I’m staring at the package instructions. Sometimes my brain is crystal clear and razor-sharp: the writing flows, the analysis hits, everything I’ve read, seen, and lived through comes back in perfect order. And then there are days when it’s all dense fog — everything I’ve read, seen, lived through just floats up, wags its tail… and slowly sinks back down. Bending over the ice hole—hands crimson, stiff with cold—I grope for the flickering scaly tails. They slip through my fingers, leaving only ribbed scratches on my palms before vanishing into the dark water. Like thoughts/.

So frustrating. I knew it was there, right in that fold of my mind. Then—poof. Gone. Eleven grades of school, one degree, two “super-degrees,” yet here I am, decoding hieroglyphs on a bag of absolutely ordinary wild rice.

The package says: “For one pouch, add 3 ¼…” My first thought: Pi (π)? Why would rice need pi? Pot circumference to grain diameter? Then—aha!— I understand that I need a quarter-cup measure. Three of those. Clearly written in rice instruction: 3 times ¼. I put three cups of rice; the water barely covers it. Oh those Canadian-style ways of cooking. I got how things work here: what we, Russians, find being a rocket science, is actually something so ridiculously easy. 

Suspicions creeps – generational Eastern European distrust that was engraved in us.

Eastern Europeans carry a generational instinct to expect the worst, even when all you’re doing is boiling rice.

I show J the pot with wild rice, barely covered with 3 cups in 1 quarter. 

 “I‘ve read the package. Did everything right. Still suspicious. Check my math just in case, please.”

He reads. Looks at the wild rice, barely covered with 3 cups in 1 quarter. Looks at me. His Canadian politeness strains like a dam about to burst, but he keeps his laughs to himself not willing to hurt me. 

“What? I calculated it wrong?”

J is even not able to talk. He has very good manners, very kind and polite. This man opens car doors, carries me over puddles (though they terrify him), gives me my coat, asks if I need help with my bills, texts me ‘good morning’ and ‘sweet dreams’. He asks how things are doing with all my family members. He’s so polite and kind that he’s learning some Russian words so that it won’t be so lonely for me and the kids on this island. He’s so polite and kind – he once reduced my parents to stunned silence when he said out loud how kind I am. 

True love, Canadian edition.

J is not fully a Canadian. That’s why he’s carrying me over puddles and is willing to pay my bills. But right now with this wild rice and quarter cup he’s barely holding it in.

“Just say it. Or will you do it instead of me—again? How would I learn then?”

He’s shaking but he has perfect self-control skills.

“You’re brilliant. So smart.  You’ve achieved so many things… You just overthink sometimes.”

“Enough, you, Canada. No need for your over-politeness. Spit it out.”

“3 ¼ means… three full cups. Plus a quarter.”

I get completely lost and burst out laughing. I mean—how?! It’s so simple! One Master’s, two postgraduates, public speaking experience, presenting a project to the mayor—the mayor shakes my hand. Presenting a project to professors—professors shake my hand. Other journalists have written a story about me. I’ve been interviewed. I’ve spoken at TED ED Talks.

And of course, none of that would’ve been possible if I’d actually known what 3 ¼ means. But thanks to that—so much room for imagination.

— Cutes, you’re doing great. Now pour the wild rice into the strainer and start over.

One Master’s, two postgrads, and still I would always think 3 ¼ is pi for rice.