- I often “forget” to get something from the store after I leave it. I usually do this on purpose, to save money.
- Yeah, I’ve eaten the coffee grounds that occasionally fall from the percolator into my coffee cup. And there are times I’ll re-use the cup without rinsing it. Hell yeah.
- Selective hearing continues to be a major survival technique.
- I am 100% more interested in anyone who has a dog with them at that moment. It might be personal.
- I only sometimes like Schitt’s Creek, unless I love it.
- Doom scrolling until 3:00AM? I’m there.
- Love eating at restaurants, hate ordering at them. Tip your servers, everyone.
- The person who leaves the empty toilet paper roll in the bathroom isn’t just me, it’s always me.
- I think is better to be sociable rather than agreeable and asleep rather than sociable.
- I wish I had more to confess. But not that much more. Only a bit. That would be more than enough.
Category Archives: Food
To see a pelican in real life. Have I seen a pelican in real life? I’m not too sure. Doesn’t have to be where pelicans live; a zoo or, better yet, an aviary will do. Perhaps one attached to an eccentric billionaire’s house or a haunted estate. Either works. I’m not picky.
Homemade bread. Not to make it, but having some would be nice.
Clean my keyboard, iPhone and stove or at lesat think about doing these things as if I’ll actually do them.
Plant a seed and watch it grow.
Actually, I have seen a pelican in real life. But I thought it was a heron and didn’t really look at it till too late.
Use the word, “fantastical” as often as seems warranted.
Finish reading one book for every two that I start.
Better late-night snacks. Something tangy and sweet.
I have just been informed that the bird I thought was a heron but was actually a pelican was not actually a pelican but was, actually, a heron. Therefore, I will continue accept any and all invitations to billionaire aviaries and/or haunted estates, fantastical as that may seem.
Just started two more books. And all my seedlings died.
Also: is salsa a good 2:00AM snack? It expired a week ago. Going to eat it warm with a spoon.
My stove is so dirty tho…
Still waiting on that bread…
Realize that herons are just as good as pelicans and leave it at that.
First publication of 2020: “Chicken & Egg” in The /tƐmz/ Review!
It’s a story about consequences, intended or no, and life’s little inevitabilities.
Here’s a brief excerpt:
“It was a disastrous time to be alive.
The city pulsed and swelled, reeked and buckled as people realized – slowly at first, but then with increasing desperation and that telltale resignation that festers during slow-burning disaster – that the summer, like the summer before and the one before that, had become something you had to get out from under, whatever the cost.
Some made it. Others did not.”
To read the rest and to dive into some other great works of fiction, poetry and reviews, please visit The /tƐmz/ Review, Issue 10 here.
Does anybody get as angry about wrecking the perfect egg as I do?
I’m not actually looking for an answer. It’s just…I get so angry.
Eggs are just about the perfect food vessel. Fragile, sure, but also not really: try to squeeze an egg from end to end and you’ll find it pretty hard to break. You can smash an egg on the table or the ground or your forehead with ease, I suppose, but what then have you proven? You just broke something that wasn’t meant to be smashed. Gold stars all around, big fella.
There was a time when eggs were forbidden in my family because of the tendency among the adults (now referred to by us as “the Old People”) to obscure (then ignore) cause and effect, a kind of shirking of responsibility in order to get through the little cruelties (and ultimate tragedies) of an uncertain life. Or so it seems to me.
Fear can make people do scary things.
Sunny-side up eggs are a particular favourite of mine – that delicious, velvety yoke, warmed but not overcooked, sprinkled lightly, delicately, with a little bit of salt and a dash of pepper. A tiny sun, a taste of heaven. Perfect.
But there are times when I mess up and the yolk breaks, spreads, then overcooks into a gelatinous clump of yellow-on-white. Not exactly inedible, but certainly far from appetizing.
And then what? Then fucking what?? No such thing as the perfect egg, not this time.
I’m not eating that!
Ugh. The fruitlessness of it all. The absolute waste! Is a little perfection – the joy of it, the fulfillment therein – too much to expect? What is this world even? I can’t.
Yeah. Yeah, sure. Sure, there are always more eggs (they come by the dozen, don’t they?), but who knows? Don’t you realize…? I just –
Also, those eggs are not that egg. That egg is ruined. Forever and endlessly.
And now my toast is lonely.
One of my aunts once tried to sneak up on a peacock at the zoo, in a vain attempt to pluck one of its magnificent tail feathers, a souvenir to remember the day by. We were in the picnic area eating our packed lunch (day-old pork-chops and corn brunt on the cob); the peacocks wandered among us, free-range. Squatting on her haunches creep-creeping along, a wicked smile on her face (or perhaps a wide grimace) she extended her hand, fingers grazing a fringe of iridescent feathers of blue, green and gold. I watched. I could not not watch…
…then I realized that the memory actually occurred to me during a dream, in which I was walking through Chinatown looking for cutlery and came upon a store display with peacocks feathers for sale for a buck a piece. The memory of the zoo was part of the dream and upon waking and right now as I’m typing, I cannot say whether the memory in the dream was a real-world memory, or a dream of one. I don’t remember. I can’t distinguish.
