Round the World Tapas Night

In honor of my to-be cookbook, and all of the cooking, recipe creating, and experimenting I was doing over the summer, I invited some friends over and cooked a round the world tapas night for ten. I had one small plate for each country I cooked in (which amounted to five courses), along with two desserts. So here they are, in order:

First Course: I started with a homemade Indian samosa with mint and tamarind chutneys. Samosas are a popular snack food in India, but are rarely made at home. When they are, they are usually smaller and shaped as seen in the picture, rather than upright like most of those seen in restaurants.

 Second Course: I made a Moroccan soup called Harira, which is one of my favorite dishes from Morocco. Harira should be delicious at the first bite, and then outstanding once the lemon is squeezed in. Served with Moroccan bread, 'Khobs,' like most food in Morocco, Harira is said to be a meal all in one, since it contains so many ingredients common in Moroccan cuisine.

Third Course: For this course, I made Paticlan, a traditional Turkish eggplant salad, which I added a lettuce cup and roasted red peppers to for color. Unfortunately, this course wasn't captured on film, but its lemony flavor provided the perfect middle dish to cleanse the pallet.

Fourth Course: My fourth course was a real peasant dish from Ethiopia called 'Ful', or lima beans. Usually eaten for breakfast, Ful isn't found in any restaurants or cookbooks, since Ethiopians consider this something to eat rather than a meal that represents their cuisine. I found out about this dish by spending the day in a aluminum-sided shack in the corner of a government office courtyard, which served as a spot to feed employees. Absolutely tiny, this little eatery was manned completely by one woman, who spent her day alternately serving customers, cooking on her charcoal stove, cleaning, and teaching me to cook. Ful is served with baguettes bought from the store, and was one of my favorite Ethiopian dishes.

 Fifth Course: My final course was the real entree of the meal, and consisted of what I call my Ultimate Thai Bite. After cooking a plethora of Thai food, I finally combined aspects of my favorite recipes, along with my own favorite flavors, to create a bite that would provide the best of Thai cuisine, all in one. The layers start with a marinated and roasted portabellini, followed by jasmine rice, a peanut encrusted chicken, and a Thai herbal salad. It is finished with a panang curry drizzle. This was my favorite dish, partly because it was a creation of my own, but also because it has a blast of flavor that will blow your socks off.

Dessert:

One of my desserts was a hardened chocolate imbedded with fresh mango and peaches. It turned out quite nice, and is a great, quick dish of my own creation which is always a hit.

 The other dessert I made was a Kefir Lime Meringue pie with a caramelized ginger-graham cracker crust. This was one of the first desserts I made in my efforts to take classic American desserts and combine them with classic international flavors, in this case Thai. This pie has four very important Thai flavors coming through: Kefir lime, ginger, lemongrass, and mint. It turned out great, and is one of my best baking recipes.

Stir Fried Morning Glory Demonstration

My first of what I am hoping will be many cooking demonstrations, which will follow much of my process as I play with and perfect the recipes I have gathered for my cookbook.

Hope you enjoyed! I expect that as I continue, both the demonstrations and the video editing will improve. Here are the ingredients for Stir Fried Morning Glory:

30 stalks of morning glory, leaves only

5 cloves of garlic, diced fine

2-6 red birds eye chilies

2 tbsp fermented or salted soy beans

1 1/2 tsp sugar (palm or brown preferred)

3 tbsp oyster sauce

2/3 cup vegetable stock
2 tbsp canola or vegetable oil

Clocks

This piece, ‘Clocks’, is about a village I went to when I was sixteen, and my brief three night return. I didn’t know that I was grieving when I begun writing, nor that doing so would allow me to accept and move on. I was so upset with myself for not engaging, and for my anger, which is so out of character for me, especially the small expressions of it towards a child. The process of writing this helped me get beyond that, and beyond the Muang Kut of six years ago. It propelled me past the past and into a future of new experience and joy.

Clocks

In the big wooden house by the river in Baan Muang Kut, the stilts in the area beneath the house where we eat all have a clock on them. They don’t move, ever; they are still as though they had found their perfect moment and don’t see the purpose in continuing to search for another.

Perhaps if you had asked me if there is any worth in this paused permanence a year ago, I would have answered firmly in the negative. But now, I’m not so sure.

