I saw a homeless man's penis yesterday. Not because he had an exhibitionist streak - he is an old, black man who I often see perambulating the sidewalks in front of the restaurant where I "moonlight", and I doubt he would want the patrons he accosts to know him that intimately. And it wasn't quite an accident either. Ironically, he was getting robbed.
Now I know some of you are wondering who the hell tries to rob a homeless man, and so aggressively. Well, I'll tell you: a strapping black male in his late twenties, wearing a black cutoff T-shirt, shorts and Jordans. Obviously not homeless.
It was weird. There I was, walking back from seating yet another faceless couple with a fake and luminescent smile on my face, when I noticed our general manager streaking out of the restaurant in a panic. Right there on the corner, in front of the valet and in plain view of every last panoramic window we have, two black men seemed to be wrestling against a shiny black Cadillac. The younger was holding on to the old man's pants; the old man had a fistful of the former's T-shirt. They tussled for a brief eternity (oxymoron, I know), dragging each other this way and that while the valet looked on, befuddled. The sidewalk was amazingly clear the whole time, which is odd for a weekday evening in downtown DC. Not an onlooker was present...except all the people who pay for a fine dining experience, and were instead forced to behold this spectacle as they ate.
Before long, we noticed something curious. The old man's pants were sagging a bit too low; there was a little too much skin showing too. No underwear. I, for one, was transfixed. Could this be actually happening? Lord knows I didn't come to work expecting to see random men being stripped against their will, but if fate had a different plan for me, who was I to fight it?
The old man was surprisingly strong. We could see the rippling muscles of the young ox as he struggled to rip the man's wallet through his trouser pockets. With one hand, the old man was holding on to the boy's T-shirt; with the other, losing the battle to keep his privacy - and meager dignity - intact. It was awful, like watching a train run over a small child. So why was I laughing so uncontrollably?
I couldn't hold it together. Customers were lined up in front of me, presumably waiting for me to seat them but also captivated by the bizarre scene behind them. Idle servers rushed to shut the blinds, so they wouldn't have to spend the next few minutes cleaning vomit off the floor. Just in time: Young Guy succeeded in denuding Old Boy from the waist down within thirty seconds.
It was terrible. Ankles imprisoned by his waistband, the man was having trouble keeping his balance. He tipped backwards, rubbing his bare ass all over the black Cadillac, no doubt the property of one of our patrons. I hope s/he didn't notice. He tried to bend over to pick up his pants and hide his shame; at that moment, the younger man tried to bolt. Old Dude wasn't about to let him get away with this. He abandoned that task in order to get a firmer grip on the guy. They both fell on the car, jerking each other back and forth, smearing sweat and oil all over the body, the old man's flaccid penis flailing in the chilly night air.
Behind the host stand, I was agape and wide-eyed, my hand covering my mouth, choking on shock-induced laughter. Servers and patrons alike stood around, trading jokes and passing commentary on the spectacle. Our general manager swept back into the restaurant - he had gone round the corner to call the police; there is always at least one police car present in that area all day and all night. Seeing the flashing lights, the young man gave one last heave, ripped himself out of the old man's grip, and fled down the street. Someone - a bystander - followed in hot pursuit, while the old man finally re-dressed himself and tried to get his bearings.
The shame and pain in his bewildered eyes could be read from yards away. I felt bad for him. At the same time, I couldn't wait to spread his gist. The other servers who couldn't leave their stations to come and watch the happenings approached me to be updated. One by one, they came with expectant eyes and left shaking their heads in pity. Except one. My best mate MF. His reaction was priceless, to me.
"What happened?" he asked.
"Some guy tried to rob a homeless guy and ripped his pants off. His entire ass and penis were on display."
A slow smile spread across his face as he processed the information, and it transformed into a laugh filled with a wicked delight as he said, "That's. Awesome." He started to turn away, still laughing silently, then turned back to me and said, "What are the odds? You wake up in the morning, and it never crosses your mind is that this will happen to you at some point today. And yet." As he walked away, his wicked grin had transplanted itself on my face as we both laughed inwardly, not at the poor man's misfortune, but at this latest dose of surreality that the universe had served us on a slow Monday night at work.
