Finding calm in rinsing rice.

It's not a bad metaphor. It's not even a metaphor. I don't think?

Things have felt a bit overwhelming lately. I have a stack of ideas to write about but I find myself dealing with a million other things instead.

The apocalyptic-level flooding of my city.

The “let’s not waste the day!” call of 78° and sunny.

The first “I’m sick” call home from college, which, as it turns out, is even harder than the first goodbye. (She’s fine now.)

The fall calendar that suddenly feels overwhelmingly packed with work meetings, school meetings, social events, kids’ schedules, various and sundry obligations of both the exciting and less exciting variety.

The more-than-a-little-scary crumbling of democracy in ways we see and ways we don’t:

The bigotry. The hate. The anti-Semitism. The actual book burning.

The vivid nightly dreams about losing the kids in a crowd, teeth falling out, and one oddly disconcerting sexual encounter with a celebrity who told me I needed to wash my hair more.

(Don’t ask, I don’t know!)

The pressure on myself to be all things to all people at all times, and the difficulty in knowing that I can’t, though I probably could have done some things better.

I’m waking up tired and I don’t like it.

Last night, we decided dumplings and rice would be the perfect comfort food dinner for the four of us. I volunteered to get the rice started.

Friends: One thing to know about me is that I hate household chores. That includes the ones that seem to give other people comfort; I don’t find ironing “soothing” and I am not a fan of folding laundry, no matter how good it smells. I haven’t baked bread since the quarantine ended, and I get no enjoyment from steam-cleaning the kitchen floor.

But washing rice?

Forget household chores—this is arguably one of the the most satisfying of all things in the world.

The sound of the grains of rice dropping into the metallic inner bowl of the rice cooker. Pouring water just above my wrists and patting down the grains like a preschooler playing at a sand table. Swirling my fingers through the grains and watching the starch turn to clouds in the water. The repetition of straining the water out the tilted bowl through my fingers…then doing it again. And again. And again.

Finally, I’m rewarded with the gradual transformation of the water from cloudy to bright and clear.

Photo : Daniela Paola Alchapar

I’m not going to give you any cheesy metaphors here.

I just like rinsing rice.

It’s 180-degrees from calendar notifications and breaking news alerts.

I think I’ll do it again tomorrow.

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