1 . My father was a restaurant owner. My name is Vincent Lim. I’m a chef and restaurant owner. Running a Chinese restaurant is one of the hardest and most_________things in my life.

When we first arrived in Australia, my dad_________a Chinese restaurant. I would go there on a_________basis to help him out. And slowly I developed my_________for cooking. The hard work that my dad put into Chinese food makes me feel so proud that I am lucky enough to learn from a_________

The first dish that I ever learned to cook was the fried rice, which is the easiest but also the _________one to get right. From years of experience, I can_________you the difference between a good fried rice just from the feel and from the smell, without even taking a bite.

To lots of Chinese immigrants like us, the restaurant isn’t just a business. It’s a sense of _________. The wok hei (锅气)_________every ingredient in the wok, producing an appealing smell. The fragrances of the food__________the air and lingered around so much longer. Those memories, they become nostalgic (乡愁). The sense of home is what makes a__________good dish taste.

In 2017, my dad passed away. I realized that my love of cooking dishes was from my childhood. I __________the restaurant that I own today. Cooking was a__________way to my dad. I wanted to __________everything that he taught me. Cooking__________all the hard work and memories that we had.

Grandma tried to straighten out her fingers. “Jessica, I think I am done knitting (编织),” she said. “My fingers just won’t do what I tell them any more.” I looked at Grandma’s hands, remembering that she had taught me how to knit gloves for my dolls since I was little and that her hands had been sure and strong whatever she had knitted. Grandma had always said that I was very good with her knitting needles and balls of yarn (纱线).

But this winter she could hardly bend her fingers. The doctor said Grandma had arthritis (关节炎), suggesting she should keep her hands warm. I made her cups of tea to hold and moved her chair closer to the fire. However, her fingers were still difficult to move.

I wasn’t used to seeing Grandma’s hands so still. In the morning, her hands were still in her lap. In the evening, her quiet hands even made her voice stay still. I tried to help her find her voice. “Grandma, tell me about when you were a little girl like before,” I begged, knowing she loved to tell interesting stories of her nine brothers and sisters and herself during their childhood. “That was so long ago, Jessica,” whispered Grandma. “I can barely remember.”

This winter there were no hats with matching gloves or soft sweaters knitted by Grandma. But I missed her voice more than those. What about her sister Olga giving their snowman a bath in hot water? What about her brother Peti cutting off her doll’s beautiful hair and then hiding it? Were those words still moving silently in her head?

After dinner, Grandma fell asleep in her rocking chair. Mom sorted through our knitting items, among which an old pair of gloves caught my attention. The gloves were Grandma’s favorite ones with the names of Grandma and her nine brothers and sisters on the fingertips. Each time she wore them, all her happy childhood memories would become very interesting stories in her mouth.

The gloves gave me an idea.

“Grandma, shall we knit a new pair of gloves?” I asked hopefully.

When my sister, Dona, and I were little kids, my parents both joined the army. They stayed far away from our town and hardly returned home. My grandpa took on the big responsibility of taking care of us. Still, without our parents by our side, Dona and I sometimes felt lonely and sad, especially one winter.

One morning in that winter when Dona and I were sitting in our bedroom, dull and quiet, Grandpa said, “My dear, how about trying skating for fun?” Our faces immediately lit up and we answered together, “Great, we surely like it, Grandpa!”

He smiled and quickly set about building us a skating rink (溜冰场) in our yard. The process of building a skating rink was not easy. First, Grandpa laid out long wooden boards around the yard. Next, he made the base of the rink flat. Grandpa then began spraying the water, lightly at first, until the first layer of ice was established. He would then put some water onto the ice each night. And thus, the ice became thicker and thicker.

In the darkness of the night, from the kitchen window Dona and I watched Grandpa with great expectations. His back and shoulders rounded to protect him from the freezing wind. He stood alone, busying himself creating a perfect skating rink for us. The only light was from the moon and stars.

One night, Grandpa suddenly pressed his waist and the look on his face showed he was painful. Quite concerned, Dona and I rushed out and asked, “Grandpa! What’s wrong?” “My waist is painful. Don’t worry! I’ll be fine just after a little rest,” he smiled. Dona and I offered to help create the rink. But he said it was too cold outside at night and that building the rink needs much experience and lots of skills. Then, we gave up the idea of offering him a hand, but demanded he build the rink a few days later. Seeing we were determined, he walked into the room with us and had warm tea. Before long, Dona and I were tired and went to bed.

When we fell asleep, Grandpa quietly walked out into the yard.

Amazed, we hurriedly put on the skating equipment and rushed out._

We were very poor. To help support the family, Grandma would go to the mountains to dig wild vegetables, and then sell them. In this way, Grandma had to spend the whole day in the mountains. After she came back from collecting a lot of wild vegetables, she had to pick them until late night. Early in the morning, my grandma would take the vegetables, walk through the mountain road, and go to the market to sell them.

