My first time

Everyone has a first time, and you never forget it. Here's my first-time experience.

Wait – before I tell you, I want to mention that I just recently tracked down my high school boyfriend (thanks, Facebook!) after being out of touch for about 30 years. As a result of my mini-stalking project, we exchanged a few messages and updates, and then we each disappeared again. I was pleased to discover that was fine with me. The whole thing felt comfortable enough: friendly, no regrets, no recriminations, no unfinished business, etc. But of course it was this reconnection that dredged up the distant memory of my "first time" to the surface. And since then that memory has been swirling around and around in my brain, sometimes keeping me from concentrating on business at hand as I relived those moments like they were yesterday. Could I have behaved any differently? Should I have? That first time! Never to be corrected; never to be forgotten.

So, my experience. Wait – I should point out that this wasn't just my high school boyfriend; he was my Major High School Boyfriend. Just so you know where MHSB fit into my universe.

Okay, so: MHSB was one year ahead of me. At the end of his senior year, his family held a graduation party at his house. Of course I was invited. And I was a little nervous. I already knew MHSB's parents and older brother, and plenty of friends would be there; but so would MHSB's extended family. Would I be introduced to loads of relatives? If so, how? MHSB was heading off to college and I still had a year of high school left. Had we even determined between ourselves what we each expected from our relationship during the upcoming year of separation? Would I be expected to talk at length to MHSB's family, and be on my best behavior during the entire party?

My mother sent me off to the party with this advice: "Try all the food, it should be very good." MHSB was Italian, you see. It was expected that MHSB's mother would be a good cook.

What do I remember of the party? Not much beyond the "first time" part. A crush of strangers. Some awkwardness between MHSB and myself when I arrived. But there was the buffet table, so I made my way through the crowd with MHSB at my side.

Heeding my mother's advice, I took a little of everything, even the unfamiliar things. MHSB and I found a place to stand and we started to eat.

I recognized some chicken and pasta. Mmm, good! Mom was right. Then I put a small forkful of something white and mysterious into my mouth, and it was as if stars started exploding overhead. The flavor, the texture, the fragrance! Was it grain, vegetable, or something else? Specialty food imported from Italy for the occasion? A century-old recipe handed down in MHSB's family from the Old Country? (His family's Old Country, not mine.)

MHSB's mother (Mrs. Italian) was making her way towards where MHSB and I were standing, and I couldn't contain myself. I pulled her over and said, "Mrs. Italian, what is this? It's delicious! I've never had anything like it!"

Mrs. Italian peered at my plate. "What's what?"

"This!" I jabbed gently at the white mystery with my fork.

She looked at MHSB, then looked at me. "That's rice."

Rice? I knew rice; that was not rice.

"Rice! But – How is it prepared?"

She spoke clearly and slowly. "With butter." She must have sensed my confusion. "Haven't you had rice with butter before?"

"Yes!" I said. "Well... I guess we have Minute Rice at home."

"Minute Rice!" She patted my arm and her laughter trilled out into the room. As she walked away giggling, I heard her say again, to no one: "Minute Rice!"

Like I said, you never forget your first time. It's possible my boyfriend's mother never forget mine, either.