Grandmother, why do you slave
Over that hot stove cooking
That fried rice, Filipino style?
Does it taste so good
Because of that water that you sprinkle
From your fingers to the rice?
Your scent lingers,
Mingles with the overheated oil and burnt rice
That will later crackle
Between my white teeth
With the taste of fire-burnt bitterness.
You smile when I compliment your cooking,
As the soy sauce-covered grains
Do their delicate, little dance in my mouth
And I ask for a second helping.

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