The bystander caught the would-be thief, by the way. By then, four cop cars, a pig on a bike and a police van had shown up at the scene, every last one flashing their lights. All that was missing was the Segway patrol. Ten policemen all tried to get in on the action, each one no doubt secretly hoping to be The One That Arrested The Black Guy. Three stood getting the old man's statement. The rest taunted the young one as he was hustled from street to cop car to street to police van and off to jail. When the old man was finished telling his story, he was dismissed and he hobbled off to nowhere, still homeless, and immediately forgotten. The cops stuck around to have a party, complete with disco lights, their fat stomachs protruding off their gun belts. For thirty minutes, they stayed in front of the restaurant, discussing what, I don't know, while crime continued in the rest of DC, undetected by their fat, uninterested asses.
I got back to work, mentally composing this post for the rest of the night. No doubt I'll see the old man again tonight, but I won't ask him how he's doing or whether his assailant was given due treatment. I will look away, like I always do when I don't want him to ask me for money. But, unlike all those other times, now I will look away because every time I see him, I still won't see his face - I will see his limp penis and taut black ass flash in my mind as clearly as if he were on a stripper stage in front of me, and not standing on the sidewalk, holding a paper cup from McDonald's, asking me to spare some change, trying not to re-live his five minutes of shame. And I will never stop asking myself: Who the hell tries to rob a homeless guy?
Tuesday, April 29, 2008
Sunday, April 13, 2008
The Female of the Species: A Hearty Rant
Based purely on the stereotype, I become less Nigerian with every passing moment. It usually takes an encounter with other Nigerians to bring this to light, and I tend to leave these incidents with mixed feelings. In the first place, it is safe to assume that I'm either angry or incredulous, driven to near-madness by the backward mentality that was exhibited during an unexpected spat with a fellow Nigerian. Then I usually find that I'm mildly saddened by what strikes me as a further drifting away from my cultural roots, until I realize that I never truly understood these roots to begin with, which is equally, if not more, depressing. And finally, recalling the argument that led me down this path of introspection, I defiantly conjure up pride and heave a sigh of relief that I am not, indeed, like the parochial buffoons who easily meet the world's expectations of "what an African is". In my current environment, they make me look more "exotic", and nothing gets me going like the illusion that I am unique.
I hear it all the time - as a matter of fact, someone was telling me just yesterday how far off center I am from the average Nigerian woman. "You're the anomaly here," he said. Yes, yes I am, I remember thinking, smugly. So conceitedly cocky that I forgot to look at his eyes, to catch his true meaning. His words could very well have been an indictment, not a compliment, condemning me for exuding what my friend Chidi calls manly qualities, condemning me as I do myself from time to time. He might have been snide, silently chiding me for being the watered-down version of a truly beautiful African woman, the one Fela sang about in his misogynist anthem Lady, one who displays the attributes of strength and success within our traditional setups (which I refer to as oppressive constraints), silently playing the cards she has been dealt by God and men, seeking whatever solace she needs in religion and the advice of women who passed through the fire before her (those mere shadows of the vibrant beings they could have been did they not choose to walk the predetermined path). I do have some respect for those women (though, admittedly, not much). But I am too much of a caged animal within my own self to willingly accept a role that would only further restrict my freedoms: freedoms intellectual, spiritual, relational, sexual, unspoken. We say we've progressed - and in some ways, we have - but not really. And it's not always due to male domination. Ofttimes, we women hold ourselves back much more violently and effectively than any staunch patriarch ever could.
