The right ginger, the perfect tea

Although Indonesians rarely use ginger in their cuisine, they swear by the healing powers of the root which brought life to the gingerbread man and bam to the salmon filet. It’s frequently added to medications and medicinal beverages such as jamu- the Indonesian drink which allegedly solves all health problems, including lack of virility (so long as your beverage includes a crocodile penis). And for good reason- ginger is great for alleviating colds and nausea, and to boot, its wonderful on the pallet.

The testicle-free jamu is fine, but my beverage of choice is the humble ginger tea. I have made ginger tea in America before, but always with underwhelming results- bland with only the slightest hint of spice that I craved. Then one day, after throwing up seaweed pudding and breakfast into my Indonesian neighbor’s toilet, I was introduced to ginger tea as it should be. My neighbor, a former-scout leader and herb-connoisseur, fixed me the perfect cup of spicy, golden ginger tea that dissipated all nausea and made me realize for the first time, that no two gingers are equal.

I later learned that there are over 1,000 varieties of ginger, but in Indonesia, there are three main kinds to look for. There’s the fat one, appropriately named jahe gajah (elephant ginger) and also known as jahe raja (king). There’s jahe mera (red), used for jamu and other herbal drinks. Surprise! It’s got a reddish tint. And finally, there’s jahe kuning (yellow)- the slim, spicy root that tastes so perfect when boiled as tea. The tricky thing about this little guy is that it’s not very yellow looking. The best way to pick out a good jahe kuning, is to peal a bit of the skin off with your finger and smell. If it smells bland, your tea will taste accordingly, but if it smells spicy, you know you’ve hit the jackpot. Here’s the simplest recipe for a sip of heaven.

Perfect ginger tea (one serving):
Bring one cup of water to rapid boil
Peal one slice of jahe kuning about the size of your thumb
Slice down the middle then crush. To do this, I usually just put the flat end of the knife on the ginger, then pound it with my fist a few times.
Add ginger to water and lower heat
Let simmer for 10 minutes or until tea turns golden
Your tea is ready to drink!
You can add a tea bag for extra flavor (black tea is fine, but I like vanilla tea), raw sugar, or honey
Selamat Minum!

So Fat, so Beautiful: An American Woman in Indonesia

I had the remnants of a cold but was feeling good as I slipped into my running shoes for the first time since my bike accident.

As I stepped out the door, Shienda, my Indonesian co-teacher, called my name, “Grace!”
I stopped in my tracks, “What?” She looked up from her laptop to study me, then pronounced, “Grace you are SO fat.”

I looked down at my 120ish pound body. I didn’t feel fat, or at least not any fatter than usual to deserve one of the most damning judgments in the English-speaking-female world. Seeing the disbelief on my face, she assured me with her matter-of-fact voice, “Yes, Grace, you have definitely gotten fatter. Look at your stomach, your face- everything is now bigger.”

I think I rambled off some lame excuses: I’ve been sick, I haven’t been exercising because of my leg, blah blah. Shienda, agreed and generously added that, it “must have been the food” from the conference in Lombok that I had just returned from.

With the causes of my fatness agreed upon, Shienda went back to Facebook and I returned to my running, making a mental note to eat less deep-fried tempe.

In Indonesia, you are either very fat or “need to eat more”, and someone must always remind you, lest you forget the size of your own waist. Perhaps one reason you need to be reminded so often is because weight tends to fluctuate in Indonesia more severely than it does in the Western world. There have been times when I have been told, “Grace your face looks like it is sinking in, please, you must eat more” only to be asked hours later, “You used to be so skinny, how did you become so fat?”

Or perhaps this is a way of looking out for your pals. In America, we expect our friends to be honest to us when we’re drinking too or dating a jerk so that we will not wake up married to God’s-greatest-punishment-to-the-female-race. But in Indonesia, your girlfriends just want to make sure that you know when you look less “cantik” (pretty) so that you can whip yourself back into shape and attract a spouse before the ever-approaching marriage deadline- age 27.

But the problem I have with that theory is, Indonesians never really sound concerned when they tell you you’re too fat. I’ve seen Indonesian students introduce their classmates as, “the fat one” with a mean-sounding laugh and even call their teachers “big and ugly” to their face. Office-banter usually involves someone pointing out the fattest person in the room.

The whole phenomenon of weight-bashing can be unsettling and even damaging to the frail self-esteem of the average, sheltered American who has been told all her life that it is “okay to have extra curves” and has only, only talked about weight publically in the following context: Girl A- I’m so fat, Girlfriends of Girl A- OMG, no you’re not.

