as i wiped the sweat off my brow,
my mise en plas, lay empty. not a single aromatic was peeled,
i can hear the rapid staccato of his nakiri, going away, and i was frozen with indecision. seeing all the choices that lay before me. overwhelmed by spices i have never smelled but seen.
varieties of cheeses, pinches and heapes of herbs that all looked similiar in appearance, but complex in the way they can tickle my palate as if having a spice market, teasing my every sense.
i heaved, several deep breathes, closed my eyes.
and tried to remember what my grandmother made that makes my belly smile as well as my heart.
i reach for a raw chicken, a couple Cayotés, an onion, a few tomatoes, and gingeand and i go to work.
SHING SHING SHING, I hone my Bunka, a gift from a cook who has cut his way through his twenties and thirties, in the city. the General as he's known by peers and mentors who have long spent hours upon hours and weeks in kitchens.
the chicken is quartered and set aside, the onion becomes julienned in less than a minute. the devil pays no mind. i peel my Cayotés, till they become sticky. i grab a spoon to do the same to a few thumbs of ginger. they're raw like my hands have been treated in the kitchen from Sanitizer, hot water and washing everything.
he sneers at the simplicty, as he's simmering a roux, and confiting some garlice at the same damn time. all while putting some duck in the oven.
i find a bottle with a green label and a fish on it.
patis, the flavor of my people amongst the others of the south east orient. i give a healthy glug to the sauce pan, as i turn up the fire throwing in my aromatics, to hear a satisfying sizzle. the smell make me lick my lips,
only simplicty will do in my eyes.
after the browning, i pour 8 quarts of water,
and the rapid boil welcomes the chicken to a jacuzzi of spices. here you will become the focal point, and the Cayotés soon follow suit like a date in a hotel room.
"the water's just right!"
and i let that simmer for 30 minutes watching the devil slave over his east meets france dish.
"there's no way, you wont spend a day in hell after this Paolo!!"
i think not, i mutter under my breath, "i've already lived like sisyphus, and im done pushing" .
the tomatoes soon follow like the party girls of yore i'd have to convince, and much like A Serene woman i've known
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