I have never been a big believer in luck. The concept that success is a result of actions out of our control and hidden to reality. But fortune. I can get behind fortune. For where luck leaves
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Ed Teja writes stories and teaches karate in rural New Mexico, USA. He traveled the world working as a Caribbean boat bum, editing magazines in the US, Hong Kong, and Venezuela, and freelancing short stories, articles, and poems.
"Transported" is in Short Circuit #20, Short Édition's quarterly review.
I found exactly what we needed, as it happened, on a Friday. It was a strange Friday, even as Fridays go.
But we won't go into that.
And I didn't like going out in all that snow, walking through it, avoiding the parts of the sidewalk covered with ice.
So when I found it, I had to look twice to make sure I wasn't seeing things.
I wasn't. Delightedly, I picked it up from its spot there on the kitchen stuff table of the secondhand store (all proceeds go to the animal shelter). It had been nestled between one of those fancy, plastic and aluminum slice and dice kitchen gadgets and a sad, stained toaster, looking regal.
My rice cooker (I knew it was mine). And I could afford the price. (I said it was a strange Friday.)
Scooping it into my arms before someone else could grab it, I took it to the counter where a woman checked the tag and made sure the power cord was intact.
"That's a nice slow cooker," she said.
I shook my head. "It's a rice cooker," I said. Her scowl told me she didn't know the difference. "Slow cookers cook food slowly. A rice cooker cooks grains quickly."
"You must like rice," the woman said, taking my crumpled bills, flattening them and putting them in the cash box. "How nice."
Her look made me feel defensive.
"Rice is lovely with meals," I said. "But rice fritters and coconut rice are my real vice," I said. "They take me back to a place I once lived."
"Desserts from far-off places," she said, inhaling and smiling as if she could smell them.
"Yes. Sweet desserts and fond memories," I said, pocketing my change and heading out the door, wanting to get home quickly.
***
Sally was waiting for me and watched impatiently as I put water and rice in the cooker. I sat it on the kitchen counter and plugged it in.
"Coconut rice is faster than fritters," I said, starting the timer.
"And more fragrant," she added. "A stronger call."
And so it was. A can of coconut milk we'd squirreled away in better times, and a mango she'd preserved were close enough to the ingredients she'd grown up with. When the rice was plump and fluffy, she made us each a bowl.
We sat on the floor by a window with the afternoon sun pouring in over us, a bowl of coconut mango rice in our laps.
"Close your eyes," she said.
We both did.
"Now picture my parent's home, the way it was when you met me."
I did. I saw us sitting on the ramshackle porch, her mother cooking.
She took my hand. "Now smell, taste, and go there," whispered Sally.
Raising my hand, I smelled the jasmine rice, the coconut, the mango. I tasted the rich combination of flavors.
And we went there.
Transported.