Every time I miss my dear grandma, I make rice porridge, like this:

Taste of love

I remember when I was little, I got sick a lot. I would cry every morning because I did not feel well. Grandma would get up at 5 am in the morning and start the stove. As soon as the rice porridge boils, as the fragrance of boiling rice along with all kinds of nuts dominate the house, I would jump out of the bed and start staring at the porridge pot—my was mouth watering, stomach was groaning, and eyes were wide open as I watch the steam slowly goes up into the air and disappears…

It has been a year and half since Grandma left. No matter how hard I try, the rice porridge is never the same.


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