“Imagine this love poem is for you, from you,” Amrita said at her workshop during the women’s retreat in Sedona, Arizona I cooked for this past September. On this January day in New York, the savory rice porridge I warmed up on the stove felt like that love poem: A hug from the inside. 

I’d been making different versions of the porridge all season using raw or cooked rice and whatever combination of stock and water I had, topped with Chinese chives and sprouts or batons of king oyster mushrooms sautéed in sesame oil. I made it to soothe my hangover after my husband’s birthday in October, when we’d hosted a party for 20 friends and the waiter was excellent at upselling mezcal and keeping it flowing. I made it when we returned from celebrating Christmas in Boston and surveyed the damage of pipes that had frozen and burst while we were gone. I made it again for New Years Day, a huge pot for a potluck we hosted with our neighbors, bowls of gentle warmth in everyone’s hands.

The version I made for the New Year’s party was simple and from the heart. Rice grown by Great Joy Family Farm in Pine Bush, New York, grated sweet potato and ginger melting into a stock I made from a whole chicken raised on the same farm as the rice. “This is good,” said Lewis, our neighbor who emigrated from Taiwan decades ago. He had a second helping. “Where did you learn about congee?” 

Congee, a brothy porridge made with a high ratio of liquid to rice, has roots in ancient Tamil and Chinese cultures; over thousands of years it spread across the region and the world. My first congee (cháo, in Vietnamese) was served steaming from a stall at the end of the alley where I lived in Hanoi when I was 23, just off Trần Hưng Đạo near the train station. I lived in Seoul the following year, doing a terrible job teaching English and SATs; the medicine of juk found me at a place in Insadong that diagnosed me upon arrival and served a porridge to balance my condition. At a fancy hotel in Singapore where I was traveling for a conference years later, I topped my breakfast teochew with dark soy sauce and crispy onions. Congee and I met again recently on a dim sum cart in Flushing, chicken fat as prominent a flavor as the rice.

Other neighbors who’d never had congee before tasted it and liked it too. Self-compassion, at least in porridge form, translates across cultures. 

Self-compassion is self-love, unconditional, accepting yourself as you are and forgiving any mistakes you may have made. This porridge carries that forgiveness, absorbing as much stock as you have to offer and water when you run out. A perfect recipe for the New Year, as I unwind patterns of self-criticism and self-doubt and embrace the messiness and juiciness of life.

I put the porridge leftovers in the fridge after the party, a gift to my future self. Construction on our house started the next day, to fix the burst plumbing and also to replace our insulation and improve the energy retention of the house. We stayed at our neighbor Sandra’s house, and when we returned, dust was everywhere, but congee was waiting for me. I stirred the porridge, thinning it with some water. Its pale yellow color smiled at me. “It’s ok,” the porridge whispered, sensing my overwhelm. “Be kind to yourself.” I ladled the porridge into a favorite bowl, drizzled sesame oil on top, some leeks, and a pinch of pine nut dukkah. The flavor was subtle, gentle. “You are good,” said the porridge in its silky voice. “Your gifts are welcome here.” “Thanks, porridge,” I replied, and scraped the bowl clean spoon by spoon.