It was one of those things that my father failed to tell me about, such as never re-arranging furniture until guests are pounding on your door. I was meandering about the supermarket looking for something for my evening meal (I'd already found a do-it-yourself Bhel-Poori kit) when I found myself pondering the rice selection.
"Aha!" I thought (fortunately, as I find that spoken soliloquies on the relative merits of various dried cereals or farinaceous goods, tend to attract attention to oneself, and not in a "How fascinating me too, did you know wild rice isn't actually rice?" sort of way), "I've never actually done a proper risotto, pilafs yes, oodles, but never a real 'stand over the pan and stir things till they fall into a glop of the right consistency for one's own taste' sort of risotto." My hand stirred, hesitated and darted forward. Hence it was that I left with a packet of Arborio rice.
"Why - " you may ask, "with all your culinary expertise, and with all your spare time in the evenings, as I know you have no social life, have you never attempted a risotto before?"
"Well - " I reply, "what with, as you know, no social life, and the consequent malaise engendered by the same, I spend a lot of the time slouched in front of the TV. Therefore, for me to take time away from said TV, to stir rice, seems as pointless as watching the TV in the first place."
"But..." you counter, "..."
"I know!" irascibly.
Thus it was that the anxiety started, for, as you probably know, the basis of a good risotto is wine, dribbled into the pan to be soaked up by the parched rice grains, till they swell and deliquesce with oenous aromatics. But how much? I poured a sloosh, the rice glooped it down, loosened it's belt and gave me the stare of an orphan. I poured more, it did the same again this time jutting its lower lip. After the next go, I carefully inspected the bottle, took the risotto off the heat, went and got a glass, put the risotto back on the heat, poured a glass, re-inspected the bottle. I became an aid-worker in the Camp, feeling guilty, though eminently sensible, I turned on the kettle, and lobbed some East-European veggie stock into the pan.
It was a good risotto, though I ran out of wine halfway through the plate.
Moral. When wine is an essential cooking ingredient, buy two bottles.
