Wednesday, January 04, 2012

I am my mother

When she has leftover rice, my mom frequently makes it for breakfast.

She puts it in a saucepan and pours enough milk on top to cover the rice. She heats up the rice and milk super slowly - at least an hour - on the stove top at a low temperature.

The leftover rice, formerly crunchy and congealed together and generally gross - plumps right up in the milk.

Then you sprinkle the rice with cinnamon sugar.

And then you eat.

And then you are very, very happy.

When I saw that there was leftover rice in the refrigerator at Mom and Dad's (where I'm dogsitting), when I had enough time to properly heat my rice and milk, when I am in the midst of a week in which I need all of the comfort food that I can get: I couldn't resist.

Rice. Milk. Heat.

Sprinkled with lavender vanilla sugar.

And that bowl of heaven is, I am convinced, the reason that I made it through the entire day without crying. Without coming close to crying. Without checking my phone every five minutes. Without obsessing. With the ability to focus on my work. With a smile on my face that wasn't entirely fake.

Magic rice. Make it when you are sad. Feel happy.

Take a picture.

Preferably on an equally magic cutting board.


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