Chapter 8 — The Anti-Cancer Kitchen

My mother bought a small bag of millet. I said: "Are you cooking porridge again?" She laughed. “Cook for your dad.” “His stomach hasn't been good lately.” My father immediately said: "I won't pay one yuan." My mother glanced at him. “You wash the pot for me.” The three of us all burst out laughing. When I got home, my mother washed the millet and soaked it in a bowl. The kitchen quickly smelled of familiar millet. That taste is exactly the same as in One Currency Warm Kitchen. But it's not the same. Before, that pot of porridge was like a door that was forever open. Anyone can come in, anyone can take it away, anyone can ask for it to be reheated a little more, cooked a little softer, a little cheaper. Now this pot of porridge just cooks slowly in our kitchen. The fire was turned on by my mother. The pot is my mother's soup. Who to scoop for, how much to scoop, when to turn off the fire. She decided for herself. My mother placed the spoon next to the bowl and suddenly said: "An Nhien, remember carefully." “Honesty is not about compensating for yourself.” “An evil can be kindness.” “But it cannot be the price for others to exploit you.” “Kindness can give.” “But the key must be in your hand.” Outside the window the snow was falling very lightly. The porridge in the pot boiled. I looked at my mother's eyebrows and eyes warmed by the soft heat, suddenly feeling that she was still the same person willing to cook porridge for others as before. It's just that from now on, no one will be able to raise the flag of regulation to rob her of her kindness.