A Sushi Adventure

I finished my puzzle for what must have been the thirtieth time since getting it yesterday as my brother called from the other room, “Food is ready!” He was making sushi in the other room - the rice, at least. I ran into the kitchen thinking about all the things I could put in it. First I ran to the refrigerator for the crab. After searching for nearly ten minutes, my brother said there was none. I began to wonder how this sushi was going to turn out.
“Any carrots?” I asked tentatively, already dreading the answer. I hadn't seen any while searching.

“Nope,” he replied, not even looking at me. “Broccoli?” “Nope.” “Avocado?” “Nope.”

Well this was going to be interesting. My brother was just finishing making his sushi roll when I finally turned around to face him.
“Then how in the world are we supposed to make sushi?” I exclaimed.

“You put the rice in and roll it up, of course. How we always do.” 

“But it's just rice.”
It's called a Nori roll, ancient Chinese dish. Invented for when food was scarce.”

I paused and blinked for a second or two. “Sushi is a Japanese dish.”

“No you,” was his only reply.

I reached over to the bowl to begin my own, but it was snatched away by my sister before I was within two feet of it. She emptied half of the bowl into her own and marched back to the table. I shrugged my shoulders and placed the sheet of Nori on the cutting board. It stuck and ripped. My brother had left water on it, and my Nori was now ruined. Grumbling to myself I reached for a second.

My silent grumblings were interrupted by something that resembled a rabbit's screech, which sounded very out of place in the kitchen, from the direction of the table.

“Yuck!” my sister cried indignantly. “What did you put in that!”

“The usual,” my brother replied nonchalantly. “Rice vinegar, salt, except there wasn't any sugar.”

I paled, looking down at the rice on my spoon. “You know.... that means it's just sour?” Through my mind raced all kinds of thoughts, trying to figure out what he might find appealing in rice such as this. Then again, he is the one who tasted soy sauce and ice cream together before.

He shrugged as he swallowed another mouthful of the stuff. Still chewing, he explained, “Not much different, tastes fine to me!”

“Why don't we try some Splenda? It's the same, right?” I asked.

“I guess you could try that...” He stood and reached for the bag, dumping an unnecessarily large portion of it into the bowl. As he mixed it into the bowl, my sister set her bowl on the counter and reached for a second, dumping a smaller portion than before into her bowl. The action still halved the remaining rice, same as last time. She said - in response to my glare, “I just want to try it, so I'll take less.”

I shrugged for the second time. It was food, who cares. Albeit, nothing but starch and carbohydrates. But who counts those anyway? Slathering the rice onto my Nori, I heard my brother comment, “Making sushi is kind of like painting, you know?”

I shook my head. I didn't see how sushi-making had anything to do with standing on a tall ladder with stained clothing and an over-large bucket, trying not to fall down as you paint between the cracks in the old sideboard. By the time that thought was composed, my sushi had been completed. “Here goes nothing,” I muttered, sitting at the table.

I try hard not to remember that taste.