| |
|
Kindling Charcoal and Crafting Dumplings |
|
|
"Have you kindled the flames?" echoed my mother's voice from the bustling
kitchen. "Indeed!" I retorted, a tinge of exasperation lacing my words, for
the arduous task of igniting the charcoal had presented its challenges. Once
again, the eve of the cherished Dragon Boat Festival had arrived, and my
mother was engrossed in the artistry of crafting dumplings. She had
purposefully opted to cook them over charcoal, asserting that this method
would ensure even cooking and a tantalizing aroma permeating the rice.
Personally, I still preferred the ease and cleanliness of a gas stove.
Sighing helplessly, I gazed at my begrimed hands.
Fanning the fiery hearth, I observed my mother lowering two garlands of
dumplings with utmost care. "Keep watch and mind the hourglass," she
commanded sternly, well aware of my penchant for slipping into fanciful
reveries. Mere minutes after her departure, boredom assailed me, and my mind
began to wander. My thoughts meandered back to the days of yore in my
hometown, where I frequently found myself visiting Uncle Chin's charcoal
factory during my tender years. Fuelled by curiosity, I would pester Uncle
Chin with ceaseless inquiries, oftentimes repetitive. Oh, what a vexing
child I had been.
Charcoal, birthed from the pyre that consumed timber within a kiln. Uncle
Chin's charcoal kiln stood tall at a height of fifteen feet, its
cross-sectional opening gracefully arched. Fashioned from clay, the pinnacle
of the kiln was perpetually adorned with attap leaves. The daily chore of
charcoal production unfolded like a choreographed dance among the laborers.
With each dawn, they would alternate in gathering mangrove wood from the
nearby marshes. Upon their return, they deftly severed the wood into lengths
befitting the kiln's confines. Uncle Chin, in turn, would erect the wooden
fragments vertically within the kiln's cavernous depths. Once the kiln
brimmed with these meticulously arranged pieces, the flames would be set
ablaze, consuming the wood from its zenith, cascading downwards akin to an
incense stick aflame.
Standing beside the kiln, Uncle Chin would elucidate that the fire ought not
to blaze crimson, lest the wood transform into ashes. Instead, a languid,
verdant fire must be maintained, coaxing the wood to smolder to perfection.
"Uncle Chin, pray tell, how does one sustain such an ideal inferno?" My
inexhaustible queries echoed once more, unfailingly.
"Experience, my dear lad," Uncle Chin would respond, a grin etching his face
as he reminisced about the reprimands he had faced from his mentor for his
inability to discern the appropriate intensity of the flames.
The tantalizing aroma of the cooked dumplings jolted me back to the present
moment. "Oh, dear! Time has elapsed. Mother, do inform me, are the dumplings
ready?" I exclaimed with unbridled excitement, eagerly anticipating the
first savory bite of those mouthwatering delicacies. |
|
|
|
|
