November 18
Sunday mornings. An idyllic reprieve from the burdens of everyday life.
God, I loved those Sunday mornings. Well, except for one thing. Pongal. My greatest nemesis. It’s a rice dish, yellow in color, and it definitely doesn’t taste bad. The thing is, it doesn’t really taste good either. Coming from a family with amazing food, pongal was a clear winner for least-best food.
My brother was on my team: he didn’t particularly enjoy pongal either. So together, we devised a plan: a beautiful, masterfully crafted series of actions that would free us from the dreaded terror that was pongal forever.
There’s a certain image that’s circled around the internet for the past three years. It’s a black man, wearing a watch, tapping his forehead with two fingers, a self-assured grin on his face. It’s most often used to indicate an obviously wrong solution to a clearly more complex problem. Unfortunately, my brother and I weren’t familiar with the image, as it wasn’t around back then.
If only it was! We could have critiqued ourselves, and decided not to go through with our (admittedly, pretty good) plan. Speaking of: we decided, in true head-tap fashion, “can’t make a rice dish if there’s no rice!”
If only we knew.
In the dead of night, we tiptoed downstairs, and plundered the 20lb rice bag from a cabinet. My noodly arms were no match for the mighty bag, so I got my brother to help. We moved it from the kitchen, and into the living room.
Filled with elation, we moved the couch. We didn’t say a word to each other, but there was a mutual understanding that today would be the day we vanquished that mighty foe. Pongal. As if my arms were mozzarella cheese sticks, I failed to move the bag. I beckoned to my brother, and our four mozzarella cheese-stick-arms did the job just fine.
The bag was behind the couch. Our work was done, and we snuck back upstairs and bamanosed on back into bed.
As the moon faded into a bright, almost blinding California sun, I went downstairs. To my delight, there was no pongal. To my not-so-delight, my parents were waiting for me, arms crossed. I wish I was sound asleep, like my brother, but I would have no such wish.
It’s never fun talking to your parents when they’re less than pleased.
It’s never fun claiming you have no idea of the whereabouts of a 20lb bag of rice when your parents know “damn well” it was behind the couch the whole time.
If you need to know anything about Christianity, it’s the fact that the religion’s based on forgiveness, being a good person, and living your life spreading the word of someone who died for your sins, Jesus Christ.
It’s never fun using your little brother as your own personal Jesus, claiming he must have done the bag trickery, and then having him come downstairs vehemently disagreeing with the idea while shooting you a dirty look.
Our brotherly bond took a hit that day, but he, like Christ, died for my sins, and I repaid him in bags and bags of hot cheetos.
It didn’t really change anything, however.
We had pongal next week.