When I was 8 years old, my Sunday School teacher, Rick, shared a story that I’ll never forget.
The moral—I’m sure—was for children to obey their parents, but all I can remember is the rice pudding.
It started with Rick’s mother placing the pudding atop the fridge. She gave him a strict command, “The dessert is for after dinner. Do not touch it beforehand.”
But as the afternoon crept on, Rick’s hunger grew. He would pull up a chair to the fridge, stand on it, and peak under the tea towel at the creamy, sticky, sweet pudding.
“Just one spoonful,” he thought, “one bite can’t hurt.”
But soon after, the entire pudding was gone. He’d eaten all of it.
Rick got in trouble, learnt a lesson, yada yada… but what imprinted on me was how life-changing this thing called “rice pudding” sounded.
I’d never heard of it before; let alone tasted it.
The way Rick described it—how no other cake, muffin, or slice could ever compare—had me pleading my mum for us to make some.
Fast forward to today, and I get weird stares from everyone in the group when I order rice pudding at a restaurant.
“Why would you order rice pudding? It’s so bland,” I often hear.
But they weren’t there. They didn’t hear Rick’s story. Their perceptions weren’t inevitably and irrevocably changed.
That’s the power of a description, the power of a memory, the power of a story.