My children are delighted as to how I am enthralled with Run’s House.
They watch Rev. Run sign off at the end of each show and say, “Mom, mom, look! That’s you!”
By that they mean, imparting words of learning via the Blackberry to whoever wants to hear.
Tonight, in between many things, but most importantly, while scouting around the refrigerator, I found an offending tupperware piece filled with leftover Chinese take out rice, and it hit me, “Love is like leftover rice.”
You know, if you like Chinese food delivered, especially if you have a great Chinese food delivery nearby, the expectation of that warm, simmering, made to order, other than what you can achieve at home food. I’m talking spicy Shrimp, slivered vegetables, soup, soup, soup, a vegetarian base and Wow, I swear, it’s the Elixer in life. And then there is the rice, the rice in the box, the steaming white rice, the only thing at least one of your children will eat.
You sit together, you eat, you enjoy, and you push away from the table looking for the big garbage bag to get rid of the reminders of how you’ve blown the diet, as to how greasy and bloated you feel…but you pack away the rice, you put it in tupperware, convinced tomorrow you will make a soup, or your own stir fry or something.
A week passes.
A second week passes.
The third…you find it in the back of the refrigerator, you remember the temptation, you remember the taste, you remember refusing to throw it out because there is always an inherent value.
That is love. Maybe not as shiny, but just as surprising and ever useful. If I was so inclined, I could have even made glue of that rice.