When I first came to Muang Kut, I was starry-eyed, fascinated, enchanted and disheartened by my surroundings. I cried when I saw the room I'd be living in for two weeks, the number of bugs, and the bucket shower with the grime on top. 

But I was hopeful and starry-eyed and still so idealistic. I spent my days at a water-tank building site and at the school, and I felt like I was doing something good. I bonded with the kids so well; when I came back three years later, the teachers at the school remembered me as the white girl with the six year old, ‘Baan’, permanently attached to her hip or leg like a wart on a witch’s nose. And I didn’t mind. I had adored her, had photos of her framed in my room for years. I cared for her, and I was one of the favorite and best teachers at the school for the two short days I taught there.

I had always had an image in my head of returning, connection, living in this village that seemed so remote and exotic and interesting. It would make me interesting.

So I came back, with all my hopeful expectations, with less naïve idealism and wonder (the TVs, water heater, and tourists in attractions that seemed to be surrounding the village and pushing its boundaries disillusioned me a bit to how remote I really was). And I was so ready to feel it all again.

What I felt was a big resounding nothing.

Let me amend. Nothing is the wrong word. I felt things, just things far from what I wanted to feel. The first time joy and contentedness had fueled my desire to stay put. Now, bitterness and dissatisfaction filled me with frustration.

Six had been a good age for me all those years ago, but now, with a six year old in the family, living in the same house, I discovered it brought out the worst in me. I found that she didn’t need the gifts I brought, not really, but she happily opened my bag and attempted to take them as her own, seeming to not treasure them quite as I had hoped (the visions of the poor child in raggedy clothes grateful clutching her new coloring book to her chest was quickly washed away). She needed so much attention, even at six in the morning when I was sleeping. I found myself grabbing her, gripping too hard (in my mind, anyway; she didn't seem to notice), quickly turning these motions into a tickle to selfishly seek out her laughter and reassure myself that I wasn’t a monster. 

No, I thought, six wasn’t a good age for me after all. Maybe all those years ago I had been wrong; maybe I wasn’t great at connection and engagement and children. But maybe that was because I wasn’t a broken old clock.

I didn’t have the pleasure of pausing my life, staying the same person in the same place. Muang Kut and this wonderful, kind family didn’t have that luxury either. None of us got to choose to remain the same, to live the same experience over again. I didn’t come back to the same village, nor did I come back as the same person. Life, unlike those clocks, moved on. Hands rotated thousands of times. The six year old grew, the cute baby became a rambunctious child; they got a water heater with and a shower.

They were nice. Of course, they were nice, welcoming, giving. One time, they even suggested jokingly that I should hit their daughter because she was crazy, and I laughed and pretended there weren't moments when I was closer to losing my faith in myself than I ever cared to be. But our lives were no longer connected, and I didn’t feel like I was coming home, just like I was visiting, waiting, remembering happiness instead of experiencing it.

I believe everything happens the way it should. The first time I returned, I went to the school, and that little girl I adored didn’t remember me. And I was okay, really I was, but my heart hurt a little. After that, I was able to let go of that relationship, knowing that she would grow and flourish, but that the girl who had cried all the way home in my arms because I was leaving for America, was gone. So was our bond, and I could accept that maybe it was for the best. 

Everything ends eventually, but I think for me, and for most, impermanence is one of the hardest concepts to grasp and hardest realities to breathe through. When we love someone, or somewhere, or something, the idea of losing them is terrifying. We want to hold onto that thing that makes us so connected for as long as possible, and in our hearts, when we’re away we hold to it the way it was, forgetting that it, along with us, change.

So when we come back and discover that that person, or place, or thing isn’t the same anymore, or we can't connect to it like we use to, we feel as though it died. We want it back; we grieve it as it remains in front of us.

I denied this change for as long as I could, even though I knew it to be true. I had beautiful dreams of coming back to the big house by the murky brown river and staying like it was my home, teaching at the school, and having it mean something because I would mean something to this place I had once adored. The place that was one of my favorite settings on Earth, only six years ago. It is so easy to forget that a setting implies both place and time, that the locations we love are temporary.

And then I arrived, and I spent so much time being annoyed and angry, really, not because of a six year old who enjoyed acting six, but because it wasn’t the same, because my Muang Kut was gone. And I was sad for no reason, depressed, disinterested. Unwilling to engage.

