Scorched Rice

“It’s burnt.”

Of course it is.

“It’s because you wait too long”, a reply laced with the tone that only a parent could have toward their child.

I follow my father’s hands, worn with years of hard work, as they mix my bowl of bibimbap.

“You eat like this. Now the rice will be crispy if you don’t wait too long”.

Bibimbap — a Korean dish of rice and spicy mixed vegetables — is not only delicious, but occasionally served in a dolsot, or hot stone bowl. If you wait just long enough — but not too long — the rice at the bottom will have the perfect amount of crisp, adding texture to your newfound favorite dish.

The scorched rice is the highlight of dolsot bibimbap. But for many unaware consumers, it is a misstep. This becomes abundantly obvious to me as I read aloud the bitter reviews of an unsatisfied guest.

My father’s restaurant serves more than delectable dishes. Rather, it serves as a teacher of appreciation and of the fickle concept we call time. Time is precious, yet I find myself squandering it — allowing things like job opportunities to pass me by.

I let my rice burn out of fear that I cannot handle its heat.

How could I possibly live up to the responsibilities of this new job? Maybe I am not a fit for this position. I will just stay with the company I am at.

However, decisions will happen, whether I am the one who makes them or not. Therefore, I might as well make one before my rice burns.

***

The week came and went, but I disregarded my own advice. I found my voice drowned out by the imposter that took hold. Bland job postings desperately seeking an entry-level worker with outlandish years of experience scrolled beyond my reach.

Suddenly, there was one — a single post that held a firm grip on my imposter syndrome, begging it to release me. Its mere description ignited a fire that I feared had burnt out. Yes, the feeling was fleeting, but the moments of passion I felt should have propelled me forward. It should have rendered the imposter worthless.

In spite of that, I found myself sitting idly.

I waited—for too long.

“You let your rice burn, huh?”

Indeed, I did.

The worst part is I could smell it burning the entire time. Deep down, I knew that my indecision would tear me apart. I knew that it would destroy any trust I had in myself. And I let it.

What was I waiting for? The perfect moment? Different circumstances?Time is as humorous and cruel as it is fickle. You wait too long, and the moment passes you by; yet you wait too little, and good things will never arrive.

“Good things come to those who wait,” my father spouts, as if he invented the phrase. “But not too long”, he chimes at the last second. I chant this to myself, reflecting on all the times I was rewarded with delicious food only after waiting so long for the cook (my dad) to work his magic.

Little did I know then, and little do I know now, but I sure wish I had known how little I should have worried about what I cannot control.

***

I was in a holding pattern with a company I had recently interviewed for. Whittled down to the last three applicants, the competition was disquieting. I worried the anticipation would eat me alive as I passed time helping out the family restaurant.

Minutes remaining for my shift: two.

With time dwindling and my feet aching for rest, I skillfully sidestep coworkers to reach my father’s office.

Just as I approach the office door, ready to announce my departure, a man juts into my view.

“Excuse me, but we have a serious problem.”

Serious problems are resolved every single day by some of society’s most resilient members: service workers.

The man proceeds to describe a dish that sounds entirely inedible and grotesquely burnt. A quick inspection of the table leads me to believe the culprit is none other than a steaming bowl of bibimbap. It looks so pristine on the outside, but underneath it burns with the rage of a customer who feels owed the world.

I explain how to eat dolsot bibimbap. However, after repeated “How was I supposed to know that”s, I take a different approach:

Pointing at the menu description, highlighting crunchy, scorched rice as an aspect of the dish.

“Did you expect me to read that?”

Resisting the urge to tell the man no, I do not expect him to read an item he’s about to order, I pivot with a less sarcastic retort. A refund and replacement dish patch up most “serious problems”, so I’ve learned.

Minutes remaining for shift: negative twelve.

***

Slumping down into the driver's seat of my car, I remove my apron as if to remove the day’s troubles.

I reflect on the weight food holds; its ability to satisfy the soul and end unimaginable hunger. I think about how dolsot bibimbap was supposedly served to royalty in the past, and how it now feeds the mouths of commoners. I think about the disgruntled customer—demanding that I discard his bibimbap.

I had flipped the contents of his bowl into the kitchen garbage, only to see that the rice at the bottom was as crispy as it is meant to be—a perfect bowl of dolsot bibimbap, burnt in the eyes of an unknowing customer.

A loud ring thrusts me back into reality as I whip out my phone to silence the noise.

One new email.

***

The email is outlined like so many I have seen before. A mention of gratitude for my interest, an apology for my troubles, and a plea to reconsider them in the future.

I am the first applicant dismissed from the potential candidates.

A laugh of disbelief forces its way to the surface.

How much longer will I have to wait for the good thing?

This is where I was wrong.

My father, perched on the sofa days later, waves me his direction.

“Look around,” a pause, “and look in here”, says my father, pointing to his own heart.

“You already have good things. Don’t be too greedy. Keep waiting patiently.”

I rapidly blink away the tears threatening to surface. He is right, although that does not mean my sadness is entirely wrong.

A smile flashes across my face, conveying my appreciation; thank goodness I have such a wonderful dad.

Days at the restaurant bleed together, with some days testing my patience and others leaving me with high spirits.

However, through it all, my dad stands in the background, ensuring that these small bumps do not derail my life. Of course, certain challenges guarantee I live life to the fullest—a fact he knows well.

My appreciation for his mere presence grew tremendously, especially during a time when life was unpredictable.

***

Exactly one year later, and I am anxiously seated in the world’s most uncomfortable office chair, with eyes glued to a bright screen.

I don’t love this job, but like dolsot bibimbap, I am sure others appreciate it in ways I haven't yet understood.

Dolsot bibimbap is so much more than a bowl of rice or some wilted vegetables that you haphazardly mix. It is a nudge to your child self, a reevaluation of what matters most:

How you use your time, and what you choose to appreciate.