That’s all I got. Thanks for visiting.

For those unfamiliar with this unctuous soup, tom is Thai for “boiled” and kha means “galangal”. Galangal, or blue ginger, isn’t actually ginger but a close rhizome relative. Unlike it’s sharp, pungent cousin, galangal is sweet, citrusy and earthy. It’s skin is smooth and almost waxy and it’s hard root is moist but almost woody.

Traditionally, that’s the foundation. Adding to the flavor structure of the galanga is lemongrass, kaffir lime leaves, and Thai or Birdseye chilies all boiled in a mix of coconut milk and another liquid, typically water or stock. “Gai” which is Thai for chicken makes the soup into Tom Kha Gai. “Kûng” or shrimp makes it Tom Kha Kûng. You can use chicken or shrimp/fish stock respectively, or stick to water. Veggies and straw or oyster mushrooms are sometimes added. After everything has been briefly boiled, the soup should be removed from the heat and seasoned with lime juice, cilantro, fish sauce, and sugar. Don’t overdo the fish sauce – use salt instead to taste. The inedible lime leaves and slices of galangal remain present as garnishes, as a reminder of where the dish gets its subtle and unique flavors.

That’s the classic framework, anyhow.

The best Tom Kha I’ve ever had is far from classic. EE Sane is my favorite Milwaukee Thai restaurant. Their tom kha is thick, creamy, spicy, pungent, sweet and tart, all in perfect balance. The flavors fiercely fluctuate, competing for attention while its luxuriously thick and spicy coconut broth coats the palate. It’s not traditional. It is not subtle. The broth is orangey-red, laden with the oil of the chiles – exciting compared to the usual opalescent swirl of tropical milk. The lemongrass, galangal and lime leaves are not to be found with the usual suspects: shrimp, broccoli and the occasional baby corn. And I swear, they add cream.

Sometimes, tradition is wrong. I don’t think that’s the case with Tom Kha, but the subtleties of the traditional dish would have a difficult time competing with EE Sane’s implementation; after all, it is the latter against which I compare all other versions of this soup. I will someday post a recipe as close to EE Sane’s as I can achieve. Until then, good eating.

As I write this, I’m laying in bed with my girlfriend. Naturally, I am building a database and naturally and she is watching Private Practice. It’s her guilty pleasure – a stress relieving wind-down before bed. All of the sudden I hear a familiar voice – the voice of Mark Sloan. Yes, Mark Sloan of Grey’s Anatomy fame. Now, I know what you must be thinking. You recognize his voice? What a doofus.

But, yes. Yes I do recognize his voice. You know why? Because. Because there have been many nights that while I was working, she was watching Grey’s anatomy – enough so that I’ve loosely become familiar with the shows.

So fuck me in the ear: what the fuck is Sloan (McSteamy that is, not his daughter – whose first name is Sloan but last name is Riley) doing on Private Practice? I shit a brick. A huge brick. I turn and ask, “Why is McSteamy on Private Practice? That is his nickname, right? And the other one is McDreamy?” She tells me I’m right, after which I pull open the elastic of the oversized women’s basketball sweatpants I’m wearing and vomit into my underwear.

Fake doctor shows have cross-over episodes. Holy fuck. What is the world coming to? I’d rather vomit on my balls than deal with this nightmare.

So, I write this, and relocate to the dining room table.

Achoo! Achoo! Achoo!! [stomp stomp stomp] Achoo! Achoo! [frustrated gasp for air] Achoo! Achoo! Achoo! [stomp stomp].

I think it’s finally over—she’s succumbed! Perhaps the vapors from the large number of chiles drying in my kitchen are wafting up through both our open windows and into her nose? I can see it now: a stream of tiny red particles yippie-ing in glee through my screen window. Up the side of brown brick they climb till they reach the also–open screen window above mine, where they rocket up either nostril and on to her olfactory sensors. An electrical impulse travels to her brain. An irritant! Sneeze to destroy all invaders! Achoo! Achoo! Like microscopic airborn red ants, they fly out of her nose, coated in mucus, but are immediately replaced by an onslaught of their restless brethren. She’s won the battle…for now.

Back in reality, it’s just allergies. Can you tell I OD’d on Magic School bus as a kid? Perhaps I’ll move the peppers closer to the window and see what happens…