Petit Riz

guest post by Sarah Souli

Hi Justin.

Remember when you decided that you were going to learn how to cook? That was the same year you had committed yourself, with the assistance of a carefully detailed Excel spreadsheet, to how much and what types of food you would buy. Mindfulness in the kitchen. You lived with boys who charred squash on the gas stove and measured spices with their palms. They took off their shirts to cook. I came into your room one day, which you had decorated with fallen tree branches, and you showed me the sparse columns.

“I want to simplify my life,” you said. “I really don’t need all of this stuff. Oatmeal, banana and peanut butter, I can live off that easily.”

“That sounds terrible,” I probably responded, because I was always sarcastic and sometimes your commitment to balance and emptiness scared me because I’ve always been overly grounded in this false reality.

One day in the spring, you asked me to teach you how to make a meal. You came over to my apartment, and we had a little date; I remember Collin teasing us about it later. Standing in my cramped gallery kitchen, we talked about life and love and sex and meaning and oneness, and as usual, I only understood half of what you were talking about. You were on another level, my beautiful friend. But I could talk about food.

“The most important thing about cooking is to wash your hands first!” I said bossily, as you reached for the chicken with bare hands.

We marinated chicken in spiced yogurt sauce and whisked together a grainy mustard vinaigrette for the salad leaves. We toasted couscous grains and cooked them in broth.

“Couscous is great,” I said, “because it’s really cheap and cooks so quickly and you can mix in whatever you want. Nuts and fruit and herbs are really delicious here.” I showed you the dried cranberries, pistachios and parsley we would toss in.

You looked into the pot and than at me. “Wow!” you said, “so I can put anything in here?”

“Well, yeah, sure,” I replied, assuming that ‘anything’ remained in the realm of things one would normally find in a couscous salad.

“So I could put in…bananas?” you asked.

I nearly burnt my face off on the stove, I was bent over and laughing so much.

JB, I’ve been rolling this memory over and over in my head since learning you decided to take a different path. Why not put bananas in couscous? I understand better now, what you were always saying to me, everything in this world is connected, everything belongs. You and me and all the bananas, ‘flowing this morning into the marvelous stream of oneness.’

I often hear people say that suicide is selfish. I don’t think so. It is the rest of us who are selfish, those of us who close our ears and our hearts out of fear or confusion or misguided politeness or laziness. You were the opposite of that, always so open and ready to share your feelings and absorb ours as your own. I wish we had all fed you more when you were here.

I still firmly believe that bananas in couscous would be disgusting, even if they are all part of the same universe. I made this instead. The pudding is creamy and sweet, with a little spice from the ginger and pepper. You crunch through the caramelized crust of the bananas to find a gooey inner layer. I think a dollop of nut butter would be a welcome addition. I hope you’ll like it.

Coconut Rice Pudding with Caramelized Bananas
(Will warm the bellies and hearts of 4-6, depending on how much warming is needed)

Ingredients:
1 cup of white rice
1 can of coconut milk
1 ½ cup water
6 tbsp honey
Pinch of sea salt
1 tsp of cinnamon
1 inch piece of ginger, peeled and grated
Pinch of freshly ground black pepper
4 bananas
3 tbsp of butter

Directions:
Melt 1 tbsp of butter in a large pot over medium heat. Add rice and toast for one minute, or until translucent. Add salt, coconut milk and water, and bring to a boil. Reduce heat to a gentle simmer and cover, leaving a small gap for the steam to escape. After 30 minutes, check the doneness of the rice- it should be soft, with a slight bite to it. All the liquid should be absorbed; if not, add a bit more water. Stir in 4 tbsp honey, cinnamon, ginger and ground black pepper.

Peel and slice the bananas lengthwise. Over medium heat, melt remaining butter and honey in a saucepan, mixing to combine. Add the banana slices and cook till golden brown, about 1 ½ minute per side.

To serve, scoop some pudding into a bowl. Garnish with banana slices and some of the remaining butter-honey sauce, and share with a friend. Tell them they are needed.

If you would like to raise awareness for suicide prevention across the country, please consider sending donations to: https://gatewayprod4.frontrunnerpro.com/book-of-memories/1844463/Justin-Regis-Broglie/donation.php