Yesterday morning, I started writing a post about making paella while watching the marathon at my desk. I consider myself a runner but with no intentions of ever doing a marathon. Regardless, I’m a big fan of the race, watching people who were willing to work and train that hard for that one day. The events of yesterday have left me and the entire city stunned. I’m feel a bit empty. When I went back to the post to try finish it today, I couldn’t find the right words to describe my attempt to make what turned out to be a pretty mediocre paella.
Mr. Bookdwarf can attest to the fact that I’m pretty hard on myself when it comes to cooking. Even a modest failure disappoints me. While the paella seemed like it was going to be great, for some reason it just didn’t come together on Sunday. I was frustrated that it hadn’t worked out, but that seems a lot less important now. I’ll come back to paella and get it right (next week, if I get the chance) but right now it just seems petty to worry about my rice being unevenly cooked. A dinner disaster is hardly the same as a real disaster.
Let’s hope that food with friends will mitigate the trauma of violence and none better for that than paella. My own modest contributions to the paella genre are to substitute Portuguese linguisa for chorizo and, after happily making paella outdoors on a charcoal grill, realizing that the large bar-b-que style spatula was a real asset when cooking paella inside.