Backcountry Risotto - No. 35
An excerpt from Crumbs of Affection, by Laura Jean Anderson.
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What can you expect in each newsletter? Sweet stories from women and non-binary people in food. These are chefs, restauranteurs, farmers, and creatives—all with unique stories that connect us to food through intimacy, memory, and experience.
This week’s post is truly special because I get to share my buddy—singer and song-writer Laura Jean Anderson’s tribute to something she calls backcountry risotto. Her piece was written as a contribution to the zine, Crumbs of Affection that I posted about earlier this month. In her hilariously quick witted and heart-warming retelling of the birth of her dish, Laura Jean touches on the heart of the zine’s assignment—connecting the dots between food and deep memory, expectation, and appreciation. I am thrilled to share this piece from Crumbs of Affection with you here. Read on for the piece in its entirety—and who knows, maybe you’ll make your own backcountry risotto one day.
Backcountry Risotto
There’s an inkling to the nights when backcountry risotto appears. A certain sticky force, a particular whiff in the air, a thick sauce energy. You know when she’s on the peripheral dying to appear in full form. You may have all the ingredients yet no guarantee she’ll come out of hiding. You may have no ingredients and she’ll work her magic in an all consuming force, shifting the path of the night. She is spirit more than recipe, ever changing in nature, rare like the moment you play a song for the 1000th time and it just hits different. I’ve been baptized in the name of the father, the son and the holy risotto. I bow to her grace as a willing disciple now and forever since that one born-again night in the depths of a summer heat wave.
“Sauce! Needs more sauce!” I scream at the gaggle of newly-acquainted bodies crowded in my garage-converted apartment. I clutch that Crystal bottle and pump drops of that spicy vinegar godsend but hesitate: No, that’s not it.
Sweat drips off my post-sex, heat of summer forehead straight into the enormous “church youth group sized” pot. Parmesan? Pickle? Corn bits? No that’s not it. Not yet at least. I continue to stir the rice on top of the precarious cooking contraption: two teetering hot plates, equipped with an unwavering safety feature that turns off the pot when it gets too hot. I pride myself at the art of toggling between the hot plates, predicting when the safety feature will engage.
My hands channel my butter-churning Mormon ancestors and I am driven by the joy of providing despite the dread of potential disapproval. As the chicken bones poke out of the surface like my toes once did while bathing in my grandmother's undersized bathtub, I taste the mishmash every few minutes in a frenzied fashion. The chatter is chaos as the people cram into my one bedroom like Little Smokies in vacuum sealed plastic. I use my guitar-calloused hands as an oven mitt and the lavender tattered sundress I’m wearing as a napkin, continuing to swap the colossal pot from hot plate to hot plate.
Stumped at the taste, I can’t pinpoint what is missing. “It’s just not right,” I mutter to myself. Mid-mutter, I’m instantly transported to Gramma Norma’s kitchen watching her prepare a pie for the oven and witnessing the sneaky dollops of butter she adds to the top. She leans down to whisper deliberately to me: “always more butter, honey. Doesn’t matter what the recipe says, always more butter.”
I come to and whip open the fridge like my life depends on it, unwrap that golden log and throw a full stick in. I taste and melt myself; as butter’s divinity washes over me. Luscious as it is, I recognize I am indeed tasting pure butter and resign to the fact that the dish still isn’t right.
I begin to throw every bip and bop I have into the mash: pickled celery, homemade kraut, canned corn, undefined leftovers and quarter of an onion ferociously chopped. Nothing seems to cut it.
“Lord on a Sword!” I blurt out as my buzzy brain lights up and I run barefoot outside into the summer night towards the tiny patch of city-grown herbs. I pick a few sprigs of basil and edible flowers from my makeshift garden and from the corner of my eye, I see the silhouette of that familiar hairy hand, taking a long drag of a Newport smoke. He’s bathing in the only part of the backyard where you can see a sliver of night sky. I smudge the basil and flowers in the crusty cigarette smoke he blows out and straddle him in the plastic patio armchair, kissing his smoke before running back frantically to the hot plates. It was always pulling teeth getting him to eat my cooking, a constant point of contention. And for those who know me, of course I take it very personally. But something felt different about that night, a spirit moving through the ether, a new whiff in the air, a fresh buzz.
I add the handful of hot-boxed flowers and herbs to the pot and feel something ancient move through me. I am in full form with wooden paddle in hand, stirring for the masses. I taste one more time, praying for that savor on my tongue to be just right. “Bahhhaha!” I cackle, turning to my new friend, slapping him across the face in one sweeping motion. “That’s it!” I announce as a few last drops of sweat make their way into the pot. I crack a couple of farm eggs on top and I serve out the sludge to the gaggle of hungry drunkards.
I watch like a nervous stage mom as they slurp down my concoction, internalizing every shoulder-drop, moan, moment of silence or sigh. Each one provides me with a sense of purpose that connects me to my family lineage. I try to be discreet in my judgment as I eye every bowl to see which of these door knobs lick their bowls clean, but there’s really only one bowl I’m concerned with. I fight the urge to glance over at his bowl, dreading the disappointment of a full untouched meal, expecting his hand on a Newport rather than the spoon, but I couldn’t resist any longer. I turn my head slowly, wincing in preparation for the hard blow, preparing for the overwhelming grief, my happiness in the hands of the one I love. My eyes make it to the bowl and I blink incessantly to make sure I am seeing what I am seeing. Yes, there it was: an empty bowl, licked clean, chicken bones shredded to bits, not a spot of my creation left. With relief filling my bosom, my eyes make their way to the rest of the bowls and to my deep satisfaction, not a grain of rice was spared. I don’t think anything could make me happier.
Right then and there, Backcountry Risotto was born. Like I mentioned before, there’s a particular sticky energy to the nights where backcountry risotto appears. She has a way of possessing your mind, body and blood in the most unexpected of eves. Perhaps she’ll appear to you in a cabin in the woods, a chic Paris apartment, a late night with a new lover or with strangers in a crusty basement. No doubt that Backcountry Risotto has saved many loves, many lives, many an existential crisis and many hangovers.
RECIPE: Jesus take the wheel.
Thank you again to Laura Jean Anderson for sharing this piece! Want to learn more about this lovely lady? Give @laurajeanandersonmusic a follow on Instagram to see where she’s playing in the city, or let her serenade ya on Spotify.
Like what you’re reading? Lucky you. There will be more stories, poetry, and art in the months to follow as I share the remaining works from our Crumbs of Affection zine. Even luckier—if you subscribe you can be the first to read em!