Thai Cooking Class: Making A Spectacle of Myself

Many of my memories of Thailand are recorded in sensations: the way the flavour of my first-ever mango seemed to explode on my tongue; the thousand folds in an elephant's leathery skin beneath my fingers; the scent of hookah smoke as I watched it curl lazily up into an endless spread of stars over my little straw beach mat.

But these are the pleasant sensations.  I can think of at least one sensation I experienced in Thailand that was --- somewhat less pleasant.

My new pal Rose, whom I'd met while volunteering, suggested that we spend a day taking a Thai cooking course.  Seeing this as a means of inexpensively supporting my newly-accelerated Thai noodle addiction once I got back home, I agreed.

New friends - pleasant sensation!

We met our small class at the beautiful old teak wood building that housed the cooking school.  After a short orientation we were off to the local market to learn how to select ingredients.

That market was a blur of pleasant sensations: fresh fruits and vegetables piled in bright towers; the mingled scent of a hundred spices perfuming the air; fresh fish whizzing from vendor to vendor, slapping wetly as they connected with their targets.

We learned the fine art of choosing the best ingredients, sniffing and squeezing and bartering, and then toted our selections back to the school.

The teacher's daughter Bam-Bam made some excellent recommendations.

The first course (papaya salad) was prepared without incident.  The teacher complimented me on my dicing technique, and I moved into the next course -- green curry -- puffed up with gastronomic pride.  Forgetting, of course, that pride always comes before a fall.

 I was excited about the curry course because I was going to get to use a mortar and pestle for the first time.  The set we were using was massive and made of heavy stone, so the group took turns pounding the chili peppers. 

My first turn went by without incident.  I happily pounded away with the heavy pestle, the spicy chilies tickling my nose, then passed the mortar on when my arm got tired.  When my second turn came I took hold of the pestle, laughing, overconfident, and slammed it back down into the mortar.

I could never in a million years have managed it had I been trying, but I somehow hit the half-mashed chili at just the right angle to send a huge chunk of the fiery hot juice straight into my open left eye.

I can't remember exactly what thoughts were running through my head at the time, but I imagine they went something like "AAAAIIIIEEEEEEAIAIAIAIEEEE!" punctuated by some inventive cursing.  The mortar and pestle hit the ground with a mighty clunk.  My body flailed around wildly, unequipped to cope with that kind of pain.  A veritable waterfall of tears spouted from my eye in a vain attempt to flush the terrible stuff out. 

Fortunately for my ocular health (and my self-esteem), this was a common enough injury at the cooking school.  The teacher herded me over to the outdoor sink, turned on the tap and shoved my head under it.  As the tepid water slowly soothed my burning eyeball (but not my embarrassment), the rest of the group pounded up another pepper and finished the curry in record time.

Apparently you don't need to ingest chilies via the proper orifice for them to make you sweat.  Also, check out that bloodshot eye!  SEXY!

The rest of the courses were prepared without incident, thanks largely to the group's wise decision to keep me far away from any dangerous produce.  Once the burning had been reduced to a tolerable level I contrived to enjoy myself immensely.  I even managed to get in a few eye puns, each one cornea than the last (WAH-wah!).

I think it's safe to say that I learned a lot more in that cooking class than the average student.  I guess that makes me an excellent pupil?  Bahaha!  What, you don't like puns?  Don't lash out!  Wooo, eye'm on a roll!  Badoom-CHING!

An elephant never forgets (to catch the bus)!

The first rule of group travel -- don’t miss the bus!

In 2008 I travelled to Chiang Mai, Thailand to work and play with the amazing and hilarious children of the Wat Don Chan orphanage.  The other volunteers and I wanted to do something special for them -- many of them had never left the wat! -- and we decided that a trip to an elephant sanctuary was just the ticket.

I worked for 5 years as an educational tour leader, so I’m quite comfortable travelling with and keeping track of large groups of children.  But as I watched all 600 of them swarm out of the dorms to meet the assortment of buses and military vehicles we had commandeered, I knew that this was an elephant of a different colour. I tried not to panic as I squeezed into a seat with three ecstatic little Thai girls.  We wouldn’t leave anyone behind, right?

My fears evaporated in the face of the kids’ excitement as they fed, petted and even rode the elephants.  It was an incredible day.  But the crowning glory came when we all packed into the open air pavilion to watch the elephants paint, the claim to fame of this particular sanctuary. 

I fell in love with the work of one particular pachyderm -- I can’t pronounce his Thai name, but he looked like a Fred to me.  I vowed to bring home Fred’s masterpiece and raced down to the little shop to stake my claim along with two other volunteers.  We must have been chattering pretty excitedly, because we somehow managed to miss the departure of 600 overstimulated children and volunteers.

I’ll never forget how it felt to run out into that parking lot and find it completely deserted.    My heart dropped into my flipflops, Frank’s still-wet painting dangling limply from my hand.  We had no cell phones, no number to call even if we had, and the staff at the sanctuary spoke no English.  The insect sounds from the surrounding jungle seemed suddenly louder and more ominous as we contemplated the 75 km walk back to Chiang Mai.

I cursed myself.  How many times had I told kids on my tours -- whatever you do, NEVER miss the bus! 

I was about to throw myself down in the dirt and have a good cry when a pickup truck bounced around the corner of the building and into the parking lot.  Turns out that 600 kids make a LOT of garbage, so the wat had brought along a recycling truck!  I leaped desperately in front of it.  Fortunately the driver recognized us, and we crammed ourselves into the foot-wide gap around the recycling bins. 

It wasn’t the safest or most comfortable ride, but I can’t say I didn’t enjoy it.  As I closed my eyes and and reveled in the cool wind on my face, I remember thinking -- well, at least we didn’t leave anyone behind!