Cooked Rice

By Giggles Anderson

“You really should speak to your neighbor about the seasonings he keeps spilling on your mat,” He says.

“I know. I know.” I mumble under my breath.

[Mental note to self: Sprinkle cooked rice on the mat next time.]

Now rice is the true opponent of many a childhood.

Forget bad dogs, the boogie monster, the darkness and the weird old guy up the street. Most children fall on one side of the dinner table or the other when it comes to rice.

A child either eats all the rice or none of the rice.

And so the battle for the clean plate begins.

“You will sit here until you finish everything on your plate,” urges the annoyed parentperson charged with the dispensation of nutrition.

I was a rice eater, but what was the deal with chocho, cod liver oil, beets, carrot juice, cassava and mackerel?

What evil lurks in the mind of the people who steal children from heaven and trap us in their single family homes?

You know this is the reason I can’t sit still now-- all those hours spent staring at that hideous orange and white wallpaper wondering when the chunks of insipid food would disappear into tension-filled air.

Back then, all I could do was wonder around the plate for forty years in hopes that I would be the Chosen one.

That may have worked for other curly haired children, but my wondering was futile.

Face it. Yucky warm food is way better than yucky cold food– with all its liquid now frightfully congealed roundabout the edges.

Yes, the adultfolk sucked when they had all the power and the childfolk had none. Maybe I should swing by my lawyer’s office one more time. If he cleans as good as he looks, I may have hit the jackpot.

Turns out, that me, the living room and my welcome mat are a hot, curried mess.