Our Cooking Class

Reflections from a Shine Vietnamese Cooking Fundraiser

When I first planned this cooking class, I thought the hardest part would be teaching everyone how to make cơm tấm — Vietnamese broken rice.

It turned out the recipes were the easy part.

The part I’ll remember is watching a room full of strangers become friends.

It Began with a Parking Lesson

Five of us met at my place, and Dave kindly offered to drive us to Bankstown. After finding a spot, he looked up at the sign.

“One-hour parking. Is that okay?”

Without the slightest hesitation, I answered, “Yes, it’ll be fine. I’ve never gotten a parking ticket in Bankstown.”

Everyone trusted my local knowledge.

A few minutes later, while we were ordering bánh mì, the shop owner looked at me and asked, “Did you park in the Marion Street car park?”

I nodded.

She smiled knowingly. “Be careful. They’ve been handing out lots of tickets there lately — I’ve had several myself. The parking officer is even one of my customers. He knows my car!”

My confidence disappeared on the spot.

Poor Dave. Instead of enjoying a leisurely breakfast, he hurried back to move the car while the rest of us guarded the table.

Our first disaster, thankfully, was avoided before the cooking class had even begun.

Coffee, Bánh Mì and New Friendships

Our class brought together people from different churches, many of whom had never met. I wondered if it might feel awkward.

It didn’t.

Somewhere between coffee, crispy bánh mì and wandering through the Vietnamese grocery stores, introductions turned into conversations. People compared ingredients, laughed over unfamiliar vegetables and swapped little stories about cooking at home.

By the time we returned to my house, nobody felt like a stranger anymore. It simply felt like friends arriving to cook together.

“Is That Noodle?”

Back in the kitchen, we began preparing bì — Vietnamese shredded pork skin.

Florence studied it thoughtfully. “Is that noodle?”

“No,” I replied.

She looked even more puzzled. “So… it’s raw?”

Before anyone could answer, she bravely picked up a piece and tasted it. A few seconds later, she smiled. “Oh! It’s not raw!”

The rest of us already knew that. Now Florence knew too.

The Fish Sauce Review Committee

I thought I was teaching everyone how to make Vietnamese fish sauce. Apparently, I was presenting it to an expert review panel.

Apphia carefully examined the sugar. Vincent, our kidney doctor, naturally questioned the salt. Jules and Jeanne negotiated the chilli level.

By the end of the discussion, my fish sauce had survived reviews for sugar, salt and chilli. I decided it had officially passed quality control.

Every Egg Has a Story

Then everyone fried their own egg.

Some eggs turned out exactly as planned. Others developed… a little more personality.

At one point, Dave and Ethan stood over one particularly well-browned egg, deep in discussion. Was it burnt? Or did it simply have character?

They never announced a verdict. Dave quietly placed it on his own plate.

I think that answered the question.

The Unexpected Star

One of the biggest surprises of the day wasn’t a recipe. It was a simple rice scoop.

When it came time to assemble the plates, I started with a lighthearted comment.

“Now, let me introduce you to my toy.”

I took out a yellow rice scoop and began pressing the broken rice in.

With one gentle press, the rice became a neat little dome, just like the plates served in Vietnamese restaurants.

Geoffrey noticed first. “That amazing rice ball scoop!”

Tom quietly took out his phone. Two minutes later, a shopping link for the rice scoop appeared in our group chat.

Apparently, some people weren’t leaving with just a new recipe — they were leaving with a growing kitchen shopping list.

Who knew that after weeks of refining pork ribs, fish sauce and chiffon cake, the day’s most popular item would turn out to be a humble rice scoop?

Everyone Found a Way to Serve

As the morning unfolded, something beautiful happened. Nobody waited to be asked.

Everyone simply found a way to help.

Ethan quietly became our videographer, recording the demonstrations so everyone could watch them again later. Jess wrote careful, detailed notes, making sure none of the little tips or techniques would be forgotten. Jeanne somehow kept the teapot full all morning — every time someone finished a cup, another pot seemed to appear.

Tom made his way to the sink. Some of the cookware couldn’t go in the dishwasher, so he simply started washing it by hand. When he picked up the baking tray, I protested.

“Tom, that’s the host’s job. Leave it — I’ll wash it.”

He disagreed. I insisted. He kept washing.

Before our friendly argument was over, the baking tray was already sparkling clean. There wasn’t much left for me to say.

When it came time to pack the takeaway meals, Julia and Florence were the first to volunteer. Soon the whole kitchen became a little production line. Someone scooped the rice. Someone packed the vegetables. Someone ladled the fish sauce. And of course, every takeaway box received its perfect little dome of rice.

While I was busy mixing one last batch of bì, everyone else quietly finished the job. By the time I turned around, all ten takeaway meals were neatly packed and lined up on the bench.

For a moment, I just stood there and smiled.

It no longer felt like my cooking class. It felt like our cooking class.

Looking Through Geoffrey’s Lens

That evening, Geoffrey shared the photos he had taken throughout the day. As I scrolled through them, I realised he had captured moments I had completely missed.

While I was explaining recipes, someone was washing bowls. Someone else was wiping benches. People were laughing while preparing food together.

Dave was driving. Ethan was filming. Jess was writing. Jeanne was pouring tea. Hands were quietly reaching for dishes, containers and tea towels without anyone needing to ask.

None of those moments appeared on the timetable. But they were the reason the day flowed so beautifully.

More Than a Cooking Class

When lunch was finally served, I looked around the table. People who had been strangers only a few hours earlier were now sharing stories over plates of cơm tấm.

Everyone had learned something. Everyone had laughed. Everyone had served.

Looking back, I don’t think the greatest achievement of the day was learning to cook Vietnamese broken rice. It was discovering, once again, that hospitality isn’t created by one person. It’s created when many people quietly offer their own gifts — whether that’s driving, taking photos, pouring tea, writing notes, packing meals, or simply making everyone feel welcome.

Food has a wonderful way of bringing people together.

And sometimes the best thing served at the table isn’t the meal itself. It’s fellowship.