The Rice Pot

I tried. I failed. I use the same pot for cooking rice. Now I understand the English proverb, a creature of habit. That’s me. I bought a set of pots under duress just before the pandemic. Duress? Yes, lids of the two mostly-used pots broke, so I had no alternative but to get new cooking ware. Cooking ware? I’ll stick to pots, thanks very much.

The rice pot is not one of the pots that lost a lid, but I wanted to give it a vacation, use one of the new pots as a spare, and I don’t mean Meghan’s Prince Harry.  I did a few times but I found myself blaming it if basmati rice, long grain, brown or wild rice got soggy. That’s right, shift the blame, because the new pot cannot defend itself.

I’m back to my old rice pot. The new pot sits there forlorn and alone. The rice pot is indicative of habit. We are comfortable with the tried and tested. We fear the unknown. In winter, the river around here freezes. The City fixes the ice and people skate without a care in the world. It’s Canada, we skate. I understand that but that’s a river (rice pot warning me).

The rice pot mentality goes back to how we were brought up. We were taught to respect the sun. Don’t sleep in the sun. You’ll get sick. That was mama and grandma. I will never change that rice pot wisdom, but I inherited their anxiety about money. Value new things and keep them new as long as possible. They did not remove plastic covers on sofas to keep them new.  Remove mud from your shoes and apply shoe polish because you don’t know when I’ll be able to get you a new pair. 

That’s why I kept my second HTC phone until it over-heated in my pocket. That’s why I didn’t know I could zoom pics by placing my fingers on this screen and move them in accordion fashion. All’s well that ends well. What kind of rice will I cook tonight? Ask the rice pot. 

By: Nonqaba waka Msimang.