Peter McKay

Every once in a while, you get a chance to find out how much you're worth. I'm not talking bank accounts because I'm ashamed of mine, and these days, I'll bet you are, too. I'm talking instead about how much you're valued around the house, what you're worth to family members. To a spouse.

This past week, my wife was making dinner. We were going to have chicken. Fried chicken. She asked me what I wanted to go with the chicken. I said rice. She hesitated and said, in a completely straightforward tone, that we had no rice in the house and would just have noodles.

We both knew she was lying. Sure, we were out of the generic white rice we buy all the time at the supermarket, the kind that's so cheap you load up on it in huge bags. But there was gold hiding in the freezer.

Six months ago, my wife took a trip to South Carolina. While she was there, she picked up a bag of a local delicacy: Authentic Carolina Gold Rice. I don't pretend to know why it's a local delicacy — or how it's all that different from regular old supermarket rice — but when she got back from her trip, she showed it off like it was a bag of diamonds and then stashed it in the freezer. It was grown only in South Carolina, came in a little burlap bag and had tag proving its authenticity. At somewhere around $8 for a little bag, she said, it was too expensive to use for "everyday" dinners, but should be saved for something "special."

I'll have to admit that this took me aback just a little. If I wasn't "special" around here, who was? Wasn't I the man of the house, the great (OK, mediocre) provider? The fearless leader of this clan? The Grand Poobah?

I fretted about this for months. Every time the subject of dinner would come up, I'd say something subtle, like “Hey, know what? We could have some of that special rice! I'll just get it out of the freezer!” She'd always answer that we had plenty of regular old rice, and as long as I was offering to help, I could maybe clean those greasy pots.

I'd secretly snarl as I scrubbed away at the pots, wondering what I had to do to be rice-worthy.

Four times in the past six months, I've had to run down to the "House of Lee" restaurant to get takeout Chinese rice when we'd run low.

But this week, we'd come face to face in the town square at high noon, and we both knew it.

"We have rice," I said, staring at her across the kitchen.

She met my hardened stare with her own, and then just shook her head slowly. No.

"I want …" I said evenly, but just a bit threateningly, "… rice with my chicken. Are you standing there, telling me I'm not 'Carolina Gold' worthy? Your own husband?" I thought I sounded like Clint Eastwood.

She moved in front of the freezer, blocking the way like a mother bear guarding a cub. There hadn't been so much tension in the air since JFK and Kruschev went toe to toe over missiles in Cuba.

"I'm going upstairs to get changed," I said. "When I come down, I want that stupid fancy rice on my plate, or I'm going out to eat!" I stamped up the steps.

Upstairs, I sat on the edge of the bed, wondering whether I would be able to tell whether she'd spit on my chicken before serving it to me. Maybe it'd be best to switch plates with one of the kids after we sat down.

When I came downstairs, she smiled at me, and I knew I'd won. A pan of rice was steaming on the stovetop.

When we sat around the kitchen table, the kids lined up at the stove as usual, and she loaded up their plates. When they were done, I passed her my plate and she ladled out my meal. She turned, put the plate in front of me, and smiled sweetly. I looked down.

There was Carolina Gold rice, all right, about a teaspoon and a half.

"Very funny," I said.

"Sorry," she answered. "That's all that's left. It's very expensive, you know!"

I had to fill up on chicken that night. It was prepared just the way I liked it, breaded and fried. And if you had really discerning taste buds, just the slightest, faintest hint of spit.

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