Less than a block from the infamous 5-Points section of Lower Manhattan lies a jewel of grocery store called Bangkok Center Grocery. It's a hole-in-the-wall place that's smaller than my living room, but packs enough Thai goodness to keep my mouth burning all year round. I go there whenever the travel bug hits and I need some nostalgic nourishment to placate the fact that I ain't going anywhere anytime soon. The days are shortening and with the 1-year anniversary of my Thailand trip looming on the horizon, I was jonesin' bad.
I had taken a few Thai cooking classes when I was in Chiang Mai and immediately fell in love with the food. New York is woefully lacking in quality, Thai restaurants. We're hip-deep in Chinese, Italian, Indian and sushi, but authentic Thai and Mexican are rare-if-ever sightings. If I wanted some Thai, then I was going to have to do it myself. The four hardest, quality ingredients to come by are fish sauce, shrimp paste, palm sugar and kaffir lime rind/leaves. The first two smell awful the first time you try them. Palm sugar is a great not-so-sweet sugar. Kaffir lime isn't nearly as tangy and sour as conventional limes. It has a great taste that instantly takes me back to Thailand whenever I smell it and it's the secret weapon of really good Thai cooking. If I lived somewhere warm and I had a yard, I would plant myself a kaffir lime tree. It's that frigging good.
Even with the ingredients and the know-how, it takes a lot of practice to get a food dish into the Rotation- eaten on a regular basis. The key is ease-of-preparation. Even in my neighborhood, delivery food is quick and ideal for a tired S.O.B. who's just returned home after a 45-minute commute. I'm not, generally, in the mood to heat up my kitchen and cook for an hour. It's gotta be simple. Pad thai is the first Thai food that I've gotten down pat. It's easy, tastes awesome, and soaking the rice noodles for 12 minutes is half the prep time. Still, it's not a particularly exciting meal. It's mild and frankly, my favorite Thai foods have a little kick. That's where the curry paste comes in.
The cornerstone of hot, Thai cooking is a good curry. Curry paste is the barbecue sauce or marinara of Thai food. If you can nail down a good curry paste, you can stick it in the freezer and pull it out whenever you need it. Cook it with chicken or pork or duck or tofu (all organic, of course) and you will be able to quickly assemble a couple dozen fantastic meals. I made a few curry pastes when I first got back from Thailand, but with middling success. I made a red paste, a paenang paste and a sweeter, milder curry paste called Chiang Mai paste (my favorite). I discovered two keys to a good paste- smoothness and heat. On my first attempt, I got impatient with the food processor and ended up with a bunch of paste that wasn't smooth enough. In addition, it had a good flavor, but didn't give the kind of nasal-clearing heat I'd come to expect from a good curry dish. This time around, I wasn't going to fuck around with the peppers. This time, we were going to have some Serious pepper action in the kitchen.
On Monday, I decided to make some yellow curry paste and a double-batch of red curry paste. I soaked 3-dozen dried, red peppers then added another 10 tiny, green peppers to the mix. I cut and I cleaned the seeds out and I soaked them and when I was done- Success! I busted out my wok, added some coconut milk, 4 tablespoons of red curry paste, palm sugar, tofu. Man! It was like I was back in Southeast Asia. Even Kat, who had been eyeing me nervously all through the prep had to give me props.
Pumped on adrenaline and intense enthusiasm all afternoon, I was finally starting to come down when I noticed my hands- what was that... that burning? My hands began to get warmer and warmer until suddenly they were in full-blown pain. The oils from all the peppers I'd been handling made me feel like I could light a candle with my fingertip. Ho-ly Je-sus. I scrubbed and I scrubbed. I held them in front of fans, I poured milk on them, I scrubbed them some more, but they kept burning and burning. This is what happens when coddled, office hands meet hot peppers. Yow. Five hours later, the burning subsided enough for me to fall asleep.
Last week, my glasses broke. One of those little nose bridges snapped off as I was putting my yogurt in the fridge at work. With no money to buy a new pair, I've started wearing my contact lenses again. They've taken some getting used to, but I was beginning to adjust. Mercifully, I was lazy on Monday and never bothered to put them in. The morning after my Flaming Hands performance, I woke up and stumbled to the bathroom- completely forgetting that my hands were burning just hours earlier. Now, they felt fine. I'd like to think that I'd have been a little smarter if I'd waited another 10 minutes to wake up but, alas, I will never know for sure, for it was with infinite stupidity that I ambled up to the bathroom sink and popped in my right contact. The next 15 minutes were spent trying to get it out. You know you're in a bad way when you start negotiating with yourself. Out Loud. Kat, one of the most squeamish human beings when it comes to eyes, actually offered to use Her fingers to get it out. Finally, the contact abandoned ship and I managed to lurch through my daily prep. Unfortunately, I was left to wear my broken glasses the rest of the day... and again today.
Good curry paste, though.
