Rice Soup: Kitchen Credo of the Little Cook

In the 1940’s, when I was ten,
mother tied a faded apron
over my school dress. In her hands
a box of rice contained the contents of
my life. Kernels rattled like truth
in fairytales from the cardboard box
into the Pyrex measuring cup.
One cup of rice cooks to three or four cups.

Two quarts of water tapped from
the faucet, first measured, then poured
into the dented, aluminum pot
mother scrubbed with brillo
until it shone the way her face used to glow.
Too much water: soggy, gummy rice,
Too little, dry.

My stubby fingers pushed
in the knob on the gas burner, held it,
turned it, until the blue flame rose.
The water came to a rolling boil,
all bubbly and steamy,
the way my mother used to be.
Drop the washed rice into the boiling water.

We watched the clock, leaning
on the pink formica counter, edged
in stainless steel, playing our favorite word game:
Ghost, while I thought about my father,
resting upstairs, after his heart attack,
the real ghost, not the game.
Boil rapidly fifteen to twenty minutes.
Drain.

Mother stooped, then lifted her double-boiler
from the wooden shelf in the white-painted cabinet.
When the water boiled, I set the rice over it.
We covered it with the striped dishtowel
I used to dry when mother washed.
Set over boiling water until fluffy.

We filled a soup bowl with the rice,
added warmed milk, a tablespoon of sugar,
and a dash of cinnamon. I carried it
on a tray to my father, while mother
stayed downstairs. I watched him eat
every morsel. He asked for a little more.
I understood what he wanted.
Always measure, carefully.
Season to taste and serve immediately.

A workshop leader for the Florida Center for the Book, Lucille Gang Shulklapper writes fiction and poetry. Her work has been anthologized and appears in many publications as well as her four poetry chapbooks, What You Cannot Have, The Substance of Sunlight, Godd, It’s Not Hollywood, and In the Tunnel.