Electric rice cooker

On the occasion of International Rice Cooker Day (Decemeber 10th):

I was “made in China” in the 1970s. China at that time was in the midst of the Cultural Revolution, which rendered it poor and in disarray.

My family was able to escape our destitution to a better life in Canada in 1979 by grace of its family reunification programme. My granduncle (paternal grandfather’s brother), who ran a successful business in Toronto’s Chinatown (and left China during the chaos of WWII), sponsored us. We would otherwise not qualify to enter into Canada, which normally selects its immigrants via a points-based system.

When we emigrated from China, our first port of call was Hong Kong (which back then was a British colony). This was the only point of travel connecting China with the West back then. It was there that we also first experienced modernity, and my family took advantage of this to buy an electric rice cooker. (We bought the iconic National rice cooker; National later became part of Panasonic.) We were peasants and had previously cooked rice back in our village using a wok over a hay or dung fire. This was a new and cherished possession for us.

Although our final destination was Toronto, we first crossed into Canada at the Vancouver Airport as direct flights from China to Toronto did not exist back then. As part of the transiting procedure, we had to carry our goods across the border. Everyone in my family had their hands full with suitcases and bags. Therefore, the duty of carrying the rice cooker fell on 4-years-old me, even as my arms could barely hug the machine, much less see my own feet once I wrapped my arms around the pot.

After clearing customs, we saw relatives at the airport waiting on the level below to greet us. With our suitcases in hand – and me with my arms enveloped around the rice cooker – we moved towards the escalator, soon to be in the company of kin.

I was unfamiliar with the sight of moving stairs but proceeded anyhow. However, as soon as I stepped on — without the benefit of anyone holding my hands — I ended up tumbling all the way down the escalator. I ended up with scrapes and bruises all over my body from the fall. I don’t recall how the rice cooker fared, but I do remember eating rice made from that pot as a child, so I must have did a decent job protecting it. 😅  That and/or the rice cooker was manufactured, like me, to take a beating! 😂

As a result of the accident, I had a phobia of escalators until age twelve. I would always avoid them whenever possible, and if not, I would hold on for dear life with both hands to the rail. I recall the day that I learned to overcome this fear. It was at the Toronto Eaton Centre. I took the down escalator on the ground floor by the Dundas Street entrance. I forced myself to ride without either hand on the rail.