I needed to move on. I full on went through the stages of grief, and it was time to accept that this place no longer held anything for me, or at least, no more than anywhere else like it.

I don’t envy those clocks covering the stilts, carefully mismatched and placed on each one. They are stalled for eternity, and will one day be tossed away, or disassembled, or perhaps, if they’re lucky, they’ll be fixed, working, rotating along to fulfill their function.

I can only suppose that my function is growth, and without it or change, there can be no joy. And so I cannot find that joy by trying to spin the handles back, or trying to freeze them. I can only find it by allowing the clocks of my life to tick forward towards those times when joy seeps into my very soul, where I find those things and people and places that make me wish I could stop the revolving of hands.

I don’t know that I’ll ever be back to Muang Kut again. I've never particularly liked the idea of a last time for anything. But the pull is gone. My anger and dissatisfaction can seep away into happy memories of a stagnant village where things don’t change, people don’t grow, and peace washes over me. And how exciting it is to know that my joy is not located halfway around the world, but in front of me, in me, where it always was to begin with. Now, I need only wait for those moments where, like the clocks on the stilts, time stands still completely and totally of it own accord.

Ode to Ye Cockroach

Last night, dear cockroach

You lovingly creeped through my bathroom.

When the trash bin descended,

You scurried towards the door in wild, admirable abandon.

You paused in faux death beneath the too small crack

between the door and floor,

And I tried to kill you.

Oh ye scurrier in the night,

Towards the fridge now;

I almost have you.

For you only know terror,

My inch long, caramel-brown friend,

And you creep towards yet another of the trash bins 

so that you are outnumbered,

one to two.

I try and trap you between,

To maybe even spare you,

Offering you the ramp of my mango plate into the holy receptacle.

But alas, you dodge,

And near my bed, you meet your

Doom.

It is somewhat accidental

Since I've been told you never die.

Against the wall,

I notice you are dead because

Your legs stick and you are still.

My skin crawls as you did,

And I force you into your home,

Where you could've been alone and well,

And tie off the waste bag

Because who knows if you will arise again.

And so, ye cockroach,

That is your final, harrowing tale,

That of our meeting,

and of your 

Demise.

Walking in Rishikesh (Touch)

There isn’t much to say in terms of touch on my little walk. Unlike the busyness of Delhi, this back street next to the Ganges is pretty empty on Indian terms, and you can mostly avoid walking into people. The most noticeable things about touch are as follows.

Wind: the wind and the breeze bring the cool water with it. The Ganges comes from the mountains and snow melt-off, and thus is very cold, almost like lake water from home. Therefore, as I walk down the street, often a cool draft washes over me, a refreshing relief from the heat of the sun.

Sun: the sun beams down on bare skin, feeling like warmth and energy and making my body become covered with a fine sheen of sweat. It is not unpleasant; while being in the open areas can be hot at times, halfway through my walk the street becomes covered, and the shade feels cool compared to the intense rays that caress you the rest of the way.

Road: the road is uneven, not so much as the city where dirt, pot holes, and pavement are often interwoven as though it was designed to keep you on your toes, but just from natural wear. Mostly, the road remains a nice concrete with divots and cracks which your feet can comfortably navigate.

People: people in Rishikesh mostly manage not to run into one another, but there is the occasional brush of a Sari, a hand stretched towards you for money, and the dance which weaves you in between motorbikes, people, carts and cows, situating you out of the way of obstacles. While I do not physically touch these things (mostly) as I walk, just as you can feel an outstretched hand in front of you face with closed eyes, you can feel that these things are around you, zooming by you.

Motorbikes: as motorbikes zip by, the gusts of exhaust often fall onto your skin, air puffing into your face. It is vaguely unpleasant, but mostly a gust, like warm wind. And of course, I move quickly, feeling my body strain and jump as I get out of the way of the speeding death traps.

I tried so hard to avoid most touching on the streets of Rishikesh. The experience is so different than that of the city, where touch is often unavoidable. There is a sense of calm, almost as though your body becomes situationally in tune with surroundings through your sixth sense, as though you know the things around you and must dance around them, rather than throw yourself head first into the crowd. It taps into a different sense, one that is less physical, but equally important. One that propels you into the experience of this spiritual, buzzing, still little road.