Showing posts with label Thailand. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Thailand. Show all posts
Wednesday, October 19, 2005
Thursday, January 27, 2005
the Fall of my cathedral
A couple of months ago, my girlfriend and I went to Thailand. I was 2 months into my unemployment and about to crawl out of my skin. My cave was looking darker than usual. It felt as if the earth was slowly pinching me off from the rest of the world and then suddenly, one day, I might wake up and realize that I had been cut off from all reality and forever lost in a world of depression and paranoia. I stopped working on things and began to stall for time. I had to get out. Only days before a national election I couldn't avoid and a Halloween that would once-again find me without a costume or party, I got on a plane, lost 12 hours worth of time zones, then stepped off a plane in Bangkok.
In Thailand, anyone who even remotely looks like a tourist has to expect a little hassle. There is always someone willing to take your money if you are sucker enough to part with it. Tuk-tuk drivers (the motor-scootery mosquitos of SE Asian transportation) regularly stand within a block of every tourist destination so they can tell you that the Palace/post office/train station/holy shrine is closed (Buddhist holiday) and offer transportation to the opposite end of the city. As a 6' 3" white male, I was not only a target, but one that could be easily spotted a block away. My blonde girlfriend only served to underscore our intense need to be hustled. The only place (for the most part) where a tourist could catch a break was in a wat. A wat is a Buddhist, temple complex. They are beautiful, quiet and mercifully-free of tuk-tuk drivers... inside the gates. As an added bonus, like a Starbucks in urban America, there are wats EVERYWHERE. They quickly became effective bunkers where I could take a drink of water, pull out my Nancy Chandler map and plan my assault on the next tourist attraction in the city, without the chaos of traffic jams and smiley glad-handers interrupting me every 30 seconds to ask me where I was going.
About a week into the trip, I was sitting in a Wat Suan Dok, in the northern city of Chiang Mai, when I realized that these wats were more than simply escapes where I was 'tagging up' before jumping into the fray of aggressive tourism - it was a place where I was settling my mind and re-centering myself. I was a first-time visitor to Thailand who was being hustled endlessly and who spoke very little of the language. My escapes were tangible and my escape route clear, but this escape was taking on a deeper aspect. The rules that govern wats are universal - wear modest clothing that covers your shoulders and legs, take off your shoes when you enter a bot (ceremonial building), sit on the floor, be quiet, and don't point your feet at the Buddha. By this time, I was watching others and becoming more thorough in my behavior. I burned candles and nodded in respect before the Buddhas before standing and leaving a bot. I am not Buddhist, but there was a respect and reverence that I found myself admiring in those spaces. For the first time, I was beginning to recognize that these rituals weren't simply perfunctory motions to be followed, but actions that contributed to these spaces through the respect they gave. In all my summers of Bible Camp, Sunday school and endless sermons of my youth, I had never understood the importance of ritual, and especially that ritual was an opportunity for me to take responsibility for my actions and contribute to these spiritual spaces. It was at this moment that I reached an epiphany - my cathedral in Mahhattan had fallen.
In northern Manhattan, there are very few places where one can escape the car alarms, beeping horns, and bellowing speak of the community. My experiences with christianity have not been the most affirming moments in my life. I have a significant amount of personalized baggage with churches, so those spiritual spaces offer little respite. The park, however, was such a place. Inwood Hill Park is the most beautiful park in New York. Prospect Park has beautiful lawns and wooden gazeebos and Central Park has... well, it's Central Park. Inwood's park, however, doesn't have the man-made feel of other city parks. The forest (or what is left of it) is old. The trees aren't simply look old - it FEELS old. The park's caves (unlike my own) are nestled against a beautiful horseshoe-shaped rim that gazes into the midst of a solemn mass of trees. There it is. My cathedral. I would walk into that nestled dell, sit down and gaze up into those stunning pillars of living wood and feel that I was living on another world. Even the distant rumble of a Metro North train heading to Poughkeepsie or a jet that just left La Guardia only added to the transporting feeling of sitting among those trees. Without ever consciously realizing it, I was sitting in my spiritual space. My silence, my respect and even the shoes I chose to wear whenever I visit that park, were all part of a reverence I offered to my cathedral.
Then, there was Sarah Fox. Last summer, a Julliard student was jogging through the park when she was abducted and murdered. To date, the murder hasn't been solved. The occassional poster dots the 207th St. subway station and bulletin boards, but there is still no indictment. For weeks after the murder, I didn't return to the park. I didn't think of why except that it had disappeared from my plans, like a spot of white-out on a page of 'Things to Do'. Later, I would take short walks along the remote paths with friends, firing off a dark stare upon every man we saw. I wouldn't walk alone anymore, unless it was along the outer rim, to peek into the dog park or sit along the salt marsh. I didn't fear for my safety, but my mind restlessly wandered with discomfort to the desecration of my cathedral. It was gone. It had a history that could be neither undone nor unforgotten . Other fell deeds have certainly been performed beneath the canopy of my spiritual santuary, but they were never a part of my experiences and this event weighs endlessly upon my mind... and it was at the feet of a Buddha in Wat Suan Dok, in a northern city in Thailand, 13 hours of flight time from my cave and my fallen cathedral where I could finally see what I had, what I'd lost and perhaps a glimpse of the road I'd been blindly travelling.
