A Culinary Tribute: Remembering Rachael Through Beet Risotto and Enduring Friendship

It was two years ago tonight that I poured my heart out, writing about the profound loss of a truly great love in my life, a dear friend named Rachael. As I reflect on those words now, I’m vividly reminded of how I once likened her to a guru. At that time, much like many others, I was immersed in the pages of Elizabeth Gilbert’s Eat, Pray, Love. The book introduced me to the beautiful concept that a guru’s purpose is not to impart knowledge directly, but rather to reveal your own hidden greatness through their merits and the unique perspective they offer. I’ve since found no better, more eloquent definition of what true friendship truly embodies – a relationship where the light of another illuminates the best in yourself.

While I am incredibly fortunate to have other friends who enrich my life in countless ways, capable of inspiring similar depths of admiration and love, Rachael occupies a unique and irreplaceable space in my heart. The ache of missing her is a constant companion, surfacing in quiet moments and vivid memories. I miss her infectious, unrestrained laugh that could brighten any room, a sound so distinct it still echoes in my mind. I miss the peculiar charm of her feet, an odd detail perhaps, but one that spoke to her individuality. Her wonderfully wonky hair, and the distinct way she lost only half of it, concentrated on one side, even affecting one of her eyebrows, added to her unforgettable character. Her incredibly warm, touchy-hugginess made you feel utterly cherished and safe. Her absolutely stunning voice – that girl could truly sing, her melodies filling spaces with joy and emotion and leaving a lasting impression. And perhaps most of all, I miss her absolutely genuine, almost childlike enthusiasm for every single little thing she encountered in a given day. From the humble leftovers she packed for lunch at work to the refreshing, rainy bike ride home, she found joy and wonder in the mundane, transforming everyday moments into something magical and memorable.

One particular memory stands out, a testament to her enduring spirit and profound love for life’s simple pleasures, even in the face of immense adversity. It was a day in late November, in the quiet, solemn confines of the palliative care ward. She was barely speaking, and her appetite for actual food had all but vanished. Yet, when another friend offered her a single, perfectly ripe strawberry, a moment of pure, unadulterated bliss bloomed. She leaned her head back onto her pillow, a radiant smile gracing her lips, and uttered a single, powerful “F” word, a declaration of pure, unadulterated delight. It was a profound moment, revealing her vibrant spirit despite her weakening body, a tiny spark of life’s joy burning brightly against the encroaching darkness. Some days, I recall her laugh with such perfect clarity, it feels as though she’s right beside me. But then, a subtle anxiety creeps in, a worry that this precious memory might fade, like a photocopy of a photocopy, each replay diminishing its original vibrancy, tarnishing it, twisting it into something that’s not quite right anymore. And yet, on other days, my mind simply drifts to beet risotto, a completely different, yet equally powerful, anchor to her memory, a culinary thread connecting us across time.

Rachael once told me about a beet risotto she had made, not long after we first met. She didn’t just mention it; she absolutely raved about it. It was from a copy of Australian Women’s Weekly, or some similar publication, she recalled with a hint of longing. She could never quite track down the exact recipe again, a minor frustration she’d often lament, but she would invariably bring it up in conversation, “oohing” and “aahing” over how incredibly fantastic it was, how brilliantly vibrant its color, and how utterly delicious it tasted. She never did manage to find me the recipe, despite my repeated requests, but still, to this day, I think about that elusive beet risotto more often than not whenever I pick up a beet at the grocery store or farmer’s market. It became a culinary ghost, a delicious enigma that perfectly encapsulated her unique blend of passion and playful mystery, a dish that lived on in vivid description rather than tangible form.

Just this morning, the thought of it resurfaced with renewed intensity. I half-heartedly browsed through a few websites, hoping to stumble upon a recipe that might capture the essence of what Rachael had described, but nothing truly resonated. The image of the vibrantly colored dish, and the memory of her infectious enthusiasm, lingered persistently in my mind, a subtle hum beneath my daily thoughts. As dinnertime approached, and the boys were happily occupied at the dog park, a sudden clarity struck me. If I was going to spend so much time thinking about that beet risotto, and by extension, about Rachael and the joy she found in simple culinary delights, I might as well translate that thought into action. It was time to stop pondering and start peeling and grating a beet. This simple decision marked the beginning of my own culinary tribute, a way to connect with her memory through the act of creation, a tangible expression of remembrance.

