The Intrusive Thoughts of Rice Pudding
It isn’t lost on me, not even ironic, that two days after gushing about, writing about, and then actually making rice pudding did I reach the point in Small Fires where the author does the same dance with, and around, rice pudding herself.
I attempt to balance on the line, frequently I might add, of the thoughts/feelings behind meant to be vs a more god-less, less soulful, more nihilistic view of “in this hellscape? Meant to be”?
In this instance, I imagine it’s the former. I was where I was meant to be.
I found comfort in listening to the author’s voice share her narrative of cooking a thing, anticipating what’s to come but not confident enough to say I know where this is headed, not quite yet. I allowed my mind to wander and even found myself nodding in agreement with her (no spoilers) before I could actually begin to hear her mouth form the vowels and consonants to say-
Rice pudding.
And then there we were.
As promised, below is the piece I submitted to a non-fiction literary magazine. They passed, and that’s okay, because now it has a home anyways. A home I value and love.
The Intrusive Thoughts of Rice Pudding
I am standing in my kitchen stirring milk and sugar together, scented with the thinnest quiver of orange peel and a cinnamon stick. I’m splicing open a vanilla bean that was gifted to me after it had been preserved in good vodka to add to the pot. I’m stirring this milk and sugar and adding arborio rice and I’m thinking about how the man I love will smile when he sees what I’ve made for him. I’m thinking about how I can’t bear the thought of anything happening to him. I think about what I would do if something did. I stop thinking.
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