It started out innocently enough. At 8pm, I took the leftover
risotto from the fridge and was already envisioning my next blog entry—a clever
little essay on wasting not and wanting not, which I would end by quoting the
Barefoot Contessa: “How easy was that?”
Not wanting to get my hands dirty, I decided to use two
spoons to shape the risotto into quenelles, which are not only cute, but also sound awfully fancy. I tried different
variations involving breadcrumbs, egg and grated Parmesan. After some experimentation,
I decided to forego the bread, which didn’t seem to contribute much to the
taste or texture.
First batch. I dipped my quenelles into the egg and then the
cheese before frying them in butter and olive oil over medium heat. They turned out just okay, warm and
creamy inside but lacking the crisp, brown cheesy crust I craved.
Second batch. Leave them in the pan a little longer, I
thought, and give the crust time to develop. Results were marginally better with
a few flecks of crisped Parmesan, but I wanted crust, damn it, and I was
determined to get it.
Third time’s the charm, I told myself. I took the plunge and
used my hands to form the risotto into patties so as to maximize the surface
area for crusting. I then put another batch in the pan and waited patiently for
the crust to form as I crooned over and over, “Come on, little cheesy crusts, come
to Mama.” But the clock continued to tick and still, no crust seemed
forthcoming.
Perhaps I needed to turn up the heat. I went from medium to medium-high and waited. And waited. And then waited some more. And still, those rebellious
little fritters refused to comply.
Determined to show them who was boss, I turned the heat all the way up. Finally, after what seemed like
forever, I saw crust. Smiling with
satisfaction, I took my spatula and tried to flip the patties over.
To my horror, the long-awaited crust stuck to the pan and
the patties began to disintegrate, committing hara-kiri before my eyes. “Noooooooo!”
I yelled, switching to a fish spatula, to a wooden spoon, to a crowbar if I had
one, anything to scrape the now-smoking cheese remains off my pan.
Depositing the grainy remains of my fritters onto a plate, I
stared grimly at the rest of the risotto as it gloated silently in its
Tupperware container. Fine. You don’t want to form a beautiful little cheesy
crust for Mama, FINE. I stirred egg into the
rest of my risotto and poured the mixture into the pan, figuring I would settle
for crispy little flecks of cheese. Screw you, risotto. Screw you, cheesy crust. Screw
you, perfectly browned patties. You think you’ve won, have you?
There’s more than one way to skin a risotto fritter, I thought smugly.
As I sautéed the traitor grains, they began to morph yet
again, first, into what looked like Kimpura’s Japanese fried rice and then
finally, into a misbegotten mess that looked suspiciously like cassava cake.
Oh, dear sweet Jesus. I have died and gone to risotto hell.
I sat down wearily, balefully staring at the
glop as I resentfully ate my earlier creations. It was 11:00 p.m. and I was
full from crappy fritters but far, so very, very, VERY far from satisfied.
I turned my oven on, shaped the risotto into patties and
liberally sprinkled them with what was left of my cheese. As I waited for the oven to finish
preheating, I wearily surveyed the war zone that was my kitchen and with a
defeated sigh, began scrubbing the pile of dirty dishes and burned pans.
Finally, it was time to put those damn fritters in the oven
and wait for the cheese to achieve some semblance of doneness. At midnight, the
cheese, while not exactly crusty, had at least a bit of a light tan. Close enough.
But it was late, and I
was close to choking on both my earlier fritters and my failure. So, I dumped
the patties into a plastic container, shoved them into the fridge and wearily
fell into bed.
And that night, as I slept, visions of perfectly browned
risotto fritters danced around in my head, doing back flips and drop kicks, and
taunting me as they chanted, “Who’s your mama NOW?”
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