The story began when I was a child. I was born into a poor family—so poor that even the neighborhood cat felt sorry for us. We didn’t just live paycheck to paycheck; we lived crumb to crumb. And crumbs were premium currency in our house.
Even for eating, we often didn’t have enough food. Dinner was usually a staring contest between me and an empty plate. And every time the food did appear—usually just a modest bowl of rice—my mother would always give me her portion. She’d smile and say, “I’m not hungry,” while her stomach growled like a lion in a library.
At the time, I believed her. I thought maybe she was on a diet. Or maybe she had developed some sort of spiritual allergy to carbs. It wasn’t until later that I realized she was giving me her share because she loved me. Either that or she was secretly snacking on instant noodles when I wasn’t looking.
One day, after months of surviving on what I now realize was a menu best described as “pre-historic minimalist,” our school announced a Free Rice-Eating Contest. The rules were simple: whoever ate the most bowls of rice in ten minutes would win a huge bag of groceries for their family.
Finally, my time had come.
You know how superheroes have origin stories? That contest was mine. While other kids were nibbling politely, I went full rice-nado. I didn’t just eat—I inhaled. Spoon? Who had time for spoons? I used speed and desperation. I channeled every grain of hunger I had stored over the years.
By the end of it, I had eaten 14 bowls of rice. The judges were horrified. One called it a miracle. Another called for a doctor. I was sweating soy sauce, but I had won.
When I brought that bag of groceries home, my mother cried. Not because of the food—though the oil bottle alone made her weep—but because I told her I won using all the rice-eating experience she had unknowingly trained into me. She looked at me and said, “So all those nights of giving you my food… turned you into a rice warrior?”
“Exactly,” I said. “Mother, you didn’t raise a boy. You raised a stomach with legs.”
From that day on, every time I saw rice, I saw potential. My friends joined sports. I joined food competitions. I once ate a whole plate of rice using chopsticks made from matchsticks—blindfolded. I was a legend in the lunchroom.
To this day, whenever I get a chance to eat rice, I think of my mother. I make sure she eats first now. But sometimes, when I give her my portion, she smiles at me and says, “I’m not hungry.” Old habits die hard.
So kids, love your parents. And if they ever give you their food, just remember: they’re not just feeding you, they might be training you for greatness—in mysterious, carbohydrate-loaded ways.
