A Feast in the Ruin of Rice

 a poem by Roger B. Rueda

Here’s the thing:
when you crack an egg into your own pan,
there’s a kind of alchemy,
a yolk splitting into the idea of success—
not some dim miracle wrapped
in foil and disappointment.

That burger you swear
is the gospel of hunger?
It’s a soggy psalm. A bun gone limp,
fries slumped like afterthoughts,
a greasy hymn to someone else’s indifference.
It’s not heaven. It’s barely warm.

And that salad you paid too much for?
It’s a relic, a thing gasping
for mercy in plastic. The pizza?
Heat-lamp eternity, a ghost
of the pie it might have been.

But when you slice the onion yourself,
knowing there will be tears,
when you stir sauce into being,
nurse the slow-burn of oil on heat,
you claim it. Even the toast blackened
to bitter edges says your name.
Not some assembly-line sadness
mashed together by hands
just making it through the day.

There’s magic
in scraping burnt bits from the pan,
in whispering “good enough”
over rice turned glue,
a sauce too runny to cling.

Because here’s the truth:
it’s yours. And “yours”
is the difference. You sit down,
fork poised at the edge of doubt,
thinking—What if I’ve failed?
What if this is ruin on a plate?

But you taste it.
And taste doesn’t care
for perfection, only for presence—
the way it arrives honest: butter, salt,
and the last best thing
from a nearly empty fridge.

So maybe it’s awful. Maybe
it tastes like penance.
But the miracle is this:
you made it. And what you make,
you own. The blame, the glory—
it’s yours alone.