We Grade 2019 are a very “lucky” lot if you happen to understand what connotations the word lucky carries. So far, we have experienced remote school twice, first in 2020 for almost half a year and the latest in August 2021.

Online lessons did not worry me. What worried me like hell was what I should eat. With my mother in Hebei Province and my father in Xiangyang, I was the sole soul left behind in my home in Shiyan. Meal deliveries were out of the question this time. The last time I ate a meal ordered on an app, I ended up in the People’s Hospital and stayed there for a couple of days. The only choice open to me this time, therefore, was to cook for myself, but I had never cooked before. The furthest I had gone in terms of culinary skills was to prepare instant noodles in the accompanying paper bowl, if that counts as cooking at all. You pour into the bowl boiling hot water, leave it to stand for five minutes and then the noodle soup is ready.

One big reason I had never tried cooking before was that I dreaded being burnt by sizzling cooking oil typically used in Chinese cuisine. Any scar or spot resulting from that, I was sure, would ruin my future odds of getting an ideal boyfriend.

To survive, I rolled up my sleeves and marched into the kitchen. For my adventure, I had bought protective gear. A transparent pink face mask would enable me to see the cooking without being hurt by spilling oil. An extra-long pair of gloves would protect my hands and arms against any possible harm.

Armed with my face mask and long gloves, I started to tackle the Herculean task. All the ingredients washed and cut to size, I still felt like a complete idiot. What was the first step? Which ingredient went in first? When should I put in salt? And soy sauce? Pepper? How long would it take? The list of questions went on and on.

To guide me, Mother started video-conferencing with me on the phone. I breathed a sigh of relief when Mother came to my rescue. I followed Mother’s instructions closely. My first cooking experience thus kicked off.

The beginning was plain sailing: heat the wok, add oil to it, and put in the ingredients when the oil is hot enough. Once the oil started hissing in the wok, I could not hear Mother clearly any more. Amid the noises, smoke and fumes, what I heard was only Mother’s hysterical laughter pouring out of the phone. The way I was handling things must have been very funny in her eyes. At a critical moment when I was at a loss what to do next, I retreated to the quieter living room, where I consulted Mother on the phone. Then I returned to the kitchen and went on with it.

After a hectic hour or so, my first meal was done. It was not a beauty, to tell you the truth, but it was a complete thing and, when I dug in it, it tasted quite decent. I took a shot of the dish on my phone and shared it on my WeChat Moments. By then I had discovered Mother had posted dozens of pictures of me cooking on her WeChat Moments too: a girl dressed in a pink mask and long gloves flourishing a shovel in the wok. How hilarious it was! I was, at first glance, more like a surgeon operating on his patient in the surgery than a family cook doing a dish in the kitchen.

Despite everything the first cooking experience gave me a sense of accomplishment. I learned a new skill through it. About a week later, Father came back from Xiangyang, which relieved me from the trying time in the kitchen.

Now, the kitchen, which used to loom large like a monster in my mind, has stopped being a daunting place. I am confident that should I be left alone again at home I would not perish of hunger. Better still, instant noodles and other convenience foods would not be the only choice any more.