Chapter One
Tomato Rice and the Ginger Question
There is a kind of tomato that will never be chosen for a salad. It gives a little when you pick it up. Its skin has lost the pride of a firm, neat fruit. That is the one I want for this rice. In a hot pan it has nothing left to prove. It gives you its juice, its colour, and finally the soft pieces that make a spoonful of plain rice taste like somebody planned dinner.
At the imaginary table that runs through this book, one cook wants ginger in the pan from the beginning. Another wants it grated over the finished dish. Both have an argument. Ginger cooked with the onion becomes round and warm. Ginger added at the end has a bright little sting. For this first supper, we do both, but gently. The rice should taste of tomato first. The ginger asks to be noticed only after the second mouthful.
This is a good opening meal because it teaches the book's most useful habit: prepare the quiet component while the lively one cooks. The rice gets its own saucepan and follows the amount of water printed on its packet. Different grains need different water, and I will not pretend there is one magical measure for all of them. The tomato mixture gets a broad pan so it can lose water and gain flavour. They meet only when both are ready.