In Thailand, anyone who even remotely looks like a tourist has to expect a little hassle. There is always someone willing to take your money if you are sucker enough to part with it. Tuk-tuk drivers (the motor-scootery mosquitos of SE Asian transportation) regularly stand within a block of every tourist destination so they can tell you that the Palace/post office/train station/holy shrine is closed (Buddhist holiday) and offer transportation to the opposite end of the city. As a 6' 3" white male, I was not only a target, but one that could be easily spotted a block away. My blonde girlfriend only served to underscore our intense need to be hustled. The only place (for the most part) where a tourist could catch a break was in a wat. A wat is a Buddhist, temple complex. They are beautiful, quiet and mercifully-free of tuk-tuk drivers... inside the gates. As an added bonus, like a Starbucks in urban America, there are wats EVERYWHERE. They quickly became effective bunkers where I could take a drink of water, pull out my Nancy Chandler map and plan my assault on the next tourist attraction in the city, without the chaos of traffic jams and smiley glad-handers interrupting me every 30 seconds to ask me where I was going.
About a week into the trip, I was sitting in a Wat Suan Dok, in the northern city of Chiang Mai, when I realized that these wats were more than simply escapes where I was 'tagging up' before jumping into the fray of aggressive tourism - it was a place where I was settling my mind and re-centering myself. I was a first-time visitor to Thailand who was being hustled endlessly and who spoke very little of the language. My escapes were tangible and my escape route clear, but this escape was taking on a deeper aspect. The rules that govern wats are universal - wear modest clothing that covers your shoulders and legs, take off your shoes when you enter a bot (ceremonial building), sit on the floor, be quiet, and don't point your feet at the Buddha. By this time, I was watching others and becoming more thorough in my behavior. I burned candles and nodded in respect before the Buddhas before standing and leaving a bot. I am not Buddhist, but there was a respect and reverence that I found myself admiring in those spaces. For the first time, I was beginning to recognize that these rituals weren't simply perfunctory motions to be followed, but actions that contributed to these spaces through the respect they gave. In all my summers of Bible Camp, Sunday school and endless sermons of my youth, I had never understood the importance of ritual, and especially that ritual was an opportunity for me to take responsibility for my actions and contribute to these spiritual spaces. It was at this moment that I reached an epiphany - my cathedral in Mahhattan had fallen.
In northern Manhattan, there are very few places where one can escape the car alarms, beeping horns, and bellowing speak of the community. My experiences with christianity have not been the most affirming moments in my life. I have a significant amount of personalized baggage with churches, so those spiritual spaces offer little respite. The park, however, was such a place. Inwood Hill Park is the most beautiful park in New York. Prospect Park has beautiful lawns and wooden gazeebos and Central Park has... well, it's Central Park. Inwood's park, however, doesn't have the man-made feel of other city parks. The forest (or what is left of it) is old. The trees aren't simply look old - it FEELS old. The park's caves (unlike my own) are nestled against a beautiful horseshoe-shaped rim that gazes into the midst of a solemn mass of trees. There it is. My cathedral. I would walk into that nestled dell, sit down and gaze up into those stunning pillars of living wood and feel that I was living on another world. Even the distant rumble of a Metro North train heading to Poughkeepsie or a jet that just left La Guardia only added to the transporting feeling of sitting among those trees. Without ever consciously realizing it, I was sitting in my spiritual space. My silence, my respect and even the shoes I chose to wear whenever I visit that park, were all part of a reverence I offered to my cathedral.Then, there was Sarah Fox. Last summer, a Julliard student was jogging through the park when she was abducted and murdered. To date, the murder hasn't been solved. The occassional poster dots the 207th St. subway station and bulletin boards, but there is still no indictment. For weeks after the murder, I didn't return to the park. I didn't think of why except that it had disappeared from my plans, like a spot of white-out on a page of 'Things to Do'. Later, I would take short walks along the remote paths with friends, firing off a dark stare upon every man we saw. I wouldn't walk alone anymore, unless it was along the outer rim, to peek into the dog park or sit along the salt marsh. I didn't fear for my safety, but my mind restlessly wandered with discomfort to the desecration of my cathedral. It was gone. It had a history that could be neither undone nor unforgotten . Other fell deeds have certainly been performed beneath the canopy of my spiritual santuary, but they were never a part of my experiences and this event weighs endlessly upon my mind... and it was at the feet of a Buddha in Wat Suan Dok, in a northern city in Thailand, 13 hours of flight time from my cave and my fallen cathedral where I could finally see what I had, what I'd lost and perhaps a glimpse of the road I'd been blindly travelling.
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