The Truth at the Bottom of the Rice Bowl

My in-laws and I made a tacit agreement in the last six months. They will not ask me about my rice consumption. I will try hard to increase my rice consumption. This concordance arose this past summer when, per their usual, they asked Lovey and me about our rice consumption. Then, they asked again. And again. They asked exactly how often we used the rice cooker that they gave us. They took turns. Mom-in-law: How much rice? Dad-in-law: How much rice? Only, it felt like they were pointing accusing fingers at me, as though I was depriving my Asian husband of proper sustenance, changing his rice diet to one of pure trans fat mini-donuts which I would force-feed him in fistfuls at dinner, and, then, shortly after he had reached his REM cycle at night, I would climb into bed with him and whisper, “You want to be -happy don’t you? Why not eat a Happy Meal?!” foisting more trans fat french fries down his throat until morning.

There is a code of pleasantry in Korean culture whereby asking, “Have you been eating well? Enough rice?” is the equivalent of asking, “How are you today?” If you are well, this means that you have eaten enough rice. If you are not well, you have for some tragic and inexplicable reason not consumed your daily ration of rice. The latter is cause for great consternation among Korean parents who escaped starvation in their country’s war whereby families were displaced, and rice was scarce. If I lived through that kind of hell on earth, I, too, probably would want to ensure forever more that my family was all safe and stuffing face with rice.

I am surely not trying to be an ingrate. The fact that I let our rice cooker’s plug get too close to the burner a few months ago and literally torched our rice cooker was just, well, it was just an accident, okay?

But here is my reality: I am a 4’10” American girl. Most of my meal portions are as large as Fig Newtons. There is nothing mounting about my bowl of carbs which look more like ant hills than, say, the mountainous bowls of rice consumed by my Korean counterparts. It’s not that I do not like or want to eat more rice. But you cannot fit a football into your belly-button, just as you cannot fit a small rice paddy into my wee little stomach.

I think my in-laws have finally understood this. I spent 5 days at their home over Christmas. We laughed, we misinterpreted each other’s broken Konglish, we laughed again. My mother-in-law cooked non-stop. But during this visit, she did not ask me about my rice consumption. She monitored my general food intake, such that two hours would pass after a meal and she would look at me aghast, wondering how I could stay upright having eaten up so little rice, showing no traces of faintness. I am not sure if she expected me to suddenly slip into a hypoglycemic fit, slamming her cabinets and scavenging for Handy-Snax, banging her wooden spoons on the linoleum and yelling, “Can a girl get some food around here?!?” The truth is that I was more than satisfied. I enjoyed many good meals at the home of my in-laws. Thus, I graciously accepted the leftovers they helped us to pack in my suitcase back to Boston.

I am really looking forward to visiting my in-laws again next year for the holidays. Sure, their kitchen may not boast a dozen tray of Christmas cookies like my mother's, but I always enjoy the healthful meals that they prepare. I will even look forward to eating a reasonable portion of sticky rice. I’m beginning to think that rice is kind of like the adhesive that keeps us all together in our mixed-race family. So, once again, I look forward especially to a visit with my in-laws at this time next year. Until then, I’ll be dreaming of our White (Rice) Christmas.

More than Morebucks

‘Tis the season for bemoaning overconsumption, and then playing a closeted part in it by ordering all of our frankincense, gold, and faux fur online, exceeding the $100 mark to qualify for free shipping. By golly, doesn’t overconsumption and then taking a rip at the postal carriers feel good.

I’ve been extra good all year at overconsuming, so I think I’ll do a little more right now. I’ve not pinched pennies and parked in parking lots instead of metered spaces. I have run up my A-Tay credit card, paying off the balance in full each month but then wondering why I am counting out quarters and dimes and looking for the elusive CVS Extrabucks coupon when I needed to buy deodorant. I drank a lot of Morebucks, allured by the seasonal red cup, which somehow makes a peppermint mocha both more pepperminty and more mochalicious. I have watched Lovey Loverpants dutifully pack his lunch each day – the same sad grade school lunch that he has eaten for five years – and thought that if I don’t leave for work right now, I’ll be late (and completely without rations and thus unable to justify a Morebucks run before noon).

I’ve been a real Park Avenue brat sometimes, but I actually don’t think I’ll cease asking for more.

In fact, I’m going to be asking for much more this holiday. For when, oh when, has asking for less netted us anything good? When I have “I don’t care”d or “Doesn’t matter”ed my way through moments of selection, I have always gotten the stale end of the baguette. I’ve wound up with the Barbie who had been to the barber, instead of the more desirable Hawaiian Rapunzel of a Barbie. I’ve gotten white milk instead of chocolate, I’ve babysat the ADHD poster children on New Year’s Eve. I learned a long time ago – when you underwish, you underreceive.

