I took the twins to the evening market. They stayed in the car, complaining about the heat and whining for a mall instead. As if a mall would carry the ingredients I needed.
"Do you sell rats here?" I asked the beef vendor. "Two blocks down," he pointed. "There's a stall for that."
I followed his directions and found the place. The seller was a young guy who looked nothing like a typical vendor—arms inked in tattoos, muscles bulging like a predator. Believe it or not, this was the guy selling rats.
"Got anything else exotic?" I asked. "How about tree lizards?" he offered. "Not fresh, though—frozen." "I'll take them."
A moment later, eight bandicoot rats and ten skinned tree lizards were handed over. With that done, I grabbed a few more ingredients. In less than ten minutes, I was back at the car.
When we got home, the two little troublemakers bolted upstairs, grabbed their guitars, and headed straight to the garden. As for me, I got to work on dinner for their father and his sons.
Look at me—the quintessential housewife.
"What's on the menu, Khun Tim?" P'Pang asked after introducing me to her niece, Tongjai—a fifteen-year-old girl in Grade 9 at the same school as the twins.
"Spicy Stir-fried Bandicoot Rat, Spicy Minced Lizard Salad, and Toddy Palm in Syrup," I replied.
What a delightful lineup. Honestly, how did someone as refined as Ms. Kawinthida even come up with this?
"Ms. Kawinthida…" "Ah—ah. Don't call me that at home," I said gently. At first, she didn't dare come closer, unsure if I was really the same teacher from school. "Call me P' instead, okay, Tongjai?"
"Is that alright?" she asked softly. "I'm afraid Khun Nin might not approve." "I'm the one telling you. It has nothing to do with Khun Nin," I replied. "Don't forget who I am. By the way—how do you usually get to school?" "By motorcycle."
"Ride with me instead," I suggested. "We're headed to the same place anyway. The sun's brutal, the dust is awful—and it's just a nightmare on rainy days." "No, thank you," she said. "I can handle it. A bike cuts through traffic better than a big car."
"Stubborn, aren't you?" I sighed. "Alright—wash those palm fruits, peel them, and slice them up. I'll handle the rest."
I got to work in the kitchen with P'Pang. First, I thoroughly washed the rats, removing the parts I didn't need—claws and heads. The vendor had already gutted them. I then finely chopped the meat.
Next came the curry paste: dried bird's-eye chilies, garlic, shallots, lemongrass, galangal, kaffir lime leaves, and salt, all pounded until fragrant.
I set the pan over low heat, added a little oil, and seared the meat until it was golden and aromatic. I pushed it to the side, fried the curry paste until the scent bloomed, then tossed everything together.
I seasoned it with oyster sauce, soy sauce, seasoning powder, a touch of sugar, and a splash of fish sauce, finishing with a handful of holy basil.
See? A culinary master.
"Smells amazing," I said, scooping a bit for them to taste. Tongjai shook her head and backed away toward P'Pang. "I'll eat in the small kitchen with my parents. Let her taste it."
"Why are you dumping this on—hey, wait—" Before she could finish, I shoved the spoon into her mouth. "Chew," I ordered. "Consider it a teacher's command."