Oh, Lidia, the contradictions. Had I not spent twenty harrowing minutes last night wavering between her discrepant orders to maintain “a lively simmer,” while adjusting the heat level “so the rice is simmering very gently,” Mr. P and I might have enjoyed an accompaniment to our t-bone other than potato chips. Surprisingly, in spite of the onion uprising, the flavor was all right, though slightly reminiscent of invalid cuisine due to the massive amount of chicken stock indicated.
Well after the last of the stock had been incorporated, as well as the forbidden additional cup of water, the resulting porridge was creamy indeed, but the grains were beyond al dente; I’m assuming risotto should not crunch. I didn’t expect to get the timing exactly right in my first attempt, but it always stings to produce something inedible, especially after investing so much time.
After such a rare but disquieting failure, I like to recharge by spending a few hours at the firing range. A medium Smith & Wesson revolver provides enough heft to give your arms a good workout without hampering your aim. While my politics tend to run left of center, I’m a stickler for the second amendment; I’m not as much interested in bearing or keeping arms as I am in borrowing and shooting them every so often. Additionally, it doesn’t hurt to know one’s way around a gun, just in case one ever finds oneself in a post-apocalyptic free-for-all (excluding zombie scenarios).
Round two is slated for tomorrow evening, and with any luck, success will allow me to slam the book closed on risotto, a bafflingly difficult starch for which I’m losing enthusiasm by the minute.