A Watched Pot...

Most of the time, what I cook is edible. If I chose to flatter myself, I'd say some of what I cook is damn tasty. But I never have mastered rice. Maybe it's genetic. My mother is an excellent cook, and yet, I can recall smoke detectors blaring, swear words emanating from the kitchen, blackened pots soaking in the sink, all for the sake of that starchy side dish. And so generally speaking, I don't make rice.

But last night I was craving rice pudding; so armed with my father's recipe I faced my fears. Stage one went okay. I got the rice to absorb the water, nothing stuck to the bottom of the pan, all was going according to plan. But with the addition of the milk, things got messy. After the first boil over I made sure to keep a closer eye on things. Which is hard in the dark. Living in a pre-war building has its benefits, but top-notch electrical circuitry is not one of them. So leaving my husband in the kitchen I went out to flip the circuit breaker. While out in the hall, my exuberant terrier pounced at the door, locking me out. So there I am, in the hall, with a pot full of boiling milk and rice on the stove. Right. Or a pot with some rice-y goop on the bottom and stovetop full of milk. So after wiping up the stove, relighting the pilot lights and pouring out rice pudding 1.0, I went back to work.

The second try was much more successful. Again the water/rice absorption went smoothly, and nudged along by my constant supervision and stirring, I eventually even got the milk absorbed into the rice, creating a creamy mixture. After spending nearly an hour and half standing over the stove, I was relieved, firmly believing my troubles behind me. I added the vanilla, eggs, sugar and cinnamon, poured the whole thing in a baking dish, and stuck it in the oven.

45 minutes later, I opened the oven, ready for the sweet taste of success. And pulled out a very nicely browned rice bread.

Ah well. Some things never change.