The risotto turned out much better than expected, disaster usually being the only guarantee. The needy attention it requires, constant stirring, risky allotments of broth being added ever so carefully, and of course timing. Risotto takes its damn sweet time, insisting on a slow dance, intimate, sensual, with constant contact.
That’s fine, there’s no rush. A sleepy-eyed girl looks over at me, her perpetual smile captured, eased with the warmth of a hot summers evening. I imagine a cocktail sitting on a table next to her, beads of water sweating from the glass, the spoils of ice quickly melting into pools. A stolen moment of ease and contentment, a moon somewhere in the sky above her, stars gradually cluttering the coming nights background.
In a glass walled maze, one can always see the rewards, yet not understand how to reach them. Clearly seen, we race forward through one corridor after another, only to reach a dead-end or a sudden intersection with many opportunities. Yet that which we can so clearly see yards away, is sealed off, seemingly unobtainable. To the observer, it is all very simple, follow this one route and boom, you’re there. But there’s a problem. There are no observers, only fellow friends, family and acquaintances, vexed by the same perplexities, following their own paths throughout their own mazes.
The difference though, is in the risotto, so to speak. Finding that one correct route, takes time, diligence, and soul. Through a thin sheet of glass we can see the outside world, or into our own. Just there, through a quarter-inch of wall we observe that which is so close to be obtained. Back down the corridor we wander, seemingly getting further away from what it is we want, yet closing in on that which has yet to be discovered.