Walking in Rishikesh (Hear)

Brief Note: I originally had a video for both this entry and the next on touch. Unfortunately, I have been unable to upload the videos anywhere. As a result (and seeing as I've been in Thailand almost a month and would like to write about that), I am going to post both without the videos, but when I return home, I will add them.


Walking in Rishikesh- Hear

When I first emerge from my somewhat quieter sanctuary, the sounds are overwhelming. Mostly, they consist of the roars of engines, the chatter of shopkeepers and families, the high voices of children, and the blaring of horns that scream on long past what I would consider I polite alert. 

After a few moments, other sounds penetrate the overwhelming and nearly constant chatter that often extends into the night. Shop keepers, stall owners, and people on the street converse in lower tones, negotiating prices and talking to one another. A man yells in English ‘ice cream’, and a beggar says something quietly with an outstretched hand, sounding like a moan. From the left come beating hammers that gave off the distinct sound of metal on metal, and the crackling buzz of a torch sauntering steel, in rhythm with a radio in Hindi, situated next to a man standing with his cart of wooden boxes. Next door, a cell phone tune rings out with Hindi music, and a cart pushes by, the wheels sounding like bells or chimes.

Somebody turns a crank on a sugarcane juice extractor, and the metal wheel moves with the grating movements I had expected from the carts. The cows’ hooves are nearly silent on the pavement, but when I listen, I can hear the slow, low clap of hooves, like hollow wood on tile. Shopkeepers flick at their goods with stripped cloth dusters, snapping and firm, and the brush of straw brooms on pavement mingle with the quiet popping of corn in a pan. 

The water doesn’t really sound, but between the wind and the river, it laps lazily at staircases. Tin bicycle bells clink lightly, and the whirling of fans fill the air with a swishing haste. 

The rickshaw horn is distinctive. Old fashioned, almost as if from some comical cartoon from a different age. It is a bit flat, loud, and almost always sounded twice. 

In the evening, the sounds changed. There is more chanting. Even (if you are in the right place) the crackling of fires that sound like wind. The barking of a dog disturbs the peace, that noisy peace that allows for the general background music of the water, the motorbikes, the bicycles, and the people. Things are only very rarely silent on this relatively calm back road. 

I have heard that Indian people who travel elsewhere either have to play something in the background when they are inside, or get tired quickly of the noiselessness elsewhere. Silence is so much louder when you become accustomed to the constant noise of a life-filled world. 

Walking in Rishikesh (Smell)

The smells of my street walk vary from perfumed, to delicious, to repulsive. But there is nothing like it collectively together. The first time I came to India, I washed the entire contents of my bag before I went home, only to open it and find that everything needed to be washed again. 

They all smelled like India. 

It’s not a bad smell, just distinct. Like a mix of scented candles, exhaust, and trash, with deep fried oil and sweet smelling fruit thrown in. 

As I walked up the street, I initially passed the large drainage area in front of the yellow house, and found that a small ledge-like gutter ran around the street. 

Flowers smelled sweet, like lilacs, at first, and then dissolved into stale garbage and muck in that gutter that reeked like a dumpster. Further down the road, I was assaulted with the scent of incense, smoky and perfumed, wafting from a stall with wooden boxes on it.

Shortly forward was the metallic smells of rebar and concrete from the building being constructed, and something distinctly sweet, like lilies and honey, but unidentifiable. A pile of dirt smelled dry to me, a bit like summer, and combated with the fried food of the snack stall and shop. Further along, the breeze brought me the smell of open water, but unlike the sea, it wasn’t salty so much as fresh and crisp. Textiles smelled a bit musty, dust filling in the cracks in some shops, and from second story restaurants and cafes wafted the scent of cooking chipatis and curry.

On the other end of my walk, I dodged some cow dung, swarming with flies, and got a heavy whiff, and a motorbike screeched past, horn blaring, sending a cloud of exhaust into my face. It smelled like a mixture of metal, dirt, and fuel. It contrasted well with the sweet smells wafting from the cabbage cart, so sweet they smelled like they could be rotting. 

In the evening, there are more carts with billowing steam casting delicious scents into the street, and it always strikes me as odd when they are in conjecture with other less pleasant smells. And as I sit in the café, the odors of ghee, cooking vegetables, and fruit delight my nose, and join the mélange that makes up the specific aroma of India.