Pistachio Party

Back in the early 1960s when we lived in Bangkok, Thailand, some friends of my mom and dad invited them and my sister, Mary, and I to come and visit them for two weeks up in a small sleepy Thai province called of Nong Kai.  Nong Kai is a situated near the Mekong river which borders Laos.  At that time, the Viet Nam war wasn't in full swing, and Nong Khai, almost unknown to the West, sat quietly among the many small sleepy villages of Northern Thailand.

In the early morning hours, the four of us boarded the train at the Hua Lamphong train station, and Mary and I immediately scrambled into a car outfitted with park bench-like wooden slat seats that faced each other with a wooden table in between.  This was the Thai version of First Class, and we went for the best front row seats.  Mom and dad followed close behind.  The day was sunny and new, and excitement was in the air as we settled in for a thrilling adventure.  Except for a handful of natives, also bound for the same destination or anywhere in between, we were the only "farang" family in that car.  

This was the first time I had ever been on a train.  I marveled at the excitement of it all.  Every window was open and I remember the warm air splashing on my face as we made our way through the sunny rice field and palm tree dotted countryside, stopping at many a village where noisy vendors piled in and walked down the aisle offering wares of hot aromatic street foods, cold bottled Coca Cola and Fanta soft drinks, and delicate handmade souvenirs for small fares.  I remember that, at many of these stops, there was a kind of yellow-goldish charcoal-grilled seasoned chicken stretched out on makeshift skewers, which made their way from the outside to the inside of the car as travelers handed peddlers coins called satang for these delicious smelling delicacies. My mother, always ready to try something new, handed a handful of satang out of the window, and two of these chickens-on-a-stick Thai style came back through and into the palm of her hand.  With an all-knowing grin, she handed one over and I still remember the amazing flavor of this savory seasoned chicken.  I didn't know it then, but thinking back, I think this was something the Thais call chicken satay.  Mary and I enjoyed one while my mom and dad shared the other.

The trip north would take almost eight hours, and I think my father must have seen that we were getting bored, because, after a while, he came up to Mary's and my seats at the front of the car, sat down between the two of us, and produced a small can of pistachio nuts.  Back then, pistachio nuts came in a small tightly sealed can and were dyed red; and as he took out his pocket knife and began cutting into the metal with this handy tool, Mary and I gleamed from ear to ear.  Dad was sitting next to us and we had his full attention.  And that, even then, was very special.

And, for the rest of the trip on our way to Nong Kai through, what seemed to me to be, more soft drink stops and more chicken-on-a-stick negotiations -- unaware that these were destination stops for travelers as well as food opportunities -- we all three sat there shucking off the hard salty red-dyed outer shells to these salty green nut meats, laughing and licking our fingers, competing for the reddest tongue and the best scarlet fingers that the dye from these pistachio nuts could bring as we slowly emptied the can.

There could have been more charcoaled grilled street foods around for the rest of the trip, but I don't remember seeing much more of that.  Our threesome and a can of salty red-dyed pistachio nuts was all that existed for the rest of the ride.  It was a very private pistachio party that only Mary, dad, and I were enjoying while my mom watched from several seats behind.

Why does a memory like that sear itself into the fabric of one's mind?  For years I have carried this memory with me, recalling the connection we all three shared that day.  It may have been only a very small moment of time in my life, but it has carried a meaning, so profound and so deep that I will never forget it.  It is a memory that brings my father back into my life and makes him real and alive again.  It may have been insignificant back then, but I long for this moment time and time again. 

Pistachio nuts have become a big part of my everyday life now as I grind them for the Middle Eastern desserts I make in my restaurant.  And, although they aren't the salty red ones or the ones that come in a can, not a pistachio nut goes by without my recalling this wonderful adventure, which became that much more special when dad opened a can of salty red-dyed pistachio nuts with his pocket knife and shared them with my sister and me on our way north to Nong Kai.

And, if I sit back quietly and close my eyes, I'm suddenly whisked away to that very special warm sunny day, sitting on a park bench-like seat with my father and my sister, Mary, in a noisy train along with all the smells and laughter and commotion, sharing a moment in life -- a pistachio party -- on our way to the villages of Northern Thailand.  He is smiling at me as he opens that small tightly sealed priceless can of salty red-dyed pistachio nuts with his pocket knife, and I have his full and loving attention once more.