One of the undeniable cross-cultural unifiers is rice. Whether that be long grain, short grain, brown rice, white rice, sticky rice, etc., rice is a staple item in many kitchens across many cultures and countries. In my own household, we grew up eating rice dishes from a multitude of origins. One of the perks of growing up in not only a multicultural home, but a multicultural neighborhood as well, means that you get a chance to eat and learn various recipes. There was homemade mushroom risotto (courtesy of yours truly), fried rice, kimchi fried rice, Ukrainian cabbage rolls, plov, spanish rice, nam salad, dolmas, rice porridge, and so much more. And of course, many of our meals at home were accompanied by a side of white sticky rice.
It wasn’t just plain white rice that we’d eat to accompany a dish. One of the sides in regular rotation when I was younger was my mom’s seasoned rice, something that baffled my father when she first made it for him. My mom’s seasoned rice was a way to use up day-old rice, other than frying it. She’d put a pat of butter or two and Johnny’s seasoning salt on the rice before heating it up in the microwave at intervals, pulling it out in between to make sure everything mixed together. My dad told me that when he first saw my mom make that, he claimed it was “the whitest shit I’d ever seen.” That story got a good laugh out of my siblings and I, my mom rolling her eyes and chuckling along with us. My mom also shared with me her own story of ‘culture-shock’ with Dad. “When I was growing up,” she began, “we’d have chili-mac, we’d make it out of leftover chili. When I met your father and he made chili, he made it with rice [on the side]. I was shocked—really? Rice with your chili? It was the weirdest thing I’d seen. But now, that’s what we do, we always eat chili with white rice. I guess that’s the difference between growing up in an Italian household and an Asian household; pasta and rice.”
Yes, rice is a must in many households and many cultures, and I would wager most find the rice pot just as important. In my household, we cooked rice at least once a week or once every two weeks, so the rice pot was always kept readily available. To feed a family of five, we needed a decently sized rice pot and a decent amount of rice. Ever since I can remember, our rice pot has always had a stainless-steel bowl with a glass lid, and our rice was bought in the big bags (that I would slap as we walked by in the store) that would then be transferred into a gallon bucket with a lid that was near-impossible to pry off when I was little. The bucket always remained in the garage—there was no room for it in the house—but the rice pot bounced around a little bit, though now it rests in the kitchen. It’s the second rice pot I can remember my family owning, and when my parents got rid of the first I recall feeling like we were casting out a family member. It’s strange what a sentimental child will grow attached to, but that rice pot had fed me for the majority of my life, so I’ll excuse my own moment of (possibly) irrational sentimentality.
Even now, there’s little else more comforting to me than a dish served with a side of fresh cooked rice.
