It was Chinese New Year—the Year of the Rooster—and you had just turned two. We were rushing through the narrow, crowded streets off Bowery, dodging the holiday bustle to make our reservation. Every child we passed was dressed in vibrant red; it was a spectacular sight.

Back then, you didn’t say much, but you always made yourself clear—especially regarding white rice. We scrambled into the restaurant just five minutes late, and Mom settled you into a high chair at a large round table near the waiter’s station. Her only instruction to the staff: “Keep the rice bowls coming.”

For you, it was never about the honey walnut shrimp, the long-life noodles, or even the luck inside the red envelopes. All you needed was a bowl of white rice to be the happiest toddler in Chinatown. By age one, chopsticks were already your best friends, and you could empty a bowl in the blink of an eye. By the time you finished your third serving, the waiters actually looked concerned about bringing a fourth! 

With rosy cheeks and a wide, toothy grin, you were the picture of pure contentment. Life was simple then—no worries, no drama. As your mother, my greatest joy was watching you find such absolute bliss in something as simple as a bowl of white rice.