Thai Street Food: Kalamae

The first few times I walked down this row of shops on the lakefront in Chanthaburi, I was distracted by the smell, pervasive by nature, of durian around me. Like a woman obsessed, I only had eyes for the large, muddy brown, hedgehog-like fruit. It wasn’t until my third time walking down the street that I noticed a purely sweet smell which cut through the complex durian aroma. I looked to my right and saw a long banquet-like table displaying an array of sticky Thai sweets. Behind the table, a young man stood on a chair and stirred a wok filled with a gooey caramelized mass known as kalamae.

Kalamae is a naturally vegan Thai version of the traditional French caramel. It is made (as with most Thai sweets) of a combination of sticky rice , sugar, and coconut. It is amazing how these three basic ingredients can combine to create a multitude of desserts all of varying tastes and textures. In the case of kalamae, sticky rice flour, palm sugar, and coconut milk are cooked and stirred constantly until the perfect gooey and luscious texture is obtained.

You can find plain kalamae (colored with burnt coconut husks) or a green kalamae (colored with pandan leaves), topped with either peanuts or white sesame seeds. Especially for vegans who miss eating caramel, kalamae is a wonderful, indulgent sweet. I find it tastier than its cream- and butter-laden counterpart.

20 baht or $0.70 for a palm-size packet.

Shelter and Sisterhood in Vietnam

This is the first in a series of posts dedicated to the amazing people I meet while traveling, people who provide me with much more than assistance. These are people who open their hearts to me and whom I will always think of as family. These are my angels of the road.

The following flashback is from my time cycling through Vietnam.

I was hungry after having only fruit for breakfast, so I stopped at the first place I saw. It was on the opposite side of the highway, though, which is something I try to avoid as this is no country road but the busiest highway in Vietnam. From my perch atop Bowie (the name of my bicycle), I could see the place served banh mi. Perfect. Since I had a jar of chunky, Vietnam-made peanut butter in my pack, all I needed was a little baguette (ridiculously cheap too—usually costing about $0.08) for the perfect, tasty lunch.

A young, slight girl who spoke some English approached me as I tried (awkwardly) to balance my bike and unload my small pack from atop the larger one. I walked with her and explained what I wanted, adding, “An chay” to make my bizarre choice of plain bread more understandable. Her father waved me over to sit at the table with him and his wife and daughters. I happily did, but, as he spoke no English, wondered what we would find to “talk” about for the duration of my lunch. We pantomimed about basic things, I showed them my map, and the daughter provided translations for the slightly more complex ideas.

Soon they were bringing out food and treats for me to partake in—candied ginger (a traditional Tet, or Vietnamese New Year treat), fresh papaya, watermelon seeds (damned difficult to open), a sugary puffed rice treat which was crispy and filled with ginger and crystallized sugar.

Then they started outright giving me things! The father packed up the container of candied ginger for me to take and added to it banh in—some kind of special Tet treat that was all white and sugary and rectangular. Then the daughter, An, brought out a heart-shaped gift box. I shyly opened it. Inside was a soft pink wide wristband. She indicated it was a scrunchy for my hair. How perfect! My pink sparkly hairband was in truly awful shape—dirty and stretched out and always catching and ripping on my tangled hair.

I was delighted, but also ashamed. What could I give to them? What did I have? Not for the first time I wished I was carrying a supply of gifts. Then I thought of my books. The Little Prince! It was filled with delightful pictures and the story was simple and maybe someday she would be able to read and understand it. So I fished through my backpack and gave it to her, trying to indicate through hand gestures just how treasured it was to me. “My favorite book,” I repeated.

I don't know exactly how it happened, but when we went back to the table to sit and I began rifling through my smaller pack in preparation to leave, An mentioned she wished I were part of her family. Then she said something to her father in Vietnamese, smiled and turned to me, saying that they would like it if I would be part of their family for that afternoon and night, that I should stay with them. I'm sorry to say that I hesitated. I really shouldn't have; it was an extraordinary offer. But in my defense, I was simply a bit concerned about time. So I got out my map again to see how far I had to go until Mui Ne, the next big town. Could I do the remaining distance in one day? Yes, it seemed completely plausible. So I smilingly agreed.

An was immediately jubilant. She jumped up from the table, lightly grabbed my arm and steered me toward a room in the back which had an altar and old photographs of the family's deceased relatives. She lit a long stick of incense then handed it to me, indicating that I should place the incense above the altar. I wondered, is this a ritual just for family members?

