My Secret Shame

Project 365, Day 83/365

We’ve known each other almost a year now, so it’s time I share my secret shame with you, if only to put my vulnerabilities on the table, and possibly get some help.

I fancy myself a decent (if not passionate) home cook. I enjoy cracking open the spine on my 960-page New York Times cookbook on the occasion. I make my own fresh pasta and pizza dough. I believe in making my own dressings, my own sauces, dream of the day of owning a smoker and a steam oven. French food, Italian food, Thai food, Mexican food…I have the recipes I’m comfortable with and can whip up with confidence. But here’s the thing: I can’t make rice.

You know that scene from the movie “Clueless” where Tai says to Cher, in an attempt to hurt her: “You’re a virgin who can’t drive.” That’s me, except I’m a Puerto Rican who can’t rice…cook rice, that is. Let me say that again for full effect: I’m a Puerto Rican who can’t make rice.

There are whisperings in my household of the great urban legend that once or twice, I got it right.

And trust me, it’s not a matter of “recipe.” I’ve tried a 2 to 1 ratio of water to rice. I’ve tried a 1.5 to 1 ratio of water to rice. I’ve rinsed my rice. I’ve not rinsed my rice. I’ve tried a deep saucepan and a lower skillet. I’ve sautéed rice grains in butter before adding water. I’ve added a towel to the top of the pot before placing down the lid. I’ve added white vinegar to the water once when I heard that helped keep the grains separate. I’ve added butter. I’ve added oil. I’ve added butter and oil. Short of having a séance to tap into the great rice wisdom of the universe, no matter what I do, IT’S ALWAYS A FAILURE. Mushy, split rice grains, NO MATTER WHAT. There are whisperings in my household of the great urban legend that once or twice, I got it right. But no one can confirm it, so it remains laced in mysticism.

You see, I grew up eating rice at least once a week. My father was always in charge of the rice, having learned to make it (I’m assuming) from his mother. My dad’s mom made the absolute best rice and beans. It’s the stuff of legends in our family. Every grain was perfectly cooked and fluffy and not the least bit mushy. My mother’s mother was also a rice doyenne. My cousin, with whom I share a name (well, my middle name, her first name), brings the most beautiful pot of arroz con gandules (rice with pigeon peas) every holiday dinner we have together. I’ve asked her for her secret…that’s where I got the 1.5 to 1 ratio from I mentioned earlier. Nope, not for me. My sister has been known to whip up a solid pot of rice. I asked her recently if she washes her rice before cooking, thinking that must be the trick after a particularly bad batch on my part. Her answer? Eh, no.

Today, as I picked up my bag of long grain rice from the pantry shelves (in my laundry room), a side I planned on hacking my way through to pair with some picadillo—which I can cook up with my eyes closed—I held it in my left hand and said to Charles, who was in the kitchen with me, between gritted teeth and behind narrowed eyes: “My nemesis.” He nodded. He understood.

Being a Puerto Rican who repels rice feels like I’m a sham to my culture. Does this stuff not run in my blood?!? Is it retribution for spending all those years pretending not to enjoy Latin food because I was a 14-year-old contrarian? Caribbean carb karma? I’ve atoned for my teenage idiocies, but to not great pay off, clearly.

My Latino forefathers hold their head in shame, surely.

If you’re thinking to yourself “Arlyn, eureka! You simply need a rice cooker!” You wouldn’t be the first to tell me that. But let me tell you what no Puerto Rican I’ve ever known has ever needed in their kitchen: a rice cooker. Tonight I turned to my pressure cooker and churned out decent enough rice. Was it not-on-purpose sticky and yet still somehow a little dry? Yes, it was. Did a slathering of stewed meat and olives and sweet plantains mask my failure? It did this time, and it always does. But I have too much pride, and claiming “success” at the hand of technology is no real win for me. My Latino forefathers hold their head in shame, surely.

I’ve often thought that perhaps it’s not the hand of the artist that’s causing the deficit, but rather the paintbrush. Something called a caldero is often the go-to cooking vessel for perfect Puerto Rican rice. They are wide, and light, and usually made of aluminum. They’re always charred on the outside, after years possibly decades of generational use, which 100% make them even better. They look like this. I do not own a caldero, so perhaps my rice-capades are a fool’s errand without one. But my dad didn’t use one, and neither does my sister…why oh why does perfect stove-cooked rice evade me?

When will I learn? When will I get it right? Am I fated to a life of dreaded cauliflower rice? Say it isn’t so. I will hold on to the hope that someday, destiny will deal me a favorable hand and I’ll be tapped with the know-how that was laying dormant for over three decades in my DNA. I chose to believe.

See you tomorrow, friends.