My grandmother had favored an irritable pressure cooker, 
blooming a field of grains to a plain of white wisteria 
with a sublime mental timer for each type and consistency. 

My mother had preferred a pot and a deep, soft patience
that obeyed the whim of temperature shifts to convince
the slender basmati to swell and not split into dots of hail. 

I was the designated washer, the one to watch cold water 
run clear under the swirl of the tines called my fingers,
simultaneously granting cleanliness and preserving form.

But we bought our first rice cooker last year.

It took a few weeks to entrust a precious, pooled sum
to the invisible technology, but our rice intake soon
ballooned, wryly, in time to mimic the rate of inflation.