I love the way queer people, who don’t have maps to follow, chart their own course, build new structures, tear them down, salvage the good parts and build them up again. And if they should collapse, why we just repeat the process over again.
I made rice today. I washed the rice many times, laid it out to dry. Cut the onions and toasted the garlic, cumin, paprika and rice in oil until the rice was as clear as the onions. The rice seemed larger than it had originally, when I first set out to cook.
I began to worry that my container wasn’t big enough, that that old cast iron skillet could not be trusted to contain all of my swollen rice. I feared that my rice would be crunchy and inedible. I scooped out a whole cup of rice before I added the broth as I know rice doubles in size. Which means that I was playing it safe and the pot didn’t boil over and the rice was cooked but there is a sad and lonely little pile of rice, oil and spices raw and waiting to be cooked on the counter. I wrote a note for myself to remind me to cook the rice at breakfast. What if the rice went rancid? What would that mean?
I can’t help but thinking over again and over again:
“But what if my container just isn’t big enough? What if I can’t hold all the rice?”
And I know that this beautiful cast-iron skillet came into my life to teach me a lesson about my capacity for love and the dangers of playing it safe. I just hope I remember where I put it when I need it.