Monday, January 7, 2013

The Transformation of Curry and Ghee

Yesterday, I spent a stupid, astonishing number of hours standing in my kitchen. I stood there, apron-less, so completely present that I didn't leave a stain. I learned to bruise lemongrass, to make a bhun, then added flavors in layers like the organdy folds of a dress, shadow and light. I minced garlic and ginger, cracked open cans of coconut milk and squeezed a lime. I discovered that brown rice could be made to taste like a dessert without the use of sugar. Ah! To live where there are coconuts.



Also, I made ghee and put it up.


The butter melted and began to boil. I stirred and blew the surface to see if it was clear. It wasn't clear. Not forever. Somehow, this was not matter of patience but of presence, so I waited and I stirred. I watched and blew.



I was forced to stay in the kitchen and watch until, finally, it changed. I strained off the liquid and Mike helped me drain it into jars. For a total investment of five dollars and an hour or so of my afternoon, I had produced what looked like temple oil. I am manifestly hoping that this clarified butter will free me from my lactose-intolerant dependence on margarine. We will see.


There's something about that clarification that stayed with me. I have been spinning it in small cycles in my head. I acquire knowledge like Thai red curry, layer after layer, creating new flavors from the small facts that went in. It takes time and patience and must be done at the right heat. The flavors must be balanced or the bitter spice of ginger wins the day. I read the same book four times, at each pass learning something new. I add in layers, I fold in comfort, relevance and truth. In the end, I have forgotten the recipe, but the taste is something of the world.

The work I do on my soul, though, is like making ghee. I add everything to the pot and increase the heat. If there is too much heat, I'll burn. If the temperature is gentle enough, if it is safe, I bubble with the discomfort of altering slowly into who I want to be. I continue, past all patience, to be unclear. Blowing the froth, I remain clouded this time and the next, unending. Until suddenly, I'm not.  Then, for a time, I am holy. I am liquid gold. My inspiration can be burned in celebration, the memory of clarity holds true. Inspiration is made to be used and I do. I use it until it the jar is empty and it is time to make more ghee. This is predictable and painful. It is how it has always been. It is also what brings me joy.

I too often approach others who are making ghee as if they are making curry, and I offer them galangal, kaffir lime leaves and advice on how to work the spoon. What they need, I think, is someone to stand by them and watch as they gently transform into something they never were, someone to make sure the heat is not too high, to blow the bubbles and to offer encouraging thoughts.

The work of transformation is hard and sacred. It helps to have a friend.



15 comments:

  1. Replies
    1. Ha! I wrote it in 45 minutes and had no time to edit. I thought it was terrible. Glad it worked.

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  2. A beautiful reminder to have patience with myself during the painful process of transformation. Thank you Tara.

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    1. It seems to take a very long time, doesn't it?

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  3. Utterly lovely.

    There is a wonderful scene in Katrina Kittle's book, The Blessing of the Animals, which follows an Indian woman who is making Gajar Halva and thinking upon marriage. It is an apt description of diligence in both cooking and relationships.

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    1. I'm glad you said that because I keep meaning to read that book! I will put it on my library list again.

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  4. I love how cooking does this to us! It's actually quite a deep experience and takes the mind down so many wonderful nooks and crannies..

    This was lovely. Thank you.

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    1. It's so true. I love to have the time to really cook, and not just do my weeknight cooking when I am tired and need to feed my family in a rush, but really think about each flavor and prepare everything just as I want. It seems somehow a holy act.

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  5. Replies
    1. Thanks, Jewels. It was a really good curry, too, and the ghee isn't making me sick!

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  6. Yeah , I am not much of a cook - not that I dislike it but so many other things are above cooking / eating on the to do list -- I am , however, a person in the f**king scary middle of some sort of transformation. "The work of transformation is hard and sacred. It helps to have a friend." I can appreciate that. Hard and sacred. Friends are risky business though.....

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    1. I can relate a great deal to what you say. I think friendship feels easy and natural to me when I am on firm ground and hazardous and vulnerable, though necessary, when I am in the middle of a lot of change. I want desperately to feel really heard and I really get—or grant—that experience, so there is something sort of starved about the way it feels. However, those moments when you do get that friend who stands by you while you find clarity, those are precious and memorable, and I find that those friendships last.

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  7. I never have the patience to make curry of any variety! Thanks for the reminder that having patience to change is worth it ;-)

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  8. Patience, and just the right amount of heat, make a world of difference.

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  9. Brilliant as always. Now, to try to apply that brilliance to myself and others...

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Faith in Ambiguity by Tara Adams is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License