I was reminded of this last week, during a fight with she of the green curry. The back story is simple but rather long, so I'll present the highlights:
1. kulu & co. throw party for friend; kulu meets and re-meets several friends of friend
2. kulu receives email three days later from party attendee
3. Unsure who person is, kulu texts friend to verify last name of said person
4. Friend verifies name, wants to know why kulu is asking, kulu says, "got email, wasn't sure who from"
5. Friend wants to know what was in email
6. kulu wants to know on what grounds
7. Friend says "on the grounds that you know him through me"
8. kulu is about to lose her shit (shall I send you transcripts of every conversation I've ever had with people you know, too??) but holds it together. Responds simply, hopefully, nay, prayerfully: Jokes.
9. Friend texts back: I'm not joking.
10. kulu, still holding back but barely: Neither am I.
11. Friend: Do as you please...FYI he's married.
12. kulu goes ape-shit, texts become phone calls become emails, sparks fly, sparks turn to lightning, fire and brimstone
13. Friendship over
Now, you the reader don't know a lot about what happened during this argument. You don't, for example, don't know what happened at point 12 to accelerate the end of our friendship. You don't know why, at point 8, my indignation reared its ugly head. You also don't know what happened at point 2.
Neither did she.
So what could possibly have been her rationale for saying the things she said at point 11? In her words: "Since [kulu] refused to answer, I am left to think what I want."
Oh, really??
In subsequent back-and-forths, she changed her story. Hers were the caring actions of a good friend, her words mere warning against the sort man who would send me an email despite his married state. She'll have to forgive me for not catching that; Aristotle himself wouldn't have arrived at that conclusion based on what came before. For one thing, his woman was at the shower and she let it be well known that she was thoroughly dissatisfied with the lack of ring on her finger. My sister and I have shared many hearty chuckles over her display. So no, he's not married, moron. And secondly, most importantly, she didn't even know what he said!!! From whence the concern for my moral wellbeing? More accurately, why condemn me as a man-snatching harlot when you are 100% ignorant of what transpired in the communication then, once your prejudices have been revealed, lie about your initial intent? You know that your narrowly-carved mentality does not allow for man plus woman talking to equal anything other than sexual interest; but rather than deal with your misinformed prejudgments, your insecurities, your myopia, you want to bring a sister down. Why? Indeed, why go there at all?
I have considered the possibility that I over-reacted. Truth be told, by point 12, I was so angry I transformed into the very sort of Nigerian I despise: loud, argumentative, refusing to listen to anything that wasn't apologetic. It was regrettable, but not unjustifiable. Overly emotional, but - I've decided - not unwarranted. She was equally riled - justified in believing what she wants since I wasn't being forthcoming with the information she demanded; mortally wounded because I would believe she had anything but the best intentions behind everything she said, no matter how she said it; pissed off that I would so liberally sprinkle my speech with expletives and be so much of a stubborn blockhead, even as she is trying to explain herself, which she shouldn't have to do because a true friend would know she harbored no malintent and clearly she was mistaken about our level of friendship.
The argument had developed so many layers by this point that I was growing confused and consequently lost interest. In typical fashion, I extricated myself from the now-complex situation because I don't have the patience to unravel each bit, one by one. So more power to her: she won, and I was happy to let her. But I was exasperated as fuck because she missed, or chose to ignore, my point: yes, you may ask as many questions as you please, but don't think I'm obligated to respond; you may be well on your way to becoming a mama, but I am not your fucking child. Furthermore, that I choose to exercise my right to remain silent on an issue (just on principle, mind you, and not because I had anything to hide) doesn't give you the right to infer...anything! Not a damn thing.
Exasperation does not even begin to describe my state of mind; my heart is racing now, just replaying the scenario over in my head. It was the same with the green curry. Now, as then, I'm baffled by the sub-levels of provincial thinking to which she would cling, as a drowning man to a straw. Is it just me, or would the average rational being not have cut their losses at point 5, 8, or even 10, and moved on? Would a sensible, non-bullying individual not admit to herself she was being too nosy, take a few minutes to pout over being kept in the dark, then find something more important to do? I wonder: doesn't she have a crib to buy, a nursery to design? I know she lives smack in the heart of Bumblefuck, Nowhere, but seriously: isn't there anything else she could do to break up her seamless, endless days besides fuck with me?
