Crunchy Rice

I had a Chicago North meeting last night. In preparation, I packed the girls' lunches, read aloud to them from the ongoing frightfest that is Roald Dahl's The Witches, and finished the laundry. I also assembled a chicken and rice dish. By the time Keven came home and I was ready to go, the rice still had another 20 minutes to cook. I left thinking everything would be fine.

When I got home, I asked how dinner turned out. Keven made a face and said the rice was weird. "It was kind of crunchy." I asked if there had been liquid left in the pot. Yes, actually. Turns out my choice to use a different pan had affected the cooking time quite dramatically. But Keven didn't cook it a while longer. Nope, he listened to my instructions and served it once the timer went off.

They ate it crunchy.

Last night, tired from the meeting and from driving home, I found this quite upsetting. It seemed proof that no matter how much I did ahead of time, working to make sure things would go smoothly while I was gone--it wasn't enough. Why did I even go to the trouble of putting a hot meal together, all while rushing to leave on time? I might as well have told Keven to make sandwiches rather than depend on his judgment with regard to cooking.

About an hour ago, I pulled the pot out of the fridge and turned on the oven, determined to salvage the dish. It was practically soup. So much cooking liquid remained! And yes, the rice was crunchy. But opposed to my reaction last night, I found it comical and oddly flattering. I mean...they ate it anyway. They gave it a good go and crunched away in my absence, like a bizarre homage, just because I'd cooked for them.

It's been in the oven an additional thirty minutes now and still isn't finished. That's how underdone it was. And that's how much they love me. Wierdos.

Edited: It's done now and quite tasty. My lunch.

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