Trying risotto for the first time, I had no clue how focused you gotta stay. I wanted that rich kind she did - my grandma - back when I’d visit Italy. Chopped up onions, garlic; warmed a slick of olive oil in the pan. Smelled just like her place, which stirred up nerves and thrill together. Dropped in the rice, started moving it around, aiming to soak the broth slowly and evenly. It turned out harder than I expected. When I wasn't careful, the rice clung to the pan's base, then I’d pour broth way too fast or crawl through it slowly. A couple of sips told me it lacked flavor right off. Threw in butter with parmesan, kept mixing nonstop, just praying for that rich texture. Total time? Way past my guess. My arms started aching from all that stirring, yet I kept poking at it, seeing whether it felt mushy or way too runny. Grandma never hesitated. She just knew, so I couldn’t help wondering how she learned to judge it perfectly.

 

Close to sixty minutes passed before I finally dished it out. Not amazing, sure, though warm, tender, kind of smooth. Garlic and onion came through clear, while the Parmesan brought in something mellow. Even if it wasn't quite as smooth as my grandma’s version, I stood a little taller. Cooking it from start to finish showed me risotto isn’t just following steps one by one. It’s watching closely, mixing slowly, trying bits now and then, tweaking bit by bit. Each small action mattered more than I thought. As I cleaned up afterward, my thoughts kept drifting back to the pot, the grains, the heat, so I decided right there I’d try again, no hesitation. Each time I make risotto, I learn something new about cooking rice and using broth. It feels good to go slow with a dish, then enjoy how it turns out. Even if it’s not spot-on, eating it is always satisfying.