August on a Spoon: Seafood Risotto
- jonashton
- Aug 1
- 10 min read
A buttery seafood risotto that tastes like Martha’s Vineyard in late summer—salt-kissed, sun-warmed, and slow-cooked with love.
The drive, the risotto, and the way summer says goodbye.
There’s a certain kind of day on the island—where the breeze is soft as muslin and the light tastes like lemon sorbet—that begs for a slow drive with nowhere urgent to be. You should come with me sometime. We’ll leave Edgartown with the roof peeled back and salt dried at the corners of our lips, heading west toward Vineyard Haven as if drawn by instinct., when the day lies before me like an untouched linen tablecloth. You should come with me sometime. We’ll leave Edgartown with the roof peeled back and salt dried at the corners of our lips, heading west toward Vineyard Haven as if drawn by instinct.
As we enter Beach Road: to the right, the state beach stretched smooth and golden, rippling like brushstrokes on a watery canvas. To the left: the lagoon—placid, silvery, inscrutable. A hush floats over the water, the kind that makes you exhale more deeply, as if the air itself carries memory.
Chris Stapleton belts out “Tennessee Whiskey,” and I can’t help but join in—how could anyone resist? His voice, all molasses and gravel, pours through the speakers and catches in your chest like a kind thought long forgotten. I tilt my face into the wind. It smells of warm sunscreen, distant grilling from the beach, and the fading sweetness of August, like peaches left too long in the sun.
Maybe it’s the way the evenings arrive earlier now. Or the way Eleanor lingers in the sun patch just a little longer. I find myself savoring things more—drives, songs, spoonfuls—as if summer might notice and decide to stay.
Jaws Bridge emerges, a silhouette of mischief. Children arc through the sky—limbs akimbo, shrieking mid-flight—while parents glance up from their phones, their gazes a curious blend of vigilance and nostalgia. Clammers crouch in the shallows, their backs curved like commas, tending to the quiet rituals of harvest.
Oak Bluffs hums in the near distance. Pier bars echo with laughter and clinking glassware, their scent a glorious fog of malt vinegar, fried clams, and sunscreen applied far too late. It’s vibrant, slightly unhinged—meant for someone else. Folks grin into their frozen dirty bananas from Donovan’s Reef, slurping like toddlers at a rum-soaked birthday party.
I drive on. I want something slower. More deliberate. A dish stirred with reverence.
At Net Result, the island’s weathered fish market, the scent of brine and kelp hangs in the air like a tide that never fully receded. The floor tiles are perpetually damp, and the display case clouds with chill. I hover for a moment, studying the offerings the way one studies the handwriting in an old letter. The scent of brine and kelp hangs in the air like a tide that never fully receded. The floor tiles are perpetually damp, and the display case clouds with chill. I hover for a moment, studying the offerings the way one studies the handwriting in an old letter. The swordfish tempts with its swagger, but it feels like an entrée destined for clinking cutlery and white tablecloths. I want something spooned. Something humble. Something that exhales.
Shrimp. Scallops. Squid. Mussels. Nothing ornamental, just the kind of catch that smells of tides and moonlight. I cradle the parcel in my lap on the ride home, as one might hold a secret too sacred to speak aloud.
At Happy Days Cottage, Eleanor Rigby greets me at the garden gate, her tail an exuberant metronome, thumping against the gate like a drumbeat of homecoming. She smells faintly of sun-warmed fur and salt grass, her bark joyous and insistent—You’re home. I noticed. She always insists I enter through the back., her bark is joyous and insistent—You’re home. I noticed. She always insists I enter through the back. The house is shaded and still, infused with the late afternoon’s golden hush. Shoes off. The dog sprawled across cool floorboards. I pour a glass of wine, and the day begins to settle around me like soft linen.
I begin with the broth. I toast the shrimp shells gently, releasing their coppery perfume. An onion, split but unpeeled, joins the pot, along with a weary carrot, a few peppercorns, and a spoonful of tomato paste. The aroma is elemental—salt marsh, driftwood, and something sweet, like sun-warmed seaweed or the skin of a ripe tomato. It is a scent that anchors you.
The smell of the broth takes me back to a tiny seaside café in Cornwall, no bigger than a broom cupboard, its windows misted with salt and memory, the air pulsing softly with the crackle of a seaside radio. I was twelve—sunburnt, sand-scuffed, and endlessly hungry. The chowder came in a chipped blue bowl, steam rising like a whispered invitation. It was served by a woman with sea salt knotted in her hair and hands like driftwood—speckled, sinewy, worn smooth by decades of scrubbing, salting, and stirring. My granny leaned in, her voice barely louder than the surf, and said, “It’s the sea, boy. That’s what you’re tasting.” I believed her. How could I not? Everything in that moment—the salt in the air, the warmth in the bowl, the way her words seemed to settle in my bones—told me she was right. And she still is.
