Making sushi

My mother and I were on a roll, pun absolutely intended.

To say we were making sushi would be an insult to seafood. Our finished rolls puffed out near their middles like eels ready to give birth. We struggled to chop them without exploding them, as flakes of dried seaweed peppered our fingers and vinegar tickled our noses.

We'd guessed that the gist of sushi-making involved stuffing various edible objects into seaweed and rice and slicing it all up into colorful, oceanic hockey pucks. Hunger and impatience prevented us from bothering to eHow or wikiHow anything. Eggs? Yes we liked them, roll 'em in. Shrimp? Yup, yup. Avocado? Pan-Asian restaurants had it in theirs, so why not?

I couldn't call us complete amateurs. We had some previous experience rolling up food, such as when we regularly made spring rolls on lazy Saturday afternoons. I'd loved the silkiness of their wrappers while they billowed in warm water.

On the other hand with sushi, my fingers stuck to everything. I left behind grains of rice and specks of seaweed everywhere I touched, like post-it reminders of the giant clean up we'd have to do after lunch.

"That's the last one," my mother said, leaning in to pluck each slice off the cutting board. She beamed with pride. Our sushi didn't unravel, and the rainbow platters we spread them out on complemented their veggie insides.

"Wait." I pulled out my phone. "I've got to take a picture."

My mother then proceeded to spend the next ten minutes carefully inching the platters this way and that, because if it wasn't perfect, it wasn't worth memorializing.

"It's fine," I said, clenching my teeth and my growling stomach.

"Alright, alright." My mother wiped her hands on her apron and stepped back as I snapped the photo. I showed it to her, and she nodded in approval. "Very good. Now, eat."