Wayne’s World: My way to rice to the occasion

Let me set the scene. 

It’s 34 years ago. My beautiful wife Maya and I are on our honeymoon. We are celebrating marital bliss in Europe, specifically Italy. I was so excited about our first major trip as man and wife that I almost don’t notice the gorgeous sights and sounds of Italy. But of course, we do.

After about a week of soaking in Italy, we stop for lunch at a trattoria. I decide that after eating a week’s worth of pizza and pasta I should order a rice dish.

Now, for those who don’t know me, you need to understand how much I love rice. Particularly fried rice. I’m addicted to it. I can’t get enough of it. If I was stranded on a deserted island and could only eat one thing for the rest of my life, well, you get the idea.

Once we were served, I took my first bite of my rice dish. I couldn’t believe it. It was the most amazing rice I’d ever tasted. Every grain of rice was shaped like a miniature pearl. Each grain had the “al dente” texture that Italians specialize in. It was simply the best rice I’d ever tasted in my life, and for someone who is addicted to rice, that’s saying something.

It was my “pearl rice.”

I needed to find out where this rice came from. Where was it grown? What type of rice was it? Where can I go to buy it? I asked the waiter, and luckily for me, he said that we could find this rice at a local store not far from the restaurant. So, off we went.

We found the store and found the rice. It was being sold in 20-pound bags. Fine with me – 20 pounds would last me for at least a few days (yes, I said days), but beyond that, it would give me an opportunity to find the same rice back home, or I needed it badly enough, maybe I could become a rice farmer and start a paddy in back yard.

Everything was set, until…

Maya: What do you think you’re doing?

Me: I’m buying this bag of rice and I’m taking it home with me.

Maya: We’re still going to Paris. You’re going to drag that bag of rice around for the rest of the trip?

Me: Yes.

Maya: You are not lugging around a 20-pound bag of rice for the rest of the trip. That’s ridiculous.

With a grimace on my face, I gently put the 20-pound bag of rice back on the floor. We left without the rice.

This was our first disagreement, and on our honeymoon, and over a bag of rice. It was the world’s best rice in the history of man, mind you, but it was still just a bag of rice.  How could I eat another bite of rice again without a twinge of regret? What would this injustice portend for our union?

That brings us today. We’re still going strong and we just celebrated our 34th year of marriage.

But that doesn’t mean I still don’t have some resentment over what might have been. And it’s not like I haven’t tried to find a replacement for that fabled rice. I’ve tried white rice, short grain, long grain, sushi rice, saffron rice, basmati rice and everything in between, but as much as I enjoyed every single bite, nothing matched up with that rice we ate at that trattoria 34 years ago.

We’ve even gone back to Italy a few times since then and I haven’t been able to find it. 

So, at opportune times, I don’t hesitate to remind her of my barely hidden resentment.

If one of us makes a rice dish and it comes out soggy, burnt or flavorless, I will say something like, “Well, this probably wouldn’t have happened if we had that pearl rice.” Or if we’re having dinner and there’s no more rice in the pantry, I’ll say, “Too bad I don’t have a small reserve of pearl rice – that would solve everything.”

Even if something happens that has nothing to do with rice or eating a meal at all, like an Amazon delivery didn’t make it on time, I might say, “It probably would have gotten here on time if the delivery guy had some of that pearl rice.”

That takes us to today. Maya and I are in Taiwan to visit her mother and family. We’re having a terrific time. My favorite niece, who knows how much I love rice, bought me a package of rice that is grown specifically for making fried rice. They come in one-pound vacuum packed bags.  We made some.

I found out where it’s sold, and last night I headed over there on my own.

Maya, who was out celebrating at a school reunion, came back to see me in our room, standing over a suitcase with a bag filled with 20 one-pound vacuum packed bags of rice.

I glanced over at her, and said, “Yes?”.

She looked at the bag of rice and then back at me, and said, “I wasn’t going to say anything!”

I love my wife.

Chan, a Poway resident, writes about family and community life and shares humorous views of topics of the day.