A is for apple, or why i love saying hongo hongo hongo


By eachnee

on a hot afternoon after visiting the lovely city of Sintra, Portugal, after discovering a delicious drink called Amarguinha (almond liquor served with lots of fresh squeezed lemon and ice), after discovering that the dessert the Portuguese call “Byronian” was—in one word—a cracker, some pals and i took a long, winding bus ride to the Western-most point of Continental Europe.

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to pass the time we had some fun with languages, since between the four of us we had English, Russian, Chinese, Spanish, Portuguese, French and Italian covered. we were all a little brain dead, so mostly it consisted of trying to pronounce the Chinese and the Russian words, and noticing similarities between the Latin languages. and then someone suggested “mushroom.” now what a silly word. there’s some debate as to the origin of the word mushroom, most likely from the French word mousseron (to mean moss), but some argue it goes back to the Greek work for mucus (mykes, from where we get “mycology”). (on a side note, back in those days, a candle snuff was called a “snot”). in any case, there we were, with “Mushroom,” “Grib,” “Mógu,” “Cogumelo,” “Champignon,” and “Funghi.” the only one missing was the Spanish. no matter how we stared and blinked at each other, no one could remember. we tried ordering a pizza in Spanish, we tried imagining a can of mushrooms in Costa Rica (sadly, the label said “Champignons”) we tried thinking of all the Mexican dishes that had mushrooms featured (er… none), we tried hating mushrooms, and collectively not caring what the freaking word for mushroom was in Spanish, but still it eluded us, for hours. damn hongos.

to keep from going crazy we went back to things we knew, like the English alphabet, and played a game of “what so-and-so has up his bum tonight.” it’s a daunting task for a non-native speaker trying to remember unfamiliar words, such as Kleptomaniac’s birth control, or Suzanne Somers, and so this is very impressive.

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and this, is in honor of “a laundry.”

traveling pastries


By eachnee

while the garden and backyard was being dismantled i went to Lisbon for two weeks to attend the Disquiet: Dzanc Books Literary Program and solve the mystery regarding certain Asian pastries and why they don’t seem very Asian once you stop cooing over how delicious they are and think about them in relation to their fellow brethren (like fried milk, red bean paste, sesame rice dumplings, etc).

i thought i was onto something when i found out the wine my parents used to serve (before i had a say on the matter) on fancy occasions (Lancers and Mateus) were both from Portugal. hm… i thought, was it something that filtered into their consciousness via Portuguese influence over Macao and Hong Kong? i asked my father, and he said “I know Mateus is made in Portugal, it is the info I got from recommendation from some magazine long ago. Lancers was introduced by some friend.” not that he answered the question, but that’s Dad for you.

so, the great pastry tale starts in Portugal in the Age of Discovery: in 1498 Vasco De Gama found the route from Portugal around Africa to India, allowing the Portuguese to dominate the spice trade, colonize Macau and various other spots along the way, and bring pastries to China. thank you!

i have always wondered why the egg tart served in Chinese dim sum was such an anomaly. it’s baked, for one thing, it’s a custard, which is weird for the Chinese, and it’s a tart, even weirder. now that i have gone to Belem (the old home of Pastel de Nata) i’d have to say the Chinese should have followed the recipe better. more creamy, less egg-y, and with the dusting of powdered sugar and cinnamon the thing goes “poof” when you bite into it.
visiting the old home of a special food is a great thing. in Belem when you order the custard tarts they ask “how many.” maybe the little guys operate on the buddy system, or maybe this was influenced by the Chinese. In Nanxiang, China, when we ordered soup dumplings they asked how many steamer baskets. makes you want to learn the numbers of foreign languages real fast.

one morning i dropped by my favorite cafe and ordered a coffee (by the way, their espressos are ok, not great, but ok) and the largest pastry i could see. i took one bite and almost peed my pants. whatever it was called in Portuguese i don’t remember, but what i was eating was the famous Hong Kong pastry called the Gai Mai Bao, or the Chicken Tail Bun. Buttery and coconutty and open faced, it’s always been my mom’s favorite, even though what she knows is an eclair-shaped pastry with the buttery goods stuffed inside. Same difference really.

finally i went to Castella do Paulo, a Japanese/Portuguese bakery where i found out that a famous dessert called Pão-de-Ló was taken to Japan by Portuguese missionaries in the 1500′s, and the Japanese in classic form morphed the recipe, perfected it and renamed it Castella cake. And how. here’s a video of their “and how.” (They’ve got this thing about beating it by hand in gorgeous copper pots. Please play the sound full volume.)

