Quinceañera. Bar/Bat Mitzvah. Debutante Ball. Sweet Sixteen. Confirmation. Manjal Neerattu Vizha. Guan/Ji Li. Seijin Shiki. Kovave. Joining the Young Communist Union of Cuba. Coming of age. I have experienced several of these ceremonies. But I only truly came of age when I found the one part of me that had been missing for all my life: a steady income. Friends, I am a man now.

And in the new definition comes a natural distinction. Man vs. boy. Bull vs. calf. Opportunistic free market economy vs. traditionalistic Marxism. Steady income vs. crappy part time job to pay for 10% of the tuition bill. Filet mignon vs. chicken and rice.

Now, before I digress into a tasteless version of Rich Dad, Poor Dad, let me say that there is no right or wrong here. But in finding the distinction, I have gained a new perspective on the world, and have broadened my definition of delicious.

Delicious is the new, the exotic, the extravagant, and the (until now) unaffordable. It is filet mignon, lobster, clams casino, and prime rib. It is leather upholstery, 0-60 in 6 seconds. It is candlelight and lounge piano music, a brandy in one hand, the other gesturing over a short anecdote among acquaintances.

But delicious is not limited to these extravagant pleasures. While filet mignon may appease the palate, there are those things closer to home that warm the soul. For some of us, it is mashed potatoes. For others, macaroni and cheese. For others still, it is watching as a grown man is brought to his knees after his two year old inadvertently hits him in the groin with a plastic baseball bat on America’s Funniest Home Videos. These are the things that we cherish. And when money is tight, these are the friends we will have remaining, the ones who saw us through good times and bad.

Thus is derived the power of chicken and rice. They are not exotic foods; they are not cloaked in a mysterious aura that permeates the deepest reaches of our curiosity; they are not known by their French names; they do not have umlauts over their vowels, or any non-integral diacritics for that matter; they are not even exciting at all. They are an international staple, from Mexico to India, Denmark to Japan, Morocco to Tierra del Fuego. They represent stability.

Now that my tirade is nearing an end, I urge you all to choose one time in the next week to eat chicken and rice, however you want to prepare it, and enjoy every minute of it. Every bite, every grain, every gift from the earth herself. Happiness through chicken; strength through rice. Together.

I, beef, am no longer a boy. But I still drive a 15 year old Volvo. I still do 90% of my shopping at Target. I still dislike Castro, even if his first name is now Raul. I still laugh when two year olds hit family members in the groin. I still eat chicken and rice.