Oh Rice Ball,

A staple of the Christmas table

sitting by lasagna and meatballs,

I would kill you if able

spray you across the walls;

you’re somehow drier than a mummy’s dick

yet also paste-like you make me sick.

A lingering storm like the ides of December

more menacing than snow and sleet,

there is hardly a time that I remember

where I didn’t gag before you, I eat.

You’re worse than Christmas tunes and angry cats

and parades and fireworks and stupid Christmas hats.

Two days before the 25th

those who can’t make an excuse gather,

in a process we are all told will be swift

but never takes less than three hours.

The Elmer's glue smell of wet rice mixed with panko, like sand and grit

blended with mushy peas and beef until everyone has paper mache hands and no one can

stand it.

You either scoop

and fill,

or shape,

or spill

these balls, an assembly line, into a fryer,

playing with these fucking things until they could hardly be desired.

You either make them too big size,

or too small,

or you didn’t pack enough inside,

or too much and they crumble and they fall.

Any case they are never right,

even this is a situation where you can’t be flawless, even if you’re white.

Is Johnny Mathis on?

You better fucking believe it!

Can we switch The View off?

I’m kidding, Nana. I couldn’t conceive of it!

Three hours of Italian idioms and Christmas memories and snacking

all the while our golden brown balls are stacking.

Standing in Florida heat,

with heavy moisture to keep me from drying,

I care less about the integrity of the meat,

and focus on not dying.

How long could I take a bathroom break

before they fell the door with an angry quake.

But oh no! We can’t forget the cherry,

which denotes a gift,

to the lucky, and certainly not pre-decided, Larry,

to give their holiday a lift.

The truth is the only suitable gift for me,

would be to make these crusty balls ancient history.

It is the only thing on people’s tongues

leading up to that day,

where gooey rice like putrid dung

haunting memories that won’t fade away.

Made in three hours mostly devoured in three minutes

minus the army of leftovers that will take three months to diminish.

Why do I entertain this tradition, you might ask?

Or how do I get through it all without out sucking down a flask?

How do I keep my brain intact and safely in my skull,

but the answer makes me complaints null:

I guess I love my family