To the writers of Windows of Light, food clearly plays a central part. In many of the stories, you will read about rice in its many forms and interactions. It symbolizes love, regrets, repression, joy. Rice is, to those of us of Japanese descent, food.

My earliest memory of rice isn’t about eating it, but of getting it from the basement of our farmhouse. Our house was one of the more modern of its day in rural Montana. From the outside it was a large, white clapboard, two-story home with a manicured lawn surrounding it. The basement, on the other hand, was, to me, out of a horror movie set. Cold, bare cement steps disappeared down to a dank, spider-web covered abyss, with moldy smells and sometimes salamanders scurrying out of sight.

As the youngest in the family, I would be send down those stairs to fill Mom’s heavy rice pan. We kept the rice down there in a tin garbage can with a lid to keep the varmints out. I’d clutch that pan and race down, count out the three cups of rice, throw the lid back on, and race back up to sunlight.

We ate rice at almost every meal. And it was so so good.

The stories in Windows of Light weave together how rice plays a key role in our lives, and our community. Food is our bond, and in some cases, our punishment. From nuanced textures and stickiness, to a right or wrong way of cooking, rice, and its glutinous properties, hold us together.

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