The Runaway Cook

This was the first wet curry dish we made in Singapore, and although it has fish in it, the coconut milk made up for it in my phase of fish hatred- see earlier posts. THis can easily be made vegetarian by leaving out the fish and increasing the vegetables or using a firm tofu. I loved this dish and I hope you do as well

There is a place where, when I cross the street, the hairs on my arms stand on end. It’s as if I walk through this mystical barrier and every sense is awakened by the strong difference. The moist air feels thicker and the architecture changes from big modern Asian city to putty colored arches, small awnings, and skinny sidewalks. The women here a

re in full bloom wearing vibrantly colored, sequin-covered Sarees (traditional Indian dresses) that seem to dance to the perfect playlist of twanging exotic music escaping every window. Yet, the most intoxicating stimulus of all, the smell! Flowers and fruit line the streets, steeping in the heat to make a tea of aromas. As I walk by stall after stall I am overtaken by scents of jasmine, hot Ghee-laden flatbreads (clarified butter), sweet incense escaping the Hindu temple walls, and my favorite smell: the simple yet potent nuttiness of curry leaves. Sigh little India you are captivating.

This in one of the only place here in Singapore that makes me feel like I am far from home. The stark difference in culture is refreshing. And I seem to have fallen for this place. (to the left is a photo of the Hindu temple at night)

THE CLOTHES

After just and eight block walk from the YWCA i call home now, are the beginnings of little india.

As the streets change the shops do too. Thick glass panes are the only things that separate the black street from dazzling gowns made by skilled women who fold, tie, and pin and exceptionally long piece of fabric. The Saree, my new favorite fashion, is a traditional Indian garment for women, made by rolling one's self in fabric. My jaw must have unhinged to drop that low. So many stunning fabrics and they never seemed to end. After seeing hundreds of these pretty things my friend and I wanted to take a peek and try them out for ourselves.

After some searching and some tangent jewelry gawking, we found ourselves in one of the many clothing stalls above the wet market. Nothing in this store seemed quite right so we asked about a sarees. The gentleman there told us that he didn't sells those but he knew who did. He immediately jumped up out from behind the counter and smiled as he said, "This way." The three of us sprinted down this corridor of textiles made a sharp turn to the right and found ourselves at the foot of a small shop covered in hanging fabric.

Inside this dent-in-the-wall shop stood a coffee-skinned, chubby-cheeked woman just probably in her 40s, named Jeet. Her bouncy short curls were about as live as she was. After just 20seconds or so she grabbed me, spun me up in a saree and made

me feel as though I was a princess. Which was quite a feat since I was sweating on all sides, had no make up on, and my hair looked something like a drowned tumbleweed. Needless to say we both ended up buying a saree. And as the week progressed we conned all our friends into buying them too. haha To the left are three of us ladies in our Sarees at the graduation brunch at the Ritz.

THE MARKETS

Ok. Time to move on from textiles and on to food. Little india is filled with little stalls selling anything you can imagine that might in some way be related to Indian culture. It's pretty endless. And even though there are innum

erable vegetable stalls and random coconut sellers along the street, my favorite place to shop for food was at the wet market.

The wet market here is similar to the one in Chinatown, but cleaner and filled with more foods I am apt to like. As one meanders through this maze, little wooden boxes of shops are filled with fruits and vegetables, flowers, spices and spice blends, fresh meats- with the exception of beef of course, and the largest section, seafood.

This seafood section is not anything like the fish case and lobster tank at your local supermarket. NO WAY. Here the

word fresh means mostly alive. Rows and rows of shaved ice keep blue crab, sharks, eels, and multitudes of fish alive in the tropical heat. Every time I visited this market I stopped to admire the collage of sea creatures. And every time I was there I found fish that were still breathing! In fact, sometimes they would hop right off the table.

......TO BE CONTINUED

It’sThursday, 3:51pm and amazingly, I am sitting/laying here on the teeny twin bed needing to use the restroom desperately, but too tire to get up and do my business. (in this hot climate one drinks a LOT of water) In my left had is a clear cup filled with a light green creamy-looking liquid and black pearls of tapioca. What was supposed to be kiwi bubble tea is not really, rather it is becoming a regret. Unfortunately, the each-a-cup shop has one flaw- thei kiwi bubble teas taste terrible, a bit like flax seed oil. I am exhausted from a long day of class is a hot and humid kitchen in a hotter and even more humid climate. I am sick of eating food that taste like fish paste. I do not recant my earlier statement of liking it before, but after a while it is just too much for me. In fact, I am sick of fish and shellfish all together. I want a land animals and vegetables. Give me curry! Ugg....