I know she's not the only one who sees the unquestionable sense behind her actions, and that scares me a little. Because that means you can take as many people as you like out of the proverbial bush, put them in some of the best educational systems in the world, even give them an opportunity to earn advanced degrees, and they can still come through the machine acting and sounding for all the world like any other ignorant fool. What does that ultimately mean for the people in the world who are struggling, nay fighting, every day to transform the status quo so honorable things like logic, reason, wisdom and common sense can win in the end?
Nigerians are spending huge portions - some, multiplications - of their income to send their children/nephews/siblings overseas so they can get the sort of quality education that they hope will factor into rebuilding Nigeria. How can it be worth it, if these same children come back to Nigeria with nothing to show for all their time, effort and cash but the same antiquated mentality that they left with? What does it matter that you have gained nuanced knowledge of how to run an international banking conglomerate when you encourage your friends to "let God judge" their partners' infidelities until they must suffer the medical repercussions? So what if you're the first female mechanic-entrepreneur in your entire state, when you happily chime in as other women question the karma of a hapless wife who can't seem to conceive?
Venomous Eve. Ruthless and cunning destroyer. When and how will we evolve past this timeless image of woman, when all we seem to want to do is ruthlessly destroy one another, directly and passively? One woman's speculations - readily, speedily passed along the gossip line, lubricated by others' unending curiosity, volumized by the embellishments deemed necessary to keep the fairytale alive - will swiftly demolish another's social standing and not a one will bat an eyelid. That same justification that my friend gave for her judgment is the basis for many an evil deed perpetrated against womankind: "You won't tell me, so it's up to me to fill in the blanks." Open-and-shut case. Guilty as charged. No further questions necessary.
Sic. Ke. Ning.
I suppose I've made my point. I'm no longer incensed on a personal level. I recognize my shortcomings and, as always, I've been honest about them. I hope she will recognize hers too, whether or not she chooses to admit them to me. In the meantime, I'm cutting off the hand that caused me to sin and throwing it away: I can't remember the last time I was driven to that much anger, and I hope it will be a long, long time before I let myself go there again. Staying away from bucolic drama will make it that much easier.
I hear it all the time - as a matter of fact, someone was telling me just yesterday how far off center I am from the average Nigerian woman. "You're the anomaly here," he said. Yes, yes I am, I remember thinking, smugly. So conceitedly cocky that I forgot to look at his eyes, to catch his true meaning. His words could very well have been an indictment, not a compliment, condemning me for exuding what my friend Chidi calls manly qualities, condemning me as I do myself from time to time. He might have been snide, silently chiding me for being the watered-down version of a truly beautiful African woman, the one Fela sang about in his misogynist anthem Lady, one who displays the attributes of strength and success within our traditional setups (which I refer to as oppressive constraints), silently playing the cards she has been dealt by God and men, seeking whatever solace she needs in religion and the advice of women who passed through the fire before her (those mere shadows of the vibrant beings they could have been did they not choose to walk the predetermined path). I do have some respect for those women (though, admittedly, not much). But I am too much of a caged animal within my own self to willingly accept a role that would only further restrict my freedoms: freedoms intellectual, spiritual, relational, sexual, unspoken. We say we've progressed - and in some ways, we have - but not really. And it's not always due to male domination. Ofttimes, we women hold ourselves back much more violently and effectively than any staunch patriarch ever could.
I was reminded of this last week, during a fight with she of the green curry. The back story is simple but rather long, so I'll present the highlights:
1. kulu & co. throw party for friend; kulu meets and re-meets several friends of friend
2. kulu receives email three days later from party attendee
3. Unsure who person is, kulu texts friend to verify last name of said person
4. Friend verifies name, wants to know why kulu is asking, kulu says, "got email, wasn't sure who from"
5. Friend wants to know what was in email
6. kulu wants to know on what grounds
7. Friend says "on the grounds that you know him through me"
8. kulu is about to lose her shit (shall I send you transcripts of every conversation I've ever had with people you know, too??) but holds it together. Responds simply, hopefully, nay, prayerfully: Jokes.
