New Moon Sticky Rice with Mango
Erin L. Swann
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infertility, pregnancy loss
Ingredients
2 cups Thai glutinous rice
3 basins of chilled water, formed from melted ice collected from the Lunar Caverns
1 cup coconut cream
1/2 cup sugar
1/4 teaspoon of salt
2 mangos, whole and slightly underripe
Steps and text
Rinse rice in collected water three times, once in each basin. Leave in the last basin to sit out overnight under a slivered waning moon.
Beside the soaking rice, swaddle your mangos in the blanket your mother knitted for the baby you’ll never have now. Sing to them the lullaby your gran used to hum as you lay them on the steps beside the rice basin. If you cry, don’t wipe the tears away this time. Let them fall into the basin. It will help.
Take in the basin and mangos an hour after dawn and let them rest in your lap as you sit on the rocker your friend bought for your nursery. When they feel warm to the touch, nestle the mangos in the carrier sling you picked out months ago, the one you thought matched your eyes (as if that mattered). Keep them close to your chest throughout the cooking process.
Drain the rice and wrap in cloth cut from your husband’s second favorite shirt, so he isn’t too mad. He’ll thank you later.
Place rice in a bamboo steamer set over boiling water for 20 minutes. Stand near the steam and inhale deeply every 2 minutes. Don’t cry. Very important.
In between inhalations, combine coconut milk, sugar and salt in a small pot and bring to a simmer.
Once rice is done, gently shake it into the drained basin you used the previous night, still filled with residual moonlight. Pour the coconut mixture over and cover with the bamboo steamer’s lid.
Let rice soak for half an hour while you wipe the dust off the unused crib in the tiny bedroom beside your own. Take deep breaths. It’s almost over.
Pull out the swaddled mangos; peel and slice lovingly. Whisper sweet nothings as you spoon sticky rice onto the silver platter you received at your wedding years ago. Fan out slices of mango on top.
Leave on your front step under the new moon and make your plea to the moon goddess.
If you hear tiny, sweet cries coming from your stoop after dawn, she is pleased with your offering.
If you hear cries before dawn, don’t open your door.
About the author:
Erin Swann is a lifelong lover of fantasy and space adventures living in Central Maryland. She’s an avid home cook and works as an art teacher, feeding the imaginations of others while fueling her own creativity. Her work has been published by Factor Four Magazine, The Metaworker, and Cloaked Press. You can find her on twitter @swannscribbles and on her website at www.swannscribbles.com
