Almost all cooking in our house involves rice of one sort of another. And the preparation of it has developed into a ritual or even a mediation. It has all the hall marks of a sacred act. The way it can’t be rushed, the way that each stage needs to be carefully attended to, as much a meditation in mindfulness as it is the preparation of a culinary dish.
If all the steps are adhered to there is the perfect simplicity of the out come. Quiet, simple, complete. A bowl of rice asks no questions, it is simply an ode to the quiet pursuit of perfection. Weather you have prepared other dishes to accompany it is of little consequence to the rice. Nobly it sits, plumped up, steeped in tradition, the nourisher of kings and countrymen.
If I am out of kilta with my normal modus operandi, if it has been a season of cheese and dried fruit, or barbecues and cold slaw it to rice I yearn to return. Like the simple cloths I like to wear after a day of activity, a bowl of rice, a sesame seed or 2, a slice of soya soaked cucumber. These are the things for which my weary soul yearns.
[kindred-recipe id=”1523″ title=”Plain White Rice”]