Grandma always had a habit of serving her congee scalding. And being impatient, I’d often burn my tongue. 

Adorned with scallions, sometimes pork floss, and a scant dash of Lao Gan Ma, there always existed a method for consuming the sacredly scorching stuff. 

Like a lesson passed from generation to generation, or an unspoken truth that oft descended to muscle memory, she’d scold me when I’d wince at the temperature of her cooking - then teach me the secret of her ancient soup ways.

“Scrape the top layer off with the tip of your spoon,” she’d say. 

“Mix the liquid, let air hit its surfaces. You won’t burn the roof of your mouth if you practice something we elders call ‘patience’.” 

Instead, I’d munch on the youtiao, hoping to gulp down her concoction when I’d built up just enough courage to just risk it all. 

What grandma never understood was that I hated the heat. 

Instead of waiting for its wrath to subside, letting time and nature take its more graceful course, I’d allow for the hotness to entirely consume me. 

I hated the heat, yet it basically controlled me. 

I loathed the nights my  parents would drop me off at grandma and grandpa’s place on Nanaimo and 22nd, anticipating the swampy humidity of their non-air conditioned space. 

I hated waiting in the crowded warmth, when they’d drag my brother and I to Chinatown on the weekends. We’d stand in line at the bustling butcher shop on the corner, smelling that unique blend of flesh, immigrant sweat,  and five spice mix. 

But, most of all, I disliked visiting Grandpa at the restaurant he worked at - hated seeing the bubbling wounds from the deep fryer on his wrinkling hands. Any semblance of grease on his skin reminded me of the time my 3rd grade teacher denounced all Chinese fare for being greasy, MSG-filled, and terrible for the figure. 

Was knowing the amount of work my grandma and grandpa did for the sake of my family here terrible for me? Or was it worse that I knew that regardless, despite their noblest, most patient efforts, the quality of their lives would always pale in comparison to the privileged White? 

Nonetheless, I could never really just deal with it.  I always jumped into the heat, hot-headed and chock full of passion - letting wounds stay wounds and fighting flames with even more scorn. Like calling the girl who jokily stretched her eyelids into slits in front of me a racist bitch -  or throwing rocks at the boy who’d made fun of my very ethnically-tied last name til he cried and surrendered his swing to me on the playground. 

Instead of listening to grandma, instead of waiting for the food or my fiery rage to come down to a reasonable temperature, I dreamt of pouring molten soup down the shirts of everyone who ever made the facets of my culture seem non-appetizing. But then again, I’d be wasting some damn good soup. 

Today, as I nurse the burnt roof of my mouth with a piece of ice - post-congee consumption, I wonder: 

Was I wrong? Or were the wounds of my passion meant to help remind me that the flames of my culture must remain alive?