From these brief introductory beats, I launch into the meditative state of work. The smell of white wine hitting butter and rice floats through the air of the kitchen and I snap out of my trance. Suddenly and uncontrollably, the memories come flooding back. Now I am reminded of the very first time I made risotto, when the steam of the white wine hit my face. I love it—smell and memory, both. My mind wanders and I'm off thinking of a risotto, thinking of all the risottos I ever made and all the risottos I could make.