I could ask my aunt, but if she lied I wouldn’t know the difference anyway. I don’t know if she’d have any reason to lie, especially about something as seemingly harmless as this (of course, for this to be true, we’d have to set aside the peacock’s POV because I don’t imagine it would consent to such mistreatment), but confirm or deny the matter nevertheless remains, crucially, beyond me.
A memory in a dream, or a dream of a memory. It happened, one way or another.
In a recent post I’ve realized that I came down rather hard on sardines. Actually, sardines are quite delicious. They are not just fish in a can.
So listen, I never do this, but you’ll need:
- A largish or smallish onion (red or yellow or white). It should remind you of a fist cupped doggedly in the hand of a steady and determined foe. Shallots will work too, in a pinch, but they should be gob-sized. Gobs of shallots, then, would be wise.
- Your tolerance level of red Thai chilli peppers. I recommend a smattering. A smattering is good. Yes.
- One can of sardines in tomato sauce. Note the brand for later. There are lots, so many out there to choose from, so please do also keep that in mind. Too many really. A ridiculous amount.
- Leftover rice, a good lunch portion of it (i.e. enough to fit comfortably in the a child’s sun hat or mid-size catcher’s mitt).
- Like, some oil (read: cooking). Anything else is between you and your god. Between you and infinity.
- Salt and pepper (but not really, you can skip this if you want).
STEP 1: Prime stovetop to medium heat. Spill a bit of oil into to a shallow pot or pan. If necessary, deploy gumption. Sauté the onions until translucent. Add red Thai chillies, sliced dramatically. Enhance with salt and pepper (or not).
STEP 2: Empty can of sardines in tomato sauce into pan. Reduce heat. Simmer till onion and sardine and sauce enter into an exquisite union wherein the parts do and do not make up the whole. A dance, really, and a rather intricate one at that, something at the level of a tango or Polonaise. You’ll know it when you see it, probably. You’ll feel it before you know it. Trust.
STEP 3: Drape over rice and make sure to tuck it in at the corners before it’s too late. Remember to use leftover rice so that there is that feeling of extra accomplishment.
There. That’s it. You’re done! Now try it and see. Hope you like it.
Don’t like it? That’s fine because it wasn’t like I was really asking, was it?
I met my childhood best friend in the gymnasium during lunch, just after our second grade began.
During lunch, the gymnasium doubled as the lunchroom, filled with rows of collapsible picnic tables rolled in from the school storage shed, the basketball nets above folded up so as not to provide the children with yet another unwanted distraction.
I remember. No one would sit with me because of my “Chinese lunches.” According to the other children, the food my mom packed for me (leftovers from dinner and the now fashionable, but back then the as-yet-reviled bánh mì sandwiches purchased from the local Vietnamese market) – that food was so smelly and gross and simply unfit for human consumption. So go ahead and let the “Chinese” girl eat it. This went on for quite some time; longer than it should and much, much longer than seemed possible.
Then one day someone did sit next to me. A redheaded girl whose preoccupied mom began packing her sardines for lunch. I remember the heft of the can, the way the girl plunked it down at the table. No one would sit with her either, at least, not after she opened up that can of fish. She was more confused than sad about this, but then maybe her confusion just masked her sadness as it did for me.
It took a while, but we got to talking, then comparing lunches. It was a sobering exercise. Because, whatever else I had (old rice, soggy noodles, weird veggies with marinated eggs), she had fish heads. Whatever else she was, I was still the Asian girl in a mostly white school.
We were a match.
I never shared my lunch, and the girl, my eventual friend, never asked. She never ate her sardines, though she eagerly opened them every day, right after plunking that heavy tin on the table.
We smashed up the fish with her fingers, rendering them into a viscous fish-paste that fascinated (so much destruction in that particular transformation). We took the heads and spines from the sardines and threw them at boys, then girls, then whoever. We were seldom caught (not many snitches in that lunchroom and who wouldn’t appreciate some distraction?). I was always a little proud we started with the boys, targeting them not out of malice but out of a vague sense of obligation. Anyway, it was something my friend and I never questioned.
Her mother remained preoccupied, packing her can after can of tomato-submerged fish, thinking they made a good lunch. This went on for years.
Bánh mì is now fashionable, so much so that non-native speakers gladly twist up their tongues trying (and failing, failing, failing) for an “authentic” pronunciation of the word, the dish. What they settle for (“Bah, bah”, “me-me-me,”) is, fortunately, often more amusing than anything else. More amusing, possibly, that it should be.
Sardines, however, remain what they are.
Still just fish in a can.
