BOWL OF ZHOU

BOWL OF ZHOU

By Annie Lu

As I stand in front of the stove, forty minutes into stirring the pot of zhou that simmers with tender heat, the bottom of my wooden ladle makes firm gentle contact with the bottom of the pot. I imagine the patterns I am creating, the circular motion of my wrist, translating to swirls of exposed pot bottom, only to be covered up again by the viscous zhou.

““I imagine the patterns I am creating, the circular motion of my wrist, translating to swirls of exposed pot bottom...””

In its simplest form, zhou, also known as congee or rice porridge, is watered-down rice. It’s poor people’s food, what you make to stretch out the rice when there isn’t enough to feed. It is humble, homely, yet there’s something transformative about it. Hours of gentle simmering tenderize the food, and the nutrients give themselves to the broth, ready to be absorbed and digested, soothing stomachs and souls alike.

““It is humble, homely, yet there’s something transformative about it.””

I continue to stir, and my mind continues to swirl. I recall a story from childhood. Long ago in ancient China, two sacred snakes lived in a village temple. The small village was in a terrible famine. Hungry villagers lined up at the temple for warm zhou that the monks readily served. Secretly, however, the monks were worried. They’d just poured the last grain of rice into the pot of zhou. It would only last two more meals. What would they do after?

““They’d just poured the last grain of rice into the pot of zhou. It would only last two more meals. What would they do after?””

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