced many supportive measures for individual entrepreneurship? If I could seize just one opportunity, I wouldn't feel so resentful and displaced as I do now. Sometimes, the more I think this way, the less I dare to stick to my choices, as if it is an invisible betrayal of my parents; the more successful I become, the deeper the betrayal, to the point where I feel unworthy of enjoying happiness. Could this be a manifestation of the "Matthew Effect"? Thus, I watch helplessly as my dreams turn into bubbles in this twisted state, gradually becoming numb in the despair of being boiled like a frog in warm water, until the last moment of my life.

During the years when my depression was at its worst, I mustered the courage to secretly take the chef's certification exam, finding a chef job far from my parents, and lived a fulfilling and happy life for several years. Unfortunately, due to various reasons, I later left this profession. However, I am fortunate that my love for cooking remains a source of joy for me. So, I pursued further studies in food science, learned about seasoning, tried to learn as much theoretical knowledge about cooking as possible, and aimed to explore, eat, and ponder as much as I could, just to walk further down this path. Just like now, I can think of writing this collection of culinary essays as the best choice I can come up with so far to combine cooking and writing. Although I still have much to improve in both areas.

The reason I am writing this piece titled "Rice Noodles" is that the process of making rice noodles requires soaking, steaming, and pressing the rice, among other steps, to turn it into rice noodles. Each step requires time for sedimentation and refinement. The broth and ingredients also need to be simmered slowly with patience.

I remember that during the years I worked in Guangdong, I learned some soup-making techniques from the locals, which I later applied to making the broth for rice noodles, and it worked wonderfully! A slight mistake could lead to a completely different result. This process is very much like the journey of life, filled with the unknown. From this perspective, it is indeed true that every step in life is not taken in vain.

I have fantasized countless times that if I were to open a shop in the future, the decor style would probably be as simple as that of "Seagull Diner." Or perhaps it would be filled with stories like "Midnight Diner"? The shop would only sell coffee and rice noodles, creating a beautiful mix. The ingredients would be freshly selected each day, and I could manage the shop alone during operating hours. After the rice noodles are cooked, they would be served in a large white bowl. A ladle of broth would be poured over, topped with a few slices of blanched greens, and accompanied by a half-fried egg and a small handful of pickled greens or a few pieces of braised meat. Clean and refreshing, steaming hot.

I recall that my little cousin from my aunt's side also opened a milk tea shop. My cousin has been running a Chinese restaurant for many years, and my sister-in-law runs a dessert shop. Why is it that when I want to open a shop, I face my parents' hysterical opposition? Throughout my life, whenever I wanted to do something, I was met with either ridicule or discouragement; it seems that in their eyes, I should be a puppet who achieves nothing, and not following their wishes is a great sin. So what exactly am I? A continuation of their lives? Perhaps just as my mother has mentioned more than once, she had thoughts of abortion during her pregnancy, suggesting that I should not have come into this world. Since I stubbornly came into existence, I must be destroyed in various ways.

Although my body has escaped my hometown for many years, my heart remains shackled; whenever there is a glimmer of hope, it is extinguished. Amidst the recurring nightmares, countless fragmented images flash through my mind, and I repeat the same phrases over and over. Fortunately, in the afternoon, I received the handmade rice noodles I bought online a few days ago, and I vaguely remember that there is a frozen chicken carcass and some leftover braised beef in the fridge. Although I don't feel hungry at the moment, I might as well simmer a broth first; by the time it's ready, I should be hungry. A warm bowl of rice noodles will fill my stomach and keep my heart from feeling empty.

On the windowsill, the mint I planted this year has just sprouted...

The End