You have to commit to a bag of rice. And I’m not talking about the small microwaveable single-serving disasters in a pouch—I mean the big 50-pounders that are always near the registers at grocery stores like Seafood City or 99 Ranch, the ones that you have to put in a rice dispenser, a de rigueur piece of furniture in Asian households.
She had shown me how to clean the dry rice, removing leftover husks and small pebbles, and how to clean the rice when wet, rinsing it again and again until the water runs clear and it feels like big grains of sand that just barely hold together. She drained the pot, set it on top of the stove, and gifted me the magic cooking method: pour water over the rice until it’s a knuckle’s length above the grains and couple that with patience.
I moved to the United States without papers when I was 10, accent heavy and loaded with culture shock. From metro Manila to the insidious wholesomeness that was suburban Orange County, California, I maneuvered my newly found American-ness through my Jesuit upbringing, apologizing at almost every turn for how Filipino I was presenting.
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