Yollie's Rice

There is no amount of salt that can save the bowl of rice sitting in front of me.
Two weeks ago this same meal would have been adequate, tasty even,

But that was before I had my mother-in-laws Moro,
An immaculate blend of frijoles negro y arroz blanco

So perfectly sweet there is nearly no need for desert.
From now on no one else's rice can possibly be taken seriously.

When I begin to praise her edible work of art,
She shyly smiles and the 8 year old Yolanda

Peeks out from underneath her 68 year old face
(This smile is hereditary, I recognize it hanging

On her daughter's visage when Chicago House pulses from a radio).
She replies, "The rice is too dry," always quick to deflate a compliment,

Another trait inherited by her daughter.
In her immense modesty she is horribly wrong.

Somewhere in the world there are rice grains in a field growing,
And they are all praying to end up in the grace of Yollie's cupboard.

As her daughter has ruined me for all other women,
Yolanda has ruined me for all other rice.