For the longest time, my grandparents had a Rice Cooker Box. I don’t remember seeing it anywhere else when growing up and to me it was the mark of being a grown-up. It was spoken about in high pitched voices, many conversation revolved around how someone’s Rice Cooker Box was the best and if it could have been proudly displayed in the living room that would have been done too. It was a brown wooden box lined with thermocol and I remember Granpa talking about a certain Rice Cooker Box Man who made them. The purpose it served was simple: The rice was cooked till almost done, the pot of rice was then placed in that Rice Cooker Box.
That box used to make me very anxious about adulthood. Where would I find such a Rice Cooker Box? This Rice Cooker Box Man who made these boxes would be dead by the time I grew up. No, I can’t ask Granpa to make me one and give it to me when it’s time for me to cook rice. How will I know when to turn off the gas on this utensil full of rice, how will I lift it out of the box? Where will I keep the Box? How will I carry the box? The box, the box, the box. Who will make the box for me if one box gets damaged or something happens to it? The Wooden Thermocol lined Rice Cooker Box!
Then I was gifted a Rice Cooker. All my anxiety went up in one big *poof* of steam.