"Make yourself ready!" He shouted.
And John Henry picked up his hammer.
It's an appliance. You plug it in. Men love appliances and modern conveniences. It's cute and sleek and white that looks like it would love to be on the counter, in plain site. Nice and comfy right next to the wok.
But there is a certain pathetasad (Pathetic and sad) for anyone who can't cook a pot of rice. It's more of an affront of manhood being unable to use the fire to boil the water to cook the rice and feed the tribe. It's RICE! The staple of more than 11/16ths of the planet! What moron can't cook a bloody pot of rice.
My rice is either gooey with oatmeal consistancy, or crunchy with crunchy consistency. Neither makes for a good rice, but I eat it anyway because I will eat anything that I cook. That's how I roll. All those starving children out in India are just going to go another night, because I never waste food. I do seem to waist it, but I'm getting better, really.
But there has to be something I'm doing wrong. I even looked up instructions on the net. Rinse rice, water, butter, salt, cover pot cook 20 minutes. How hard is that?
I broke down and instructed Kagetsunami to buy a rice maker.
Water, salt, oil, rice. 15minutes later, it's rice, light fluffly grainy rice, firm yet soft, not gooey, not crunchy. I forgot how perfect rice should look like. And it uses way less oil. I used a 1/2 teaspoon but I think I can get away with none at all.
It sits there, steams away and bing! Done! No stirring, no clock watching, no boil overs, no burning.
John Henry had won. He beat the drilling machine. His muscles were rent, his strength, his mighty strength had left him, the light in his eyes fading like the sunset as he sat down and rested. In the quiet he watched the engineer climb down from his cab, brush a few errant pebbles from shirt and walk away.