I made curried chicken over rice Tuesday night. Nothing fancy, just your ordinary red curry recipe: curry paste, coupla cans of coconut milk, fish sauce, a little chicken stock, and a double handful of Thai basil leaves, plus cubed chicken along with snow peas and chopped yellow and orange peppers for color and texture. That, over basmati rice. Mmm.
I made plenty, because I knew it would be tasty and I wanted leftovers. There was enough for a nice big dinner, and then smaller meals for the next two days. And just to make it extra yummy, I threw in half again as much curry paste as normal, as well as some of the seeds from the peppers. Very spicy in the mouth. Delicious.
Of course, the next morning, I’m getting the old rumblings of unhappiness from my lower intestine, and I wind up spending an hour or so running back and forth between my desk at work and the toilet, and wincing at the stinging burn afflicting my undercarriage.
I’m not asking for sympathy here. It’s my own fault; I just love the hot, hot curry, even though I know the inevitable result. And what’s more, shortly after the fallout from dinner was finished, I dug greedily into the leftovers for lunch, even though I knew full well that I’d be repeating the ordeal. It’s just too scrumptious not to enjoy, you know? And, sure enough, that night, my wife was rolling her eyes at my late-hour bathroom groans.
So I had the final meal last night, polishing off the remainder with great satisfaction. I can now feel the first twinges of discomfort in my gut, and I expect to be dashing to the john within an hour or so to unleash my anal flamethrower. It will not be pleasant.
But it will be worth it. In fact, I wish I had more.