9. Friend texts back: I'm not joking.
10. kulu, still holding back but barely: Neither am I.
11. Friend: Do as you please...FYI he's married.
12. kulu goes ape-shit, texts become phone calls become emails, sparks fly, sparks turn to lightning, fire and brimstone
13. Friendship over
Now, you the reader don't know a lot about what happened during this argument. You don't, for example, don't know what happened at point 12 to accelerate the end of our friendship. You don't know why, at point 8, my indignation reared its ugly head. You also don't know what happened at point 2.
Neither did she.
So what could possibly have been her rationale for saying the things she said at point 11? In her words: "Since [kulu] refused to answer, I am left to think what I want."
Oh, really??
In subsequent back-and-forths, she changed her story. Hers were the caring actions of a good friend, her words mere warning against the sort man who would send me an email despite his married state. She'll have to forgive me for not catching that; Aristotle himself wouldn't have arrived at that conclusion based on what came before. For one thing, his woman was at the shower and she let it be well known that she was thoroughly dissatisfied with the lack of ring on her finger. My sister and I have shared many hearty chuckles over her display. So no, he's not married, moron. And secondly, most importantly, she didn't even know what he said!!! From whence the concern for my moral wellbeing? More accurately, why condemn me as a man-snatching harlot when you are 100% ignorant of what transpired in the communication then, once your prejudices have been revealed, lie about your initial intent? You know that your narrowly-carved mentality does not allow for man plus woman talking to equal anything other than sexual interest; but rather than deal with your misinformed prejudgments, your insecurities, your myopia, you want to bring a sister down. Why? Indeed, why go there at all?
I have considered the possibility that I over-reacted. Truth be told, by point 12, I was so angry I transformed into the very sort of Nigerian I despise: loud, argumentative, refusing to listen to anything that wasn't apologetic. It was regrettable, but not unjustifiable. Overly emotional, but - I've decided - not unwarranted. She was equally riled - justified in believing what she wants since I wasn't being forthcoming with the information she demanded; mortally wounded because I would believe she had anything but the best intentions behind everything she said, no matter how she said it; pissed off that I would so liberally sprinkle my speech with expletives and be so much of a stubborn blockhead, even as she is trying to explain herself, which she shouldn't have to do because a true friend would know she harbored no malintent and clearly she was mistaken about our level of friendship.
The argument had developed so many layers by this point that I was growing confused and consequently lost interest. In typical fashion, I extricated myself from the now-complex situation because I don't have the patience to unravel each bit, one by one. So more power to her: she won, and I was happy to let her. But I was exasperated as fuck because she missed, or chose to ignore, my point: yes, you may ask as many questions as you please, but don't think I'm obligated to respond; you may be well on your way to becoming a mama, but I am not your fucking child. Furthermore, that I choose to exercise my right to remain silent on an issue (just on principle, mind you, and not because I had anything to hide) doesn't give you the right to infer...anything! Not a damn thing.
Exasperation does not even begin to describe my state of mind; my heart is racing now, just replaying the scenario over in my head. It was the same with the green curry. Now, as then, I'm baffled by the sub-levels of provincial thinking to which she would cling, as a drowning man to a straw. Is it just me, or would the average rational being not have cut their losses at point 5, 8, or even 10, and moved on? Would a sensible, non-bullying individual not admit to herself she was being too nosy, take a few minutes to pout over being kept in the dark, then find something more important to do? I wonder: doesn't she have a crib to buy, a nursery to design? I know she lives smack in the heart of Bumblefuck, Nowhere, but seriously: isn't there anything else she could do to break up her seamless, endless days besides fuck with me?
