Why? Why? Why am I thirty years old (which does not, by the way, strike me as particularly old, but I seem to be the only person I know who actually enjoys aging) and yet, I cannot make a fucking pot of rice. Seriously. I've been the sole cooker of meals here at Casa O'Rourke for well nigh ten years, and I can count on one hand the number of times I have successfully made rice. Rice. You know, the grain that sustains entire third-world countries? The grain that made an appearance at my mother's table at least twice a week when I was a child? I will readily admit that I am no Julia Child or Barbara Tropp, but I would like to think that I have reached a certain level of culinary proficiency.
And yet? Can't make rice. I am THIS CLOSE to buying one of those fuzzy-logic Chinese buffet rice-cookers-cum-missile-launchers, because I swear to GOD if I burn another pot of rice? I will buy Uncle Ben's.
