WHY MY RICE REFUSED TO BOIL AFTER I BOASTED ONLINE
WHY MY RICE REFUSED TO BOIL AFTER I BOASTED ONLINE
I used to believe that rice was a loyal companion. You pour water, apply fire, and it humbly obeys. But that was before the day I decided to post “Chef in the making!” online—before I learned that rice can hold grudges and Wi-Fi can curse destinies like a volatile cryptocurrency.
I was in my kitchen, confident, chest up, head high, holding a pot like a hero about to rescue the world from hunger. I took a picture and uploaded it proudly with the caption, “Watch me transform this raw rice into magic. I don’t cook, I perform miracles.” The confidence felt like investing in a promising startup with 1000% ROI potential.
“Wow, Chef David in the building!”
“Don’t burn down your kitchen o.”
Even my ex commented, “We both know you can’t even boil water.”
I laughed proudly. “Haters will soon see steam,” I whispered, channeling the motivational energy of a wealth management webinar that promised passive income streams. Then I turned on the gas.
The rice looked at me as if to say, “So you think cooking is content creation now?” The water started to bubble but in a suspiciously lazy way, like a stock market that refuses to rally despite all the bullish sentiment. I stirred gently, expecting cooperation, but the grains floated with deliberate defiance.
I added more water. Nothing. I added prayers. Still nothing. The rice remained as raw as my confidence and as stubborn as a hedge fund manager refusing to diversify.
At this point, I could hear my online followers typing: “Update us, Chef!” That’s when it hit me—boasting online before finishing your task is like announcing a merger before signing a contract.
The more I stirred, the angrier the rice became. It began producing smoke, but not the pleasant “food-is-ready” type. This was rebellious smoke, the kind that says, “I will embarrass you and possibly disrupt your digital banking session.”
My kitchen turned into a therapy session. I started questioning my life choices. Why did I post? Why didn’t I just eat bread like a normal person? Why is the pot suddenly making sounds like an IPO failing in real time?
I reduced the heat, hoping to calm the situation. The rice responded by becoming two personalities—half burnt at the bottom, half ice-cold at the top. It was like watching a failing investment portfolio in real time.
In frustration, I opened the pot. What I saw looked like the aftermath of a financial crash—half charcoal, half ghostly white grains floating in shame. The rice had refused to boil. It had evolved beyond cooking—it had become a spiritual lesson in risk management.
And yet, I could still hear notifications buzzing:
“Where’s the food, Chef?”
“Drop the recipe!”
I wanted to drop the entire pot on their timelines like a volatile stock.
So I tried one last thing—the universal solution to all problems: more fire. I turned the gas up, determined to win like a trader executing a bold leveraged strategy. That was when the pot screamed in pain. The smoke alarm joined the choir. My neighbor knocked on the door asking if I was “experimenting with volcanoes or cryptocurrency mining.”
I pretended to smile, but inside I was negotiating peace with the rice. “Please, just boil a little,” I begged. “I’ll delete the post. I’ll even confess to being a financial fraud.”
The rice didn’t care. It had joined the petty club of ingredients that hold grudges, like some fintech companies after a regulatory fine. At that moment, I realized—rice is not food. Rice is karma in grain form, like passive income that requires patience and careful strategy.
After two hours of humiliation, I turned off the stove. The rice looked at me triumphantly, like, “So you thought your followers would clap for you today?” It refused to boil till the end.
I tried to disguise it by adding stew. The stew rejected it. Even the spoon felt ashamed to participate. The entire meal looked like a failed hedge fund, full of assets misallocated and investors disappointed.
That was the moment I learned that pride has a kitchen version. It doesn’t burn your ego—it burns your pot. It crashes your confidence like a poorly diversified investment portfolio.
I posted again, this time with honesty: “Cooking is not for the proud. Today I was humbled by carbohydrates.” Within seconds, the internet did what it does best—laughed at my misfortune like the stock market laughing at amateur traders.
Someone commented, “Next time, just post the raw rice and say it’s a minimalist dish.” Another said, “Your rice refused to boil because your Wi-Fi connection was too hot.” Even my mother called to ask, “Did you use rice or gravel?”
I wanted to cry, but my pride had already steamed to ashes like a failed digital banking investment.
Later that night, I sat in silence, staring at my stubborn pot of rice, wondering what secret course it was attending that required so much resistance. I even Googled, “Why won’t rice boil after 2 hours?” Google replied, “Maybe you should take a walk.” That felt like the advice of a passive income guru after a market crash.
I started thinking spiritually. Maybe the rice sensed my pride. Maybe it heard my online boast and decided, “Let’s humble him before the world.” The universe has a PhD in timing humiliation, much like a stock exchange timing your margin call.
The moment you announce, “I’ve got this,” life says, “Let’s see.” You post, “Cooking vibes!” and the pot instantly begins plotting revenge like a hedge fund reacting to algorithmic trading signals.
Some foods cook faster when you’re humble. But the day you boast, they form an alliance against you. Rice teams up with gas, pot, and water. Even the spoon becomes a traitor. It’s a full-on rebellion, like investors shorting your position.
At one point, I thought maybe the pot had personal issues with me. I washed it again, spoke kindly, and said things like, “You’re doing great. Let’s start over.” But the pot remained emotionally unavailable, like a fintech platform denying withdrawals.
I realized I had become that motivational speaker who says, “Never give up,” but whose food already gave up an hour ago.
The next day, I tried again, this time in silence. No pictures. No posts. Just me, my pot, and quiet shame. And guess what? The rice boiled in peace. Steam rose gently, grains softened, and the kitchen smelled like redemption—like finally achieving ROI on a long-term investment.
That’s when I understood: sometimes success requires privacy, patience, and less Wi-Fi. You can’t announce victory before the rice agrees with your destiny. Because the rice knows—once you post, you’re no longer cooking for yourself; you’re cooking for the internet, the most volatile hedge fund of all.
Now I treat rice with respect. Before I start cooking, I say a small prayer: “Dear Rice, please don’t disgrace me today. I have learned humility.” I imagine rice holding secret board meetings with other ingredients. “Salt, if he posts before we’re ready, we go stiffen immediately.” And salt replies, “Say less.”
Cooking has become spiritual warfare. Even my stove seems to test my confidence. The flame looks at me like, “You sure you want to post that story before we’re done?”
So I’ve stopped trying to impress anyone. Now I post only after I’ve eaten, washed the plate, and verified that the food won’t drag me online like a failing crypto token.
It’s funny how one stubborn pot of rice can change your life. You start as a confident influencer, and you end as a philosopher with hunger. The rice didn’t just refuse to boil. It taught me that silence cooks faster than pride and life rewards quiet consistency, much like disciplined investment strategies.
Still, every time I pass the kitchen, the pot looks at me suspiciously. It knows I once tried to trend with it. And honestly, I deserve that judgment. Because the day I boasted online, I didn’t just cook rice—I cooked embarrassment. And that recipe I’ll never repeat again.
Now I tell everyone: if you ever feel like boasting, go wash your pot first. Let humility preheat before your gas does. And if your rice refuses to boil after all that, don’t panic. Maybe it’s karma, like a delayed dividend, saying, “Next time, finish your cooking before your press conference.”
Final Thoughts
The next time you think about posting “Chef vibes” or “Wait till you taste my food,” pause and breathe. Ask yourself: “Has my rice agreed to this publicity?” If not, the only thing that might boil that day is your reputation. And remember: even the smallest grains can teach lessons about discipline, patience, and wealth management strategies.
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