Post-Self

In response to Invitation #1: Culinary Construct.

Perhaps one of the most unique dishes I have eaten was at a small stall tucked away between trees in a seemingly endless forest. I felt we had wandered for hours between those trees — though I mean that without any negative connotations: the company made up for it — counting birds and leaves, squinting when the dapple of sunlight briefly dazzled me, before we finally turned a corner of sorts and there sat a food cart.

I really do mean a cart, too. It was the type of cart that might be hauled behind a bike, a folded box of sheet metal, a burner beneath a wok, steamer baskets stacked five high, and the young chef (one presumes) lounging lazily against a nearby trunk.

Our arrival did not startle them to action, so much as some automatic reflex caused them to waft into action. They plucked a folded banana leaf — and keep in mind, this was a deciduous forest of the type I remember growing up phys-side! — and lifted the lid off the top steaming basket and, not even flinching at the heat, plucked two steamed buns out with bare fingers and set them on the leaf dish. Apparently deciding for us that this was our entire order, they gave us a hint of a nod and settled back against the tree.

We hardly needed to worry about going hungry. Each of the buns was about the size of my fist, and looked more something closer to a large snack than any full meal, but, when one is confronted by a lone steamed bun seller in the middle of the Rocky Mountain forest, one trusts the process.

As was our habit from the first days of our relationship, Cress and I fed each other our first bites. Easy enough with a steamed bun, for we could simply hold it up for the other to eat. I can assure you, it is very cute: the two of us speckled in sunlight, holding food out to each other to hazard that first bite, cautious of steam.

The first bite was the most unexpected, as I was greeted with not the soft dough and sweet-savory filling of a steamed bunbut the crispness of a salad of green papaya and cilantro. The flavors burst forth with an eagerness that I was not prepared for: the fresh tang of the papaya, the zing of line, the savor of (vegan, I was told) fish sauce, the roundness of cilantro. Above it all, a subtle heat filled my sinuses from a sweet chili sauce.

Cress and I stared at each other in disbelief, chewing slowly as though that might somehow bring into focus the reality of what we were eating.

The next bite: a mouthful of noodles, of mushroom, of tofu, of a broth of lemon grass and coconut milk and chili. It was masterfully balanced with garlic and ginger, rounded out with a chili oil.

The next bite: a curry of some sort, sweet and creamy and almost refreshing in its execution. There was the kaffir lime and curry leaf notes peeking through the sweetness of the coconut milk, the fragrance of ginger and galangal, the crunch of bell peppers and onions and the chew of fried tofu.

The next bite: a wickedly spicy street noodle dish with mushrooms, tomatoes, peppers, onions, bamboo shoots, and fried tofu. The seasoning was black pepper and soy and peanut, with plenty of chili paste thrown in.

The final bite: mango sticky rice. It was perfection, from the cool sweetness of the mango enhanced by a drizzle of sweetened coconut cream contrasting with the still hot sticky rice. There was even the faint pop of sesame seeds between our teeth.

Throughout our five bites, the bun looked much as any other might, with the dough snowy white and just as fluffy and the filling made of some meat and sweet-savory sauce.

We left stunned and talked of little else as we finished our hike. Neither of us have ever found the cart again.