“What’s it?”
“That’s the spot where I fell for you. We waded out into the water together. I can’t remember the last time someone was in the water with me…so it was special to me, rare. And I looked over at you, in the water, and I saw that the water was touching both of us. And I just felt connected to you.”
“Do you know where I fell for you?”
“No. Where?”
“We were eating lunch on the beach together in Discovery Park. You were laying in the sand. And you said, ‘I couldn’t sleep last night. I was too excited.’”
We crossed the street together. A polite and ceremonious waiter served us Pad Thai.
*
It’s not always a dish that is emblematic of a relationship, of course. Sometimes it’s a piece of music, a whole song or just a line. Sometimes it’s a place. A book. A color. I will never be able to eat an olive without remembering a particular someone, or read a certain John Irving novel without remembering another. And I will never again be able to eat Pad Thai without remembering Lisa.
Pad Thai at the end of a long day perusing book sales. Pad Thai across from the beach at Alki. Pad Thai with a waiter who clearly thought we were a cute couple. And a trip to the Thai restaurant by her apartment where neither of us ordered Pad Thai and I noticed the absence acutely.
Of course this meant I had to make it for her.
I took her to Seattle’s International District, which is a stunning disappointment after San Francisco’s Chinatown, but still well worth it for one reason: Uwajimaya. One of the largest, if not THE largest, Asian grocery store in the Pacific Northwest. I’ve yet to meet the person who hates visiting Uwajimaya, no matter how they feel about grocery shopping in general. Lisa was no exception. She loved the odd selection of foreign pastries. I introduced her to a geoduck, which she felt the need to touch. (“What’s a geoduck?” “You’re staring at one, Lisa.” “Okay, but what is it?”) I had to pull her out of the candy aisle, and even though I had all the ingredients for lunch in my basket, she talked me into splitting one of their Vietnamese sandwiches on the way home.
“I’m nervous about this,” I told her in my kitchen. “I’ve never used a wok before.” Sure enough, I burnt myself while seasoning it, too timid about the sparking oil to be confident around it. “It’s supposed to heat up very fast, to cook the food very fast.”
“I’m sure it will be fine. Everything you cook is fine.”
“Do you know who you’re dealing with here? I won’t be pleased unless it’s perfect.”
I made the sauce first on some unremembered source’s advice, because you want to keep the pan hot and you don’t want to be missing around with getting the seasonings perfectly balanced while the wok is going. Problem number one: I had no idea what perfectly balanced Pad Thai sauce tastes like. Mine tasted like fish sauce, which should have been a tip off but wasn’t enough of one. I tried to even it out with lime, garlic, and brown sugar.
I was too timid with the sugar.
I was too timid with the wok once I started to cook, too, because even though I’ve cooked chicken in the same way I was attempting to cook the tofu, I kept my heat too low. The result was not awful – but it wasn’t golden brown and glorious, either.
And I was too timid with the rice sticks, afraid to overcook or undercook. They were chewy.
There are two places where it’s a bad idea to be timid: in the kitchen, and in love.
“It’s not awful. I’m not completely embarrassed to serve it.”
“I think it’s good.”
“It’s too salty. And the noodles are gummy, and I didn’t get the tofu right. I know how to fix everything, though. That’s a comfort. It isn’t perfect, but I know how to fix it. “
“Allycen? I think this is pretty good.”
No, I’ll never be able to eat Pad Thai again, not without thinking of her.
