Washing rice

The lockdown gave us all a rebirth: across generations, from boomers to Gen Z, we were all thrust back inside a metaphorical womb and were all transformed into a strange blob – a monolithic pseudo-generation that was glued to our screens doomscrolling, consuming escapist content, and in turn, trying out new trends from indoor workout to DIY home renovations to cooking techniques. I am sure at one point or another, we have encountered a video (or a reaction video to it) debating whether rice should be washed before cooking, which exposed me to many different cultures (even Asians) who do not rise off the starch. Magagalit ang mga lola nating lahat.

I was washing rice when I received that call. As a thirtysomething, I can confidently say I have had my fair share of painful calls from getting confirmation that I lost my scholarship or getting rejected in a job application for a humanitarian organization, to less consequential ones like being denied a credit card application (more on these in future blog posts, hopefully.) But I can say with more conviction that the call I received from my dad last August 2021 was by far the most painful. I technically received the call while in line at Mercury Drug to buy medicine for my cousins, but for that short four-minute drive from the drugstore to our home in Valenzuela, I felt like I was suspended in a void, completely removed from the time-space continuum. I headed to the sink and proceeded to cook some rice, avoiding my mom who was clutching her rosary the entire time. That was when it sank in, my dad’s words ringing in my ears: “Iniwan na tayo ng Tita mo.”

I tried my best to focus on washing rice, my heart heavy and not moving, yet feeling like it was beating in overdrive and exploding at the same time. I had the burden of breaking the news at home. I couldn’t see clearly because my eyes were awash with tears, I just know I had to keep running the rice under the tap, sloshing the mixture around, draining it, and repeating. As kids we were taught to wash rice off three times on average, or until the cloudy, starchy water disappears. I recall washing the rice at least seven or eight times that day, breaking all the norms because nothing was normal those days. I lodged the pot in the rice cooker and had to face my mom. Before I said anything, she said: “Huwag mo nang banggitin.”

These days you will never see me washing rice the usual way. I always feel like seven or eight times is one or two washes short, and this little ritual I used to do so mindlessly and mechanically has been my own time to say a prayer for tita, and remember the woman who stood as my second mother and who would, without fail, advise me whenever I quarrel with my dad: “Hayaan mo na. Ikaw na ang umintindi.” The lockdown gave us a lot, but it took back a lot more.

Before this week started I overheard my tito telling our neighbor, referring to me: “Paborito ‘yan ng misis ko.” I will always cherish your favoritism, Tita, as one of my life’s greatest accomplishments. It was your way of showing me your love, even when I was still a little boy who would jolt awake when you come home from overseas in a brown terno pantsuit the color of burnt rice. If only it was possible to wash rice excessively each time, and trade the starch that I let swim away for another meal I could share with you, I’d gladly rinse the grains tenfold.