Natalie Tan's Book of Luck and Fortune(65)

I shook my head, trying to dislodge all of my growing doubts. I dialed her number and waited.

“Hello?”

“Hi, Celia,” I said. “I need to talk to you. Can you drop by tonight at my place for dinner around seven?”

“I . . .” The hesitation in her voice wounded me. I’d done this.

“Please. Allow me the opportunity to apologize in person.”

I heard a soft sigh. “All right. I’ll be over for dinner.”

She was coming.

Using a strong adhesive, I attached the recipe I had finished writing to the clean edge I had left in the book. By the time I completed the other two pages, it was five o’clock. The market was still open and the night young. I headed out to collect the ingredients I would need.





Arroz Caldo


(Natalie’s Recipe)


Cooking oil

Ginger

Chicken wings and drumsticks

Fish sauce

Chicken broth

Short grain rice

Saffron threads

Chopped green onions


Add the cooking oil and crushed ginger in a stockpot. Once it is sizzling, add the chicken and the fish sauce. Stir-fry to avoid burning. When the chicken skin begins to brown, introduce the chicken broth and the rice to the pot.

Bring to a boil for thirty minutes. Stir every two minutes to make sure the rice does not stick to the bottom of the pot.

When the rice is cooked, add the saffron threads and stir.

Serve with chopped green onions.



Note:

To bring comfort and warmth to those you love.

I cooked this for Celia, a treasured friend. I wanted her to know how much I love her.

This was a recipe I learned from my travels in the Philippines.

Arroz caldo was comfort food, a Filipino-style congee. The dish was golden, warm, comforting—just like Celia herself.

My note for her was simple—I wanted to show her that I valued her friendship and I was grateful for her presence in my life. There would be no more errant meddling or ill-conceived notions of what would bring her happiness.

After I finished preparing it, I sprinkled on a garnish of minced green onions as the final touch. The confetti of green accented the yellow porridge. It wasn’t the fanciest dish, but its bold flavors sang on the tongue.

I placed a round, raised lid over the small bowl to trap in the heat.

From the moment I arrived after my mother died, Celia had welcomed me. I had never truly thanked her for everything she had done for me. I vowed to myself that this dish would be the first of many gestures I would make.

She arrived a few minutes later, coming up the steps and through the door with the tentativeness of a wild fawn. I had ruined the effortless intimacy we had once shared in our friendship. I had to fix this.

“What did you cook?” Celia unloaded her satchel on the counter and headed for the empty seat I pulled out for her.

“First, I want to apologize again for how I treated you. I was so wrong and I hope, in time, you can forgive me.” I took the seat across from her. “Before you eat, I want to tell you something.”

She crooked an eyebrow. “Are you about to warn me that you’re going to perform some sort of strange experiment on me? Again?”

“No,” I replied. “This isn’t a dish made with the intention of meddling. I don’t want to change you. I think you’re perfect the way you are.”

Celia’s cheeks turned rosy pink.

“This is me showing my appreciation for the friendship you have given me. I can’t thank you enough for your kindness and generosity in the wake of Ma-ma’s passing. You have been my kindred spirit, and I hope to earn that trust back. I’m hoping this dish will bring you a small measure of the happiness that you’ve given me.” I lifted the lid, revealing the steaming arroz caldo.

Celia’s eyes widened. Her tortoiseshell glasses began to fog up from the steam, and her stainless-steel spoon blushed from the heat. She took a spoonful of the porridge, blowing on it to cool it off before taking a small bite.

Two tendrils of steam rose from the bowl, traveling along her shoulders until they joined together at her back. Celia let out a sigh, a contented purring sound that vibrated the hovering line, changing it into a thick, glowing strand of yarn. The yarn multiplied, falling downward as if invisible knitting needles had purled and cast a materializing shimmering blanket. Each murmur from Celia extended the material until it fell to the floor. Once finished, it tightened around Celia’s body in a comforting embrace.

“This makes me feel so warm inside,” she said in between bites. “It reminds me of snuggling under afghans on rainy days with my mother. I loved those moments.”

As she finished the dish, the wispy covering dissolved into the air.

“Thank you,” she murmured, wiping her mouth.

“You’re very welcome.” It worked. I had done it! The best part was being able to make reparations to this person I had come to care about so deeply.

“Why don’t you make some tea?” Celia asked. “We’re due for a chat.”

I made my way to the cupboards and chose jasmine tea. I craved its light, floral scent and flavor, for I needed a sense of levity and normalcy. Celia got up from her seat and busied herself watering my mother’s orchids by the windowsill. It was clear she had been here often enough that she knew where the spray bottle was. I realized at that moment that the stack of magazines on the table were from Older Shen and the stocked fridge when I arrived, from his brother. The brand-new tin of jasmine tea in my hand was from Miss Yu. They were all here all the time, yet I had never seen it until now.