Salt Rice with Burnt Garlic

When I finish a meal now, I notice something off. A kind of fullness I didn’t recognize before. It isn’t the sharp, twisting pain of real hunger easing away, the kind that leaves you relieved and sleepy. It’s quieter than that. A hunger that stays in my body even when my stomach should be satisfied. I only recognize it when everything else goes quiet when the dishes are cleared, the room settles, and there is nothing left to distract me. The fork hangs off the edge of the table, tipped just enough that it might fall if I breathe wrong. I notice the angle, the small tension of it. I leave it there. In front of me is an empty plate nothing on it, nothing left but somehow it feels heavier than when it was full, as if it carries the responsibility of having been used. I carry the plate to the sink and wash it slowly, making sure every grain of rice disappears. I’ve always done this. As a child, I learned that clean plates mattered. They pleased my mother. Over time, washing dishes stopped being something I thought about and became something my hands did on their own. Even now, I don’t skip it. An empty plate still asks to be washed. The year I stopped eating to make my mother happy was the year I started eating salt rice. I can’t point to a single moment when our relationship changed. There was no argument dramatic enough to retell later, no door slammed hard enough to echo. We just spoke less. Questions shortened. Answers followed. Eventually, there were no words left to exchange, only routines we shared without speaking. On days when I don’t want to choose anything, I eat salt rice. It barely feels right to call it a recipe, which is why I rely on it. There is no performance involved. No risk of disappointment.

Salt Rice (for one person who doesn’t want leftovers):

– 1 cup short-grain rice

– Water

– A pinch of salt

– One clove of garlic

– A little oil

The ingredients are almost uncomfortable in their simplicity. There’s no garnish, no story attached to them, no promise that they will turn into something else. Salt rice doesn’t try to impress anyone. It doesn’t really try at all. I wash the rice until the water runs clear. My mother taught me this when I was still too small to reach the sink without a stool. The kitchen was always quiet at that hour, light coming in from the side window, dust visible in the air. She stood behind me, guiding my hands, adjusting my wrists without raising her voice. “You need patience,” she said. “Rice remembers how you treat it.”

At the time, I thought she was exaggerating, maybe even joking. Now I think she might have been right. Care leaves marks, even when you can’t see them right away. The rice becomes soft or stubborn depending on how you handle it. So do people. While the rice cooks, I slice the garlic thinner than I probably should. I’ve done this enough times to know better. The oil in the pan begins to shimmer, small ripples forming on the surface. I know what that means. I add the garlic anyway. The smell fills the kitchen almost immediately sharp, familiar, comforting until it goes too far. The garlic darkens quickly, curling at the edges, slipping past golden into something closer to burnt. I pause with the spatula hovering over the pan. I could fix it. I could lower the heat, move things around.

Then I don’t do anything.

Sometimes not intervening feels easier than fixing things, even when I know that isn’t always true. I learned what hunger really was in 2018. Not the loud kind that demands attention, but the quiet kind that hides behind discipline and productivity. The kind that convinces you you’re fine as long as you keep busy. I filled my days. I stayed moving. No one noticed, which I think was part of the point. I ate three meals a day. I drank water. On paper, everything looked balanced. What I wanted was smaller than that. I wanted my mother to ask how my day had been. To knock on my door instead of walking past it. To tell me what I’d done wrong so I could make it right.

She never did.

When the rice is ready, I fluff it gently and sprinkle the salt unevenly. Some bites will taste like nothing. Others will be too sharp. I scrape the garlic and oil into the rice, letting the darkest pieces fall in last. I don’t taste it before eating. I already know.

I eat standing at the counter, leaning against the sink because I’m too tired to sit. I eat alone, listening to the hum of the refrigerator, the quiet ticking of time passing. The rice is plain. The garlic is bitter. The salt hits my tongue in sudden bursts. I eat faster than I need to, barely stopping between bites, as if speed might carry me somewhere else. I think about restaurant menus I’ve read careful adjectives promising balance, richness, indulgence. Maybe this is what people mean when they say food is comfort, or love, or memory.

Salt rice isn’t any of those things.

It doesn’t comfort me. It doesn’t really distract me, either. It simply exists. I eat it because eating feels slightly better than doing nothing at all. Halfway through the bowl, I realize I’m no longer enjoying it. That should be enough to make me stop. It isn’t. What I’m hungry for isn’t flavor. It’s reassurance. Validation. Someone to tell me that this in-between version of my life caught between what was and what might come next still counts. By the time I finish, the rice has gone cold. The burnt garlic taste lingers longer than it should. I wash the plate again, even though it’s already clean, and place it beside the others in the drying rack.

The kitchen smells faintly burnt.

I stand there listening to the refrigerator hum and the building settle around me. Somewhere nearby, a neighbor laughs. Somewhere else, a pan crashes to the floor. Life keeps moving without waiting.

I don’t know if I’ll always eat salt rice.

Maybe one day I’ll cook something more complicated something that requires tasting, adjusting, trusting instinct. Maybe one day I’ll be hungry for something I can name.

For now, this is enough.

My plate is empty.

The pan is still warm.

And somewhere, something is still burning.