Then I married an Asian man, which took my rice consumption to a whole new level. We had the ubiquitous Zojirushi rice cooker on the counter, and hot white rice was always available for eating at our house. I grew to really love rice. It's so comforting. Whenever I had one of those vague "I'm not sure what I want to eat but I want to eat something" kinds of cravings, I could always satisfy it with rice.
John was totally grossed out by my two favorite ways to eat rice. Method #1 is a big bowl of rice topped with steamed broccoli, soy sauce, and gochugang or siracha (also known as "cock sauce" at our house). Method #2 is Rice Goes Western, in which I mix my rice with copious amounts of grated cheese (any kind will do) and fresh black pepper. It's like instant mac'n'cheese, only . . . better somehow.
When John died, I put the rice cooker away. The twins have never been big fans of rice (probably in part because I stopped cooking it very often), and I fell into the White Rice is Evil! trap. When I did make rice, I would make brown rice on the stove top; I could never get the rice cooker to turn out decent brown rice. John hated brown rice; he probably hexed the rice cooker to keep me from feeding our children the bad stuff once he was gone.
Sometimes, though, only white rice will do. When I made that sake-steamed sea bass on Saturday, I had to serve white rice with it. It was so good. I snacked on it all day Sunday, and the kids ate some, too. Yum, yum, and yum. I didn't realize how much I'd missed it. I think I'm going to leave the rice cooker out on the counter for a while.