also in Belem is the port from where all the Discoverers set sail. pretty amazing to think Vasco De Gama looked at this same view as he took off. minus the bridge, of course, which, incidentally, was built by the same people who designed San Francisco’s Bay Bridge. I know I know, looks like the other one…

nowadays Lisbon is so lovely and beautiful i can’t believe anyone would want to leave. the drinks all come Pantone coordinated and all the plants look like Los Angeles. and that bridge? really…

coast to coast


By eachnee

off to lisbon for a writing workshop and some serious port tasting.

keep an eye on the coast and a four paws on the teeter.

tough guy


By eachnee

recently a friend of mine with kids told me that her 7 year old son had started skateboarding and soon afterwards was begging to be taken to a real skate park. so off they went, somewhere in the safe environs of South Pasadena, to a park filled with older kids popping ollies, being cool and constantly texting on their phones. my friend’s kid, snotty, nerdy, and skinny, took a position against a wall, pretended he didn’t know his mom, and pulled out his calculator and starting texting. Yo. lol. ~\(+.+)/~

Stevie: the only reason you win is because i’m more interested in a real flesh rather than a dumb toy
MO: mmmmf
Stevie: for instance i got that possum good
MO: yeah, that was gross
Stevie: wimp
MO: am not
Stevie: are too. i shook that possum down, and then i rolled on it. i wore its perfume. you? you let that stinky-ass stub-tailed cat drink from our water bowl.
MO: nah-ah
Stevie: yah-ha
MO: i rolled on a dead animal just the other day
Stevie: yeah, right
MO: no, i did. eau de doo. i did.
Stevie: where was this? where was i?
MO: on the sidewalk, maybe you thought it was the letter “E”
MO: (^_-)———-

Stevie: [[(>_<)]]

Shake it shake it shake it


By eachnee

it rained dead animals left and right this week so i am only posting pictures of cuteness.

on Tuesday at dog agility class where our teacher has goats, chickens, bunnies, turtles and dogs, we found out one of the turtles had been sat on to death by its older wiser fatter friend. I thought turtles have this built-in defense, like they bring their own helmet to battle, but apparently this turtle had a faulty helmet or at least one with a bad ISO rating or whatever. a friend once told me the story about his large grandmother rolling over in her sleep on top of her chihuahua. (*smash*). the family didn’t have the heart to tell her so they just got her another dog that looked the same (i think its name was Fifi) and that was that.

even though i was tempted, I didn’t take a picture of the turtle, but then last night one of the dogs (and I know which one) did a little disco with a possum—Shake it Shake it Shake it—and so first thing in the morning i discover a dead little thing back behind my garage. I suppose even though peace has been found inside the house it’s still a little iffy out in the real world.

we called animal control who said we had to be present when they arrived or else they wouldn’t go into the backyard. since we were on our way out they told us the best thing for us to do was to somehow get the thing to the curb.
so David navigates a shovel to pick up the thing, which still has its tailed all curled up, likes it’s sleeping, and it’s a bit of a struggle because he sounds like he’s about to puke and he’s using all his long-limbed advantage to scoop, while staying as far away as possible. of course mr. possum resists being picked up, as most dead things do, and when he dumps it into my trash bag, all I can think of is that there is nothing like something that stiff, weighing roughly the same as our cat (without the scratching and screaming), plummeting to the bottom of a bag you have open and are barely wanting to hold on to.

so like I said no dead pics but here’s the bag we managed to get to the curb.

from there we went to a store that wasn’t open yet, and while waiting a freaking bird flies into the window and rolls its eyes and plops over right in front of the dog who Shook it Shook it Shook it last night and slept very well thank you very much. the bird survived but was in shock for a few minutes and then the security guard came over and just as i said “don’t touch it” he picked it up and brought it to the nearest tree.

