If you handed me a bowl of cauliflower rice without telling me what it was, I’d probably guess some form of cheese. Goat cheese, or maybe a thick Parmesan. However, it lacks the flavor of those two delectable treats. Like normal rice, it takes on the taste of whatever you pair it with, acting as a base to ground in other foods.
Making cauliflower rice requires taking the cauliflower itself, chopping it up, throwing it in a food processor and whittling away at it till it’s been sliced into bits (though not pureed). There’s some science to this bit, science that I haven’t quite nailed down. I still find chunky parts in the end result, though I accept those as casualties and move on with the recipe because to do otherwise would lead to madness.
Then it’s the skillet and a dousing of oil, maybe some spices, and eventually water to simmer the stuff down. And at the end you’ve got a pile of white, sort of fluffy, stuff.
My wife is a culinary experimenter – one who adventures into new recipes with a sort of fearless abandon, like the Lewis and Clarke expedition, only instead of the Pacific Ocean, we’re venturing into new aisles of the grocery store. Then, if she’s busy, it falls to me to carry her grand plans to a delectable conclusion.
And I’ll say this – there’s all sorts of good things to be gained by venturing out into the culinary wilds. I’ve learned about more types of food, and how to prepare them, in the last few years than I had in the 25 years before. I’m more creative in the kitchen, now, on my own than I had been before her.
This, I think (and hope), has a positive effect on the ol’ writing life. Something about how exploring creativity in one field helps bring it into others.
If nothing else, at least, there’s still the cauliflower rice.