It started with burnt toast.
You’d think I’d have learned by now—but no. I scraped it, like always, and left the crumbs in the sink like an accusation. The house was still cold even though the heat had kicked on twice. Mae wasn’t here. No one was. And I didn’t want food so much as quiet. Something to stir and forget.
The recipe floated into my brain like an old song you didn’t like but know all the words to.
Her Highness calls it “Perfect White Rice.” Of course she does.
What the Original Looked Like
Martha’s version is… controlled.
A measured 1½ cups of water.
Exactly 1 cup long-grain white rice.
A modest ½ teaspoon of salt. No oil. No butter. No fuss.
You bring the water to a boil, add the rice and salt, let it come back up, then cover it, lower it, and don’t peek. For 16 to 18 minutes. That’s it. That’s the whole ritual. Clean. Composed. Like a pressed blouse.
I’m sure she lets it sit for five full minutes before fluffing. I’m sure her fork is silver.
What I Did Differently (Barely)
I didn’t measure the salt.
I never do. I used the flaky sea salt from Provincetown—the one I bought with the wrong person, the one that still makes chicken taste like a dare. I added a pinch too much and didn’t regret it. I thought about adding butter, didn’t. Regretted that.
The rest I followed. I don’t know why.
Sometimes precision is easier than feeling.
The Way It Happened in My Kitchen
I set the water to boil and stood by the stove like I was keeping watch.
Didn’t leave. Didn’t scroll. Didn’t do the dishes in the sink.
Just waited.
When it bubbled, I dumped in the rice like it had insulted me. Salt next. The sea salt clumped a little—humidity or ghosts, who knows—and I stirred once. Only once. I remember that.
The lid went on. The heat went low.
And then nothing.
No sounds except the tick of the stove dial. No Mae asking if rice counts as dinner (it does).
No interruptions. No radio. Just the smell of starch and steam.
Sixteen minutes passed. Maybe more. I didn’t set a timer. I just knew.
Lifted the lid, fluffed it with the fork that still had a bent tine.
It looked like silence.
It tasted like the kind of quiet you can eat.
A Few Things I Learned
If you don’t mess with it, rice behaves.
But also—
If you don’t add butter, it behaves too well. Like it’s trying to impress someone.
What I Did With the Extras
Ate it out of the pot. Standing.
Added a splash of soy sauce halfway through, because the salt wasn’t salty enough suddenly.
Mae texted, asked what I was eating. I said “just rice.” She sent a heart emoji.
I didn’t answer. But I smiled.
Would I Make It Again?
Yeah. Probably next time the house feels this empty.
That’s As Much As I Remember
The pot’s still on the stove.
Steam’s gone but the quiet stuck around.
I’ll reheat it later. Or not.
FAQs
yeah, but it’ll taste like you meant to do something fancier. still good. just… different smell. softer edges.
yeah, but it’ll taste like you meant to do something fancier. still good. just… different smell. softer edges.
honestly? I almost did. but that day called for plain. if your day calls for soft, add a knob. swirl it in like an apology.
if you want it calm, yes. if you’re starving, fluff it fast and deal with the stick. I’ve done both. they work.
you can. it comes back a little sad. better to fry it tomorrow with an egg and something salty. trust me on that.
Check out More Recipes:
Martha Stewart Perfect White Rice Recipe
Description
Clean, Quiet, And A Little Too Salty—Like An Ex Who Still Texts On Your Birthday.
Ingredients
Instructions
- Boil the water: In a pot that hasn’t betrayed you yet (mine’s got a dent from the night everything cracked), bring 360ml (1½ cups) of water to a boil. Stand there with it. Don’t wander off. Let the steam hit your face and pretend it’s a spa. Or a foggy memory. Either one.
- Add rice and salt: Dump in 1 cup long-grain white rice and a hefty pinch of sea salt—the flaky kind if you’re feeling dramatic. Stir once, gently, like you’re calming it down. Bring it back to a boil while you stare into the steam and wonder if you’re hungry or just tired.
- Simmer and cook: Lower the heat until it barely whispers. Cover with a lid that fits (mine wobbles—it’s fine). Let it do its thing for 16 to 18 minutes. Don’t touch it. Don’t peek. Just trust it more than you trust most people. If it smells like comfort near the end, it’s close.
- Fluff and serve: Take it off the heat. Let it sit a few minutes—like you, it needs time to settle. Then fluff with a fork (mine has a bent tine but still works). Serve it how you like: alone, with butter, with soy sauce, with silence. Sometimes quiet food is the only kind that listens.