In a separate pan, I melt five unapologetic tablespoons of butter. It hisses, then sighs. Diced onion follows, surrendering to translucence. It smells like old kitchens and open windows, like the shadows that gather under fig trees. Arborio rice tumbles in—opaque, hopeful. I stir slowly, rhythmically, as if coaxing something lost back into the room.
Saffron threads, brittle as ancient paper, crumble between my fingers. Their perfume is haunting: sunlit hay, apricots, linen drying on a Provençal line. When they meet the butter, the air shifts. It always does.
I deglaze with wine. A white with backbone, clean and citrus-kissed. It sizzles sharply before settling into something tender. The rice begins to drink. I ladle in the broth—slowly, ceremoniously. Steam curls upward, fogging my glasses, releasing a vapor that smells like shoreline dreams. This is not cooking; this is invocation.
Somewhere between ladles, Janis Joplin howls through the speakers—Take Another Little Piece of My Heart—and her ache finds the same place in my chest that the risotto does. It struck me that she wasn’t just singing about heartbreak—she was singing about August. Loud, fading, unforgettable.
When the grains have yielded just enough, I add the seafood. Shrimp curl into quiet spirals. Scallops firm up, pale and promising. Squid softens, opaque and delicate. I extinguish the flame, cover the pot, and step away.
The light outside has shifted. The sky hums with that golden melancholy of late summer evenings. I set two places on the deck—one for Lady Ashton, one for me. Eleanor pads over and rests her chin on my knee. She sniffs. She knows. There’s always hope.
I lift the lid.
The risotto glistens—creamy but not cloying, golden from the saffron, studded with glistening seafood. The scent is transportive: brine and butter, memory and longing. It smells like beach towels on a line, like salt-dusted skin, like goodbyes softened by the promise of another summer.
I ladle it gently, reverently. It settles into the bowl like surf pulling in at dusk. Shrimp blush softly. Mussels, half open, gleam like secrets. The scallops rest with a golden edge, as if kissed by the sun. A tangle of parsley, a wedge of lemon waiting for its cue.
Each bite is a quiet revelation. The mussels, warm and mineral-rich. The shrimp—sweet and firm. The scallops—cloudlike, with that flirtation of caramelized crust. The rice—tender but still resilient, catching the butter like a secret it won’t tell. We don’t speak for a moment. Just spoons, and sighs, and the soft clink of shells against ceramic. It tastes of salt and patience, of silence and sun, of the exact moment summer lets go.
I wrap my hands around the warm ceramic bowl. It feels like something ancient and reassuring—like the first mug of tea after a storm.
Eleanor sighs. She knows the rules. But she lingers.
And me? I’m barefoot. Spoon in hand. The sun is fading into copper. The tide is receding slowly.
This isn’t just risotto. This is a memory held in suspension. A quiet song. The slow exhale of August. The kind of meal that doesn’t fill you—it restores you. It doesn’t just feed you—it lingers, like sand in your shoes or a song you hum days later, without knowing why.. This is a memory held in suspension. A quiet song. The slow exhale of August. The kind of meal that doesn’t fill you—it restores you. And there’s just enough left in the pan for one more spoonful.
The summer will leave, as it always does. But the salt stays on your skin a while longer. And the risotto? It tastes better the next day. Like most good things.
The Best Seafood Risotto Starts With a Craving
(Or, How I Ended Up Buying Half the Ocean)
The idea usually starts somewhere on a slow afternoon, when the sea air gets that certain sting in your nostrils—the kind that smells like salt and old ropes and, if I’m being romantic, possibility.I never plan to make seafood risotto. I ache for it.
And so I go to the market and inevitably black out in front of the fish counter, waking to find myself clutching shrimp, scallops, and mussels like they’re the last lifeboat off the Titanic.
How a Pot of Risotto Can Heal Everything (Even a Bad Day)
(Or at the Very Least, Your Soul)
There is something meditative about risotto. You can’t rush it. It demands your attention. You stir. You breathe. You stir again. And somewhere in the rhythm—just beyond the sizzle and sigh—you start to soften, too.
It begins with butter. Always too much, always just enough.
The diced onion cooks until it turns translucent and fragrant—like summer beach glass warmed by the sun. Arborio rice goes in, glossy and eager, and then comes the wine. A generous glug for the pan. A small one for the cook. Fair’s fair.
