- November 19, 2024
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I recently discovered a magical and mystical land, full of hope and possibility. Maybe you’ve heard of it.
It’s called the ethnic aisle.
Like all revolutionaries, occasionally I dabble in food experimentation — broaden my horizons through the preparation of something wordly and exotic, like boxed tacos.
What’s that — you want some hot sauce on those eggs? Hey, why not some salsa, instead?
None of you have any idea what I’m capable of.
But usually, my culinary adventures stay mostly south of the border — that is until Molly had the inspired idea to mentally travel East and try our hand at some pad Thai.
“Hey, why don’t we mentally travel East and try our hand at some pad Thai tonight?” she said. And that’s when I knew she was onto something.
For those of you with deep-seated uncultured swine leanings (and if I know my readership [nudge-nudge], that’s most of you), I’ll explain. Pad Thai is a rare rice noodle dish that has its origins deep in the jungles of Thailand, or from a box in the ethnic food aisle at your local Publix, where shopping is a pleasure. Its first known recipes were carved into the cloud-covered peaks of mountainsides, reachable only by the most cunning of starving, rock-climbing chefs.
But now, you can pretty much find it anywhere.
“OK, we’ll need cilantro,” Molly said, reading off the back of the sauce packet on Aisle 5. “Lime. Peanuts. Bean sprouts—”
“I’m gonna stop you right there,” I said, extending my open palm toward her, crossing guard-style, to stop her right there, and realizing now that maybe that move was a bit flamboyant. “Bean sprouts? Are you sure you really want to do this? You realize that once our palates go down this path of culinary intrigue, there’s no turning back.”
“And shrimp and green onion,” she kept going, just like I said nothing at all. And that’s when I knew, right there, that our palates were indeed going down this path of culinary intrigue — and that, no, they, in fact, would not be coming back.
When we rang up our items at the register, I could see in the way our stone-faced cashier said nothing that she was flabbergasted. These are the ingredients for pad Thai, she must have thought, bewildered. I truly have no idea what these people are capable of.
Some chopped onion and a sprinkle of cilantro garnish later, and we had ourselves a little piece of the Far East. We had a little yin, a little yang. We tasted it, and there it was: We were zen.
“This is how Lennon and The Beatles must’ve felt when they went to India,” I said, sucking noodles in, letting them flap and wiggle outside my lips.
“Turn off your mind, relax and float downstream,” Molly whispered, pulling out then plucking strings on her sitar.
And that was the moment — if you blinked, you might’ve missed it — that we became gurus.
We’d mastered the whole mind-body thing; that part was obvious. We were citizens of the world now, evolved and finally self-actualized, spiritually awakwed at last. And without even saying a word, we each knew things would have to change: We’d have to transition to pants with no buttons first and foremost; we’d need to get new friends — enlightened friends — and maybe a couple new throw rugs.
“Wait a second: Aren’t’ gurus mostly Indian?” Molly asked, brow furrowed, stopping cold in the middle of of her Lord of the Dance yoga pose.
But I was far too busy meditating to deal with any of that nonsense.
"Om ..." I chanted, just like she'd said nothing at all.
