It’s funny how much eaters have in common--with all the choices that we have, we're still privy to certain consumption cues.
Cold Weather = Braised Meats, Bean Soups and Chili, Stuffed Cabbage, all permutations of potatoes, Guinness, bourbon and Scotch.
Hot Weather = Corn on the Cob, BBQ, all things grilled, raw fish, watermelon and strawberries, rum and vodka.
So I guess it’s no big coinkydink that in the height of tomato time, Mark Bittman was feeling the Tomato Paella, and I was obsessed with something vaguely less refined:
In August and September, I was eating this at least once a week. What is, you ask?
I love caprese salad, and every day I thank the Gods of Regional Produce and Diary that I live somewhere with affordable, top-notch mozzarella and bewitching tomatoes. When I first started making them at home, they were composed affairs with symmetrical, alternating slices of mozzarella and tomato.
But it didn’t take many trials to figure out that my guests (i.e. my brothers and boyfriend) and I dug the tomato-juice-and-olive-oil remains almost as much as the salad itself, jockeying to blot it all up with bread.
So nowadays, I prefer to forgo the fussiness of a knife-and-fork salad: I cut to tomatoes into solid, toothsome chunks, ditto with the mozzarella, and toss it all together in a bowl with torn basil, salt, lots of coarse-ground black pepper, and a good glug of olive oil. (The bowl makes for spill-free dunking.)
But what about the rice in the picture? And why does it look so friggen familiar?
Well, optimistic grocery shopping makes fools of us all, and more often than not, the week goes on and my fiercely red tomatoes go one step too squishy, the mozzarella becomes less-than-pert, and the basil tilts toward the edge of despair.
What do you do with these suboptimal parts? Easy. Make the salad, as you would if all these components were in their prime.
Then, mix in 1-2 cups of hot Goya Yellow Rice.
That’s right. The salty, processed, satisfying blessing-in-a-box that’s every starving student’s savior and every harried professional’s secret fallback. The rice soaks up all the coveted tomato essence and olive oil, the cheese goes melty and milky, and wilted basil threads the whole. The sum of these parts is better than any foodie would care to admit.
I could make up all kinds of excuses about why I keep Goya Yellow Rice around, but the fact is, I LOVE this stuff. Having it in your pantry is super-helpful on the days where creativity to too much to ask: when I’m slapping a steak or a pork chop on a plate and can’t be bothered to conjure potatoes...filthily easy pseudo-arroz con pollo...etc, etc, etc.
This is not an endorsement. And no, I don’t belong to the cult of Sandra Lee or Rachael Ray, and I don't have Velveeta or Tyson’s Chicken Nuggets or anything like that lurking around my kitchen. I’m pro-local produce, I enjoy sustainable and organic products (when I can afford them), and I’m happy that regular supermarkets now carry cage-free, vegetarian eggs. But I figure if you’ve gone through the trouble of shopping for and preparing a home cooked meal for yourself, starch shouldn’t be a stumbling point.
(BTW, at the height of my late-summer tomato cravings, I did take the time to make La Bittman’s Tomato Paella--behold:
...tasty...but tastier still the next day, when re-warmed with clam stock and browned coins of andouille sausage:
...supermarket kielbasa and chicken stock would do in a pinch.)
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