I love to cook. Less so for the process and more because I love food, love to eat, and don’t have the time—and let’s face it, the money—to dine out on a regular basis. As much as I love food and cooking, I am not particularly fond of those wretched restraints known as recipes. No, The Mama prefers to wing it. This can be a beautiful and brilliant thing, and it can also be downright disastrous. I would say the score is six of one, half a dozen of the other.
Imagine, then, my delight Saturday evening when my bizarre idea turned out to be delicious. A caprese-inspired risotto, but with brown and wild rices rather than arborio. I have no idea how it ended up being creamy, but it did. Suffice it to say, I was smug beyond belief at this bit of culinary voodoo.
Until Alice tasted it.
“It’s disgusting, Mom!”
She spat out the words. It was, quite clearly, an indictment of my horrid cooking (and my hubris). A micro-second later, she sensed my dejection and cheerily declared, “But still, thanks for the dinner!”