My grandmother made rice-lover’s fried rice: a heap of steamed jasmine that she seasoned subtly and cluttered judiciously with mix-ins so as not to obscure the grains’ delicate fragrance and tender chew. It was strictly a leftovers dish, but she planned for it as deliberately as any other stir‑fry, cooking a big batch of rice for our meal the day before so that there’d be plenty to cook with later. Along the way, she saw to it that I learned how to execute a proper pot. Perching me on a chair beside her, she’d swish and swirl my hand through the soaking grains until the water clouded, and she taught me to strain off the starchy liquid and repeat the rinsing process two more times so that the rice wouldn’t cook up sticky. She’d flatten her hand over the damp, ivory kernels and instruct me to add enough cooking water to just cover the knuckle of her pointer finger. Years later, when I got older and my hand got bigger, I was allowed to measure the water with my own knuckle.