I hate rice.
Ever since I was a child, I had no desire to eat this blank page of a starch that I was forced to ingest at every meal. My appetite was more eager for the side dishes my mother cooked than this bland, white mound that was meant to make me feel satiated.
My family became so accustomed to my disdain of rice that every time they reached into the steaming rice cooker to scoop a portion into our individual bowls, they would show me and ask, “Enough?”
I noted with satisfaction that it was always much less than everyone else’s serving.