I know she's not the only one who sees the unquestionable sense behind her actions, and that scares me a little. Because that means you can take as many people as you like out of the proverbial bush, put them in some of the best educational systems in the world, even give them an opportunity to earn advanced degrees, and they can still come through the machine acting and sounding for all the world like any other ignorant fool. What does that ultimately mean for the people in the world who are struggling, nay fighting, every day to transform the status quo so honorable things like logic, reason, wisdom and common sense can win in the end?
Nigerians are spending huge portions - some, multiplications - of their income to send their children/nephews/siblings overseas so they can get the sort of quality education that they hope will factor into rebuilding Nigeria. How can it be worth it, if these same children come back to Nigeria with nothing to show for all their time, effort and cash but the same antiquated mentality that they left with? What does it matter that you have gained nuanced knowledge of how to run an international banking conglomerate when you encourage your friends to "let God judge" their partners' infidelities until they must suffer the medical repercussions? So what if you're the first female mechanic-entrepreneur in your entire state, when you happily chime in as other women question the karma of a hapless wife who can't seem to conceive?
Venomous Eve. Ruthless and cunning destroyer. When and how will we evolve past this timeless image of woman, when all we seem to want to do is ruthlessly destroy one another, directly and passively? One woman's speculations - readily, speedily passed along the gossip line, lubricated by others' unending curiosity, volumized by the embellishments deemed necessary to keep the fairytale alive - will swiftly demolish another's social standing and not a one will bat an eyelid. That same justification that my friend gave for her judgment is the basis for many an evil deed perpetrated against womankind: "You won't tell me, so it's up to me to fill in the blanks." Open-and-shut case. Guilty as charged. No further questions necessary.
Sic. Ke. Ning.
I suppose I've made my point. I'm no longer incensed on a personal level. I recognize my shortcomings and, as always, I've been honest about them. I hope she will recognize hers too, whether or not she chooses to admit them to me. In the meantime, I'm cutting off the hand that caused me to sin and throwing it away: I can't remember the last time I was driven to that much anger, and I hope it will be a long, long time before I let myself go there again. Staying away from bucolic drama will make it that much easier.
Friday, April 11, 2008
Newspaper Man Update: **DEADLINE EXTENSION**
Newspaper Man has come to a conclusion: there is no point rushing good ideas. For those of you scrambling to produce something decent from what you already have; for those of you who would submit something but for the fact that the deadline is April 15: THE DEADLINE HAS BEEN EXTENDED TO APRIL 30.
Please send your finished product to newspaperman2008@gmail.com.
Click here to refresh your memory about what we're looking for.
Many thanks to those of you who have already submitted your pieces. You're ahead of the curve anyway, so don't hate us for doing this!
Please send your finished product to newspaperman2008@gmail.com.
Click here to refresh your memory about what we're looking for.
Many thanks to those of you who have already submitted your pieces. You're ahead of the curve anyway, so don't hate us for doing this!
Thursday, April 10, 2008
Nigeria Comedy 4
Crying funny...
Plus, I had to note that they shot this in Ghana, which would explain why the stage looked so well-done. When are we going to be able to achieve this in Nig??
Tuesday, April 01, 2008
I Ain't No Chef, But...
Green Curry Recipe
Warning: You better know how to cook before you start to follow this recipe, because I do not use measurements - my only guide is my tongue, aided by the eyes. You'll need to be able to gauge and guess-timate and tweak as necessary, based on your own experience with cooking, to get this tasting the way you want it. If you need more stringent guidelines, stop reading right now cuz I won't be able to help you. Sorry.
Ingredients:
1 can of coconut milk (unsweetened)
1 small tin of green curry paste (in your local grocery's "ethnic food" section)
Meat of choice, cut into bite-sized pieces (I like chicken and I like salmon)
Long, green chillies, sliced (according to your level of tolerance - I use 3)
3 - 4 scallions, finely sliced
Garlic, minced
Thumb-sized piece of fresh ginger root, well-minced
1/4 onion, finely sliced
ground pepper OR minced habanero peppers (as much as you can handle)
salt + 2 Maggi cubes (not those enormous ones that come from Mexico, but the perfectly-sized ones we get in Nig - for those with no frame of reference, I apologize - again.)
