About two months ago, I wanted to bring dinner to the pool so George could eat before coaching his evening practice. I had my heart set on Mexican, so I arrived home and put on some water to boil for yellow rice. Now, you must understand: My stove takes a literal day and a half to heat things. Watching the pot or not, it seems to never boil. So I walked away from the stove, thinking I could come back later and it might actually be ready for the rice. But when I came back, it was boiling so vigorously it was splashing over the pan. Yep. It was ready for rice alright.
The package said it should simmer for 20 min., but after a mere 10 or 15, the water was almost gone (I think I must have lost a little from the frivolous boiling), so I added a little more, hoping it would all disappear by the time the rice was done. It was at this point that I realized my stove top is uneven. (Please don't ask how this obvious fact escaped me for the previous two months.) This suddenly became obvious to me when all the water pooled in one side of the pan. Sticking a penny under that end to compensate didn't seem logical, so I just shoved all the rice to the side the water liked. It was still supposed to cook another 7 or 10 min., so I stepped away from the kitchen for a minute or two. I returned to find the dry side of the pan charred black with rice that must have somehow resisted my attempts at corralling it to one side. In panic mode, I turned off the stove and lifted the near carcinogenic pan off the heat. Even though the whole house didn't fill with smoke (like my grilled cheese experience in college), there was a definite "something's burning" aroma. Fortunately, most of the rice was salvageable, so I eagerly shoveled it into a glass container and ran out the door.
On the way, I decided to make a quick pit stop at Kroger to grab a jar of salsa. As I'm waiting in the check-out line, the cashier says to the lady two people in front of me, "Excuse me. I'm just curious. Do you smell smoke?" My ears perked up as much as my self-consciousness. I didn't smell any smoke, but I made a subtle attempt at smelling my hair and jacket. Was it me? Had I really carried the burned-rice perfume out of the house on my person? "Maybe it's coming from outside," she said a minute and half later. Yes, yes, I thought. Go with that theory. It's from outside. Needless to say, I was particularly self aware as I approached the cashier another grocery shopper later. I wondered what went through his head when I got closer. "Good heavens! Outside just bought salsa from my checkout lane!" Who knows? George didn't seem to detect any cooking-gone-bad aromatic evidence, so maybe it really was coming from beyond the sliding glass doors. A girl can hope.
[Photo of how yellow rice is supposed to look thanks to jollychop.com]
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