Gloria Kitchens

The rice wasn’t sticky enough. Grain scented steam rose from the rice cooker as Mom pushed her finger in grabbing a few grains on the tips of her fingers, sinking them into her mouth. She scrunched her face. Her red lipstick stuck to her teeth like a tattoo. She poured extra water into the cooker and turned it on with two quick beeps. She pulled at the hem of my shirt. Look, her face said, as her chin pointed to the stove. The tomatoes were melting. Becoming pools of red, seed-filled mush. Their skins stuck to the bottom of the pan. Mom forced a wooden spoon in between my fingers, and I began stirring. Her arms stretched over the pan and twisted. Her wrists cracked as pepper fell into the smoke. Her arms bumped into mine as we maneuvered around each other. The bottom of her slipper pressed against my barefoot. It was cold and grimy. The rice cooker beeped.