I know someone with a job I cannot do and never could do (therefore never will do). The person is a nurse, a job I tell people I’m too sensitive for. But it is a selfish thing to say, isn’t it? On my part, I believe it is.
Such stories this person could tell you about extraordinary things happening every day, at the their job, while they’re on the job.
For example, Avocado Hand.
The other day, I learned about Avocado Hand.
Heard of it? Avocado Hand: when someone accidentally stabs themselves in (more often through) their own hand when attempting to remove an avocado seed (its stone, or the pit, depending on your perspective) with a knife.
Halve an avocado, twist it apart: one side, pristine, hollow, ready for you. As for the other, well, there it is. That damn pit. Staring at you like an all-seeing eye. Something for you to pluck out, with gusto. Tout suite. Grab a knife. Use your hand.
Results Often In: Pierced, serrated, mangled flesh. Blood too. Lots. Damage a few nerves, sever a few tendons, split the sinews here, there…irreparably, maybe. But then again, maybe not. You could get lucky.
I’ve never heard of it before, Avocado Hand. But I’ve always suspected, felt its presence, its potential, in the spare moments when I prepare some extravagant toast or contemplate a nice guacamole or consider the produce on a grocery run.
What if? Press this way and that with the point of a big, solid knife. Stab it there, just right. Just hard enough to get it. Never mind going across with the side of the blade. Never mind a spoon.
The nurse. Avocado Hand. You know how many times they’ve seen it? Three times this summer at least. Not enough to count on one hand, but getting there, not forgetting, of course, to include that all-important thumb.
Did you know? All bananas are clones.
Not all. But the ones we (you & me) buy at the supermarket are overwhelmingly clones, produced via cuttings of the most desirable progenitors; therefore (re)produced clonally.
Gros Micheal. That is the variety that dominates, that we consume, that we eat for breakfast. Which we have as snacks during our busy, hectic days.
But this is hardly new knowledge. These are just facts.
It’s just…the fact that the bananas we consume are genetically identical seems absurd, doesn’t it? Absolutely preposterous. That’s why a banana tastes like a banana tastes like a banana. It’s why a banana never not fits in a Banana GuardTM. Haven’t you noticed that?
It never not fits.
But not all copies are not always created equal. Lacking males (or perhaps it’s better to say “bereft of suitable males”) some reptiles, for example, have been known to spontaneously self-replicate, a process known as parthenogenesis (derived from the Greek meaning “virgin birth”).
However, genetic material can get shifted during parthenogenesis, shuffled like a deck of cards, thereby producing imperfect copies of the progenitor.
Not so for Anna the Anaconda, current denizen of Boston’s New England Aquarium and mother of 18 identical babies – identical to each other and to herself and born without Anna ever having contact with a male of her species.
Anna, in essence, gave birth to herself: 18 babies worth. Only two survived. Still, that seems so much better (i.e. simpler, easier) and frankly more impressive than, for instance, being your own grandfather; no paradoxes there. No needless complications. Just the question of creation itself. Only the mystery of it, going forward, as we hurtle through time.
The same cannot be said for our Gros Micheal.
But then, it’s hard to complicate a banana.
Anna is also a palindrome, derived from the Greek meaning “again” and “way or direction.”
“Running back again.”
Never odd or even.
FLASH MEMORY: my grandpa had a crow!
At least that’s what I remember, I think. I think I’m sure I do.
I remember being 5 or 6 years old. Coming in from a hot summer’s day, running up the red porch steps of his house and past the broken screen door with the holes in the mesh and into the kitchen to find it there, large and black and so alive, staring out from its wire cage which had been placed on top of the counter by the sink.
I remember its giant wings. Its sharp beak and the way its back sloped smoothly down toward its ragged tail feathers. Its sacred black eyes, blacker than black. My grandpa standing next to it, watching it with his one remaining eye.
Why did my grandfather have a crow? How long had he had it? What was he going to do with it?
Answers elude. Companionship? Husbandry? Admiration?
Or something else.
A day? A week? A month?
I can’t say.
And what indeed.
Grandma was there too, standing at the stove across from the sink, the crow, my grandpa. Standing with her back to me making soup, giant daikon sectioned neatly on her cutting-board.
Grandpa, Grandma, Crow. Sink, Stove. Wire Cage, Cutting-board. I stared at all three – at everything – burning the scene into my mind. No one said a word.
The crow beat its wings inside the cage.
I can’t vouch for the accuracy of this memory, only its intensity, or what I like to think of as its tactile veracity. The truth behind the facts.
I don’t want to know if it is real or not. I want neither to confirm or deny but rather to indulge, let the image sit as it sits and shine or fall, fade or endure as it will.
My grandpa had a crow, with giant wings and eyes blacker than black. There was soup on the stove and sliced daikon arranged in neat piles on the cutting-board.
I can’t remember what my grandma looks like, not from memory.