I NEVER SAID I WAS MATURE

Day 21, April 11^th

It’s our last day in Siem Reap and it is going to be an easy one.  After the usual start to the day, we are off to an artisan workshop.  They take kids who are homeless, uneducated, victims of landmines, disadvantaged for whatever reason and teach them the skills of woodworking, rock carving and other things to help restore the temples and make souvenirs.  It is really amazing what they are able to accomplish.  It's a pretty quick tour through the shop, especially since we don’t buy anything.  And we are out.

From bad...

I have talked the kids into taking a cooking class and we have a few hours before it starts.  Dad wants to feed the fish again.  The fish line the glass of the tank when they see his hooves coming their way.  His feet hit the water and they attack like piranhas.  And I’m on the other end.  Alone.  Mom is in the other tank.  While her feet are not the Thanksgiving feast that dad’s are, her feet are at least a Big Mac combo, supersized.  My feet don’t stand a chance against theirs.  For once, my shower gloves have done me wrong.

Time for the cooking class.  Looks like it will just be the three of us.  There are three main dishes, three starters and three desserts to choose from and we each get to do one of the three categories.  I actually enjoy the Cambodian food and want to learn some of it, so I choose the chicken amok, spring rolls and pea soup dessert.  Mom and dad don’t really like any of the Cambodia food, so they get the rest.  Mom gets chicken curry (she hates curry) and dad gets Cambodian soup (he hates soup).  I can already hear the complaining.

...to worse.

Right before the class starts we are joined by two girls who are also taking the class.  Mom immediately downloads the information.  They know everything about our trip within minutes.  She’s efficient.

Our teacher shows up and has a pretty tough accent.  Everyone else can’t really understand her, so I become the ‘translator’.  First thing is first, we all have to put on our aprons and chef hats.  I just want to learn the spices and cooking techniques, not play dress up.  We all have to wear the uniform.  The only positive note is that dad hates it worse than I do.

In her element.

The instructor starts slowly and explains everything well.  We start off with some chopping of vegetables for our main dishes.  Then we move to mixing some spices.  Now, the spices have to be mixed up and smashed to create a paste that is the base for the flavor of two of the main dishes.  It all must be smashed and pounded in a stone grinder.  Not easy apparently.  Mom has a go at it.  Then dad.  Then me. 

I’m sorry, I know it is immature, but you can’t miss the innuendo when watching this being done.  The hard, fast, up and down motion.  The pounding.  The beating.  Dad can’t stop laughing while I’m doing this.  Plus, it doesn’t help that the instructor is next to me telling me to “beat it harder.”  I can barely keep a straight face.  I know, I should be more grown up than this.  Apparently I’m not.  Given the fact that one of dad’s favorite movies and mine is KINGPIN, this really isn’t a shock.

During all of this, mom doesn’t see the resemblance.  She just thinks we are all having a good time and enjoying the cooking class in our apron and hat.  Ever the polite lady, she turns to the two other girls in our class and offers, “would you two girls like to help Kevin beat it?”  Her exact words.  Verbatim.  I’m done.  I can’t do this anymore.  Someone else can beat it.  Pound it.  Make paste.  Whatever you want to call.  I’m exhausted from the heat, starving and my maturity level is rapidly plummeting.

He is VERY excited about this.

Paste is eventually made and it is time to bring these dishes together and wrap it up.  The instructor isn’t as patient as she was at the beginning.  She’s rushing.  Just trying to get done.  Doing things for us.  Not teaching.  Oh well, I’m starving and not mature enough to be an accomplished Khmer chef.

The meals are finished.  We sit down and eat.  Dad hates his main dish.  Mom isn’t a fan of hers.  Mine is pretty good.  My fresh spring rolls are delicious!  Dad does like his fried spring rolls.  All is not lost.  After the meal, despite the suffocating heat, we wait for our free t-shirts that we will never wear.  Cooking class done.

What is that stuff in the middle?

After the cooking class, we kill time.  What are we killing time for, you ask?  Our next real massage.  After the last massage experience, you may be surprised to know that I am the driving force behind this massage.  I saw something on a brochure that I had to try…the 4-hands massage.  That’s right, two girls, and they will be girls this time, massaging at once.  I have never even heard of this in the states.  I gotta see what this is like.  Also, dad, newly empowered by his successful fish massages, is going to give it a try one more time.  He is getting a one-hour Swedish massage while mom and I are getting the 4-hands for two hours.

Do they have to watch?

Dad is a bit nervous.  He does not want to go through another tenderizer like the last two times.  He keeps imploring me to make sure the massage will be soft.  So, I tell the girls the rules.  He has to have a girl and the massage had to be soft.  I jokingly call him a big weenie because he needs a soft massage.  The girls all laughed. 

My massage is hands down the best massage I have ever had.  The girls have trained a lot to perfect this.  They basically divide your body in half, left and right, and simultaneously massage your body in unison, same rhythm, same intensity.  Two hours.  I feel like jello now.  Mom agrees, the best massage she has ever had as well.    We will now search out more of these massages for the duration of our trip.

I just remembered, when it was time for all three of us to go to our massage rooms, I reminded the girls one last time about dad needing a soft massage.  I patted him on the shoulder, pointed to him and told the girls, “Big weenie, biiiiig weenie!”  Wait a minute.  That probably doesn’t translate properly, especially considering all of the “extras” in most massage places.  Oh well, if they try to check, mom will be there to protect him.

Paste makingly yours,

Chez Kevòn

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