Then she led me into her room which she shared with two younger sisters, one fifteen and one twelve. She herself, despite looking much younger to my eyes, was only nineteen years old. She said I should feel at home and asked if she could call me Sister Sarah. I agreed, tickled by the ecclesiastical undertones, calling her Sister An in return. She invited me to bathe, which was a welcome invitation after a few hours cycling in the hot sun. I bathed quickly in the outhouse, splashing myself with water and washing my hair as best I could. Around An and her sisters, all of whom dressed neatly and meticulously, I had been acutely aware of my sweat-stained outer shirt and tangled, messy hair.

After a light lunch, the girls showed me a video of An singing beautifully at some kind of celebration. She had a lovely voice and did some very sweet dance moves, all while wearing a cowgirl-inspired outfit which might have been ridiculous on someone else, but she was such a cute little thing, I think she could have worn anything. Then we did some karaoke, and after a little persuasion I too decided to sing. I started with “We Wish You a Merry Christmas” because it was the only English song, then I passed the microphone to the sisters. The eldest two had simply stunning singing voices and moved with such grace and ease. 

 

The sisters told me I was beautiful, even before I had bathed my fatigued, sweaty body. And they loved my hair. But I didn't see how they could truly think I was beautiful. Oh, that's not self-deprecation. It's just that I violate so many Asian standards of beauty, especially now. I have dark, tanned skin. Really. My legs are the color of a roasted turkey at Thanksgiving. I have freckles and I am too tall and too big and too clumsy. In many ways, I am the antithesis of the standard of beauty here, in which being graceful and pale, with as white skin as possible, is seen as beautiful. I think the only way to reconcile this paradox is to agree that the sisters were holding me to entirely different standards of beauty. So while they may find me beautiful, they would never want my dark tan or my freckled skin.

 

That afternoon, though it was clear that the normal activity would have been to sleep a bit, we all piled onto the family's motorbike. The girls took great care in preparing for the trip. They wore face masks and long gloves, as well as hoodies with long sleeves and the hoods pulled over their heads and tied tightly under their chins. In contrast, I wore my cut-off jean shorts and a short sleeve shirt. I was already as dark as I'd ever been and, while cycling ten hours a day, I simply found it useless to fight the tan. So the four of us squeezed on and rode into the nearby town of Vinh Hao, famous for its mineral water, to take the type of photobooth kitschy photos that are so popular in Japan. You know the ones—you can edit them afterwards, adding bows and hearts and writing to the foreground and a snowy background or a background populated by Hello Kitties. We drank sugar cane juice with ice and a bit of orange juice mixed in, which Sister An insisted on treating me to.

The sisters took a little nap and bathed before dinner, and as she was changing her clothes, An asked me a question I never expected to hear. “Do you think I'm thin?” she asked, her face tight and worried. My goodness! “Of course you are thin!” I answered immediately, knowing the crushing effect of hesitance. This girl was tiny, tiny, tiny. She was pocket-sized—as slim and slight as a child. Why on earth would she worry about a thing like that? But I understand. Girl, do I ever understand. Beauty standards infiltrate and insecurity abounds in everyone; the skinny and the symmetrical are no exception.

I felt like an oaf in comparison to her and in the past few months I had gained weight and no longer recognized my own body. But I was beginning again to feel comfortable in my skin. Especially once I started cycling—on that first day, with no preparation or past experience, I cycled 75 km—I really began to see what my body was capable of and it made me grateful. Grateful for strong legs and strong lungs. Grateful for a constitution which, after cycling for ten hours can still be vibrant and full of energy, propelling me out of my hotel room and exploring whatever town I'm passing through.

I met some of the extended family at dinner—aunts and uncles. We conversed through smiles and laughter and soon An translated her uncle's complimentary comment on how tall I was. They were all impressed with my stately height. Well! At 5’4” or 153 cm, this was certainly a new experience! But he was right. I was a bit taller than him and a few good inches taller than everyone else in the family.

After dinner we lay and watched TV on a woven mat on the floor. An's middle sister brought out pillows and blankets, and so, instead of using the girl's bedroom, we fell asleep there on the floor. All the women in the family—An's mother and her sisters and now me—slept in the open air of the front balcony of their house/roadside restaurant. Though An's mother joined us on the floor, I was aware that she got up several times during the night to serve hungry customers. Their restaurant was located on the busiest highway in Vietnam, after all.

