Of Rice and Women
written by: Astghik Nadiryan
I always burn the rice…
And the pancakes. Or at least, part of them turns black. And I quietly place those pieces on my own plate, serving the perfectly cooked ones to everyone else.
The burnt part of the rice? That goes on my plate, too. So the top layer reaches the others.
Then I sit down to eat, and every bitter bite reminds me… that I’m a little burnt, too.
Because I’m tired.
Because I often forget things.
Because sometimes there’s just too much to do, and the noise of it all dulls my mind until I just stare at the wall.
Or I lie down next to my little one and just breathe her in.
Because on burnt-out days, I feel the full weight of atmospheric pressure, the heaviness of the universe, the unstoppable flow of time. And all of it scares me equally. But that soft little human, with her calm breath, brings me back to this world.
And when I’m once again wiping the post-dinner mess from the floor, or struggling to put the little one to sleep—again—or washing dishes, or working, or just lost deep in thought somewhere far away, and the food burns… my anger isn’t at the burnt food.
It’s at myself.
Because those who really want to make it work, do.
Because neighbor Vardik has three kids, a job, flawless skin, and cooks three kinds of meals.
Because your mom managed just fine back then.
And so I put the burnt food on my plate. And serve the perfect pieces to others.
So that no one knows, it doesn’t always work out for me.
So they don’t taste the bitterness and guess that something, somewhere… got a little scorched.
NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR:
This piece came from a place of quiet exhaustion—the kind that builds up in everyday moments we often hide. I wrote it as a reminder to myself and others: even when we’re burnt out, we’re still showing up with love. And that matters more than perfection.
- Of Rice and Women - September 3, 2025
