Red Curry Chicken
Take four chicken breasts. Slice each one into 6-8 strips (the recipe in Arundhati Roy’s book uses fish).
Molly and Francesco are coming over to try my red curry chicken dish. When they arrive, I hand them chilled Pinot grigio, and we talk while the cooking goes on. Molly fills me in on the results of her latest scan for her brain tumor, and it’s not good.
Mince and combine 8 scallions (or 1 medium onion), 1.5 tsp grated ginger, 2 tsp anchovy paste, 5 tbsp olive oil, and 2 cloves of chopped garlic. Blend. If you can’t find shrimp paste, you can substitute anchovy paste.
I had cut up the scallions before they arrived so they wouldn’t see me cry. They tell me they will soon be leaving the Bay Area for Long Beach. They want to be closer to Molly’s doctors for experimental treatments because her brain tumor is growing back. I nod. Francesco had warned me that this might happen, and now it is. Shortly after they were married, Molly began having headaches and cancer was diagnosed. After surgery and treatments, she’s had almost five years of clear scans and was one month shy of what her doctors would have pronounced her as cured.
Stir fry on high for 1 minute, then on medium for 2 minutes.
This is the only recipe I’ve ever created, and it was inspired by the black tamarind dish mentioned in Roy’s book The God of Small Things. Her description sounded so mouth-watering that I wanted to make it. There was no recipe in the novel, so I dug through Indian cookbooks looking for tamarind recipes, but nothing matched. I wrote down ingredients that sounded good together and for the next couple of months I adjusted the recipe to ingredients I could find.
Steam the basmati rice.
-o-
In October, a year earlier, my wife, Evelyn, and I gathered in Yosemite with Francesco and Molly, who were renewing their vows. After five years of marriage, they did not know how many more they would have. As we walked through a grove of oak trees, I slowly turned a rain stick. Its needles cascaded down inside the hollow cactus, inviting the sky, the mountains, and the river to share in our celebration. We arrived at a large flat slab of granite with seven holes worn into it that had been used to grind acorns into food by the Ahwahnechees. The holes were still smooth from their last use a hundred and fifty years ago. We listened to the wind playing the hollows of the mountain peaks like stone flutes.
I spoke of love being a dance that partners learn as they live together. Of how a good marriage is always in motion as people continue to grow and explore new ventures, and how couples are ground like acorns to feed each other. Grinning like teenagers, Francesco and Molly exchanged their promises and the rings they designed. Evelyn sang a simple, elegant song that filled the glen. A Tibetan singing bowl was rung, and the ceremony ended.
We left them at the grinding rock to share their private words. As we walked from the shade of the oak grove into a meadow, a golden light suffused it and filtered into the valley.
“I wonder what they’re saying,” Ev said.
“Maybe they’re sharing their gratitude for each other,” I said. “I know Francesco feels this way. I think she’s keeping him going through the uncertainties with her cancer.”
“Do you think they’re talking about their fears for what might happen?
“I hope so. If they share what scares them the most, they can help each other cope on days when the stress and despair become too much. But maybe they think this would be a burden on the other.”
“I’m okay if they only want to focus on their marriage today and not think about anything else.”
“So am I. Today is a day for celebration!”
Seeing the sun illuminate her blond hair, I took Ev’s hands and looked in her eyes, “It feels like we are celebrating our marriage, too, my love. And this light! I’ve never seen light like this in Yosemite. It’s like a half-light that is being careful not to shine too bright, as if this is a special moment for us, too.”
“Hey poet boy, calm down! I feel it, too. Come here and give me a kiss!”
That evening we all ate dinner together at the elegant Ahwahnee Hotel. The next day, Evelyn spotted a craft item that she knew would be perfect for them and bought it.
-o-
Tonight they say, “We have an image stuck in our heads of Evelyn coming from the Native Museum, impishly grinning, and holding a bag with the Indian corn maiden angel inside for us. It was something we had just been looking at and decided we couldn’t afford.”
Six months after Yosemite, Ev would die from an undiagnosed heart problem.
Add 8 tsp of lime juice (if you can’t find black tamarind paste), 1 tsp salt, 2 tsp dark brown sugar, and 1 tbsp peanut oil (optional) to the mix. Stir fry for 5 minutes.
Francesco has a gray ponytail and collects old books and Grateful Dead bootleg tapes. When he was in his late 30s, he fell in love with Molly. With dark blond hair cut short, and a wide smile that invited you in, Molly is a painter. But she was married at the time, so he said nothing. When she got divorced after a couple of years, Francesco asked her out on a date.
When the rice is done, set it to the side to rest.