I awoke with the light, as did the entire family. I efficiently gathered my things; weeks of experience had made packing up a well-worn routine, and I was soon saying goodbye to the lovely family that had taken me in and embraced me.  I hugged and kissed them all in turn, saving the biggest hug for Sister An. I saw myself in her—someone endlessly curious about people and the world. I saw in her what I wanted to be—someone open, caring, courageously sharing herself with strangers.

I couldn’t linger; I had a long way until my next stop, Mui Ne. But as I cycled off, I wished I could shelter Sister An somehow, shelter her from the pain that comes with such openness, shelter her from the insecurity of caring what other people think. But who am I to lend her strength, I who know the pain of bending under the weight of my own insecurity? Maybe we can shelter each other, maybe we provide each other with support, with—what is the word? oh yes—sisterhood.

Humus for Breakfast, Lunch, and Dinner

Consider this the great humus wrap-up post, in which I look back with nostalgia on humus I ate in Jordan and Turkey. As I write this in Thailand, I try not to think of how long it will be until I taste this most perfect of foods again.

A full breakfast spread including halwa, fateh humus, shatta, and pickled cauliflower and turnips

Let’s start with humus for breakfast in Amman, Jordan. While there, I was introduced to a popular choice for Friday morning breakfast (Friday being the beginning of the weekend in the Arab world), fateh humus. Fateh is a lighter, silkier version of humus. It is the only humus which you are expected to eat with a spoon (of course, this never stopped me from digging right in. My appetite for bread is limited, while my appetite for humus is not.). One reason for this expectation is that fateh humus is prepared using bread and is not topped with oil. A dish topped with olive oil is made for dipping because the bread soaks up the excess oil.

Fateh is made by soaking chunks of day-old bread in the hot chickpea-cooking liquid. This softened bread is then mashed with a few large spoonfuls of humus then, depending on the chef, extra tahini and lemon juice might be added to the mixture. The smooth fateh is then topped with crushed green peppers, whole chickpeas, and roasted local almonds. Because of the chickpea-infused liquid, fateh is always made to order and served warm. Its texture is softer and lighter than traditional humus—silky might be the most fitting adjective—but, as I found out after being unable to stop eating, it will still fill you up for the entire day.

A lunch of humus with a simple tomato cucumber salad, bread, some spicy pickled peppers, green onions, and mint

Now let’s jump to lunch and to another country—Turkey. Despite what you may have heard, Turkey is not known for its humus and many Turks have no idea what it is or how to make it. So I was excited when I took a trip with my lovely mother to Antakya (also know as Hatay or Antioch) near the border with Syria. Antakya is know for its delicious Arabic-inspired cuisine and we made sure to sample that cuisine at every turn.

This was my favorite humus of the trip. It was topped with spicy red pepper flakes (which Antakya is famous for), fresh tomatoes, parsley, olive oil, cumin, sweet red peppers, and pickled eggplant.

Cevizli Biber

The cuisine in Antakya, despite its obvious Arabic influence, still maintains strong Turkish flavors.  Case in point is the above dish, cevizli biber, which is a paste made from walnuts and spicy salça (red pepper paste). It is delightfully fiery, but also rich and sweet from the addition of the walnuts.

In Antakya, it is common to find signs advertising baklacı and humusçı. In Turkish, the –ci ending denotes a profession and thus can be added to any noun, for example çiçek means flower and çiçekçi is a florist. So a baklacı is someone who specializes in making bakla, a dip of fava beans,  and a humusçı is someone who specializes in making humus. So when my mother and I went looking for our last meal in Antakya, we simply followed the signs and they led us directly to humus.

Humus topped with tomatoes, cucumbers, green peppers, parsley, olive oil, and spicy red pepper flakes

When I first started making humus myself (of course I know how to make humus as it pretty much has its own place in the vegan food pyramid), I became enthralled with the endless varieties and each time I went into the kitchen tried to push the envelope further. What started innocently as roasted red pepper humus soon morphed into chocolate dessert humus. But it wasn’t until recently, until Lebanon and Jordan and south-central Turkey that I came to appreciate the perfection of simple humus. It’s amazing how six ingredients can, at the hands of a master or usta, transform into something sublime.

In the Kitchen: Dolma and Sarma with Hatice, Fatoş, and Ayşe

This time when I returned to Adana, Turkey, Fatoş invited me to watch (and “help” in) the preparation of a few of my very favorite Turkish dishes: sarma and dolma.

