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.