Sorry, Manny

I'd like to apologize to my late cousin Manny.

Manny would always drive to a destination the day before an appointment, just to orient himself. Even if it was an hour or two away—in fact, especially if it was an hour or two away. I thought he was neurotic. No, he was right.

I've had innumerable restaurants on my check-out lists for years which, upon serendipitously passing en route to some other destination, suddenly became "available" to me in a way I can't account for. Intellectually knowing where they were was completely different from experiencing where they were. "Knowing" is a map, while experiencing is ownership. At that point, it was never more than a week or two before I'd go and try it.


An unboxed rice cooker has sat on my kitchen counter for a solid month. I'd love to tell a colorfully self-deprecatory story about how it terrified me; about how I was doing a Jed Clampett, confused by the microwave in his fancy new kitchen. But, no. I just lacked the inertia. I've actually craved rice over the intervening weeks, but my craving couldn't quite overcome the inertia.

Yesterday I tore the thing out of its box, tried to make sense of the instructions, examined the hackish packing materials (questioning, for the nth time, whether manufacturers flow returned items back into stock pool). I felt micro-disappointment at the flimsiness of the rice paddle, the imperfect size of the unit, and its disappointingly short power cord. And an ambiguity in the set-up instructions forced me to look to YouTube for clarification. Were any of these snags truly upsetting? God, no. I have bigger problems than short power cords. But, still, it was kinda short, and the snag was clocked.

So finally I actually own a rice cooker, and will happily cook rice upon momentary whim.