The Wok

by Emelie Ang

Crockery, saucepans, and odd Chinese contraptions were the contents of the cupboards in the kitchen. Among the clutter and lack of organisation was the wok. The bottom of it was stained black with flame soot, the wooden handle greasy and falling apart into splinters. Nevertheless, my father and mother refused to replace it, having served its purpose loyally for long as I can remember. It had endured stir-fries, rice-dishes, noodle-dishes and even pasta, so it was right for my household to be so sentimental. My parent’s, never being the most openly loving parents, always had the world to give my brother and I, although it felt like I never shared many intimate and close moments with them. Instead, my parent’s communicated their love through putting dinner on the table, night after night. My parents were always in the kitchen, cooking up something, together, like a wonderfully choreographed dance. One person would be delegated to cutting up the ingredients and the other at the helm, or the wok. My mother, having mastered the craft of cooking with a wok, could often be found tossing rice and a colourful rainbow of veggies in the kitchen, somehow leaving the kitchen floor as clean as it was prior to

her cooking. She made it seem effortless, as though the wok was an extension of her body, and she always managed to cook up something almost unexplainable with what little we often had in the pantry. As a child and till this day, her cooking and presence in the kitchen had an effect on me. It was captivating and mesmerising. Everyday it was something new, from Hainanese chicken rice to elaborate slow-cooked stews. Together, her and my dad would navigate the kitchen like a wonderfully coordinated ballet performance. Everyday, more and more calluses spread over her palms, like battle scars. When I held her hands, they were rough, but warm and full of life, and as comforting as giving me a hug.I never had much appreciation for art, being a person who quickly scanned over artworks without questioning their meanings in a gallery, but after seeing my mother in the kitchen, I slowly became a person who would stand in the same spot, in front of an artwork for hours, discovering something new and creative, everytime I looked closer at a painting or a sculpture.My mother soon became the light of my life.

I didn’t realise how much of a guiding light she was until her bulb started to dim and flicker. I remember how cold the hospital was. I remember the cheery nurses and doctors and the cheap,

artificial, forced smiles that were painted on their faces. I remember walking to my mother’s ward and hearing the groans and moans of pain echoing through the hallways through the thin walls of each ward. The worst of all though, was the chemical smell that lingered throughout the hospital. There was something about the smell that made my stomach turn. Perhaps it was the fact they were trying to mask the pungent scent of death. By the time my family and I had received the news, my mother was already dead. Although my house had felt bare without my mother’s presence months before her death, it felt empty more than ever, like a black hole has sucked all the life out of it. I walked down the hallway, my feet thudding against the dark, stained floorboards that creaked with every step. It was a strange feeling, as I’d always scamper up this same hallway, my feet loudly stomping, and my mother scolding me. Before I could process it, my entire life was packed into a stack of boxes in the middle of my room of 15 years. It felt weird looking at my room so bare. Earlier that day, I stared at my room; the food wrappers and empty bottles on my bedside table and all my childhood toys and games on a pile on the floor. When I looked at that pile on the floor, it felt as though someone was stabbing in the stomach repeatedly, each time deeper and deeper. When the sun started setting outside, casting a dark shadow over my room, the trees outside casting long spindly silhouettes on the carpet, I packed everything into plastic bags, hauling them to the garage for my dad to donate to charity. Inside the house, my dad and my brother were sitting on the cold, tiled floor of the kitchen. They sat in

the position I had earlier, among piles of dishes and cutlery, and big plastic bags. They sorted through the dishes quietly and efficiently, what would fit in our apartment, and what we would be giving to charity. The only sound that echoed throughout the kitchen was the sound of kitchenware being stacked on top of one another. They reached the final drawer, the most used one, the handle needing a few nudges to successfully draw open. Inside, was the soot-covered wok, with its greasy handle. My dad looked at me, his face soft, the wrinkles in his face relaxing, a sight I hadn’t seen since my mum was sent to hospital. I felt a pang in my chest. We wanted to move on. All of us, we didn’t want to forget her, but as each day went by, our minds were killing us, slowly. Everywhere we looked in this house reminded us of her. Her nimble gentle fingers. Her tender eyes that had seen everything in my life, the ups and the downs and the highs and the lows. Most of the things in this house were being taken to charity, so that we could avoid the pain as much as possible. That was the whole point of moving.

But as I sat there, with my brother and father and all my 15 years of life packed in boxes with fragile labels on them, on the kitchen floor, I thought of her and the wok, her wok. All these years she had taught me her dishes so that I could cook them and share her love and compassion. My love had blossomed from what made her the most beautiful person, her heart. I wanted to cook with the same never-ending love she gave me. I took the wok out, my hands gripping the wooden handle, feeling the weight sink into my arms. I almost felt the warmth creep up from the handle into my hand from the wok. I I placed the wok into a box, amongst a stack of white plates. I looked into my father and brother’s eyes, and their eyes looked into mine. And for the first time since she died, I cried, a singular tear blazing a hot trail down my cheek.