04. Begin and press on
First a shock, then a steady, gentle unveiling.
Risotto. Rice grains are seared over heat (with or without oil), locking their flavor and tenderness inside. Not until the addition of broth, continually stirring and adding just enough to prevent the grains from sticking, does the rice open and form its creamy base. A flavorful broth is essential, because it is the broth that feeds the rice.
One handful of uncooked rice per serving. That’s it.
For risotto alla Milanese, Ada says to add halfway through the cooking, una pizzicata di zafferano. A pinch of saffron. It is the saffron which gives it the Milanese distinction.
She also says to incorporate quanto un uovo (in the amount of an egg) di midollo di bue. I had to ask Paul this one. Ox marrow! Paul believed it was ‘only’ for additional flavor and could easily be left out (which in the many years I’ve made risotti, I certainly always have). I agree the marrow is for added flavor, and yet I sense it is for something more as well. Protein? Texture?
Risotto must be eaten warm, the moment it is done. The dish was a staple in my home growing up. My mother would sometimes add ground beef, sometimes diced chicken gizzards, often un cucchiaio (spoonful) of tomato paste for color. I was taught to spread the steaming rice over the plate surface to cool it slightly, then eat from the outside perimeter in toward the center. This wasn’t because I was a child; everyone in my family ate risotto this way.
I’ve heard that risotto served in restaurants is sometimes precooked, or half-cooked, to cut down on the final preparation time. I don’t believe it. Rice continually interacts with its environment, absorbing liquid and swelling, even when removed from heat. From the moment broth is added, you’re committed.
Begin, I am reminded. Yes, begin. And follow through. Do not walk away, do not say I’ll finish later. Do not not finish. The end reward is too great. Be diligent. The moment it reaches its peak, you will know.
IT WAS ART THAT BROUGHT US TOGETHER, kept us together. We’d spend afternoons at her small beach cottage, she inside at the piano composing orchestral works, I outside on the front patio reading or crafting stories. Coffee resting on a wooden crate. Her cat, Zeke, sprawled belly up in the sun on the sidewalk. Every so often she’d open the screen door, look out, and smile.
As an artist, it is easy to feel alone because one so often is alone. But Lynda and I had each other. She’d join me on the patio, and we’d stretch out side-by-side in rusted iron chairs and float into one of our endless conversations. I want what you have, friends would say to us. And we’d nod, knowing that what we had was really all we wanted, too.
One afternoon, not long after we met, Lynda handed me a sheet of paper, a block of words printed in bold, gothic letters. Press On it began. She’d kept a copy of the treatise near her desk, a “gift” from her mentor, Spud Murphy, a well-known LA jazz musician she’d studied composition with. She’d been his last student; he died not many years afterward at more than 90, although during those three years she spent with him, he’d fallen in love (easy to do with Lynda) and asked her to marry him. (She declined.)
She suggested I post the words in my writing space (I did and they hang there still), to ward off the seduction to give up when the art isn’t happening right, when the words become insipid, when fatal Doubt sets in. Always, always press on, she said.
PRESS ON.
NOTHING IN THE WORLD CAN TAKE
THE PLACE OF PERSISTENCE. TALENT
WILL NOT; NOTHING IS MORE COMMON
THAN UNSUCCESSFUL MEN WITH
TALENT. GENIUS WILL NOT;
UNREWARDED GENIUS IS ALMOST A
PROVERB. EDUCATION ALONE WILL NOT;
THE WORLD IS FULL OF EDUCATED
DERELICTS. PERSISTENCE AND
DETERMINATION ALONE ARE
OMNIPOTENT.
