The Zen of Rice

Eat at Joe's likes rice.  It's one of the best foils I know for other foods, and can be excellent by itself.  It's the most important grain for a large part of the world, so much so that it carries additional, incredible symbolic weight in Asia.  It's worked its way thoroughly into Mexican and Italian cuisine, among others.  A type of rice is even named after my region of the world: Carolina rice.

So why is this simple grain so fractious to cook?  There seem to be as many ways to cook rice as there are cooks.  My favorite involves putting the right amount of rice (whatever that is) in a pan, putting ones hand down flat on top if the rice, and adding water until a particular knuckle is reached.  Then "cook the rice until it's done."  Emphasis not mine, by the way.  One day I should write out a list of all the different ways I've heard to cook rice; the list would be longer than my list for "Is the spaghetti done?"  The way I've heard most often for long-grain rice is to use twice the volume of water as rice.  Bring the rice and water to a boil, cover, then reduce heat to low.  Rice should be done in 20 minutes.  Fluff and serve.  The main problems with this procedure are: (1) It's not extensible -- if you double your customary proportions, you need less water; if you halve them, you're likely to need more.  (2)  What is "low heat"?  (3)  Pan size and shape seem to affect the recipe.  My mother compensated for these problems by: (1) usually making the same amount of rice; (2) remembering where she set the dial for a particular burner and always using that burner; (3) using the same pan.  She was also a good cook, so she could make adjustments and adapt, and the preceding description probably gives her short shrift.  My dad often made Minute brand rice; he was adamant that I not lift the lid while the rice was cooking.  Of course, I would forget, and Dad would yell at me.  Finally, he figured out that I wasn't mean or stupid, but just forgetful.  He made a small tent sign that said "Don't open the rice!" and would put it on top of the lid; the rice was then safe until its appointed time was up. 

Eat at Joe's used to buy inexpensive long-grain rice.  For 3 cups cooked rice, I would bring 2 cups water to a boil, and add 1 cup rice.  I would then look up what Julia Child said for salt, because I would never remember.  I'd then add a scant tablespoon or so of butter, cover the pan, lower the heat to what seemed like a bare simmer, and set a timer for 15 minutes.  After 15 minutes I'd stir or fluff the rice, depending on what it looked like.  Hopefully there would be almost no water left; if that was the case, I'd fluff, re-cover, and set off heat for 5 minutes, then re-fluff and serve.  If the rice seemed over or under done, or had too much water left, I'd make adjustments.  Now I buy Mahatma Jasmine, which is yummy and not too expensive.  The WWW rangetop instructions say:

Combine 1 cup rice and 1-1/2 cups of water in a medium saucepan. Add margarine and salt, if desired. Bring to a boil. Stir. Cover, reduce heat to simmer; simmer for 15 minutes. Remove from heat. Serve.

The package directions are essentially the same.  Both suffer from the usual problems: not adjustable; no good indication of heat (admittedly difficult to do) or flavorings (also difficult and a matter of taste).  But it's good rice: it cooks a little more quickly than regular rice, it tastes good, and it's only about twice as expensive as what we used to buy. 

Last night, Eat at Joe's got home late from my job at the abattoir in Tierra del Fuego.  I was going to go out to eat, but Eat at Joe's is finally feeling the economic pinch, and is kind of poor right now.  So I decided to watch a movie and have some leftover chili.  I like rice with my chili, but had no leftover rice (at least leftover rice is easy to reheat).  So I decide to [start spooky music here] Make Some Rice.  [You can stop the spooky music here if you like.]  All the above is floating around in my head, plus visions of overcooked grains split in half, looking like goat's horns; and rice stuck on the bottom of the pan, discoloring it until I finally go at it with Comet and an SOS pad.  But Eat at Joe's is a professional -- wait, that's wrong: I don't make money at any of this.  But I forged ahead, where even inscrutable Asians fear to tread and break out their automatic rice cookers.  I spit on automatic rice cookers.  I opened my jar of rice and pulled out the instructions, which I'd carefully clipped off the bag and saved.  I decided to make exactly the amount the instructions said, even though that was too much.  I measure out the prescribed amounts of rice and water, and add them to what seems like the right pot. 

