The last time I had my grandfather’s congee was a few years ago. He quietly stopped making it one day, as standing for hours in a sweltering kitchen grew to be too taxing. Although my dorm-room concoction will never be the same as his, it’s enough to remind me of home.
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As a college student, it’s a lot rarer to have such prime leftovers to toss in, but, as I said, congee is really what you make it to be. But this time, I wanted to make it exactly the way I had it as a child.
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I wish I could tell myself these answers, but identity, no matter what it’s based on is always constructed and deconstructed. Built-up and destroyed.