I was on the cab this evening and I overheard a heartwarming story. It was on 958FM, Mandarin station meant for older folks, in my opinion. Appologies to any young people who like to listen to the station, no offense mUsually I would have just shut off, too tired and exhausted to even bother about what was on the radio while I was in the cab. Instead I would just enter into my so-called "brain dead mood" and let my thoughts wander about.
This time however, the program caught my attention. It was about how a father uses love to cook for the family. I did not manage to catch much of the story but I did manage to hear something about how a student only found out how much love the father had for the family when he saw his father labouring in the kitchen, cooking for the whole family, perspiration beads appearing on his forehead and eyebrows squeezed together, concentrating hard on how to make the best dishes for the whole family.
It reminds me about my own father. A lot in fact.
The earliest memory that I had of my own dad was him in the kitchen whipping up a huge storm during any festive seasons for the whole extended family. Hours later, the dining table would be filled to the sides with lots of colourful dishes.
Whatever he cooked would be really good. Because he cooked with love. Or perhaps its cos we love him and thats why we can taste his love. I always stand by my statement that I have never had chicken rice that taste better than my dad's. For those who know me well, my dad used to sell chicken rice. He had to close down his stall however when the work proved too much for him and mum cos they were getting old and cannot take the hard work. Ever since then, I had never managed to find chickenn rice that is better than my dad's. Its amazingly good. Its the best in my opinion. A very objective opinion by the way.
I love my dad.
And I love his cooking even more.