Making rice is stressful as shit. In my first piece for Food & Wine, I wrote about the stress of making a good pot of grainy goodness and trying not to dishonor my foremothers as part of a ricemaking dynasty. Taddow.
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When I think back to my earliest childhood memories, three things stand out: Anita Baker, "The Electric Slide," and rice. So much rice. As the halfro-Panamanian son of a Panamanian immigrant and grandson of the Janet Jackson of rice, it's long been understood that aside from acquiring at least one gold tooth, being able to produce a respectable pot of rice is part of my destiny. But it took me a minute to embrace it.
In the time before, my rice typically came out in mushy soul-deflating clumps that I would suffer through in private, but would never serve loved ones. Sure, rice sounds easy enough in theory: grains, water, heat, love. Knowing how much of each is the work. Making wretched rice for a rice-based meal? The horror.
