Risotto

Something good was happening in my kitchen last weekend. Something thats warm and comforting and rich as all hell. It's winter people, not the time for grilled fish and cucumber emulsions. Winter food means thick and hot, not diet friendly or even healthy. Winter food means risotto.
Risotto has always had a special place in my heart. Everyone I've spoken to about it echoes the same sentiment, "Oh risotto! I love risotto, but its so time consuming, so finicky, i really hate making it." I am ardently on the opposite side of the fence. I love making risotto. The first time I ever tried my hand at it-when I was thirteen or fourteen-I followed a recipe and it turned out fine. The next time, many months later, it was at ten at night in the fit of some sort of teenage pathos and all I did was shut up and start sauteeing. After that night, I was hooked. Whenever I'm in the mood to do some serious cooking, mostly for a large group, its risotto or something risotto like. Last weekend, it was a massive pot of mushroom and butternut squash risotto, perfect for breakfast the next morning or one of my personal favorites: a paella-esque dish of day old risotto in a cast iron skillet with chicken broth and lemon wedges. Actually, I think the best part of making risotto is the part most people hate: after stirring in the wine, when you have to stand endlessly at the stove adding broth. I love the meditive qualities of that motion, the way the stove looks covered in steaming pans of this and that, the smell of the evaporating wine mixed with onions and rosemary, the relaxation of such careful repetition. I've learned the one basic tenant of risotto is this: risotto is not something you can keep to yourself; it must be shared.