Saffron, Steam, and the Smell of August
(Why Your Kitchen Should Smell Like the Mediterranean Had a Love Affair With Butter)
Saffron—threaded sunshine—crumbled in with reverence. The aroma? It’s hayfields in Spain, linen sheets drying on the line, and a whisper of something you can’t quite place but need to chase.
The broth goes in ladle by ladle, slow as Sunday morning. It steams your glasses. It curls your hair. It feels intimate, like cooking for someone you might want to kiss across the counter.
Add the Seafood and Say a Little Prayer
(They Only Need Minutes. Don’t Panic.)
Shrimp curl into themselves like shy party guests. Scallops plump up, golden at the edges. Mussels open with soft clicks, glossy and dark as secrets. You stir once. Gently. Like tucking in a baby.
Then you cover the pot. Walk away. Five minutes. That’s all. No peeking. Let it become what it’s meant to be.
What Seafood Risotto Tastes Like
(Hint: It’s Not Just Dinner. It’s a Love Letter.)
It’s salty, but soft. Creamy, but not heavy. The shrimp are sweet. The mussels hum with the ocean. The rice gives ever so slightly, the way your toes sink into warm sand.
The butter coats your lips. The lemon cuts through like a late summer breeze. And somewhere in the mix is a feeling—something between nostalgia and a first kiss. Maybe it’s just the wine. Maybe it’s the risotto. Either way, I’m not complaining.
Final Thoughts: Why You Should Make Seafood Risotto Tonight
(Even If You’re Alone, Especially If You’re In Love)
Because it’s not just about the food. It’s about slowing down. Stirring with care. Tasting as you go. Cooking something that tastes like the end of a perfect beach day—warm skin, damp curls, salt on your lips.
So, yes, I love seafood risotto. Not because it’s posh. Not because it looks good on Instagram (though, let’s be honest, it does). I love it because it’s the kind of dish that makes you fall in love with cooking all over again.
And that, my dear friend, is reason enough.
Plump shrimp, golden scallops, creamy saffron rice—summer never tasted this seductive
Ingredients:
A Quick Seafood Broth
1 onion, unpeeled and quartered through the root
1 carrot, chopped into 2-inch hunks
10 black peppercorns
2 bay leaves
½ teaspoon sea salt
Shells from ½ pound of shrimp (set the bodies aside for later)
2 cups good bottled clam juice
1 (14.5-ounce) can diced tomatoes, drained
Risotto
5 tablespoons unsalted butter
1 small onion, finely diced
A good pinch of salt
2 cups Arborio rice
A whisper of saffron threads—crushed lightly between your fingers
1 cup dry white wine
½ pound small shrimp (about 31-40 per pound), peeled and deveined
½ pound bay scallops
½ pound squid—bodies sliced into tender rings, tentacles left whole
¼ cup fresh basil, roughly torn
Freshly ground black pepper
INSTRUCTIONS:
The Method
Put everything into a large saucepan—no need to be precious about it. Add 5½ cups of cold water and bring to a lively boil. Lower the heat and let it simmer away gently for 15 minutes. Strain the broth through a fine-mesh sieve, pressing firmly on the solids to coax out every last drop of flavour. Discard the spent bits, and keep the broth warm over the lowest heat, like a quiet hum in the background.
Melt 4 tablespoons of the butter in a heavy-bottomed saucepan over medium heat. When it simmers and begins to foam, tip in the onion with the salt. Stir now and then, until the onion softens into translucency—patiently, over about 9 minutes.
Stir in the rice, followed by the saffron, crumbling it in as if scattering sunlight. Cook for a few minutes, stirring often, until the rice turns glossy and the edges become glassy.
Pour in the wine. Let it hiss and bubble, stirring gently as the liquid vanishes into the rice. Add 3 cups of the warm seafood broth. Keep the heat at a gentle simmer and stir every few minutes—just enough to keep the rice from sticking. Let it drink in the broth slowly, about 10 to 12 minutes, until the pan is nearly dry once more.
From here, add broth in half-cup ladles, waiting each time until the rice has absorbed it before adding the next. Stir often, lovingly, until the rice is tender but still carries the faintest resistance at its centre—perhaps another 10 minutes.
Turn off the heat. Stir in the final spoonful of butter with a bit of vigour, then fold in the shrimp, scallops, squid, and basil—each tucked into the warmth like guests arriving late to a dinner party. Cover with a lid and let it rest for 5 to 6 minutes. The seafood will gently poach in the risotto's residual heat, staying soft and supple.
Taste. Adjust the salt. Grind in a little pepper. Serve immediately, spooned into warm, shallow bowls—perhaps with a hunk of crusty bread and a chilled glass of white wine nearby.
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