A hard cocktail of rain, wind, and snowflakes assaulted the farmers market last week. It was the kind of prolonged spring squall that has to make a farmer—more of whom showed up than shoppers—question his or her career choices. The only thing that sold out was coffee, because everyone’s hands were cold. A vat of steaming congee, on special at the Vietnamese sandwich stall, would have sold out too, but they ran out of bowls. I was lucky enough to nab a serving of that thick brew. I squirted on some hoisin sauce and began enjoying my morning, in a better position to appreciate the weather. People eat congee virtually anywhere they eat rice. It’s many names translate into the likes of “white porridge,” “dilute rice” and “wet rice.” Whatever you call it, the process of making it always simmers down to the same basic idea: Cook a little rice …