le petit ballon: Red Curry Paste

Red Curry Paste

Holidays aren’t special anymore. They’re just regular days. The most common tradition is for families to get together. Members who you haven’t seen in months or years come by and gather to eat. That’s what the holidays have boiled down to, a glorified day for overeating. What’s the point? For perfect families they laugh and sing around the piano and touch and hug. For the other families they laugh and sing around the piano and touch and hug. Nothing different on the surface. It’s the stuff that boils beneath. The topics and subjects no body wants to bring out in the open to talk about because it would ruin the festivities. It was all ruined to begin with. Parents want children to be the same as they were in the good days back then. So it was up to the children to accommodate their parents and give them what they want for that short period of together-time. Then when the holidays are over, when the last carols are sung, when the Christmas spirit has evaporated; nothing has changed. Life resumes and either the holidays were great or they sucked.

I sat at home alone and thought. All the lights were off. Only city lights peered through gaps in between the curtains. Yellow, elongated shafts spilled onto the walls.

They never acknowledge Rainier. They knew he existed. They didn’t want him in my life, and since they discovered they couldn’t make me act according to their wishes, they excluded him from theirs. The holidays began as an interrogation.

Are you coming for Thanksgiving? Are you coming for Christmas? But you always come for Christmas? Why aren’t you coming? That is just odd that you aren’t coming.

If they would have welcomed him, would we still be together?

I picked up my phone and texted him.

Which furniture pieces would you like to have?

In less than a minute:

You pick what you want to keep. I’m sorry.

Me: Do you hate me?

Him: No! God, no!

I looked at the corner where we put our first Christmas tree. It was a massive beast of plastic pine. We strung it with white lights. Covered it with white lights. And that was all we put on it. We’d sat on the floor close to the tree and play UNO. We’d bring out the flannel blankets and pillows and lay near the tree and just talked while admiring the lights.

Him: Do you hate me?

I stared at his question. It’s difficult to say. I resented him, was angry with him; sometimes I was furious...but not at this moment. At this moment I didn’t fault him for fleeing this crazy family of mine. I don’t even feel hurt now. I missed him. I don’t hate him.

Me: No.

Him: Took you a while to respond.

Me: Was just thinking.

Him: Making sure you don’t hate me?

Me: Remember our first Christmas tree?

Him: Lots of lights. Good memories.

Me: Did you find someone else?

Him: No.

Me: Are you going to tell me why you left?

Him: I wanted to help make it easy on you.

Me: What??

Him: You don’t need me.

I blinked. What on earth??

Him: You need to get your bearings, kiddo.

Me: What are you talking about??

Him: You need to work things out with yourself and with your family. I don’t want to be in the way.

I was about to call him and end this silly texting nonsense when:

Him: Besides...I got a job offer in the UK.

My finger stopped.

Him: I accepted. I’ll be leaving in a week.

I put the phone down and laid next to it.

Me: Congratulations!

I turned off the phone.

Grandma made lovely rice. She was fascinated with all things Oriental. She once bought a purple kimono at an estate sale. She would only wear it when she felt like indulging. She loved jasmine and jasmine tea and jasmine rice. She could make rice without a rice cooker, and they were much better than the local Chinese restaurant.

They don’t use jasmine rice, she said. That’s American rice. I’ll guarantee you they don’t eat this in China.

Grandma made stir-fry with jalapenos and curry with real coconut milk. She loved the red curry paste. She taught me how to appreciate it’s spicy fragrance and its exotic burst of flavor.

I got up and walked into the kitchen. I turned on the lights and rummaged through my pantry to find some rice. I had just enough left in the bag. While the rice cooked and simmered on the stove, I sank into a hot bath. The nearly scalding water penetrated its heat into my tensed muscles. I closed my eyes and consciously relaxed every inch of my body.

Nothing like soap and water, Grandma said. When I need to wipe a slate clean, I do so by taking a bath and mentally erasing the slate. It’s good for the soul, she said, tapping my chest. It’s also good for the mind; she tapped my forehead. Don’t waste precious space in that mind of yours by keeping bad memories. If it doesn’t help you to learn then wipe it away.

I sat up straight in the tub. There was a time, a certain time, when Rainier came by for a visit. If I remembered correctly he had to leave for some trip the following day and would be away for a while. We were at Grandma’s. Just before he was about to leave, I left the room to get something I wanted to give him. When I returned, Grandma had cupped his face in her hands and was looking at him eyeball-to-eyeball. She then leaned her forehead against his and patted his cheeks. When she let go of his face, she gave him a fierce hug. She released him and said, you remember, you hear? Yes, ma’am, he nodded. You’re a good man, she said.

I dried myself off and went back into the kitchen. I got out the skillet, a container of cherry tomatoes and the red curry paste. I sliced the tomatoes in half and sauteed them in the hot skillet with a teaspoon of the curry paste. As the tomatoes began to soften and melt, so did the paste. I used a spoon and stirred. Pretty soon the paste had coated the tomatoes perfectly. I dished out a scoop of rice and placed the curry tomatoes right on top. A couple splashes of soy sauce and I was ready to eat. Already the aroma transported me back into Grandma’s kitchen.

Let’s eat in the living room, I told her. How about watching a good-ending movie?