But having grown up in a Korean-American household where every pimple and weight fluctuation has been monitored by the watchful eye of my grandparents, I wasn’t too surprised by the sudden attention my butt received and was even amused by the contrast between the matter-of-fact attitude Indonesians take towards weight (one Indonesian explained that telling someone they are fatter is like commenting that their hair got longer) compared to the culture of deceit that pervades American fat-talk. Just think: how many Americans have told their friends, “Oh you look so skinny” while silently thinking, “ those pale rolls of fat gushing from the sides of your pants are repulsive.”

I’m not saying that children should call their teachers fat or that you should start telling your friends what you really think about their rolls of pasty blubber. I just find the contrast between blunt honesty and deceit, well, interesting.

After all, even my tough ego was ever-so-slightly wounded after Shienda’s evaluation of my anatomy. But fortunately, there is a panacea to the wounds inflicted upon the over-sensitive.

No matter how fat you really are, if you are a female American, you will always be cantik (pretty) so long as you live in Indonesia. In fact, I get reminded about a dozen times a day how “cantik I look with my jilbob” or how “cantik my white skin is” or how “cantik I look” in my hideous school uniform. When I walk through the hallways in my school, I hear, “I love you!” “You’re beautiful!” from my students- male and female- and if I need an afternoon ego-boost, I need only to walk around my neighborhood to hear, “Beautiful woman!” from the local construction workers.

And from what I’ve gathered, this is not unique to me, but common to all the Fulbright English teachers- big and small- who live and work in Indonesia. We American women are exotic and yes- beautiful- even in our slightly-chunky state to the eyes of Indonesians.

So if you’re a little curvy or slightly malnourished, remember that no matter what Indonesians have to say about your waist size, you’re still damn sexy.

Why I go to Platters (and why you should go too)

The Europeans enjoy long multi-coursed meals served on fancy plates. But at Seton Hall, there’s a group of us that have our own idea of a three-hour meal, and it’s not European.

One course, one platter- that’s all you need when you visit the Halal street stand on 53rd and 6th in New York City.

Known to regulars as “Platters”, Halal Chicken and Rice is one of those places that make college kids speak poetry. No joke. Twenty-one year old, beer-guzzling men speak of Platters like King Solomon spoke of his beloved or Romeo of his fair Juliette.

To anyone that’s ever ventured there, that’s no surprise. The food is enough to make even the most snobbish epicurean weak in the knees: Perfectly seasoned lamb (or chicken) tossed on a bed of yellow rice and warm pita, topped with a generous serving of “white sauce”, and if you have good taste and a strong stomach- the legendary, hot sauce. And you can’t beat the price: $6 for a platter, and $4 a gyro.

But as any Platters regular will tell you: It’s not just about the food, Platters is an experience. As a Seton Hall student, visiting the legendary street stand meant scrounging for cash (no credit cards accepted), finding drivers (who can maneuver NYC taxi cabs), gathering a group (at least 5-strong), and setting aside at minimum, 3 hours to drive there, eat, and return.

Most importantly, Platters is never planned. One person says, “Hey want to go to Platters?”- usually around midnight, and usually the night before an early-morning class. Hesitation and rational debate ensues, but eventually, logic surrenders to passion, ego bows to id, and before you know it, you find yourself in a car with too many people, hungry and dancing to “You know you want me” as it blasts on the radio.

I always enjoyed Platters myself, but as a type-A nerd, involved in too many activities and enrolled in too many classes my sophomore year, Platters was also a cause of heart-palpitating anxiety- symptoms of shirking assignments, putting off never-ending emails, and going to class too tired the next day- if I woke up. But thankfully, I always had friends that dragged me on monthly, sometimes weekly pilgrimages, despite my protests and pouting.

Now as a slightly-less-than-type-A graduate, I realize that those irrational excursions were in a way, just as important as the meetings and the lectures which consumed so much of my time in college. The people that joined me for Platters runs, I now consider some of my best friends, and even though they will be dispersed around the country and around the world next year, we’ll always share the memories of those ridiculous nights of laughter, traffic, and of course, savory baby sheep.

I’m still a nerd, I still get work done on time, but because of those friends, I live my life by a slightly different clock. Take this piece of prose for example. In less than 6 days, I will be taking the GRE, an exam which will determine which offices I sit in for the next fifty years of my life. If my Asian dad saw me writing a street-food review for my not-for-profit blog at this moment, he would freak, FREAK. And so would nineteen-year old Grace.

But for now, I am just happy. I’m happy because I am doing something I love (writing), writing about the people I love (you know who you are), and reminiscing over some of the best nights we ever shared. And although there probably won’t be another Platters reunion until, oh, next month, at this moment, those memories are enough.