Roasted Curried Cauliflower and My Weekly Tryst

I think it’s time I finally talk about it here on The Delicious Life.

I’ve been seeing this guy now for, hm, maybe three years? I don’t know exactly, as I don’t recall the details of the first time I ever met him, but I’ll tell you, that first time must have been magical for me because we are both okay with it not being an official, regular “relationship.” It’s a convenience thing – “on” when it’s convenient, “off” when it’s not.

Our moments are our own, so I don’t ask about others, or even if there are others. To be quite honest, I don’t really care. I mean, I suppose I could drive myself crazy wondering how he tides himself over when it isn’t me, but that kind of feminine jealousy works on Venus and Mars, not in this warped, twisted galaxy of mine called the Delicious Life. Besides, he, like me, can take care of himself. We never talk about stuff like that. Never have. Never will. In fact, we don’t really talk much at all.

It is, I guess, highly irregular, especially in times like these when most people have someone they see regularly. There are times when I think I don’t need him. I go for weeks on end without seeing him. Not face to face, not even an attempt that I end up cancelling later, no, not even a phone call. But then I’m twisted, banged up, something horrible happens and I go crawling back to him. He never ever turns me down.

In public, we exchange quiet perfunctory “hello”s and “how are you”s before he gently whisks me away to his room. He turns down the light for me because, well, many of us are shy about ourselves under full light.

No person, man or woman, touches me the way he does. He has the delicate touch of a girl, which sounds gay, but he has the brute force of a man twice his size, and he is, well, a very tiny Asian man. Yes, I said tiny Asian man. It seems strange, as I have always been more accustomed to big burly European men with big muscles, big hands, just big. He is a small Asian man; small, but certainly not weak. He is tight, fit, strong. That is what makes him better, I think.

After three years, he knows me. He knows exactly how to work me. He always starts off slowly. His smooth, soft hands glide all over my skin like silk on silk, pushing, pulling, stretching, warming me up. He knows where my soft spots are, where he has to be tender. Halfway there, and he starts to press hard, using a lot of pressure, digging deep, deep deep, and just when I think he won’t go deeper, he does. Every muscle, every fiber every tendon from my scalp down to my toes is wound up so tightly that I could light the entire Vegas strip with the k= ½mv2 that’s built up in my body. He’s right there, he’s found the spot and he’s working it. He’s almost there. My face is smashed into the sheet and between each rhythmic, forceful pound, I haltingly squeak out a breathless “Can you *breath* do it *breath* a little *breath* harder?”

He knows when he’s finally found that one spot because he can sense it in my body’s reaction. He just punches into it over and over and over, until I’m right at that tenuous line that takes an eternity to get to. In one last final pound, I’m blasted across that line in an all-too-ephemeral moment, and like a knot that unravels all by itself, the tension dissolves all over me. Finally I can exhale. I’m weeping, black mascara smudges all over the sheet, not because it hurts, but because...it hurts.

No one does a deep tissue massage for $65 better than Thanh. No one.

The place where Thanh works his magic is bare bones. There’s no trickling waterfall, no dim serenity with flickering candlight and no complimentary cucumber essence water, and yet, in its stark austerity, it is absolute zen. I swore to myself I would never ever blog about this little indulgence of mine, my weekly deep tissue massages with this tiny Asian massage therapist named Thanh. (I think he’s Vietnamese, but you know how all those Asians look alike.) I didn’t want to admit that I actually do pamper myself once a week (I'm not a princess, I swear!), and I certainly didn’t want to give away the secret that it’s only $65. What if I told everyone and then they all call Thanh for a massage and he doesn’t have time for me anymore? This is my moment of therapy. Mine! Some people pay $65 an hour to talk to a therapist. I pay $65 an hour so I don’t have to unless I want to. Sometimes a full hour will go by and the only words I utter are “thank you” at the end, and sometimes, I chatter on about how much I love/hate being unemployed. I’m pretty sure that he can’t understand a word I’m saying. Is that horribly racist? No. It’s exactly like the dentist who nods and smiles in complete understanding when he’s got his two fists wadded up inside your cheeks. Thanh just responds to my muffled ramblings with an occasional “mm hm.” It’s very therapeutic.

When I gave it a full rubdown with olive oil, red wine vinegar, curry powder, cumin, coriander, salt and pepper, I’m sure that half a head of cauliflower felt nowhere near as relaxed as I do. I could have just tossed the florets with the curry vinaigrette, but for some reason, I felt the need to really get down in there between the cracks and crevices of each floret. The florets roasted in a single layer on a baking sheet in a 400 degree oven, along with whole cloves of garlic. After about 25 minutes, they’re sweet, caramelized, and as soft and tender as my trapezoids after a full hour with Thanh.

But much tastier.

** a year ago today, i made an indecent proposal **

tags :: food : and drink : indian : cooking : recipes : los angeles