They have always been available after Evelyn died when I needed someone to listen or distract me, saying I could call anytime, even at three a.m. Molly checks in periodically to see if there is anything she can do, but I tell her that I have no idea what I need. They hold me in place when it feels all the pieces of my life are drifting away.
Lightly braise the chicken on medium for two minutes, turn and braise the other side. Add the chicken to the stir fry. Dissolve 8 tsp of red curry in water, and add half to the stir fry. Heat the other half in a separate pan to use for sauce for those who like spicy food.
Molly and Francesco assemble the romaine salad of tomatoes, green peppers, kalamata olives, pine nuts, and avocados. I slice the Colombo sourdough bread fresh from the bakery.
Steam the fresh snow peas.
Francesco takes a piece of bread, dips it in the red sauce and tastes. His eyes light up as some of it drips into his beard. “Oh, that’s good!” he says as he takes more bread and gives Molly a bite.
Spoon the red curry chicken over rice (or vegetables, if you prefer). Add cilantro (optional).
We fill our plates and move to the dining room. Our sharing shifts from food to today’s weather, mid-seventies with a clear sky. For once, the afternoon fog does not show up, so we have a balmy evening to enjoy dinner with the door open. A slight, delightful breeze comes in from the backyard. We toast Ev’s memory, pray for Molly’s recovery, and eat to our friendship. I bring out the extra sauce and we pour more over our food, relishing the heat of the curry. Francesco and I talk about what’s going on in the bookstore where we work. Molly says she’s finishing up her latest painting project, two companion pieces, both 3×5 feet in size, and wants me to have one of them. It feels like she wants me to have something by which to remember her.
For dessert, I bring out sliced strawberries with a touch of lime. Over Peet’s dark Kenyan coffee that was roasted in Berkeley, they tell me they loved the way that Evelyn’s eyes always shone with light, and I say, “Yes.”
The next week, I finally agree to have dinner at their home on Alameda Island on the east side of San Francisco Bay. Francesco comes home from work and goes to take a shower. Molly and I prepare the appetizers of asiago cheese, French bread, red wine, and the dinner of sausage and polenta with Southwest spices.
Bringing out her painting, Molly says she calls it “She Came First,” but she won’t tell me what it’s meant to convey. What I see is a white background, perhaps snow, and pine trees. In the center, is a sacred green hoop of Native Americans through which the rays of life come into the world. There are seven smaller rings inside, each sharing its own light.
Molly says there are moments of clarity when she is certain of specific things. She doesn’t know if the experimental drugs she’ll be given will work. Or if her coordination will continue to deteriorate and she’ll have to get an electric wheelchair. She does not know how long she’ll survive. If the changes will come quickly or slowly, only that they will come. But she knows what it means to live in the moment with someone good. She looks over at Francesco who has emerged from his shower and to sit in the recliner. He is now asleep in his disheveled robe. She says, “Ah, love!”
-o-
Two years later I drive 500 miles to southern California to spend time with Francesco because Molly has become unresponsive. We’ve kept in touch through email, but now I need to be there. As soon as I arrive, I go to Molly and kneel by her bed in the dark room. Touching her arm, I speak quietly, unable to tell if she knows I’m here. I thank her for taking care of me after Evelyn’s death. That she was crucial in getting me through the rough months. Leaning close to her ear so that Francesco can’t hear, I whisper that I and our other friends will watch over him. Anticipating that Francesco hasn’t been eating well, I have brought a batch of red curry chicken. Francesco dishes up a plate, puts his fork in, then sets it down, unable to eat.
A week after I return home, Francesco calls to say that Molly died that day. He sounds broken and bitter, and I don’t blame him. He had only a handful of years with her. I let him know that he will feel like he doesn’t want to take another breath because that would mean that he would go on living without her. I tell him that he has seen how hard grief is from watching me try to cope with it every day. That in the first months he will feel like a zombie, going through the motions without feeling anything. Before Francesco hangs up, I say I’ll call him in a few days to see how he’s doing. But he will stop answering calls and emails.
-o-
Twenty years later, I look at Molly’s painting on my wall, created while her cancer’s tentacles were expanding and going deeper into her brain. I wonder if my cancer journey will end the same way. Wanting to honor them, I pull out the old recipe and let the tears fall.
Take four chicken breasts. Slice each one into 6-8 strips. Steam the basmati rice.
© Mark Liebenow
Mark Liebenow is the author of four books and his essays, poems, and critical reviews have been widely published. He lives in Illinois and writes a weekly Substack account, Dissolving Mountains. http://markliebenow.com
The Loch Raven Review 