Brownian Motion

Standard fare: 2½ cups white rice (plus a sprinkle of quinoa), 3½ cups water.

My measuring cup plunges into the metal can like a fishing trawler casting its net. At one point some eleven (maybe twelve?) years ago it held milk formula for my sister; ever since that brief moment at the start of its existence it has held a week’s supply of rice ― sushi, premium grade ― anything else and my mother will complain. I suppose this is what happens when you grow up on a rice farm. The canister is well-built, having weathered the years admirably, though its blue plastic lid is breaking apart and marred by feeble attempts to tape it back together. I’m not sure why we keep using it.

I shake the last few stubborn grains into the pot. Add water. Rinse.

I knead the rice; I watch the starch shake itself free from the rice-grains, diffusing into the water, the rushing coldness of the faucet-stream running past my fingers, numbing my bones, but I need to wash the rice, I must wash the rice, otherwise it all comes out sticky and that simply would not do, I must show that I can in fact cook rice, I must show that I can make the easiest dish in my family’s arsenal; I knead the rice; rhythmically, I blend, I stir, I think of the violin concerto that I have yet to practice and the Tower article I promised I would write and the Linear Algebra homework that makes no sense even though it is nothing but elementary-school arithmetic; I knead the rice; I see the water slowly growing clearer, focus my mind on one goal rather than ten, entrench my hands deeper into the sand-pile of white grains, feel a strange sense of serenity, strain the water from the pot with my fingers, sense it taking away the stresses of life ― if only for a moment.

With a certain air of self-satisfaction I drop the pot into the rice cooker and flip the switch.

Light ― a dim red glow. The cooker’s rusting electronics rumble slowly to life, a small squat cylindrical dragon awakening from its perch atop the granite countertop. One wisp. Then another. The steam curls upwards, rattling the lid, spreading gracefully across the ceiling. A soft hum, ominous and yet somehow relaxing.

Serves three, with a little extra for tomorrow.