October 2018 Student Spotlight: Zhi Lin

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MCC ESOL student Zhi Lin

Zhi Lin is an ESOL student from China. Her major is an Accounting. Zhi Lin has been living in the United States for eight years. She currently lives in Henrietta with her husband and three children. In this story, Zhi Lin writes about an early childhood memory about cooking.

Good Intentions, Bad Results

“It’s on fire! It’s on fire!” I shouted, as I stood in the kitchen.

“Don’t worry,” my husband calmly replied as he poured the vegetables into the burning wok. He used to be a chef in a restaurant, so he doesn’t worry, but every time he does this, I remember the time when my sister and I almost burned down our childhood home.

In the 1990’s, most families had only one child in China because of the one-child policy, but I had a big family—a twin sister and a younger brother. We all lived in a tiled house in a small town. My father had a job that paid him a higher salary, but kept him farther away from home, so he could only come home at the end of the month. Thus, my mother had to take care of the three of us by herself. In the summer, she would set up a vegetable stall in the market to earn a small amount of money to help my father. On those days, my sister and I had to cook lunch and bring it to my mother, so she would have something to eat.

On a day in August, my sister and I started to cook lunch. We were ten years old at the time. My sister lit a fire in our rural stove. I cleaned the wok and let it heat up. When I was ready to pour the oil into the wok, I found the oil pot was empty.

“I’ll grab a new pail of oil,” my sister responded to me from behind the stove, and she stood up and headed to the storage cupboard. Soon after, she brought a new pail of raw camellia oil.

“Do we need bring the oil to a boil? I think I remember Mom does it every time she uses a new pail,” I questioned my sister and myself.

“Let’s do it,” my sister answered. She opened the lid and poured the whole pail of camellia oil into the wok.

I went to the back of the stove, sat on the stool, and put some more wood into it. When I saw the wood burned up, I returned to the front of the stove, stood next to my sister and watched the wok full of oil to see if it boiled. We waited, waited, and waited, but the oil still looked like we had just poured it with no change at all.

“How long does the oil take to boil?” my sister asked me.

“I don’t have any idea,” I replied as I looked at her.

She looked at me, and then she ran to the back of the stove and put more wood in.

After a few seconds, the wok suddenly caught fire. “It’s on fire! It’s on fire!” I exclaimed and took a step back.

“What should we do? What to do?” my sister shouted and rushed at me.

“Put out the fire with water. That’s what I saw on TV,” I quickly replied.

I watched as my sister took a ladle of water from a big vat and pour it into the wok. The moment she poured the water into the wok, the fire changed to a mushroom cloud with black smoke, like a giant with teeth and claws. We were both shocked and took a few steps back. At that moment, time stopped and the world became quiet. Even the cicadas on the trees outside of our house stopped calling. We heard only the roaring sound of fire.

We started crying. We were scared because could see the flames were burning the roof tiles. Our nearest neighbor had gone to work, and we didn’t have a phone in our home. “What if the house burns to the ground?” was the only thought in my mind at that time.

Luckily, the flames only burned the roof tiles, not the beams a few inches away. Over the next half an hour, the fire got smaller and smaller until it finally stopped. The whole wok of oil had burned out. My sister and I looked at the empty wok and cried more loudly.

“What happened?” My mother’s voice popped up. We turned our heads and saw her standing next to the front door and holding the house keys. Lunch time had passed two hours ago. When we didn’t show up, she came home to see what happened. She walked into the kitchen toward us. We didn’t know how to answer her; we only cried. My mother looked at the empty wok. Then, she checked the empty oil pot and empty pail.

“Don’t cry. Tell me what happened,” she asked.

As we told her the story, my mother took my sister’s hand and started checking her face, hands, arms, and then mine, too. After she made sure we were okay, she was relieved. Instead of blaming us, my mother patted our shoulders and explained, “It’s okay. Next time if you see the oil is on fire, put the lid on the pot or pour the vegetables into the wok. The fire will go out.”

Nowadays, I often remember that incident. I was thankful that our mother did not blame us, and we learned a valuable lesson. Now, every time when I see my husband set the wok on fire it makes me think of my mother.

 

ESOL Voices is a collection of stories written by ESOL students at Monroe Community College. This publication highlights our MCC students who come from all over the world. Look for a new story each month. We hope you enjoy our students’ stories as much as we do.

— Katie Leite & Pamela Fornieri, ESOL Program, October 2018