Every grain seems to elude my grasp, as if sensing my trepidation and playing a game. They dance around my chopsticks, eluding the tip, venturing further up as I waver with each attempt. It would be easier if they stayed together, but this bowl of rice revels in its individuality. No clumps here; we daren't make it easy. I can hear them egging me on, telling me to use the spoon. Maybe it wasn't the rice. Maybe it was the eggs.