Not dead yet!

update: it’s been almost 12 hours since possum discovery and the bag is still out there. i had a thought maybe by the time we got home it would be deflated with a little tear in the plastic, but no such luck. animal control did say to give them 24 hours. ick.

growing meat


By eachnee

the May 23, 2011 issue of The New Yorker has an article by Michael Specter on growing meat in a test tube or petri dish. i’ve always wanted a meat tree in the garden, so now that we’re putting in new containers and ordering shitloads of dirt i thought it would be a great time to try.

first we pulled up all the fava beans still lingering in the yard.

then we staked out the area for the new containers, set them into the ground, sprinkled heavily with water… and the next morning…

VOILA!

turns out you don’t need compost, or dirt or anything. just a nice steady morning light. chicken cacciatore anyone?

on a different note, Specter’s article talks about Willem van Eelen, who “was born in 1923 in the Dutch East Indies, yet his youth of freedom ended abruptly on May 10, 1940—the day the Nazis invaded the Netherlands. Van Eelen enlisted and served in Indonesia, but he was eventually captured and spent most of the war as a prisoner, dragged from one P.O.W. camp to another. After the war, he studied psychology at the University of Amsterdam, but he struggled with the intertwined memories of starvation and animal abuse in the camps.”
for some reason (combined with the fact that the Rapture came and went with hardly a tremor of any kind in this earthquake-prone city) this reminded me of my sister-in-law’s parents, who started out as missionaries in Indonesia. they soon realized that the locals didn’t need religion, they needed irrigation. so off they went back to Europe to receive a degree in agriculture, and afterwards returned to Indonesia to help on that front.

dog IM


By eachnee

Stevie: did you hear that lady ask how come we always do so well in class?
MO: yeah, did you see what she uses as treats? cardboard squares sprayed with fish sauce.
Stevie: ooh. i love those!
MO: …

Stevie: how come ownerlady goes through all the trouble to cook the meat?
MO: dunno. something about messy pockets
Stevie: lame
MO: i heard this chef once say that he was always disappointed when he cooked a piece of meat because it always shrank in size. you never get back what you put in.
Stevie: even counting the liquid that’s leftover in the pot?
MO: even counting that.

Stevie: (sigh)
MO: and this chef really preferred baking, since something baked always rises. you get more for your money.
Stevie: yeah
MO: speaking of baking
Stevie: ?

Stevie: it wasn’t me.
MO: oh really
Stevie: the bastardo must have kyped it. wasn’t me i swear.
MO: which bastardo you talking about?
Stevie: the B/W one
MO: …

NY as it will be soon


By eachnee

just a response to the comment regarding my post on chain stores invading NY.

on time


By eachnee

time is a funny thing, especially “brain time,” which is the clock inside our heads that we rely on as “real,” even though it’s actually dependent on our subjective consciousness and perception rather than fixed increments of seconds, microseconds, etc.

the April 25, 2011 issue of the New Yorker has a fabulous article by Burkhard Bilger on David Eagleman and brain time. David is a fellow New Mexican, which fuels my half-assed theory that kids who grow up in New Mexico develop such a weird sense of space and scale they are bound to have a screwy understanding of time as well.

during grad school David didn’t want to take time away from programming in order to eat so he kept a bag of raw potatoes under his desk. he would cook the potato in the microwave and bite at it while he typed. Impressive!

here’s my version of that, eating the entire bucket of ice cream while waiting for something to process. (definitely a disadvantage to have to use both hands, but it’s homemade salted caramel ice cream and that you cannot possibly manage with one hand).

as everyone knows, our perception of time is context dependent. our contractor told us our garage would take a month to fix up, and now three months later it’s really pretty much, essentially, nearly done. so nearly done that we’ve put up the ropes for the yoga wall, and we’ve hung our contractor up on them. ask him how long he thought we left him hanging there, and he’d say half a minute or more when in reality it was closer to 10 seconds.

which is a long time compared to the couple of seconds it took for me to snap this photo at Lincoln Center, where some guy behind me said “some people think they can stop and hold everyone up for a minute just to take a picture,”

and in the excruciatingly long 80 minutes of opera that followed, my brain drifted to things that take an even longer time (relatively) to happen, like my current writing project, the gentrification of Williamsburg (hello! Blue Bottle coffee!), and the formation of a redwood forest.

after all, for every action there is an equal and opposite abstraction. or in other words, they will make no sticks to chew on, before it’s time.

less evil in the world


By eachnee

so bin Laden is gone, and not without the help of a four-legged Commando-dog.

i am sure these dogs jump out of the helicopter and immediately play tug with their harnesses…

[photo from www.thesun.co.uk]

meanwhile back in sunny Cali, from the Front, Back, Side and Middle, here’s proof that there really is less evil in the world, and that a sort of detente among B/W creatures is possible.

Front/Back

Side/Middle

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