Um, about that curry paste…
Not long after my first experience with home made Thai red curry paste, I wrote up a remembrance of the blessed event in my journal. This was months before the launch of Belly Timber. We were, in fact, waist deep in all things culinary school at the time, meaning, time to blog? Hah. Sleep first, blog later. Oh, yeah, and drink. And cook crazy, succulent inventions with fellow students till all hours of the night.
Curry paste night did not include fellow students. Instead, it was just me, Chopper, and a serious lack of protective equipment. So…
Be warned, the following contains large doses of C.I.P. (Capsaicin Induced Profanity). Proceed with extreme caution. Seriously. Don’t say I didn’t warn ya. I get near Capsaicin and I swear like a sailor. I mean it.
September 15th, 2004
I swear to God, I did not fucking touch my eye.
So, here I am, at the computer, taking a break from web design hell to read the latest treatise on kerning and superscript properties in ancient Sumerian clay tablets, when Chopper calls me into the kitchen for assistance. We’d just gone to An Dong, aka the world’s cheapest Asian market that happens to be located on 54th & Powell, and Chopper is now dealing with his main purchase: a one pound bag of dehydrated red chile peppers.
Chopper says, “I need to remove the seeds from all these chiles. There’s a ton of them, so I need your help.”
I think. Sure. How hard can this be? Stand at the cutting board and strip seeds from the insides of dried chiles. Chopper hands me a small knife to open the chiles up and I get to work.
Now, I know already that chile seeds are hot, and that the oil from chiles can sting if it gets in the wrong place; tongue, nostril, eye — and lord help you if you have to take a piss while stripping chile seeds — but what I do not know is that the oil from dried chiles is more concentrated than just any old chile oil, and a mild sting (back the last time I made salsa) is now the agonizing fury of a thousand matches, all trained at my screaming, membrane-peeled eyeball.
I swear to God, I did not fucking touch my eye.
I got my finger close to it, remembered, then stopped. But, when de-seeding a third of a pound of dried chiles, close counts. The oil has a life of its own. It leaps from fingertip to eyeball, and the next thing I know I’m in the bathroom, in agony, splashing water on my face, screaming “I swear to God, I did not…” Well, you get the idea.
After that, perhaps twenty minutes later when I am able to open my eye again, I rub my nose. Holy crapping hell, it feels like the eighth week of the Worst Cold Known to Mankind. It is hemorrhagically painful.
I curse Chopper out for his inability to remind me to be more careful. And then he has to go take a piss.
Later, when we’ve both recovered, we mix up the Thai red curry paste — lemongrass, galangal, ground peppercorns, cumin, fenugreek and coriander, lime zest, garlic, shallots, and the I-am-so-not-touching-those-ever-again chiles. The smell permeates the kitchen. My eyes water, but do not sting. The final product: A pint of the stuff, ready to mix with coconut milk and a meat of choice, potent enough to last many meals.
Still later, my neck aches from too much web design hell, so I get out the tiger balm and apply it liberally. By this point I’ve washed my hands several times, but — and Chopper does not believe me but I swear to this — the remaining chili oil is reactivated by the tiger balm and my fingers begin to sting like crazy. I go to sleep with stingy fingers and I wake up with stingy fingers.
In the afternoon, we make Thai red curry with pork and coconut milk over jasmine rice.
Chopper takes a bite, says “It’s a little bit hot. Too.”
“Too?” I ask, thinking if it’s too hot for Chopper it’ll be way too hot for me. He has the tolerance of NASA heat shielding.
“No, two,” he says. “On the scale.”
I take a bite.
Sweet Jumping Jehosiphat almighty, it’s hot. It’s not a two. It’s a fucking seventeen. I go back to the kitchen and dish all of the remaining rice out of the steamer, pour myself a pint glass of water and curse my gut for being intolerant of milk.
Next time, I tell him. One teaspoon full of paste to two cans of coconut milk. The paste will last longer that way, and it’s oh-so-tasty so we oh-so-want it to last a Very Long Time.
Hours later, as I type this, I note that my fingers still sting ever so slightly, and I’m still afraid to bring them within an inch of my eye.
I wonder if Chopper will mind if I suggest we learn how to do home made sorbet next?
I was right! Don’t you hate that? I always guess the ending of mysteries — and my hubster can’t stand it. You left too many clues. Well, that one.
BUT! Huge sympathies for your burnie eye.
(And you expect us to follow your recipes?!)
Well, I am not so sure I will use that recipe now, or maybe with protective gloves and glasses. Don’t you think it’s a bit sadistic to post it three days AFTER the recipe..?
Thanks for the good laugh!
Ahh yes…I’ve been there…waking up in the morning with fingers on fire. As much as it hurt and was annoying, however, in a way it was kind of neat to be so aware of my fingers for such a prolonged period of time…and you’re right, it totally would come back in burning waves, depending on what I would get on my hands. I don’t think my experience was quite as bad as yours though! :)
Cookiecrumb, have you ever considered becoming an Auror? :-)
Gracianne — oh dear, I suppose that was a bit wicked of me, waiting three days. I meant to post earlier, honest. I’ve been busy cleaning my kitchen! I think gloves and a nice pair of shop goggles would probably do just fine. Or just don’t be as stupid as me and keep your fingers REALLY FAR AWAY from your face. Think of it as training for flu season.
Hey Alice, yup, you’ve definitely been there! Damn, now I have this urge to make more curry paste (with goggles on) just to experience that prolonged finger awareness again. The science geek in me would want to test contact with different substances and take notes. (Yeah, I’m that weird.)
Having been making lots of things with habaneros lately, I could see this one coming. I even included appropriate warnings at the end of this post–go look at this, Mrs D, you’ll laugh ruefully at the “notes” on habaneros.
I have a story of my own, well, it’s actually the stry of a good friend of mine, but I was there. Want to hear it? (send the children away or be prepared to have to explain things you might prefer not to) Picture a hot summer afternoon, several people have gathered in one of their kitchens to prepare a mexican-themed meal in celebration of the return of one’s girlfriend. Slice, chop, mince, sizzle. We are prepping away madly when said girlfriend arrives. The guy who was entangled with her decides that there are plenty of us in the kitchen, he hasn’t seen her in a little while, and we’ve got some time before dinner. So they slip away to spend a little quality time upstairs.
Five minutes of Slice, chop, mince, sizzle pass and then the peace is torn by a scream of anguish. And I do mean scream of anquish, heavy on the anquish. We look at each other, and then a couple of us hit the stairs running to see WTF happened. As I hit the landing I can see the guy of the pair standing there with a somewhat confused look on his face; he points at the bathroom. I, being the only woman on scene, knock on the bathroom door. Through the muffled sobs, I am bade to enter. I do, to find my friend on her back in the bathtub, water pouring over certain tender body parts, gasping, “he…didn’t…wash…his…hands…after…the…jalapenos!”
So vapor in your eyes, not so bad. Really.
Kitchenmage: Oh my god, that’s hilarious. Best. Chili. Story. Evar.
LOLOLOLOL! And then KM’s story on top of it! LOLOL!
Fun isn’t it? Been down that road a few times. I use many pairs of disposable rubber gloves and my mantra is, “Don’t pick your nose.”
I actually enjoyed the little burn in my eye last time, gave me a thrill. Not sure what that was all about.
I like the part where you believe you’re careful, then 6 hours later you bite one of your nails that has chile oil under it. AAHHAHHAH, dumbass.
Biggles
Thank goodness my boss has gone home for the day…everyone came running to my desk when I exploded into giggles over this! That poor woman…