Blue Light

In the blue light I remember feeling joy. I couldn't have been older than nine. Some time earlier my mother had taken my little brother and I to a Chicken Pox party in the hopes little red bumps would arrive before Christmas break. Not knowing that Chicken Pox involved misery, but instead involved missing school, I anxiously awaited my first red bump.

The evening the first small bump raised on my forearm I scurried down the hallway to announce the accomplishment of my set task - I had contracted a childhood right of passage. I was in the club. My mother carefully and dutifully inspected the announced area and confirmed I had in fact accomplished the mission and I would not be attending school anytime soon.

She also announced that I, unlike my little brother who was still awaiting his first bump, could stay-up as late as I liked. After the dishes were washed, my brother and father off to bed, my mother and I sat in the living room together under the blue light of the TV. I don't remember watching a particular show, I just remembered feeling grown-up, the two of us hanging-out, giggling, girlfriends. At some point my mother announced it was past eleven and offered me a late night bowl of ice cream, a decadence I had never experienced. It was under that blue light, laughing, big cold bowls of cream and sugar, that time seemed to stop and life was lived. Simple. Sticky. Sweet. True.

In Marcel Proust's The Madeleine, Proust recalls such a moment in his childhood when he dipped the lemon hinted Madeleine cookie into warm tea, the feeling of familial inclusion, a step into adulthood. Proust recollection, like my own of ice cream at midnight, is perhaps based less in fact and more based on sensory emotions, "...after the people are dead, after the things are broken and scattered, still, alone, more fragile, but with more vitality, more unsubstantial, more persistent, more faithful, the smell and taste of things remain poised a long time, like souls, ready to remind us, waiting and hoping for their moment, amid the ruins of all the rest...".

In writing this blog I thought of consulting my mother to fact check my memory and I realized that is really not the point. Perhaps I have exchanged one memory for another, perhaps this memory was not tied to Chicken Pox, perhaps we did not stay-up as late as I remember, but the feeling of joy, the feeling of respect, the feeling of specialness is real.

The recollection of that night with my mother made me realize my affinity and good luck for capturing late night snack moments. There is something special about the night, it spells occasion, leisure, and play. From 2 am diner breakfasts with rowdy friends after a night of drinking, to sharing M&M's at midnight with the first person I loved, to the recent 3 am pizza night with friends I have known for almost 15 years, each of those memories is filled with uncontrollable laughter and pureness.

Somewhere in the blue light my next memory awaits.

The Squeeze-it Effect

It is of no shock, to any American third grader, that love is transmitted via plastic lunch pail. I remember such a plastic lunch box, light blue with white handle, a graphic of the Care Bears splashed on front. Full with pride, I would happily carry it to school. Sitting at a bench table within the noisy lunch hall, I would open my prized box and inside find matching thermos and a meal spread between numerous baggies.

Earlier in the week while at the grocery with my Mother, I had begged for cheese powdered chips, white soft bread, frosted cookies, and a certain fruit punch called Squeeze-it. Of course, my mother said no to all requests. I learned that fruit was better than chips, wheat better than white, frosted cookies are to expensive, and Squeeze-it was "nothing but sugar".

Back in the crowded and noisy lunch hall, I would sit confronted by a lunch box that reflected my mother decisions. It was at this moment I heard the squeezing and accompanying slurping of Melanie. Melanie was the post popular girl of the third grade, and subsequently the queen of lunch boxes. She would not only be sucking-down on a Squeeze-it, but in-between squeezes and slurps would boastfully brag about her customized napkin that had beautifully drawn picture of hot air balloons signed "love mom and dad". It was the Squeeze-it effect: unbridled envy of a third grader who first felt the pinch of status via stuff.

This week in my Anthropology of Food course we learned about another lunch box tradition found in Japan. Mothers traditionally introduce bento boxes to young preschool children. In the bento box, a mother carefully makes creative lunch usually filled with rice ball, pickled veggies, meat, etc. This bento box is then consumed by the child at school, which translates into a source of love, support, and structure. It is in effect bento introduces the child to their role as pupil and likewise mother as pupil supporter. Depending on factors such as class a bento box can become more elaborate both thematically and aesthetically.

In my American childhood, the lunch box became a conduit to introduce me to American consumerism and accompanying envy. I wanted to be like Melanie. Her family would/could buy Squeeze-its. I wanted a Squeeze-it. In addition to consumables, like the Squeeze-it, Melanie had parents who had the time to draw her elaborate pictures and write special notes, my parents both worked. The lunch box became a story of economics and class. In my eyes, Melanie was rich and life (of course) was perfect.