I hated Grandma digging wild vegetables all day long, because as soon as I finished my homework, I had to help her pick vegetables. And this dirty work often made my fingers black. In that case, no matter how hard I washed my hands, the dirty black color couldn’t be washed away, which made me very upset. My grandma noticed I hated the black color so much; she once suggested using bleach and iron filings (漂白剂和铁屑). It worked. However, it really hurt so I refused to try them again.

One day, something unexpected happened.

“Everyone, you need to invite your parents to school. OK?” the teacher said to us, “the school requires students to bring your parents to school, mainly to discuss your school work.”

Of course it didn’t matter to other classmates, but I… Grandma was the only one who could come to school with me, Hearing what the teacher said, I sighed (叹气) helplessly, “Oh…” The worn-out clothes, the slightly hunched (弓背的) back, and the most terrible thing was the dirty black color on Grandma’s fingers!

I couldn’t tell how worried and frightened I was and I didn’t know what to do. Anyway, I didn’t want the teacher to see the color of my grandma’s fingers. I came home with an unhappy face and said hesitantly (犹豫地): “Well, Grandma, the teacher asked parents to go to school tomorrow.”

I couldn’t help stealing a look at her hands.

The next afternoon, a classmate told me my grandma was in the teacher’s office.

“Mom, what’s this?” my little daughter in the living room called and pointed to an instrument box. “Oh, it’s my flute(长笛),” I said and opened it. There was the old silver flute that I played years ago. “Play it, Mom.” my daughter asked excitedly.

“Oh, I don’t know whether I’ve forgotten how to play it,” I said. Then, I was lost in thought. The flute carried me back to the days when I was thirteen. That year, because of my dad’s new job, in the middle term. I moved to a new school and left my old friends. Besides, I was a socially awkward girl. So in the new school, I became very lonely and bored.

Two weeks after I went there, the school band was wanting new members. I extremely wished to join it. I loved music. Joining the band could help change my boring school life. And I could meet people with the same hobby, which would be much easier for me to make new friends. But to join the band, each member needed to buy an instrument and take lessons to learn it. My family was on a tight budget at that time. So I didn’t think my parents would support my wish. Besides, I didn’t want to put further financial pressure on my parents.

That day, I arrived home after school, tired and sad. It was another tough day. My dad was reading the newspaper on the sofa “Hi,” he said. “Hi, Dad,” I answered softly. “What’s the matter?” he questioned, finding there was something wrong with me. “Nothing, Dad,” I replied. “Come over here,” he said, asking me to sit down beside him.

He looked at me as I sat down. Then, he talked with me, wishing to know what was troubling me. Still, I didn’t want to tell him about my loneliness at my new school and my big wish to join the band. However, after he kept asking. I finally told him. Not wanting him to feel stressed, I added I could ultimately deal with my problem without joining the band.

Just as I finished my words, my dad dropped the paper and stood up.

Then, my dad and I walked out of the store, with me carrying the beautiful flute.

When my husband Randy died in late fall, deciding what to do with his garden was way down on the list of necessary tasks. During the first few months, I cried with our daughters, planned a memorial, cried with my family, celebrated a quiet Thanksgiving, and panicked over not having bought Christmas presents.

As the calendar turned to a new year, the often rainy days and long nights deepened my sorrow. I found myself exhausted at the end of February, both physically and mentally.

Then the daffodils bloomed (开花) in the garden.

Years before, Randy had planted dozens of these lemon-yellow flowers. To him, they served as a reminder of hope, a promise that light and warmth would soon replace cold and dark. Looking at those dauffodils, I thought about how Randy had considered our garden a living work of art, carefully choosing plants so we’d see new blooms every month.

Then I noticed all the weeds that had taken root and spread everywhere. The neglect (疏于打理) showed, for Randy’s illness had lasted a couple of years, a time when he didn’t have energy for yard work the way he had before.

Faced with the neglected garden, I felt overwhelmed in the beginning. My daughters suggested I hire a service to clean everything up. I didn’t respond.

Every time I sat in the garden alone, the memories of the lively garden came flooding, like the numerous scenes in an unforgettable film. Many days Randy came home from work, changed into old clothes, and headed out the door to mow or prune (修剪). Orange dragonflies followed him around the yard as he worked. Honeybees buzzed among the flowers, birds sang beautiful songs, and gentle breezes carried the sweet smell of dirt. No matter how cold or wet it was, the fresh air and physical activity made him energized and refreshed. For Randy, the work was quiet and comforting, which was a relief, as well as a pleasure.

The days grew warmer and lighter, and I started the work myself.

Weeks later, my daughters returned to visit me.