I had never heard of it, but set out with my own momma to find the stuff. By the time we hit every grocery store in our town looking for the protein-rich, multi-purpose super food, I was convinced that this one food would completely revolutionize my home-making skills! I would become super mom in rope-sandles and a mumu while serving my family such things as Quiona pancakes and Quiona-corn salsa!
To no one's suprise, we could not find Quiona anywhere in our vicinity. The Dad, not-so-graciously pointed out that maybe it was because when I asked for help in finding it, I was pronouncing it "ken-o-yah" or something like that instead of "keen wah", which is apparently how snobby, macho men (and the rest of the world) pronounced it.
Luckily, my momma and I had attended a wedding in the big city. After the rececption, we visited one of my most favorite places in the world: Whole Foods. I am convinced that if I could shop at Whole Foods on a regular basis, I would be a size 8. But, since I do not live close to a Whole Foods, I guess we'll never get the chance to test my theory, now will we?
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| Baby rice-wah, anyone?? |
The very next day, I glanced at some website that popped up when I googled Quiona and it said for each portion of Quiona that I cook, I should cook it in 2 portions of water. Easy enough! What more was there to know, right? So, I set the pan with measured-out portions of Quiona and water on the stove and continued cooking the rest of dinner. It started boiling and then I reduced the heat. It still boiled and then I covered it. It tried to boil over and then I thought, "How do I know when this stuff is even done?" Maybe there was more to know.
I hollered at The Dad, who was in the living room playing on the Mac (he says he was working...) and asked him to look up the directions again. He hollered back, "After you soak for at least 15 minutes, but no longer than an hour..."
Soak? And just what happens if I don't soak? "Well," The Dad said, "This lady says that if you don't soak, you'll be disappointed with the bitter and often sour taste."
OK, fine. I poured that mess down the drain and began soaking more Quiona. After 20 minutes, I poured the soaked Quiona through the collander...whose holes are about three times the size of a Quiona (Quionaii? Is that the singular?) Great. There's two portions of Quiona, well, down the drain! I set out to soak the third portion and thought briefly of just forgetting the whole mess. But, then I remembered my week-long dream of being a hippy-dippy momma who only fed healthy, whole foods to her precious little world-changers.
So, I put the rest of dinner on hold and gave all of my attention to the Quiona. I got it drained (with the help of a very small tea-strainer-type thing that I have in my kitchen drawer because every kitchen needs one) and started boiling. I added spices to make it like Spanish rice - this was because it would complement the meal better and would surely guarantee that the family would eat it! Surely it would. Right?
Approximately 45 minutes later, I deemed that the Quiona was done-wah and I served dinner.
Daughter 1 took one look at the tablespoon-sized portion on her plate and declared that she would not now nor ever eat seeds. The "But, they're not seeds, Baby - it's Spanish rice!" argument was met with the increasingly-popular, "Whatever" that has invaded her vocabulary since she started her last year of elementary school. Gulp.
I held out hope that Daughter 2 would be the one to embrace my free-lovin' dinner. She looked at her plate and then at me and said, "Are you sure this is Spanish rice? Because the rice looks tiny."
"It's BABY rice, honey!" I said, reverting to the first rule of Momma survival: When All Else Fails, Lie.
"BABY rice? Made from what kind of Babies?" she shrieked.
"Wha--?? Not made from babies! It's like rice that's not grown up! Like baby carrots are carrots that aren't grown up. This is baby rice that's not grown up!" I argued with all the flower-power I could muster after spending almost 2 hours cooking a meal that my very own off-spring would not even touch!
"Well, I'm not eating any kind of baby anything," she explained. "I'll just make myself a peanut butter and jelly sandwich."
"Make me one, too!" Daughter 1 chimed in.
Ever the supportive momma, I said, "Fine, but the peanut butter's made from baby peanuts." They didn't care about that, though.
I glanced over at The Dad who was chomping a mouth full of something. "You like my Quiona, right?"
He swallowed and then placed a tiny bit on Quiona on his fork before spearing a chunk of chicken and knocking half of his paltry portion of Quiona right back onto his plate, "It's alright if I eat it with the chicken."
"But you like the other part of the meal, right?" I questioned him, feeling my should-have-been-burned-bra straps slipping off my slumped shoulders as I stared at the free-range, grain-fed, non-vaccinated, over-priced chicken breast on his plate.
"Oh, yeah, honey!" he said, gulping his 2 pieces of Quiona, "It's just that I prefer my rice to be full-grown."
I'd have never survived commune living. I'm barely surviving familial living as it is!