Here is where either hubris took hold, or the Rice Goddess intervened.  I'm not sure which. 

I noticed the leftover rice in the jar was a very small amount, and the jar was dirty.  "Hey," I thought, "I'll cook the rest of it. wash the dirty jar, and have leftovers to boot."  So I measure out the extra rice and try to make a calculation for extra water.  I realize I'm diverging from The Way as I add additional water.  I measure out some kosher salt in my hand, think "that's about right," and throw it in the pan.  I then carve off a chunk of butter and throw that in.  I then consolidate two butter containers that were in the refrigerator, but I'm left with a quarter-teaspoon of butter. Ok, throw that in the pot too.  I set the timer for 15 minutes and stir the chili.  I figure I'll try to go out and grab the rental movie while the rice is cooking, but that seems dangerous, so I turn everything down really low.  Then the phone rings -- a friend is returning my call.  We discuss our plans for the evening and movies.  I lift the lid on the rice and stir it a few times, with my father's voice in my head warning me every time.  When we get off the phone, the rice has about 3 minutes left.  I stir and examine.  It's not quite done, and a little water is left, but it looks good, and it's not sticking.  I decide to turn off the heat but leave the rice covered.  And I go to the video rental store.  How long does that take?  15 minutes?  20?  I'm not sure.  I'm scared while I'm out, but I don't show it. 

I return to the house with my copy of Rashomon and open the door carefully, sniffing for burned stuff.  No burned smells -- just the chili and the jasmine rice's wonderful aroma (Harold McGee says that's 2-acetyl-1-pyrroline you're smelling, or acetylpyrroline for short; it shows up also in popcorn, crabmeat, and screwpine/pandan leaves).  I'm just worried that means the rice is slightly burned.  I put down my stuff and rush to the rice.  To my surprise, it seems fine  I get my other stuff ready, spoon rice into my favorite bowl, and add a dollop of chili.  I sit down, start the movie, and start eating.  The movie is good, and so is the chili.  But it's the rice that's great.  No split grains; none are too hard or too soft.  The salt is about right, as is the butter.  It's even the right temperature: warm, but not so hot that I can't eat it.  The movie draws me in as I finish my dinner.

An hour and a half later, the movie is over, and I get up.  I ought to clean up the kitchen, but I don't want to.  But I put up the chili and load the pot and other dishes into the dishwasher.  I get out a bowl for the leftover rice.  The rice is still warm, and not stuck to the pot at all.  In fact, the rice is really fucking good.  I empty the pot into the bowl, but shovel some rice in my mouth as I go -- a half cup?  More?  I don't know.  I try to remember exactly what I did, but realize it's hopeless.  Ceres, Dewi Sri, Buddha, or someone smiled on me and my pot of rice.  But maybe Homer Simpson said something closer to the truth:  "It's just a bunch of stuff that happened."

Comments

[Eric]

We've been making a lot of risotto lately. Takes more time and attention than dumping some rice in the steamer, but the taste and texture can't be beat.

Today, while she's home with a sick little girl, Julie's going to have an adventure in Challah.

[Joe]

"Adventures In Challah" -- sounds like a great book. ;)

[Kira]

You know, I have never stressed the rice thing and I've never had a "bad" batch. I think that the reason why this situation has not unfolded for me, however, is that I do your mom's method: same proportions, same burner, same heating level, same pan. I don't eat chili with rice, though. I got turned off from throwing things under my chili when I lived at home. Mom liked spaghetti under our chili, and that's how she served it. I always thought I hated the chili, but later on in life I realized it was the pasta underneath it that made it taste funny to me. I will do lettuce underneath my chili, but that's about it!

[Joe]

According to Wikipedia's article on rice, 2004 was declared the International Year of Rice by the UN.