oh, yes. not the risotto of spring, nor the one of stravinsky's rites. technically we only entered the first of the four conventional temperate seasons, in portland, why here there just ain't no such a thing as temperate. though the rains aren't abnormal, but seemingly everlastings, well, at least we don't have the flooding they have in the now-a-days me-a-me.
some of my older friends likely will yawn, some might no longer have a yawn in them, but i'll be seventy soon myself, and so can truly sympathize with them, after all how many risottos can a person revel in, let alone proclaim. but this i must. once upon a time, earlier, a friend advised to do every thing and all, often and while one still is able. i have taken this to heart early, though it meant many a lost lover and quite a few spoiled soups, risottos even at that. but as memory has it, mine at least, lovers found others, and me, i moved on, canteen to kitchen, flipping burgers to bringing forth a by now ancient, though momentous y2k feast. in my early days visiting bologna and eating my first eventful and enduringly memorable risotto at a restaurant then called tre vecchi. it turned eventful, simply because i believe it initiated my ever since lasting love for risotto. memorable, because shaved white truffles had not yet, but became much later the scent of gentle love making, all at once pungent and poignant, heartbreaking and rendering, la petite mort as the french might have it. and yes, euphemiously and delicately as applied to a risotto. this, obviously, and as you can imagine, must never simply become a dish of mushy rice. the rice can only be one of the arborios, a carnaroli at best. these on account of the starch make for the creamiest risottos. but i have written on this and on risottos before, obviously. i mention the dish now because i have made certain minimalistic refinements. simplicity brings with it a beauty of style pleasing harmony and certainly grace. simply put: less, as always, is substantially more.
an onion very finely chopped. glazed in oil over a fervent fire, the rice added to toast. stirring at once to sooth each grain until all are gleaming and silkily lustrous. then to quench all, in an instant, of a sudden, with a ladle of quarter strength broth. and ever stirring, as the broth is absorbed and the rice has become all'onda, creamy, like a wave, flowing. and this is the time to stir in a sliced truffle. sliced, because shaved is for cheap restaurants. the fragrance will permeate, infuse, support coarsely grated parmesan, the reggiano kind.
this may sound impossibly corny, yet, when you look into the eyes of your guest, simplicity has become her impassioned delight, all of a risotto, conferred at once chaste and restraint.