peanut sauce -

by Emily

Endless Road Trip Seattle: Curry to Thai for

I’ve saved the best for last. The best thing I miss about Seattle, the best restaurant memories from my years of college in the University District, the best Thai food I’ve ever had. Yes, I’m that passionate about it. Thai Tom is my favorite restaurant in Seattle even though it’s a cash-only hole-in-the-wall with hit-or-miss service, multiple health department warnings, an undeniably intense spice level, legions of whiny Yelp detractors, and often a long wait on the dirty sidewalk of the Ave.

It’s fine, I’ll call out all those detriments. I challenge you to take one bite of Thai Tom’s curry and disagree with my ardent assessment of their amazing food. After your wait, after cramming into a wobbly wooden table or a crowded corner spot in front of the open-kitchen wok, after agonizing over which dish to order off their hand-painted wooden panel menus, after hungrily watching the sweaty chefs pouring piping-hot, incredibly fresh sauces over snowy balls of rice in glass troughs and praying that order is yours… once you’re endured that, the first bite (and every subsequent bite) is worth enduring the Thai Tom process. The food is heaven.

Friday Fuck Up: Peanut Sauce Doesn’t Look So Good on the Counter

Too much liquid + food processor = Sadness

If there is one liquid my husband and I love, it’s beer. If there are two: beer and peanut sauce. We have yet to combine them, but that doesn’t mean we won’t someday. Might be a little thick, but I do love a good shandy now and then.

So, last week, my dear one set out to make a mega-double batch of the good stuff. Peanut sauce, that is. I was chillin’ with the babe in the other room when all the sudden I hear, “Oh, God.”

Based on recent events, I figured something was on fire, or my darlin’ had cut off part of his finger. But no, instead I came upon the scene above.

Labels are for Soup Cans

It is a question I’ve had to answer again and again. If it doesn’t come up the first time meeting me (what tipped you off — the obviously thrift store jeans or the decrepit Earth shoes?) I know it still dwells in my new friend’s/coworker’s/grocery store checker’s mind. Maybe they open my fridge for another beer and encounter a meat drawer full of cheese. Perhaps they suspiciously eye my container of leftover tofu pad Thai. Whatever sparks it, I always know it’s lurking below the surface like Jaws, if Jaws ate black beans instead of people. “Are you a vegetarian?”

The answer, strictly speaking, is no. The answer, compared to most Americans, is basically, yes. I first heard the term flexitarian a few years back, and I actually suppressed a gag reflex. Sorry ES, I know they once received a nomination for eater of the year, but I am not ready to unite my eating habits with the soy hemp pomegranate latte crowd. At a recent foodie gala thing, I overheard someone say, “I don’t know what I’m going to eat when I go home because this is my first Thanksgiving as a pescatarian.” Cue aforementioned gag reflex, and accompanying eye roll. I mean, come on, you could practically cut the sanctimony with a fillet knife. Blech.

So, my answer, like most real ones, is, it’s complicated. I like happy meat from happy cows and you likely won’t find any animal parts in my fridge unless my husband has a hankering for sausage on his homemade deep dish pizza. One coworker dubbed all of my leftovers “nut-berry casserole.” But…I believe in hospitality, both giving and receiving, so I will eat (and enjoy) any lovingly prepared food, animal or otherwise. Don’t knock the West Virginia pickled hot dog ‘til you’ve tried it. And if the only place to watch the Illini game is Buffalo Wild Wings, bring on the hot and spicy wing platter.

I don’t think telling you how great vegetarianism is will convert you any more than telling you how often I go to church is going to make you a Christian. But St. Camillus does have a fabulous 10:30 mass if you ever care to join me, and if you come for lunch afterward, I dare you to leave any nut-berry casserole, I mean Gado Gado, on your plate.

Gado Gado (A dish so nice they named it twice)