Fpopf. A soft puff of release, not the sound of something pressurized. The sound, instead, of being lifted up. I gasp. We look at each other in gleeful anticipation. My tummy grumbles a low grumble. “Yes,” I whisper as I peel myself off the couch. “It’s about time,” he states reflecting my impatience. Sauntering, I skip into the kitchen to undo the two side clasps of the machine that popped. A waft of steam. “Ah, ow!” I eek. Inside, fluffy, sticky, perfect, I scoop the sides of the cooker in order to spoon two bowls of rice.