On a Tuesday night, the phone rings and I glance lazily at the caller ID.

“Hello?”

“Hi, Sarah. Can you make rice? I come home late tonight.”

“How many cups?” I say, staring longingly at the television.

“Four cups and two handfuls of quinoa.”

I grudgingly walk to the pantry. Our bulky rice dispenser, nestled between Nature Valley Granola Bars and Welch’s Fruit Snacks, spits out one cup of raw brown rice for each slide of the switch. After sliding the handle four times, I unlatch the carton from the dispenser and carry it to the sink.

While the faucet runs, I gently pour the rice into a bowl, then swirl its contents until the water turns milky. Once this is achieved, I hold the bowl with my left hand and rinse the rice with my right. I slowly drain the water from the bowl so that no grains escape. This procedure is repeated three times: swirl, rinse, drain. By the third time, my arms ache and the tips of my fingers are as wrinkled as the skins of dried tomatoes.

After the rice is washed, I pour three cups of drinking water – not tap water – into the bowl and add in two handfuls of quinoa seeds. The seeds are strictly for nutrition; they have no taste and disappear when cooked. I position the bowl snugly into the rice cooker and press the yellow button that reads “Mixed Rice. Start Cook.”

The rice cooker lets out a high whistle and sends up a skinny stream of smoke. Acting as a bell, the cooker lets me know that it is now time to prepare the side dishes. I place the kimchi (spicy pickled cabbage), gim (dried seaweed), and bulgogi (stir-fried seasoned beef) in the center of the table.

I then ladle the dried-bean soup into five bowls before arranging the utensils: spoons on the left, chopsticks on the right. When the rice is ready, I scoop it into bowls and place them to the left – always to the left – of the soup.

Despite my whining and complaining, I feel a sense of pride that I belong to a culture in which the preparation of food is hugely important. When guests are invited into a family’s home, there is an unspoken obligation to bring the host a crate of tangerines or a box of apples. Despite the back-breaking hours required to make kimchi, my mom and her friends spend Sunday evenings crouched beside a tub filled to the brim with washed, pickled cabbage.

My grandfather knows how to make rice in fifteen minutes. When he visits us from California, he gently slaps away my hands as if I am a toddler playing with water. In a fluid movement, he swirls the rice, digging his fingers underneath the grains and swiftly rinsing the sides of the bowl. He is quick yet graceful; my clumsy, small hands look weak and insignificant beside his strong, experienced ones.

He teaches me to recognize rice-making as an art, as an integral component of my culture. Using two handfuls of determination, four cups of perseverance, and one spoonful of optimism, I strive to become a rice-making artist too.