A while ago I bought some aborio rice because I had it in my head to try and make risotto. Everybody on those food shows makes it and raves about how amazing it is, so I wanted to try it.
What I really should do is go to a restaurant and taste some made by somebody who knows what they’re doing. My method is to read just enough of a recipe to have a hazy idea, then sally forth. I like to imagine that I’m inventing the recipe, then it’s ok if it goes south. Whatever. It will keep us alive, won’t it? Did you see Castaway? Tom Hanks ate raw fish to stay alive, and not the sushi kind. He would have killed for my crummy cooking.
So, as I’m making it with my eyeballed amounts, I suddenly realize that this going to wind up being a creamy grain. You know what else is a creamy grain?
Oatmeal, my slimy nemesis. Gag gag gag.
I pulled the rice off the heat when it was still plenty al dente’ and added some chopped chicken. Then I dished it into bowls and cursed myself for forgetting that we were having beans, too, despite the fact that I had just pulled the beans out of the microwave. So the beans went in the bowls, too.
It was edible. Not the transformative dish I had imagined, but not as gross as oatmeal. I will not ever be making it again.