A warm steaming bowl of rice sat in front of me. Savory juices of the beef ran down the gleaming white mounds – my 3-year old body couldn’t resist the urge to drop my face into that fluffy exterior. The smell of the savory, sweet, and sour meaty aroma caressed my nostrils to the point of ecstasy. It was an experience like no other. No more mushy baby food or slimy porridge. As that first spoonful of rice covered and encased my taste buds, I knew I could sit at the adult table.
The taste of rice ignited my love for the food in my Vietnamese culture. The smell of warm, savory pho encapsulated the kitchen, fighting against the cool, crisp September air. I still couldn’t chew after my jaw surgery, but I was able to slurp up the noodles and drink the broth. Eating Vietnamese food every day was one of the perks in staying home for the semester. Starting from the smell of the turmeric that vibrated off the Bánh xèo to the sweet and juicy taste of the chè, I began to enjoy the food that came from my exciting and rich culture. All thanks to rice
Watching my parents put different ingredients into a plain meal mesmerized my youthful soul. Rice is white as an unpainted canvas – your creativity is seen through the masterpiece after arduous labor. Mastering the art of rice ignited a creative part of me. I would begin with white rice as a base and choose a combination of meat, vegetable, and sauce. If I was feeling spicy one day, I would choose chili pepper sauce instead of the tangy soy sauce. The combinations are endless. It’s basically playing with your food, but without the mess that comes with it.
Cafeteria food was not cutting it for me during my sophomore year of high school. My mom packed me rice in a small red box container. Eating rice at school reminded me of the comfort at home in contrast to the stress that plagued my mind. My friends would take a clump of rice and devour it with fulfilling intent. Sometimes I would give the leftovers to my friends to eat. I didn’t mind. My friends were enjoying a piece of my cultural heritage and the bonds of friendship that were fettering us together were enhanced through rice.
On February 6th, 2016, my grandfather succumbed to the pains of lung cancer. The house phone rang and I felt a tingly “calm”. I knew bad times were about to come, and then my mom screeched. Preoccupied with the unexpected situation, my family did not have time to make food. Given a bowl of rice to eat for the day, I contemplated my grief. No tears were shed when I heard the news – maybe it dried out after pouring the salty liquid a few days before. As I eat my rice, I knew his pain and suffering that had built up during the two years of cancer treatment disappeared in a puff of magic. Eating rice reminded me of the time he felt my stomach after eating dinner while asking where the rice was hidden. The warmth of the rice comforted me on that cold, silent day and ensured me that he was in a better place – far away from pain and suffering.
For the joys of creativity, for the promotion of culture, and for the calmness from comfort, rice was there for me. Like a guardian angel from heaven, rice influenced my emotions and thoughts and safeguarded me from danger. I eat rice almost daily, and because of its prominence in my life, it helped me get through thick and thin. Rice, if you are reading this letter, thank you for being with me, for every grain in your clump brings me joy and comfort in times of good and bad.
Sincerely,
Anhtu <3
