Nothing is something, and something is delicious. This is my new philosophy in life. For the time being, as I let much of my life fall through the cracks some call relocation expenses, I come to realize how much I do not really want if I have to pay to transport it from Life A to Life D. As my own computer is one of the many such items lost and gone forever, this chicken and rice delicious of the week will have suffice as a delicious of the month, but hopefully, it is delicious enough to do so.

As of October 1st, I will have more or less moved 4 times in the previous two months. This may shock you, but I consider it an opportunity. Friends, I consider this my two month experiment in whether or not socialism actually works–whether or not a young urban professional can survive with minimal possessions, relying on the hospitality of others, some of whom he just met, in order to feed, supply, and transport himself. And so far, I continue living.

As I sit on a couch on the first floor of a random stranger’s apartment listening to a marching band of a cultural festival playing a US/Italian National Anthem remix right outside, I now understand. America is delicious, not for its possessions, but for its overarching philosophy that capitalism works through efficiencies of scale–that helping someone now will help you in the future. America, consider this my post-student loan. And some day, I will pay you back with interest.

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.

Friends, this past weekend I had an epiphany as delicious as any described on chicken and rice before. I realize this term is overused in modern say speech, but in this special case the word is no hyperbole. How can I make this assertion with such confidence, you may ask? In order to explain, I must start at the beginning.

I decided to take the Lucky Star Bus from Boston to New York. At $15 a trip, its a deal hard to beat when compared to the alternative, the $80 Amtrak train. One might wonder why if Amtrak costs so much more do so many people choose it over the bus. Its the same reason that country clubs require extravagant entry fees and that Princeton requires a current photo with every application. Like many things in life, you get what you pay for, and $15 apparently does not get much. As I sat at the back of the bus watching the minutes tick down to departure time, I found myself in a fortunate position. The seat next to mine was empty and there seemed to be plenty of room in other areas of the bus. I had hopes, visions of stretching out across two of the bus seats, pretending I was in first class, enjoying the high life that I’ve only seen in the cinema. Like many things in life however, this turned out to be another pipe dream of a stoned California hippy. When I saw the last passenger board, I knew deep down what would happen. Again, the stoned California hippy in me tried to evoke false hope. The hippy in me died the moment he sat down, and I knew at that moment that the next 4 hours would be a circle of hell reserved for good people to teach them that there is no such thing as karma. From the moment he sat down, he talked on the phone, at what I can only assume was normal volume in his homeland, in strange guttural tones that reminded me of a Gungan from Star Wars Episode 1, hence reaffirming my hatred of both foreigners and George Lucas. It was not just that Jar Jar had no empathy for the fact that I was forced to sit right next for an excruciating time, or that he was unnecessarily loud, or that he smelled like fish paste, but he had no concept of the tried and true all-American notion of personal space. The only thing that saved me was my trusty mp3 player, and I attempted to zone the world out with Smashing Pumpkins as I was jabbed repeatedly with both knee and elbow while Jar Jar relished the fried chicken which he had brought with him. And then the battery died.

But that’s when it hit me. As I opened my eyes in frustration, I saw the most beautiful thing. Beyond words. Beyond comprehension. Beyond all presumptive thoughts which I had held so dear. Shining in sunlight in the Burger King parking lot, glistening with the hope and dreams of 60 souls was a second Lucky Star bus. And after an eternity, as I finally mustered the courage to turn away fearing it would vanish, I saw that Jar Jar’s gaze was transfixed on the bus as well. In that moment, everyone on the bus–everyone–was in sync with one simple thought as they stared in silence. As we were traveling from Boston to New York, so these other adventurers were traveling from New York to Boston. In that moment, we were all travelers. In that moment, we were one. And so we did what any people would do if it so encountered members of its own tribe. We waved. And they waved back.

Friends, the Lucky Star Bus is delicious. It is one of the few vehicles by which we can return to our roots–a nomadic people struggling to survive, the smell of fish paste thick in the air, traveling far from our homes, some never to return. I was witnessing a new Ellis Island, a new $15 Statue of Liberty standing tall, a second chance for thousands. But more importantly, the Lucky Star Bus caters to all people, be he college student, investment banker, aspiring chicken and rice writer, or Gungan warrior. Even still, the Lucky Star Bus provides a common meeting ground. As I looked upon the second Lucky Star bus, I realized that this was the common man’s version of looking across the street at a second Starbucks–truly a bonding, uniting experience in a world where there are so few.

As the drivers patted each other on the back, we knew the moment was over. It was time for the second bus to leave. As it backed up, it gave us a love punch to the right rear bumper just so that we would not forget it. Don’t worry second Lucky Star bus. We wouldn’t have anyway.