And that, quite literally, is how this beet risotto came to be. My window of opportunity was somewhat narrow; I had a little over an hour before I needed to leave for my Artemis meeting. This wasn’t an evening stretched out before me, allowing for leisurely, creative dinner preparation and culinary experimentation. Yet, risotto, in its own peculiar way, is the perfect dish for a busy evening. It’s the sort of meal you can attend to in short bursts, perfectly suited to a multi-tasking lifestyle. You can stir a bit, then dash off to clean up Play-Doh, unload the dishwasher, run a load of laundry, or quickly jump over to your laptop to send an urgent email. The beauty of risotto lies in its forgiving nature – it asks for attention, but allows for brief periods of neglect. You can step away from it for a few moments, as long as you return. Just make sure you don’t forget it entirely while you’re engrossed in checking your emails or tackling other household chores, lest it stick to the bottom of the pan!

The cooking process itself was a simple, yet engaging, dance of ingredients transforming under gentle heat and constant care. I started by giving the (surprisingly large!) grated beet a generous turn in a pot with a knob of butter and a swirl of olive oil, allowing its earthy sweetness to begin to unfurl and its vibrant color to deepen. Next, I added about a cup of short-grain Arborio rice, the classic choice for risotto, known for its ability to absorb liquid while releasing its starches, which creates that signature creamy texture. Then, the rhythmic addition began: a 1-liter tetra pack of chicken stock was added in gradual increments, ladle by ladle, requiring frequent stirring. This constant attention, while seemingly demanding, is what transforms humble rice and stock into the rich, velvety consistency of a perfect risotto. The stirring becomes a meditative act, a quiet moment of focus amidst the evening’s bustle, a kitchen ritual connecting me to Rachael’s memory. Finally, at the very end, to achieve that ultimate creamy indulgence and a boost of savory flavor, I finished it with a little blob of butter and a generous whack of freshly grated Parmesan cheese for good measure, stirring them through until they melted into the ruby-red rice, creating a dish both visually stunning and deeply comforting.

This vibrant beet risotto served as a stunning accompaniment to a pork roast I had prepared earlier, which had spent a good amount of time marinating in a plastic bag with a medley of balsamic vinegar, olive oil, and a smoky barbecue rub, infusing it with layers of flavor. Alongside, a fresh medley of mixed greens provided a crisp counterpoint to the richness of the main dishes, creating a balanced and satisfying meal. My partner, Mike, was particularly enamoured with the risotto. He described it as “very intense,” and “very potent,” a testament to the deep, earthy flavor of the beets combined with the richness of the cheese and stock. I, on the other hand, wasn’t entirely convinced at first bite. Perhaps it was the sheer novelty of the color, so strikingly different from traditional risotto, or the unexpected intensity of the flavor. But as I continued to eat, savoring each spoonful, it truly grew on me, its unique character slowly winning me over. By the time I returned home from my meeting later that evening, the memory of its flavor lingered, and I found myself still craving it, managing to shovel a few cold, yet utterly satisfying, mouthfuls into my mouth directly from the pot before bed. This act, more than anything, confirmed that I must have liked it far more than my initial hesitation suggested.

I’m still not entirely sure if I managed to do Rachael’s legendary recipe full justice, or if my rendition truly captured the magnificent dish she had so vividly described. But in a profound way, that wasn’t the most important part. What truly mattered was that I finally made it. I brought her culinary ghost to life, transforming a cherished memory into a tangible, flavorful experience. Had she not planted that seemingly insignificant seed of an idea so many years ago, the remarkable and unexpected combination of earthy beets and creamy risotto would have never occurred to me. (I mean, seriously, look at it – its striking, almost fluorescent red hue resembles some sort of curiously vibrant ground beef or a whimsical piece of sea coral! It’s an unconventional beauty that dares you to try it.) This dish, in its unique presentation and flavor, stands as a testament to her enduring influence, a tangible connection to her memory. It’s a reminder of how the people we love continue to shape our world, even after they’re gone, through the smallest sparks of inspiration they leave behind, guiding us to new experiences and deeper understandings.

Thanks, Rach, for everything, for the memories, and for the beet risotto.

One Year Ago: Olives, Goat Feta, Roasted Carrot Hummus, Spiced Pecans, and Bubble and Squeak