Tasty Places :: Thai Me Up

Pre-Script:
This is not a happy-touchy-feel good post.
The food helps redeem it, though.

The Post:
My mother is very ill. This very minute, she is at the hospital in intensive care. She can’t speak, only moan. And I’m not certain that she still recognizes me, my father, my daughter.

It’s been a long fight, one that’s been longer than the doctors and statistics anticipated. It’s weird to write about this here, but also liberating and helpful – even just hammering out these few sentences. Cancer is a fucking motherfucker.

I don’t cuss much. So that tells you how I feel about this whole thing. Two days ago, I went to a memorial service for a co-worker who was diagnosed with a rare form of cancer in July, and passed away a week and a half ago. His story, oddly enough, makes me feel lucky that my mom’s cancer has worked on her more slowly.

Lucky. That sounds odd to say. I manage to put on a happy face. I fake it. It’s that or let sorrow eat me up each day. The busyness of my life is most helpful. The blogging, the work brought home on the weekends, the kid shuttling, the training for races. I know this isn’t why you clicked on this link, though.

I guess I’m supposed to talk about food at some point. My parents don’t live in Southern California. They’ve stayed put in my hometown of Stockton some 360 miles north. Since my mom’s health has declined in a new and artful way since summer, I’ve ventured up north by train, by car, by plane. It’s never an easy feat. The train takes an eternity. Flying is great, but I have to go to Sacramento or Oakland and then, rent a car, which adds up. I love it when my husband is able to drive me but, when he can’t, I have to pump myself up for days to make the drive since, with the anxiety and stress from dealing with my mom’s illness, I started getting panic attacks while driving. (After reading somewhere that listening to talk radio helps with this type of thing, my latest strategy is using podcasts. Dear Sugar Radio and Serial and Wait, Wait, Don’t Tell Me have helped a sistah out these last couple of trips).

But, I’ve made it up here. At least one or two times a month lately. Perhaps this says a lot about me and my coping skills, but it helps me out when I’m here to take an hour or so to eat, to shop, to drink as a means of keeping my sanity (the tiny bit I have).

Take yesterday. I got up at 3:30 am to get ready to leave Long Beach, hit the road solo an hour later, picked up my kid in Fresno, made it to my parents house, and stopped at the skilled nursing facility where my mom has been the last month to find she’d stopped eating, could barely move. I spoke with the nurse who consulted the doctor who ordered her to be taken to the emergency room. She arrived by mid-day, found to be dehydrated with her blood sugar levels extremely high and a number of other issues. My dad joined me later that evening in the busiest ER I’ve witnessed, with more than a few car accidents, a major stroke, a death in the room next door, babies with unexplained rashes, paramedic stretchers lining the hallways. She got a room in the IC around midnight. I got home and to sleep close to 2:00 a.m.

And this visit was not atypical. So I’ve developed a pattern, it seems, with coupling extremely stressful situations with food and drink and writing. (And epic and gluttonous viewing of Keeping Up With the Kardashians – I swear, I only watch when I’m in Stockton). I don’t think I’m the only one in the universe who takes this approach.

Over the last year, I’ve spent lots of time and money at Stockton’s Boudin Bakery, and at La Palma Restaurant. Boudin isn’t far from the house and La Palma on Stockton’s Miracle Mile is close enough to the hospital that I can grab chips, salsa, enchiladas, and a margarita and be back in an hour. Today, I wanted something different. So I mapped nearby spots and came across a four-star contender in Thai Me Up. I had to give it a try.

What got me, really, was a picture of someone’s Thai chile margarita posted on Yelp!. I was in terrible need of liquor after my yesterday, my today, much of it spent gloved and gowned in the intensive care unit, as my mom’s at high risk for developing MRSA. So after dropping my college kid off at the train station (she had to get back to school), I headed to the Miracle Mile for a table for one (dad likes his meals at home) at Thai Me Up.

It’s a small place, just about a dozen tables plus a bar, but it shines in its aesthetic, slick and red and polished. I took a table rather than a place at the bar, the only child in me perfectly comfortable setting up my laptop as my dining partner. Anyway, I ate for two, ordering two margaritas, the pad thai, and a tapas-sized portion of basil fried wings. I figured I could pack up the leftovers for tomorrow’s lunch (or a late-night snack in a few hours).

While I usually start with the cocktail, I can’t help but talk first about their wings, a quintet that could rival those served at Pok Pok or other renown Thai joints. Sweet and succulent but not overly sticky, I took no shame in sucking each finger after each wing. The nice thing about sharing a table with just your computer is that you don’t have to share. Only children aren’t good at sharing food.

And while I might have some bias in judging Stockton restaurants, often disappointed at the findings here when compared to the wealth of good fixins in Southern California, I was pleasantly thrilled and shocked to find that Thai Me Up’s pad thai might be the best I’ve had. Panvimarn has had my vote for personal favorite, those I’ve tried at other places failing to compare.

But this pad thai? Wow. I think I might have found a new number one. It makes me feel slimy. Like I’ve cheated and been disloyal to my boo. I still love you, Panvimarn pad thai. But I’ve found a wild, hot, and sexy out-of-town lover.

As for the cocktail, I ordered two spicy thai margaritas because my belly made me. Each offered a poke of sweet and a peppered jab of zing in each sip, a subtlety briny undertone following up.

I hadn’t meant to spend $40 simply on what was meant to be a quick dinner before heading back to the hospital, but when you’re down, you do strange things. I’ve done a lot of strange things lately.

Aside from the drinks and the shopping and the eating, the way I try to make sense of it all is stepping away from myself and getting big picture. My mom is in a transition. An intense and awful and still beautiful transition. It’s not dissimilar to what several of my good friends are going through with the recent births of their children, babies that are 100% dependent and helpless and vulnerable. That’s where my mom happens to be now, too. For the babies, it’s all about the new things they’re doing: rolling onto their backs, eating solids, crawling, running, knocking over bulky pieces of furniture. With my mom, it’s the steady dis-ownership of abilities. Over time, there’s been less and less that she’s able to do and remember and comprehend. But she’s here. I can watch her breath. I can squeeze her hand and tell her how much I care about her. As difficult as it’s been for all of us, her demise is not tragic. She’s 81 years old. She’s traveled and laughed with her grandchildren and created wonderful crafts with her hands. She’s listened to friends and given good advice. She’s sang out of tune at church. She taught maybe thousands of elementary school kids. I can only pray that my lived life will be as full and complete as hers one day.

And that it will be filled with food and drinks and soothing retreats. Thank you, Thai Me Up for brightening a girl’s day (and sorry I Debbie-Downed your post).

Post-Script:
Mom is still hanging in there. Thanks for your prayers.

Thai Me Up
2125 Pacific Avenue in Stockton, CA