Need: Pan + Wok (frying pan will work just as well, I guess)
Prep:
1. If you're using chicken (or beef), stir-fry the meat with the garlic, ginger, onions and pepper first (and in a separate wok). Use just a splash of vegetable oil; you don't want this to be greasy. Add salt & 1 Maggi cube. Use medium-high heat and stir-fry until the chicken is just cooked, i.e. still a little pink in the middle. You'll have created some stock - it's cool. Let it be.
1b. If you're using fish, marinate the fish with a little bit of olive oil, the garlic, ginger, pepper, salt and some onion powder (or chop the 1/4 onion instead - whatever) for 15 - 30 minutes.
2. Pour the coconut milk into the pan and bring to boil; once it's boiled, turn heat down and let it simmer. DO NOT COVER THE PAN. Add the meat/fish (with stock), scallions, chillies and HALF the tin of green curry paste. You can use less or more; it's really going to depend on how you want it to taste. Play with the amount. Experiment. Live a little.
3. Let it simmer, leaving the flavors to cling and entwine, one to the other, like lovers under satin sheets. Taste it, you might need salt/the other Maggi cube.
All told, this shouldn't take more than 20 - 30 minutes, from setting up the cutting board to yummy-yummy-in-my-tummy. So simple, so delic. I like it with jasmine or basmati; their sweetness complements the heat from the chillies nicely. Lemme know if you like it!
(Fried rice recipe another day.)
Warning: You better know how to cook before you start to follow this recipe, because I do not use measurements - my only guide is my tongue, aided by the eyes. You'll need to be able to gauge and guess-timate and tweak as necessary, based on your own experience with cooking, to get this tasting the way you want it. If you need more stringent guidelines, stop reading right now cuz I won't be able to help you. Sorry.
Ingredients:
1 can of coconut milk (unsweetened)
1 small tin of green curry paste (in your local grocery's "ethnic food" section)
Meat of choice, cut into bite-sized pieces (I like chicken and I like salmon)
Long, green chillies, sliced (according to your level of tolerance - I use 3)
3 - 4 scallions, finely sliced
Garlic, minced
Thumb-sized piece of fresh ginger root, well-minced
1/4 onion, finely sliced
ground pepper OR minced habanero peppers (as much as you can handle)
salt + 2 Maggi cubes (not those enormous ones that come from Mexico, but the perfectly-sized ones we get in Nig - for those with no frame of reference, I apologize - again.)
Need: Pan + Wok (frying pan will work just as well, I guess)
Prep:
1. If you're using chicken (or beef), stir-fry the meat with the garlic, ginger, onions and pepper first (and in a separate wok). Use just a splash of vegetable oil; you don't want this to be greasy. Add salt & 1 Maggi cube. Use medium-high heat and stir-fry until the chicken is just cooked, i.e. still a little pink in the middle. You'll have created some stock - it's cool. Let it be.
1b. If you're using fish, marinate the fish with a little bit of olive oil, the garlic, ginger, pepper, salt and some onion powder (or chop the 1/4 onion instead - whatever) for 15 - 30 minutes.
2. Pour the coconut milk into the pan and bring to boil; once it's boiled, turn heat down and let it simmer. DO NOT COVER THE PAN. Add the meat/fish (with stock), scallions, chillies and HALF the tin of green curry paste. You can use less or more; it's really going to depend on how you want it to taste. Play with the amount. Experiment. Live a little.
3. Let it simmer, leaving the flavors to cling and entwine, one to the other, like lovers under satin sheets. Taste it, you might need salt/the other Maggi cube.
All told, this shouldn't take more than 20 - 30 minutes, from setting up the cutting board to yummy-yummy-in-my-tummy. So simple, so delic. I like it with jasmine or basmati; their sweetness complements the heat from the chillies nicely. Lemme know if you like it!
(Fried rice recipe another day.)
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