i looked at the rice and it looked back at me, undeterred.
a tumbleweed rolled by like a high noon shootout.
"alright, rice," i said. "it's either you or me. there's not enough room in this town for the both of us."
the rice stared, unblinking, taunting.
"i'm gonna turn up the heat on you, and you're not gonna know what hit you. you'll behave then." i warned.
but that rice was more hardy than i'd prepared for. it withstood boiling water, it withstood heat. it even held out through the ancient time-proven technique of steaming, coming out only partially done; clumpy. sticky.
i put it back on the heat to try to break it, make it succumb to my will... but to no avail. this rice was no ordinary rice; no bones about it. it's survival instinct was unparalleled to anything else i've cooked. steak, turkey, tikka masala... all have fallen in the sight of my kitchen utensils. but this basmati was something new. something unprecedented.
alright rice, mark my words: you've won this battle. but the war has just begun.