Stones in My Rice:

A Culinary Coming-of-Age Tale

Today I cooked native rice or as it is affectionately known, palm oil rice.

I hummed in the kitchen, going through the motions with my mind at peace and my body at work.

Gah! I made that rice with my blood sweat and tears.
So, color me surprised when after I was done mixing my beautiful creation, my teeth were met with the crunch of a stone.
I thought to myself, "This can't be."

I pushed in my lungs and pushed them out and took another bite and - ah! There it was, that crunch.

I spat out my rice in disbelief
How could this be happening? How could I, an alumna of culinary school, make food with stones in it?
Native rice at that. I felt sorry on behalf of the rice. And I immediately did the right thing by apologizing to it.

... But, as I sat at the messy dining table with the weird odds and ends that we like to keep, in my house; I realized that life has a way of humbling us. Those rebellious stones in my rice were the universe's way of telling me that—

—that I'm still coming of age, even in this kitchen.

I've always thought coming-of-age stories were reserved for young adult novels. You know, the ones where the awkward teen discovers they're actually a wizard, or survives a dystopian regime while juggling two love interests. (Gosh, I love those books. Pass the tissues, please.) But sitting here, fishing pebbles out of my palm oil rice, I realize we never really stop coming of age.

In culinary school, I learned how to julienne carrots into perfect matchsticks and how to make bread that wouldn't deflate like my confidence before a big exam. When I graduated, part of me thought, "That's it. I've arrived. I'm a full-fledged adult, armed with a whisk and a certificate."

Ha! The universe looked at that notion and said, "Hold my palm oil, dear."

Here I am, back in my childhood home for the holidays, making a dish I've seen my mom prepare a hundred times. Native rice—a staple, a comfort, a dish that's supposed to be as familiar to me as my own name. And yet, the simple act of not rinsing vegetables properly turns my culinary coming-of-age tale into a tragicomedy.

But isn't that how growth really happens? Not in grand, certificate-bearing moments, but in the tiny, stone-filled ones. Each little pebble in my rice is like a milestone:

- The first crunch: "Oh, you thought you knew everything? Surprise!"
- The disbelief: "Yes, even culinary grads can mess up. Welcome to real life."
- Apologizing to the rice: A reminder to stay humble and respect every ingredient and moment.
- The realization: Understanding that growth isn't linear; it's a series of unexpected crunches.

We think adulthood is a destination, a perfectly cooked dish. But it's more like this pot of native rice: a process of continuous learning, of picking out stones and maybe apologizing to a few vegetables along the way. And that's not just okay; it's beautifully, messily human.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have some rice to finish and some vegetables to apologize to. After all, every good coming-of-age story has a heart-to-heart with the supporting characters, right?