Chapter 31 · for subscribers
Rice cooked down to silk, a slick of chicken fat, white pepper, dried scallop, scallion oil poured over at the table. Twelve covers. It was my mother's congee, the one on the back of every menu I have ever printed, off my own house card — and it had been cooked by somebody who had made it more times than she had.
Artwork and narration generated with AI.