Learning to Cook from My Mother

Last month I told my mother I wanted to learn to cook. She was surprised, because I've always been the one who eats and never the one who helps. She said, "Okay. Tomorrow, six a.m." I thought she was joking. She wasn't.

The first lesson was chicken soup. She showed me how to cut the onions, how to fry the garlic until it smells sweet, and how to know when the chicken is ready. She didn't measure anything. When I asked how much salt, she said, "Taste it." So I tasted it. Then I tasted it again.

My first soup was too salty. My second was too watery. My third, last Sunday, was good — my father had two bowls and didn't say anything, which from him is a compliment. My mother said, "Now you can cook one thing." Next week: fried rice.