Bulgur by Choice

I knew bulgur before it became trendy and yuppified . From back in the days when long grain white rice was good and represented a sweet midweek treat or elaborate Sunday dinner. Still, the shock of memories evoked by seeing the gritty, brown mass on my plate came totally by surprise. It suddenly dawned on me the last time I looked at bulgur it came in a soupy brown glob on a shiny aluminum plate, with a stigma attached. It marked me as one who "took lunch" at school and left me naked to speculation whether the few cents required were paid or if I was so poor I ate "free-lunch." Over forty years ago, that brown stuff isolated me from the clique who crowded the vendors at the school gate and returned with fritters dripping oil (that my grandmother said was rancid). Since she trusted no one's standards but her own, I had strict orders not to eat anyones "flaw-flaw." The upper crust bypassed both cafeteria and vendors alike. They went to the grocers to feast on delicacies like cheese and crackers and soda and light cake. My mind insisted on turning to Joseph. With no hint of how famous he would become, he was simply my adored brother who showed up unannounced on his bicycle at recess or lunchtime. He always brought me whatever happened to be in season and a coin. Most times it would be a thick twenty-five cents piece. For at least two days I had extra money, status (because of my big brother) and of course, extra friends. Today, I "buy" my own bulgur rice or wheat, depends on your choice of words. And I raise a thank offering for how far I've come. Talk about God doing exceedingly. Abundantly, above, all I could have ever asked or imagined!