It’s 5:45am, I look at the time and pull a wisp of downy comforter up to my jaw. “Mmmmmmmm, I can sleep later.” I am relieved to tell myself this since on a class morning I’d be up by this point. I can rest for another hour and 15 minutes, because the orientation isn’t until 9:00 this morning. For a moment, the fear of sleeping through the alarm and missing this meeting invades my plush little bubble, but exhaustion swats that pesky bother way. Asleep again, until the familiar tones ring me awake again.

After some debate on what to wear, I leave the house in a small heap of putty-colored ruffles, dark denim, boots, and a creamy colored cardigan. Hair is, as usual, in appropriately messy vines of curls. I catch the bus, run to seven eleven, and snag some juice, gardettos, and one of the worst turkey sandwiches I’ve ever spent money to eat. Although I have about 20 minutes to spare, I rush, scarfing down the bread and meat as I take quickly paces long strides along the sidewalk. You see, I was a bit paranoid about being late for this meeting, since I absentmindedly didn’t set the alarm last week and missed the first one. (This is a make up meeting)

I’m the second one here. I sit on the left. In the second to the last row, two desks in, I make myself at home, find the spot were I stopped reading Lunch in Paris, and wait. The few students that trickle in the door, one by one, nearly systematically, fill in the right side. Eventually, three nonconformists brave it and find a seat on my side- thank God.

Finally, the lecture begins as this very pregnant woman, with black hair to her jaw, skin beginning to crinkle with age, and big brown eyes, starts to speak. For three hours we all are instructed that over seas: we will become depressed, we will probably get sick, it will be very dangerous over there. . . . . Oh! And if we die in another country, the school provides extra insurance so our remains can be brought back to the US. No lie, she said with all seriousness and no discomfort, “Be sure to share that with your parents.” Oh yeah, that’ll be the first think I tell them. That’s not scary at all right . . .ha! One moment she is telling us that this will be one of the best experiences of our life and the next she warns us that it will be terrible. Warnings are good, but at a certain point they seem to cause the very feelings they are meant to relieve.

After what seemed like a full day of class, we were let out. By this point, I felt pretty anxious about the whole trip, not just study abroad but all my travel plans. I felt like that honeymoon stage, that woman was talking about in her “culture shock” speech, was already over, and I haven’t even started the marriage yet. Okay, so maybe I’m being a little dramatic. But there are so many things to do and I only have a month to do them all in. After that, I have to be “ready” and just go.

In light of this deeper “oh sh**!” revelation, I was relieved that I had scheduled to meet with a friend, (I will be visiting in her while in Germany) and work on the "when’s and where’s" of our meeting up in July. Together we decided to do in depth searches and work on solidifying my traveling schedule. I searched out a bunch of information on the Eurorail, student ID cards, smaller towns by the big towns I plan on visiting, and finding hostiles in and around these cities. After that, my shoulders started to sink into a more normal position and my breathing regulated.

It was a long ride home after and even longer “morning”, of course by now it was nearly 3 o’clock. By the time I reached the apartment I was famished. With only a partial container of milk, a few eggs, odds and ends of spices and sauces and some old flimsy broccoli, so I decided to go to the market. Two stores, 24 blocks, and about 20 pounds of food later, I downed half a sleeve of Oreos and and a pint . . .of milk. Arms full of newly purchased and old ingredients I headed to the kitchen. Since someone had recently told me to watch Julie & Julia, I decided that watching it while I cook would be the perfect time to do it. I opened the laptop and began preparations for curry chicken, curry vegetables, brown rice, and black beans.

After loads of slicing, dicing, soaking, and toasting, the food was ready to eat. Unfortunately, I am an amateur curry-cook, a quality I hope to remedy this summer. Yet, it wasn’t just mediocre spice blends that made for the not-quite-right supper. No! The coconut milk I had gotten was somehow separated and didn’t mix right with the broth, leaving this weird grainy appearance (tasted and felt fine in the mouth- just looked icky). Then, on top of that, I hadn’t been able to soak my newly acquired black beans so they took forever. And, in my lack of time, I had to eat them a bit “al dente” . . . .daaa. At least the chicken was tender. And, when I say tender I mean that each muscle fiber was lusciously plump and moist, and so soft that the force that held together the thighs is no doubt one of the mysteries of life. It isn’t any wonder. After being bathed in a potent pool of cumin, coriander, fenugreek, turmeric, cinnamon, and nutmeg infused liquid, I’d probably be in the same juiced state.

Sigh . . . in the end, this was good food. The imperfections were just a confirmation that traveling to Thailand is going to be more than great, and not the sequel to Taken. At this point I am full, happy with the conclusion that yes, I love curry, no I can’t make it right yet, and yeah . . .I can do this.