Galangal

Tonight I had the unique pleasure of poking my way through an asian supermarket. For a sensory person with a penchant for the unusual and a deep love of food, it's delightful--the colors, patterns and textures, languages, smells. Especially the smells. I stared through the glass into the dead, hollow eyes of a fish which rested in ice next to hunks of meat and bones, the scent of docks and scales just barely edging past the breath I was holding. I didn't want to completely shut it out, however--that would somehow have stolen from the moment.

Nothing is organized in a place like this. Twenty brands of noodles are piled on one shelf, no price tags anywhere--a dozen types of seaweed occupy the next aisle along with rows of hot sauce. There are products stuffed in every conceivable corner, even draped over the edge of the cash register. A small can of FriChik made a home next to freeze-dried sardines, just under the shelf of cans with a name I didn't recognize, a hysterical panda bear panicking on the label. Two ladies rapidly discuss something in a lilting language, while the asian man digging through the tomato bin is singing "Baby, It's Cold Outside."

I pick up yellow curry paste, several cans of coconut milk, tofu, and potatoes. This week begins my hopefully-a-bit-more-healthy regime, and I'm beginning with thai food and a two mile run, just for luck. When you consider that I define the last time I ran based on a period of years, it's a significant change.

I think it's going to be good.

The asian market is really exciting.