Growing up I always remember a pot of rice on the stove. My mom, being half Japanese, made sure of this. Rice was an essential part of her childhood and she bestowed that appreciation for the tender grain in my sisters and me. The first thing I remember how to cook was rice. No fancy rice cookers were involved, simply a pot, some water, and rice. There is a very specific way to cook rice, according to my mom. To master that skill was the first step of initiation into our home kitchen.
First, place the rice in the pot and rinse it a couple of times with fresh batches of water. Next fill up the pot with water so that the rice is covered by an amount of water equal to the length between the tip of your finger and the midpoint between the two most distal knuckles. My little sister had a line, or wrinkle, if you will, there. This, my mom sagely averred, was her “rice line,” a useful physical trait for the task at hand. With the rice covered, place the pot without a lid on the stove and bring the water to a boil. Then, turn the heat down to low, cover the pot, and let the rice simmer until all the water is absorbed, but not any longer! (We always knew when my little sister made the rice because the bottom was burnt.)