“Where are we going? We’ve been driving for so long,” I said, slouching in the passenger seat of my dad’s car.

“We are going to the supermarket, and we’ve only been driving for 30 minutes,” my dad said, smiling.

Then car sickness came crashing in on me. I focused my gaze on the thick yellow line in the road and my eyelids drooped. I had stayed up late last night watching anime and had only gotten about five hours of sleep. When I woke up, I opened my eyes slightly so I could see what was going on. Bunches and bunches of people were pushing shopping carts through a parking lot. A building loomed over me like a tidal wave. There was my dad, sitting there right next to my seat, looking at his phone. I tried to rise but my body was defiant. The summer heat scorched my eyes. I moved my head into the shadows and slowly awoke.

“Oh, I see your awake,” said my dad. “Take your time to get up.”

My dad had just found a new supermarket to go to near the edge of Chinatown. It was a long drive to the market, about 45 minutes, but it had all the vegetables that we needed to cook with. My dad is a mastermind in the kitchen, needing lots of fresh ingredients, but he usually takes me to nearby markets. This trip was different. Because I was 10 years old now, he felt it was time for me to learn the essentials to cooking.

There was a bunch of cardboard and styrofoam boxes just outside of the market, filled with bok choy, eggplants, sweet potatoes, yams, tomatoes and some things I didn’t recognize. We bagged some tomatoes, yams, and this weird green vegetable that looked like a stem of a broccoli with the leaves of a bok choy. We walked deep into the farthest section of the market, where vegetables were being cooled by vents and mist.

“Dad? It’s really cold and I forgot to bring a jacket,” I said, rubbing my hands together. “Can we go to another section where it’s not so cold?”

“It’s always this cold. It’s how they preserve the food and try to keep it fresh. It’s why they put ice on the fish.”

We wandered around the supermarket and selected the necessary ingredients. The labels were in two different languages, Chinese and English. I could recognize some of the Chinese words but I needed the English to fully understand.

After purchasing the groceries, we loaded up the trunk of the car.

“Dad? How many minutes is it going to take to get home?” I asked.

“About 30. What’s the hurry?”

“I have to meet some friends at Duncan’s house,” I said. “Don’t you remember?”

“We still have an hour until you have to be there. Just rest for a little,” he said calmly.

I laid back and relaxed, waiting for blackness to cover me like a blanket.

When we got home, I walked inside like a zombie, tired and ready to eat. I was surprised to find that, instead of going straight to eating, nothing was ready.

“Are you ready?” he boomed.

“Ready for what?” I groaned.

“Oh, I forgot to tell you. You’re going to learn how to cook right now.”

My body was telling me that I was way too lazy to cook, but I had no choice. I had watched several cooking shows before such as Masterchef, but I had no expectation of being that good because this was my first time.

I washed the chives in a big bowl. I put chives on a cutting board and started to chop. They emitted a sweet fragrance.

“Here, follow me,” he said grabbing my hand.

His hands, rough and calloused from hours of repairing our cars, took my hand gently and started to chop, the knife hitting the cutting board over and over, each chop cutting the chives thin.

“Put it in this bowl with some sesame oil,” he told me.

“Got it,” I said, my shoulders held back and my chin raised.

As I washed the bok choy, I started to salivate. Then I rinsed and chopped several more vegetables.

“Magnificent job!” he said.

“Thanks!” I said, smiling.

I got a round cast iron pan and turned on the stove, lighting the flame like a torch. I poured in some oil and it immediately started crackling.

“Now, put the vegetables in,” he told me.

I put the chives in first which made the dish fragrant, and then added the bok choy and the other vegetables. The whole dish dimmed, its bright colors turning golden brown, and the edges turning crisp. I turned the dish with the spatula so none of it would burn and become charred. I gave it multiple flips and finally it was ready to serve.

I called my mom who was working in her room. Then I drained the oil and put the vegetables on the flower rimmed plate. Hot steam rose up from the dish as I carried it to the dining room table.

“Good job!!” Dad said. “You did it!”

“Thanks, Dad,” I said, dizzy with exhaustion and hunger.

We all sat down. I took my first bite and the ingredients all blended together with a smooth and soft texture, making me relatively proud.

My mom sat up straight and her eyes widened. “This is good, Eric.”

I felt a sense of accomplishment, but I still had a long way to go until I could cook well. This was the first step of my journey.