A Word on Rice
It’s tiny. It’s white. It’s grainy. It’s more popular than Mohammed, Jesus, or
It’s rice.
What comes to mind when you think of rice? Basmati? Uncle Ben’s? Surely you’ve been convinced that the Chinese are the world’s most accomplished rice chompers? I’ve recently developed another synaptic connection in my brain. There seems to be no stronger link with the white gift of the gods than the
Balinese rice tastes different. It’s clean. Pure. Yummy. It is almost flaky, yet hearty. It’s very white. Once cooked, the rice doesn’t absorb additional liquid, but instead lends itself to consistently creating a perfect matrix along with myriad side dishes. You can eat this rice with your hands. It will never stick, but somehow clumps neatly with itself. Portions are easily controlled with the fingers and effortlessly slide into your mouth.
I’ve become addicted to the white stuff. I have it for breakfast. I eat it at lunch. And I’ve even been making it at home for a snack and dinner. If you go to any number of stands on the road or at a market, you are served rice of some variety. If you take it away, it is ingeniously wrapped in one of two ways: the traditional, environmentally sensitive banana leaf method (closed with a tiny bamboo skewer) or the modern waxed paper pyramid. Either way, your white gold is topped with an assortment of colourful chili pasted bits of cold veggies, fried chicken chunks, whole fish, boiled or fried egg, tofu, and tempeh (pressed fermented soybeans – my favourite). Everything is cooked in the morning and left out all day. I originally shied away from this hygienic anomaly, but have since warmed to it. Indeed, it is often the only option.