And I’m really not expecting to receive much this Christmas. An oven mit from my mom, maybe, a holy reader from my mother-in-law. My husband will give me something practical but cool and surprising. My brother will call me on Christmas morning, and the way he explains how “dilapidated” his old slippers were and how he’s glad he got a new pair will be gift enough for me.

But I am asking for more this coming year, and mostly that’s from myself. I’m asking myself, although fairly well-medicated and fairly caffeine-addicted, to focus more, to focus more on focusing even. I’m asking myself to stop swearing so golldang much, to demand more of myself when it comes to deadlines and paying bills and following up with people whom I told, “I’ll follow up with you on this.” I’m pleading with myself to not count the cost of loving people, to trust in God where I can’t trust myself. I am offering all this up, hoping that to ask more from oneself actually causes one to give more to others and not just back to one’s miserable self. I cannot ask for less, because when did asking for less ever net us something more than Morebucks?

Pug in the Oven

I don't expect to be seeing my parents for a long time. Specifically, my father and my stepmother. They now have a newborn in their nest. Which is really great for them. They just bought a new house in a quiet neighborhood. The perfect place to raise a family with a big yard and even a swimming pool. Thing is, I am not sure how I might feel if my 55 year-old father who can now eat off the senior menu at IHOP and my something-that-rhymes-with-slorty-snive year-old stepmother had really actually just had a child. They didn't. They did, however, adopt. A pug. Named "Stubby."

Stubby, much like Pinocchio, had been a reality in the works for quite some time. Since my father, Big Pops, married Jake five years ago, I have always known them to be desirous of a pug. In fact, they have been playing Pug Parents for years. It's like their shtick. Maybe some parents go skiing or spank each other with spatulas in the kitchen to keep things lively and fresh. My parents talked to their stuffed pug. They consulted Stubby the stuffed pug, often, sometimes on matters of consequence and sometimes just because they knew they were being impossibly queer. If one was coming home late from work, long after the other might be in bed, the other might sit Stuffed Stubby on a perch in the parlor, his nose in Pugs for Dummies, turned to the topic "Snoring." Upon one visit, my husband and I were sitting comfortably on the couch when I went to grab a blanket and moved Stuffed Stubby to a table. "Uh, Kendra?" said Jake, "Um, [Stuffed] Stubby doesn't like to be held by just one ear." She was only half-kidding. Gift-giving was generally easy. Pug paraphernalia was always appreciated and revered in their household. Still, try to explain to your friends that you are gifting your parents with an antique pug painting for their anniversary. Friends will inevitably ask, "Oh, so your parents are into pugs? How many do they have?" Explaining that they have none living, but a very special stuffed one is just one big pandora's box of an answer you don't quite want to crack open. But you can't choose your parents and sometimes you cannot choose their pets, either.

***

Jake brought two slovenly cats to the relationship. Big Pops brought three children, although my sister and I were both in college at the time that they wed, and my brother - who was still in grade school - would only stay with them twice a week. The cats were too high-maintenance, my father complained. One always failed to groom itself and was a recluse. The other whined, and sometimes puked in places that my father would invariably step in on the worst days of his life. After four years of cohabitation with the cats, they were both evacuated. One was put to sleep shortly after its evacuation. The other now has two dads. My father spoke in a hush the week of the evacuation. He felt guilty, he felt bad. He knew, deep down, though, that the gates had opened. They were opened and the red carpet was unfurling. This was the threshhold to a pug. I told him that he was like a father waiting for the stork. "Pug in the oven," I called it.

Big Pops turned 55 last week and Jake took a trip to Amish country. Upon her return, my brother discerned her souvenir and squealed, "Puggy!" Jake whispered, "This is a surprise." My father, ascertaining that Jake had bought him yet another Stuffed Stubby was overcome by the wee little Stubby who had become a real dog. In his lap!

The day after Big Pop's 55th, my husband and I stopped by their new house on our way back to Boston. We met Stubby. He was, admittedly, adorable. He had his first meal in his new house below my husband's caring gaze. He made noises that reminded me of my father clearing his throat. He melted my heart.

That was, until I realized that he was, like any newborn, stealing my show, as well. He has so captivated my parents that they are lovesick over their new pug. I cannot get my father to talk like a normal human being on the phone anymore. He is too preoccupied with giving me the play-by-play of Stubby, "He's 4 lbs! He's going crazy! This little guy...only 4lbs!..look at him running around! He's going nuts! He's just so cute! Did I tell ya that Jake took him to the vet and that he was 4 lbs?!?"

When we left the house, Jake walked us out to our car with Stubby in tow. She helped him to wave good-bye. "The pug is out of the oven," she said.