Risotto, I have learned, takes a very long time to make.
Which meant that the tiny package of Italian spices that had come with the recipe sat on my counter awaiting its turn for an equally long time. It was already half-empty, having been called upon to serve earlier in the recipe.
Consequently, it was also half-open.
Sadly, much of the remaining spice would never reach its final destination.
My youngest daughter, desperate to help, had climbed atop the stool, reached across the counter, and—with an unceremonious “What’s this?”—dumped the entirety of the packet’s contents anywhere but my sluggish risotto.
I was displeased.
You know that noise Charlie Brown makes when he goes to kick the football, but Lucy pulls it away at the last minute and the kid lands on his back? That’s more or less the sound that came out of my mouth.
My youngest daughter scampered away, tears in her eyes, as I did all I could to salvage the spice. She had only wanted to help, after all. And I had a lot of time to reflect on my parenting deficiencies as I stirred and stirred and stirred that risotto.
Risotto, as it turns out, will not finish cooking until you’ve made amends with your children.
So, with my meager amount of Italian spices safely secured in a small, white ramekin, I went over to my daughter. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I shouldn’t have yelled. But here—give this spice a sniff. You’ll see why it’s so important!”
My youngest daughter put her nose right over that little ramekin. She inhaled deeply, the aroma of the spice wafting over her nose. She then proceeded to exhale just as aggressively, what with all that spice wafting straight up her nose. She then coughed once, and between the cough and the hurricane-force exhale, my tiny reservoir of spice flew out of the ramekin and directly into her eyes.
My youngest daughter was displeased.
You know that noise that Charlie Brown makes when Lucy takes a fist full of herbs and spices and pours them directly into his eyes? Me neither. But if you had to guess, what would it sound like?
That’s more or less the sound that came out of my daughter’s mouth. Tears, too—not out of her mouth, but her eyes, and I’ll bet that’s what saved the day in the end. The offending spices came rolling down her cheeks and—again—not into my risotto.
Which was, naturally, still cooking. Because only five or six days had seemingly elapsed and the recipe called for a full week.
The whole thing was rather comical, though my youngest daughter was not yet laughing. “You do your best, am I right?” I said. No one answered.
The risotto finally finished cooking and—though it was inevitably under-spiced—it still tasted just fine. Delicious even. Good thing, too: I ended up eating that same dish for the next four days.
Because, as is right and just, neither of my children would try the thing. Looked grossed, smelled gross, plus there was the ongoing resentment toward the meal that had demanded Italian spices. I made them peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, which take approximately two minutes to prepare.
No one was happy. And that’s how the story ends.
I bet this story is not so different than the kinds of stories you experience each and every day: little scraps of comedy and tragedy, laughter and tears, all bound together by the constant forward motion of life’s demands. Why does it matter?
I think back on that series of events, I pinpoint my own outburst of anger. I should have done it differently, I think. I should have been more patient, forgiving, big-picture oriented.
But then, I think about the possibilities that unfolded in the wake of my actions, the opportunity to begin again. The chance to say, How can I make this right—or, at least, better?
Perhaps that’s all we’re called to do. Perhaps, as time marches inevitably onward, all we can do is simply recognize those moments through which we can make things a little better, right some small wrong.
And then we muddle on: come tears, come laughter, come slow-cooking risotto.
And another thing…
In this week’s “Now Discern This” for Jesuits.org, I took a new approach to the old story of Martha and Mary. Read it here.
Over at Dork Side of the Force, I wrote about exile, Jedi and nonviolence. Check it out.