For my brother Dale and I, Chinese sticky rice has been both the hallmark and the bane of the Thanksgivings each of us has hosted over the years.

This traditional dish of glutinous rice studded with salty dried shrimp, slices of fatty Chinese sausage, earthy shiitakes, and crunchy bits of water chestnuts has been a staple at our family’s Thanksgivings since I can remember.

But the sticky rice also has proved, well, a sticking point. You see, try as we might, for years he and I could never make sticky rice that proved up to snuff for our Mom.

My late-Mom took pride in all that she did, and was quite the perfectionist. When she sewed, if a stitch was at all crooked, she’d rip it out and start over. When I used to sew as a teenager, I was less fastidious. I remember times when an inner seam might turn out a little less than straight, and I’d tell her, “Nobody will ever see it.” She’d give me that look, which basically said, “Yes, but you will know it’s crooked. You will know you did not do it as best you could.” All it took was that look, and the next thing I knew, I’d be ripping out the thread to redo it.

Of course, with a rice cooker full of steaming sticky rice cooking away, it’s a little harder to rip things out and start over.

Still, even as a child, I remember my Mom anxious over the outcome of the sticky rice. It was always made in the big rice cooker, not the smaller one we used for everyday meals. She’d peer into the rice cooker now and then to stir the contents or to monitor its progress. She’d fret if it wasn’t cooking as fast as it should. She’d sigh if it started sticking on the bottom of the inner pot.

Who knew rice could be so nerve-wracking?

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