Hatice and Fatoş stuffing grape leaves

Sarma is made by filling either cabbage or grape leaves with a herbed rice, while dolma is made by stuffing eggplant, peppers, or zucchini with the same rice mixture. If you see this dish at a restaurant or in a home, ensure that it is etsiz (meatless) because it is also common to find dolma and sarma stuffed with ground meat.

Three varieties of dolma—eggplant, peppers, and zucchini

When I arrived, Fatoş and Hatice had already stuffed the peppers and scooped out and stuffed the eggplant and zucchini. As you can see in the picture above, they used bits of grape leaves to seal the eggplant and zucchini in preparation for cooking.

My lovely sister-in-law, Ayşe, had completed the first step in making sarma the night before, when she picked dozens of grape leaves from the vine in front of her parent’s house. Then the grape leaves were blanched briefly in plain, unsalted water until they were soft but still strong.

Next, the rice mixture was prepared using uncooked rice, onion, garlic, salça, parsley, mint, oil, salt, and black pepper.

I watched as Ayşe, Hatice, and Fatoş expertly filled and wrapped each grape leaf tightly. Making sarma and dolma is a time-consuming process, requiring many steps and often taking the better part of a day, so these dishes are traditionally made by a group of women. The women swap recipes, gossip, watch each other’s children, and provide support to each other while preparing, stuffing, and cooking their sarma and dolma.

After watching how each grape leaf was stuffed, I gave it a try myself. At first I was tempted to put far too much filling in, but the ladies quickly helped me out, explaining that the rice would expand when it cooked and it was important that the leaf was tightly wrapped so it wouldn’t unravel during cooking.

    

To cook the sarma and dolma, Fatoş added a few tablespoons of salt and filled the pot about halfway with water and about a half cup of oil. She then topped everything with a circular stone, specially made to weigh down the sarma so they don’t come unwrapped while cooking. (If you don’t have a special stone you can use a plate weighed down with a few cans.) Once the water boiled, though, she removed the stone and put the lid on the pot.

Toward the end of cooking, Fatoş and Hatice made a sauce to pour over the sarma and dolma. They started by making a paste of garlic and salt in a mortar and pestle, then heated some oil and salça in a pan. Once the salça had colored the oil, they added the garlic paste then poured the sauce over the sarma and dolma.

Afiyet Olsun! May it bring you health!

No More Art Museums

I’ve been on the road now since the end of 2008 and I have no plans to stop moving. In this time, I’ve refined my perspective and culled some general pointers which have served me well. I’m elaborating on them in a new section of my blog entitled, creatively, travel tips.

 

Don't try to do it all. The notion that you can “do” a country or even a city is flawed from the get-go, so forget it. Just forget it. I used to visit all the famous sites and museums because, well, what's a trip to Paris without the Louvre or the Eiffel Tower? But if you ask me to remember a highlight from my time in Paris in a bitterly cold February, the first thing I'll tell you is how I stayed tucked under the blankets in a warm hotel room as my then-boyfriend bundled into the cold and around the block to buy fresh croissants for a breakfast in bed. Or maybe I'll tell you about my love affair with old Mini Coopers and how I took more photos of those absurdly adorable cars than I did of the traditional Parisian sites.

These days I've admitted to myself that I'm just not interested in art museums, and you know what? I'm a much happier traveler because of it. I'll still go out of my way for a textile, ethnographic, or curio museum, but unless it's free, I've got an afternoon to kill, and it happens to be in my way, you won't find me in an art museum. And that's okay.

 

Travel is not a scavenger hunt. It's not an attempt to check everything off a must-see list. In fact, I posit that that type of travel will wipe you out and make you crazy. You can't do it all. So figure out what you love, what fuels you, what fills you with energy instead of depletes it—then do those things and do them unabashedly.

If you're like me this means scouring Beirut for the very best falafel sandwich; cycling to a town in Laos to watch women weave mat mii (ikat) fabric on the looms under their stilted houses; watching movies at a guesthouse in northeastern Thailand as a friend recuperates from a motorbike accident; dancing the night away to live folk music in Istanbul; attending a circus performance workshop at a Human Rights Day celebration in Cambodia (see picture, above); helping a middle-age couple, who had picked me up while hitchhiking, pickle vegetables and watermelon for the long Romanian winter in their apartment in Bucharest. These are the memories that shape me and linger with me. These are the experiences that remind me why I travel.