The infusion is the mother gesture of every saffron dish the house cooks, and the whole of it fits in three lines: warm water, never boiling; a pinch of threads; ten quiet minutes on the counter. The colour arrives first, slowly. The perfume arrives all at once, near the end.
What you have made, when the ten minutes are done, is not garnish and not seasoning. It is a small vessel of liquid gold, and it is the base of the dish. It goes into rice in the last minute, into a broth at rest, into pastry cream before it sets. The threads themselves are folded in with it; nothing about saffron is thrown away.
Learn the gesture once. Every dish that follows begins here.