The Rice Jar in the Kitchen

A sack of rice was delivered to the school gate while I was on break duty. The delivery man set it on the step, waited for my signature, and left. I stood looking at the white plastic sack for a while and thought of something unrelated: the condensed-milk can in my grandmother's rice jar.

As a child I never saw her weigh rice. She had a can, and the can knew for her what counted as enough. I wrote down just that much, the way I remember it.

The condensed-milk can
still sits in the rice jar,
rim worn down,
one corner dented.

Grandma measured by the can.
Two cans for two people,
one more can
when a guest came by.

No one counted grains.
Just looked at the level through the side of the jar,
knew this week there was some to spare,
or soon it would be time for the market.

Now I order rice
delivered to the gate,
pour it into a big plastic bin,
lid shut, the level out of sight.

This morning I dug out
the old can from the bottom of the bin,
measured two cans,
no more.

Steam rises from the rice,
just enough for tonight.

I did not write this poem to say that having less is good or that enough is beautiful. My grandmother's jar sometimes ran low, and watching the level drop through the glass was not a comfortable feeling either. I only remember it so clearly: there was a measure, and the measure sat within arm's reach, dented at one corner. It is a relative of the chipped teacup, something imperfect that still does its job. And measuring two cans this morning is only my own habit for tonight, not advice for anyone.

If the rice jar at your home is a real worry, if the worry has lasted for weeks, or if it is scrambling your meals and your sleep, then please do not only read a poem. Talk to someone with the right training, and to a relative or a neighbor you trust. This poem cannot replace that. And if your rice is cooked tonight, you could try smelling your food before you eat, for one second only.