There's a New Me In Town

So.

I’ve been trying to take a more laid-back stance lately. To appreciate the minor intricacies of life and quit impatiently focusing on what’s supposed to happen next. In other words. Become all wavy-gravy.

There were several things that prompted my attempt at a revised outlook. One being the large amount of time I have on my hands. Also, the fact that I loved the film Little Miss Sunshine.

Probably the most major factor is the fact that, for a large portion of the past three years I’ve been going through what my Mother calls my ‘Vonnegut Phase.’ The way she said it made it sound like an obsession with Kurt Vonnegut is a natural phase in life that everyone endures like puberty or binge drinking in college. She claims that she had her Vonnegut Phase during her early thirties. She was correct that I was a little obsessed, I frequently googled him on the internet. Read everything I could find by him. Would randomly bring him up during conversations. Here’s an example of a phone conversation I recall having maybe a year ago:

ME: Are you watching Arrested Development tomorrow night? If you are can I come over?
MICK: No…I’m going out to dinner for my mother’s birthday.
ME: Did you know Kurt Vonnegut’s mother committed suicide on Mother’s Day?

(We are both quiet for a moment.)

ME: Well, can I come over on Friday then if you tivo it?
MICK: Jesus.
ME: What?
MICK: I can’t believe his mother killed herself on Mother’s Day, that’s so sad…
ME: I know. It’s unimaginably awful.

I would constantly pepper conversations with Vonnegut facts. I’d talk about him incessantly, but with feigned casualness like he was a guy I’d just started dating. Somebody that I wanted to talk about, but that I didn’t want my friends to think I liked too much. I suppose I did have a bit of a crush.

So. I read this story (or paragraph actually) attributed to Vonnegut sometime last year, and it’s really stuck with me. In regards to the pursuit of happiness, this approach to life seems to me as if it could be the most likely candidate for success. The fact that Vonnegut seems to have experienced an abnormal amount of trauma to me adds a lot of resonance to his perspective. So, long story short, I decided to give it a go. Beginning Tuesday.

On Tuesday, I left work a little early because I had an errand to run. I needed to stop by a Thai grocery store to pick up some red curry paste. I’ve never cooked with curry paste before and was a little miffed when I discovered that Peapod doesn’t carry it. I was further angered when I noted that the Jewel close to me doesn’t carry it either. Bastards. Feeling lazy, I decided that I’d just order it through the internet, but then I started thinking that this would be contrary to my new life mantra. I realized that I should utilize the curry paste as the cornerstone for an adventure. I thought to myself, there surely must be a grocery store that specializes in Thai cuisine somewhere in Chicago. It’s just a matter of locating it. To facilitate things, I googled ‘Thai, Grocery, Chicago.’

Turns out there’s a store actually called Thai Grocery located on Broadway and Foster. Apparently a lot of the Thai restaurants in Chicago purchase their ingredients from there. Buying food from a store where restaurants by their food sounded cool, though I'm not sure why.

Immediately after exiting the interstate, I encountered outrageous traffic. After about fifteen minutes I noticed that my lower back was starting to ache. Then I heard myself mutter:

“Oh for the love of --”

When I got stuck sitting behind thirty cars at a red light, I sighed dramatically. I was two minor irritations away from throwing a hissy fit.

‘I’m wavy-gravy now. Remember?’ I thought to myself as I rubbed my lower back, ‘This traffic is just an opportunity to look around and take in some unfamiliar scenery.’

This sort of worked. As I glanced at the various establishments around me with flashy signs written in several languages, I started to think about how lame it was that I’d just implied a curse a second ago rather than said it. There were no children in the car, and I wasn’t on network television at the moment. I love implied cursing in commercials (like the Volkswagen ones where they always end in the lead character saying ‘Holy –’, and you know that the lead character really said ‘Holy shit!’ but the commercial cut out to soon.). I also love it when they bleep out cursing on TV. Bleeped cursing on TV is great. In my book, it’s a recipe for automatic hilarity. I noted to myself that I was in an excellent environment for cursing. The car was censor free. There would be no victims. The children were safe.

“Oh, for the love of God,” I announced loudly in order to placate myself.

A moment later.

“Shit.”

Then I glanced down at the empty soda can next to me and damned it.

“Damn you to hell,” I said.

That was right before I reached Broadway Avenue, which is very dissimilar to the Broadway Avenue in New York. There was a meter right in front. In fact, the meters on the entire block were wide open. It was awesome. Upon entering the store, I had a sensory flashback. It reminded me of Europe and walking by the store fronts with the enormous ham shanks hanging in the window. I couldn’t believe the smell. It wasn’t unpleasant, but was more overwhelmingly pungent. Thai Grocery was similarly odiferous, but in a slightly different way. I suspect the fermented bamboo was the culprit. I wasn’t in my local Dominick’s, which compared to this seemed as sterile as a hospital. This was where the shit went down. Where I’d finally locate what to me had essentially become magical curry paste.

The guy at the front counter was the owner, and he totally picked me out as a novice Thai Grocery patron right away. One clue may have been the fact that I was the only non-Asian person in the store. Another factor may have had something to do with my utter lack of confidence. The other patrons clearly knew their way around. I wasn’t even sure what sort of packaging red curry paste was stored in. Jar, can, plastic freezer bag? Who the hell knows something like that?

The owner told me where it was. Then insisted that I read the directions on the can to make sure that I understood the suggested application of the product. Afterwards, he tried to convince me to buy some fish sauce and a can of coconut milk.

“I’ve already got that stuff,” I said as I smiled gratefully at him across the counter. I really did already have it too. Peapod carries coconut milk, and Jewel had the fish sauce.

After he rang up my purchase (only sixty-nine cents), he pointed out the phone number on the receipt.

“This is our number,” he said in a subtly accented voice, “We’re open everyday from 9 am to 7 pm, so just call if you have any questions while you’re cooking.”

“Thanks,” I said.

He circled the phone number on the receipt with a pen before handing it to me. Then he put my little can of curry paste in a tiny, clear plastic bag. I was absurdly cheerful when I left. The drive four miles south to my apartment was hindered by the rush hour traffic and took almost thirty minutes. Still, I was cheerful. As I drove along, I kept picking up the little can to read the directions on the back.

I was really excited about the curry.

‘If it’s good,’ I thought to myself, ‘I can just take the Broadway bus back up and buy some more.’

I hope it turns out.

OR MAYBE I’LL JUST BE A NINJA INSTEAD

I’m taking a cooking class on knife skills this weekend at The Chopping Block. I can’t stop looking forward to it (which totally goes against my new mantra). I’ve been excited since I signed up for it two weeks ago. For some reason I keep envisioning the instructor calmly pulling out a set of Ginsu Knives and showing us how to hack aluminum cans in half karate-style for two hours. I think in reality we’re supposed to learn how to properly care for knives and about knife safety and techniques and stuff. But the Ginsu image is firmly planted in my head.

-sEE my mad knife sKills later