When I make risotto, I think about all the women who came before me.
Who especially comes to mind is my great-grandmother. She never wrote down any of her recipes — she didn’t need to. Instead, my great-grandmother measured ingredients with her hands, her heart, and a kind of confidence only women in Italian kitchens seem to have. Despite no physical record of any recipe, there is one meal my family has all learned from years of watching our grandmother cook: Saffron and Sausage Risotto.Â
Last weekend, I made her recipe in my tiny Boston apartment. Between homework, emails, and trying to have some degree of a social life, I decided it was time to make the classic meal that forces one to slow down.Â
Risotto doesn’t let you multitask. It makes you stay put, stir patiently, and simply be present.
On my gas stove, I heated about four cups of broth in a small pot on low heat. Then, I diced a shallot the best I could and added it to a pan with olive oil. When it turned soft, I uncased a couple of sausages, breaking them apart until they browned.
In a separate pan, I poured in rice and stirred for a few minutes until the smell of toasted warmth filled my tiny kitchen.Â
Then comes the wine, just half a cup of dry white. And from there, the real work begins: 18 minutes of stirring. I add a ladle of hot broth at a time and stir until it’s absorbed. Then another ladle. And another.Â
I kept stirring, patiently, gently, and clockwise — only clockwise — with a wooden spoon, because Nonna said that the stirring is what truly makes risotto. I certainly don’t know if that’s true, but I do it anyway because tradition matters more than science.
After about 15 minutes, the rice turned creamy and tender. I stirred in the saffron, which is the golden thread of the whole dish, and watched it bloom into a warm yellow. Then, off the heat, I added butter and Parmesan, covered the pan, and waited two minutes.Â
As I plated the risotto into a bowl for my roommate and me, I felt pride. Not because it was perfect (it definitely wasn’t), but because it felt like mine. It felt like I’d joined a long line of women who made time for care, even when life didn’t.
My great-grandmother probably never imagined her recipe would end up being cooked in a college kitchen across the ocean.
But here I am with a wine glass half full, stirring clockwise with a wooden spoon just like she had.
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