Up until this topic was discussed in class, the importance of the bento, I have not thought of Melanie and her perfect Squeeze-it filled lunch box. What I have realized is that fruit is better than chips, wheat is better than white, frosted cookies are to expensive, and Squeeze-its are gross. Mother was right.

At first bite...

It was at a boyfriend’s house Thanksgiving night, many years ago, that I recognized my family had a legacy. We had decided to split the day in half. The first half belonging to my family, and the second half belonging to his family.

The time with my family plodded along, the usual suspects, food and characters alike. There was the turkey, Grandma's famous gravy, stuffing, yams, mash-potatoes, etc. There was my little cousins running from inside to outside of the house screaming and giggling, the men gathered around a blaring TV broadcasting a football game none of them followed, and over three generations of women fretting in the kitchen sharing their private stash of wine. It was a typical day - or so I thought.

When we arrived at his parents' house, I realized the word normal is relative. Meaning my relatives may not be normal. There were no screaming giggling children running around the house. Instead, they quietly played on the floor. The TV was only an audible murmur. Aunts and uncles, cousins and siblings congenially talked at library appropriate levels. His mother busied herself in the kitchen, refusing help, silently occupying the role of cook. Time slowed to a creep.

When the meal was served, orderly and in proper china, we dutifully took small servings and commenced the meal. At first glance, their Thanksgiving dinner looked to have all the usual food suspects, turkey, stuffing, potatoes, and so on.

The first dish I tasted was the stuffing. All my life I had love stuffing the most. I remember as a very young child waking-up Thanksgiving morning to the smell of celery, onion, and poultry seasoning being sautéed in butter. The smell would waft down the hall into my room and I would run as fast as my feet pajamas could take me to the kitchen.

As I took a bite of his family’s stuffing, looking for relief in a very uncomfortable situation, my heart sank. Their stuffing was bland and strange. White bread had replaced corn bread. Cranberry and walnut had replaced celery and onion. As I washed it down with wine my boyfriend whispered something in my ear that would be a precursor to how our relationship played through the years, "Isn't this stuffing better than your family's?". I didn't even respond.

What he did not know then, what I would later tell him is that I loved our version, its history and connection to all that I am. How my Grandmother shared her first Thanksgiving with my Grandfather, the love of her life, and she fell in love with his family's recipe. How my Grandmother asked her new sister in-law to teach her the southern method of making cornbread stuffing, How the process starts three days in advance, first making cornbread from scratch, followed by two days of proper air-drying, ending with the early morning sauté of butter, celery, and onion. How my Grandmother had made that same stuffing for all six of her children, how my Mother had learned the methodology as a little girl, and how I learned to do so as well. How I loved a loud Thanksgiving with screaming children, men who do not watch a loud football game, and women who pour themselves glasses of wine over boiling pots and chaos.

Intoxicating Noodle

I don't recall the day we met. It was most likely over lunch hour. It was not deep yearning but boredom with my current affections that brought me to love. After years of Pad Thai and Cashew Chicken I found myself aimless in my wandering. Friends had told me about it and I had witnessed them order and consume it, but I had never ventured.

Our introduction was simple, a "try something new" moment. The relationship that preceded was committed as I found excuses to corral friends into Thai restaurants, "Sure, I would love celebrate your birthday, don't you love Thai?"

It was later I began frequenting Thai restaurants alone, several times a week, an affair.

I became obsessed, an aficionado, searching for the best, the different, and the exotic. I couldn't fight urges and found myself basking in meal nostalgia as I bored co-workers at the water cooler with stories of my latest find. Yes, I need program. A twelve step that could save me from my uncompromising love of the Drunken Noodle.

Officially known as Pad Kee Mao, code name Drunken Noodle, pet-name "love", it is a simple dish of wide rice noodles, scrambled egg, broccoli, tomato, bell peppers, onions, etc. all swimming in a basil sauce. It can be made with chicken, beef, or pork but I believe God intended it to me made with fried tofu (and I am NOT a vegetarian). Trust me, there is really nothing better than pillows of tofu swimming in basil sauce with veggie and noodle companions.

Every time I try to venture away, take some space from Drunken Noodle, I find myself yearning with regret, and I always go back. Is it possible to commit to one dish? For life?

This blog will be dedicated to my quest of all things yummy, goodness that can only be quantified with that belly-up satisfaction that says ummm. My starting point is my current love and obsession the Drunken Noodle. It will be interesting to see how my commit to my "love" fairs as I begin to play the field.