Kitchen Therapy (No Copay!) Creamed Corn Confessions

(A Back-Burner Manifesto)

I made creamed corn risotto recently. Not because I had some divine inspiration. Not because I’m the kind of person who has arborio rice labeled in a glass jar (mine’s in a sad bag held together by a cracked chip clip). I made it because everything else felt like too much.

The texts I haven’t answered?
The stuff I forgot to handle?
The crushing emotional reality of being neither divorced nor married anymore, neither thriving nor flailing, just sort of… bobbing around like a rogue beach ball in the ocean.

It’s too much. Way too much.

But stirring risotto with a chipped wooden spoon while my toddler flung strawberry yogurt across the room like Jackson Pollock? That I could do.

And somewhere around the third ladle of broth and the fourth existential *WTH am I going to do now* sigh, I had an epiphany:

Back-burnering risotto is a revelation.
Back-burnering yourself is a spiritual health code violation.

One works because it’s gentle. It’s patient. It’s designed for the long simmer.
The other? Not so much.

You can’t keep setting yourself aside while everything else boils over. That’s how you scorch the bottom of your soul. That’s how you start resenting everyone and everything that gets to be “priority” while you’re stuck sweating in the background, unseasoned and unattended.

But risotto? That creamy little dream in a pan? It rewards the slow care. It forgives the distractions. It lets you mess up the timing a little and still come out golden. You can walk away for a bit, but not forever. Because it still needs you. Just like you need you.

See, risotto gets better the longer you pay lowkey attention to it. Stir it gently. Feed it broth. Whisper affirmations if you must. It’s clingy, but in a romantic way. Like, “I’m not mad, just simmering.”

Same, risotto. Same. Well, maybe I’m slight more salty these days. But I digress.

But when you spend your whole damn life on the metaphorical back burner… never the main course, always the side dish, checking everyone else’s temp but your own… well, you end up burnt out and under-seasoned. Not delicious. Just… overly done.

And listen, I’ve back-burnered myself in just about every application possible.

Turns out you can’t nourish people from an empty Dutch oven.

So lately, I’ve been saying no to anything that required real pants to allow space for me to do what I need to do for me. For me, that’s time in the garden. Time in the kitchen. Writing. Creating. All of these things restore me to my sanity.

Back to the risotto. I stirred. I seasoned. I let the canned creamed corn do her thing. I let the arborio rise like a phoenix from the pantry. And I told the voice in my head that said “you should be doing more” to kindly go stir itself.

The Recipe (in the loosest sense):

• Butter. (A couple tablespoons)

• Diced shallots, if you’re feeling rich. Onion, if you’re not. Throw it into the butter over medium heat. Season with salt and pepper to taste.

• A couple cloves minced garlic added once the onions are ALMOST done.

• Once you smell that garlic, add some arborio rice (about a cup) with the onions once soft. Not forever. Just until it smells like a hug.

• A glug or two of white wine or dry rosé, unless you’re emotionally fragile, in which case… maybe just pretend?

• Keep 4 cups chicken broth warm on another burner. Not boiling. If you can bathe a toddler in it, it’s just right.

• Ladle in warm broth 1/2 cup at a time while spiraling about how everything is expensive and your eyebrows are uneven.

• Only add more broth when the rice looks thirsty. Give it a stir around with each addition and pretend you have your whole life together.

• Once half of the broth is added, mix in fresh corn from 2 cobs. Or use frozen, whatever. I’m not the food police.

• With the last cup of broth, add a can of creamed corn and whisper, “You’re doing amazing, sweetie.”

• Stir ‘til it’s creamy. Add freshly grated parmesan like you’re trying to drown your feelings in dairy.

• Top with cracked pepper, chives, or nothing, because you’re tired and that’s honestly so valid.

Optional: Eat while standing over the stove wearing socks and unresolved tension. Bonus points if a child interrupts you mid-bite.

Final thought:
You are not a crockpot. You are not built to simmer indefinitely. You are a human risotto: complex, comforting, and worthy of steady care.

So stir gently. Season with kindness. And stop putting yourself on the back burner, babe. You’re the whole damn meal. Every course.

Still emotionally not quite al dente,
Sara 💛

P.S. This risotto won't fix your life. But it will taste like stability. Or at least stability-adjacent. Which is honestly the best we can ask for these days.