跟妈妈学做菜

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My mom is a world-class chef， at least in our eyes. Her repertoire ranges from southern to northern Chinese cuisine， spiced with some Western influences. But， in my opinion， her specialty is in good old and comfort foods， the soul food of China， like jiaozi， chunbing and jiucai hezi.

As her daughter， I felt it an obligation to use this time living at home to learn a few family dishes. I grew up watching my mom pirouette in the kitchen and I dutifully ate all the remainders. It’s about time that I whetted my appetite for cooking and not just for eating.

Crossing the culinary threshold is， without a doubt， the hardest step. As my mom tells me， she started cooking when she was at the tender age of eight. I’m starting to cook at the not-so-tender age of 23. By now， I should be wielding a chef’s knife like nobody’s business. At the very least， I should be able to cut a slab of meat.

I crossed the threshold with some great fear. Ahead of me was a war of monolithic proportions―cutting， frying， chopping， sauteing. On my first lesson， I was clanging into the kitchen with my hand-made， head-to-toe body armor， fit with chain mail. My mom cried out in horror. I’m sure she was trying to figure out if I was actually her child. Where on earth were those cooking genes？

We started off with something innocuous―a simple but hearty Chinese noodle dish. “The egg and tomato noodle with green onion！” my mom said excitedly. The beginning of the lesson started off smooth enough. I washed the tomatoes with great expertise. I was chided when I started washing the eggs. Apparently， this isn’t really necessary.

It started getting heated when I was separating the egg yolks from the egg whites. The problem： my eggs decided that separating was not for losers. It refused to be split into yolk and white. I wouldn’t blame it. It took a good 10 minutes before the mission was completed.

The next step was beating the eggs with just a tad bit of water. This wasn’t too bad. Even cutting up the tomatoes wasn’t too difficult. The worst part was to come―the eggs frying in a wok. I’m deadly afraid of hot oil. I danced around nervously， waiting for the oil to get to the right temperature. “See if the oil is ready，” my mom asked. I gave her a question mark. She sighed in despair， “Go to put your hand over the oil.”

“You’re serious？ You want me to precariously drop my hand over the hot oil？” I repeated incredulously. “Yes.”

I went on a diatribe of how dangerous and foolish this instruction was. By the time I finally dropped my hand over the oil， I knew it was hot enough. The sides of the pan were starting to spit wisps of smoke.

“This is how we do things，” my mom explained. “You must test the oil. The oil must be very hot to fry the eggs so it gets fluffy.”

I yelped as I poured in the eggs. It sputtered and spewed angrily at me. With one eye closed， I stabbed the eggs， which were forming into little islands， with vengeance. No longer than a minute later， my mom directed me to take out the eggs and place it aside.

While the noodles cooked in the pot of boiling water， I sauteed the tomatoes. I was doing fine until my mom instructed me to put in the seasoning. “Just a spray of that. Just a pinch of this. Just a...well you know...a bit of that.” My mom tried to explain.

She cooked with her heart. Since she was so experienced， she knew exactly how much sugar or salt to add. However， this didn’t translate so well to me. I looked blankly at her.

By the end of my first experiment， I had an over-cooked and over-salted but rather satisfactory dish.

我 的妈妈是一个世界级的厨师，至少在我们眼中她是这样。从中国的南方菜到北方菜，她都会做，还加入了一些西餐的风味。但是在我看来，她最拿手的是那些用老法子做的食物，也就是那些中国传统美食，比如饺子、春饼和韭菜盒子。

作为女儿，我感到有义务利用住在家里的时间来学做几样家常菜。我是看着妈妈在厨房里忙碌长大的，而我则尽职地吃光了所有的剩菜剩饭。现在该我提起兴趣来学做菜，而不是只为了吃了。

不消说，学烹饪，入门是最难的一步。正如我妈告诉我的，她是在少不更事的8岁时开始做饭。我则是在并不年幼的23岁才开始学做饭。到现在，我应该能够娴熟地使用厨刀了。至少，我应该能够切下一大块肉了。

我战战兢兢地进了厨房的门。在我面前的，是一场规模庞大的战事――切菜、油炸、把菜剁碎、煎炒。在第一堂烹饪课上，我穿上自己亲手制作的一副从头到脚的“防弹衣”，还装备了护身铠甲，哐当哐当地走进了厨房。妈妈惊恐地大喊起来。我敢说，她是想弄清楚我是不是她亲生的孩子。那些烹饪基因究竟在哪里呢？

我们从普通菜做起――简单却营养丰富的中国面条。“加了绿洋葱的鸡蛋西红柿面。”妈妈兴奋地说。烹饪课一开始很顺利。我十分在行地洗了西红柿。洗鸡蛋的时候，我却受到了妈妈的责怪。显然，鸡蛋是用不着洗的。

要把蛋黄和蛋白分开时，事情就棘手起来。让我犯难的是，鸡蛋不听使唤，让生手奈何不了。蛋黄和蛋白就是不愿分开。我又不能把这归咎于鸡蛋。花了足足10分钟，我才完成了这道工序。

下一步是加一点水搅鸡蛋，这并不太糟糕，连切西红柿也不太难。最伤脑筋的一道工序来了，就是在锅里煎鸡蛋。我非常怕滚烫的油，局促不安地在四周手舞足蹈，等着油加热到合适的温度。“看看油是否热了。”妈妈说。我问：“真要这样吗？”妈妈失望地叹了叹气：“去，把你的手放到油的上面。”

“没开玩笑吧？你让我冒着被烫伤的危险把手放到热油的上面？”我表示怀疑地重复道。“没开玩笑。”妈妈回答。

我继续长篇大论地指责妈妈，说让我这样做是多么危险和不明智。最后，把手伸到油的上面时，我知道温度足够高了。平底锅的四周开始冒出缕缕油烟。

“这就是我们做事的方式。”妈妈解释说，“你得试一试油温。油必须达到可以煎鸡蛋的热度，这样鸡蛋才会松软。”

把鸡蛋倒进锅里时，我尖叫了起来。油锅里噼啪作响，冒着呛人的烟。我闭着一只眼，复仇似的用锅铲戳锅里的鸡蛋，鸡蛋变成了一个个小岛的模样。过了不到一分钟，妈妈教我把鸡蛋铲出锅，然后搁在一边。

当面条在滚沸的开水里煮时，我炒着西红柿。直到妈妈教我放些调料进去，我才把西红柿炒好了。“撒一把那个，添一撮这个，你要知道，加一点那个。”妈妈想向我解释。

她是用心在烹饪。因为精于厨艺，她对加多少糖或者盐了然于胸，但是，这一点我没有理会清楚。我茫然地看着她。

第一次烹饪实验结束时，我做的这碗面煮烂了，盐也放多了，但是我自己挺满意的。