Onions caramelize in the pan, now past the raw, the clear, into that magical sweetness that simmering over low heat for a long, long time is bound to bring out. I have been cooking today, all day, covered in flour, braised in wine, brown stock reduced, the steam lingering, settling in my sweater and my hair.
I feel my best in some ways here, in this forgotten realm of wizardry–what might I concoct? I never know quite, only wish for the inspiration, the wonder, the creation. Something exquisite… we can wish for that.
The process is what moves me… the rice that crackles when it cooks, quenched for a short time by the wine, the hot stock, until it soaks it in, ever richer, wants more.. creamy, creamy, hot with the mushrooms and the cheese, and time.
Yes, this. This. Kale, dark and leafy–healthy to be sure–but who cares? Lemon, a bit, olive oil. I want it, want the sinewy meat that seemed inedible, now tender, melting. Melting chocolate, cream, whipped.. can we find our desire in this?