Pure Vanilla

I've never been a vanilla freak. It's nice in cookies and stuff, but I actually stopped using it this past year because my grocery store was charging 2000 yen per teeny bottle. As for a real vanilla bean--well, if I was going to be stingy about a little bottle of extract that could probably contribute toward many, many batches of cookies, I sure as heck was not handing over money for one bean, one skinny black bean, that could only be used once. I guess if I were Jack, I'd have kept Bessie, and after we ate Bessie, we'd all have died of starvation cause I never would have bought "magic beans," nor climbed a beanstalk, or saved some stupid harp.

But...my husband. Now he is a vanilla man. This guy can walk into a Japanese department store basement (which is where the goodies always are), and while I'm still reeling from the sight of all those glorious, gorgeous confections glinting behind case after case, he'll march straight up to the first shop, pick the most vanilla product they've got (like vanilla butter biscuits, for god's sake!), and drag me out again. He hates Japanese department store basements, while I could linger forever.

Anyhow, I had been abruptly placed in charge of cooking Christmas dinner (with only two days' notice) for the two of us, and I knew instantly that dessert should be something vanilla. But not just plain vanilla. Real vanilla. Nothing but the good stuff for my honey--never mind all that talk from America's Test Kitchen about how no one can actually tell the difference in a blind taste test between real and fake vanilla. Yeah, whatever, you.

After some research, I learned that using real vanilla beans is only worthwhile if put into non-baked things, like mousse, where the flavor and aroma will really stand out. Also, you can stretch the worth of a vanilla bean by putting it in a jar of sugar to make vanilla-scented sugar. Or, you can make your own extract. Anyone familiar with my sourdough starter and fruitcake interests will understand where I'm going with this.

Home-made vanilla extract that requires seeping vanilla beans in alchohol for months. Hmmmm...

After further research, I'd discovered that the best extract is actually made with Everclear--95% pure grain alcohol, and illegal in some states in the U.S. because a shot of this stuff might actually kill you. Anyhow, toxic poisoning aside, Everclear has no discernible smell that would compete with the vanilla and its high alcohol content makes it ideal for making extracts. I didn't find Everclear but I did find this:

Polmos Spirytus Rektyfikowany -- Polish vodka (1000 yen from Nissin Azabu-Juban)
which is 96% alcohol, if you can't read the label, and can you believe people actually drink this stuff? My husband had some once, and after he came home, I found him sitting on the floor in the shower, immobile. I am definitely hiding my vanilla extract.

Anyhow, after procuring a small bottle containing two vanilla beans (600 yen--not bad), I used up half for a panna cotta, which was the easiest thing I have ever made in my entire life and tasted quite good, but was a bit too rich for my taste, and thus I maintain my preference for egg custard. I then snipped up the remaining beans into little bits and put them directly into the vodka bottle.

Here is a view of the bottom of the bottle with the bits of vanilla pods:


And here is the developing extract five days later:


I have to keep shaking the bottle from time to time for about four to six months. When I do, the little vanilla seeds go whirling through the alcohol.

It's like having my own snow globe. Except that the snow is black. So it's more like a coal globe, or, bottle.

Although the color has changed drastically in only a few days--and the scent is already quite lovely--I wonder if I should add more beans because most recipes say the formula is about one vanilla bean to 3/4 cup of alcohol.

So how was the flavor? This was, after all, my first taste of real vanilla beans. It was beautiful. As I was scraping the vanilla seeds for the panna cotta, some of those little guys unavoidably got stuck to my fingers. This is not a news flash but the aroma of vanilla beans is soft and flowery. Later, as I was working some brioche dough, the scent of vanilla on my hands mingled with all that butter from the brioche and rose up to make for some very aromatic but tiring dough beating.

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Blue Christmas

Woke up to the first snowfall this year. Might also be the last, since snow isn't common in Tokyo.

Sorry for the weird blue tinge of the photo--I think my cell phone was rebelling.


Camera: "Everything's too damn white!"

This was Edward's first snow too. He seemed balky at first--but then he always is when encased in his ugly rain jacket. I don't ordinarily dress my dog up. But with legs that short, you kind of have to realize he'd be plowing the snow with his belly the entire walk, poor thing. When he finally stopped sniffing every square inch of ground, he kind of got into the spirit of things: jauncing about, snatching up mouthfuls of dirty snow.

I seemed to have forgotten the proper protective accessories for a stroll through a flurry. Everyone else was walking with an umbrella. Is that weird? For some reason, walking in the snow with an umbrella is something I don't recall ever doing. Edward and I were both shivering (only I was soggy) as we eventually raced home.

I need to go out and do things but the mere thought of sliding my legs into an icy pair of jeans and stepping out into that wet, freezing darkness is keeping my butt firmly pressed to the chair. If I lived in Alaska, I think I'd be agoraphobic.

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I Invented Something!

(Warning: It is remotely possible this post might only interest people who own a loaf pan.)
Do you know I could have invented the braid? That's not what this post is about, but I thought it'd be a good intro that would reveal the extent of my ingenuity. Oh sure, I might not have been the first person to ever braid hair, but when I was really young and had never seen a braid before in my life, I was futzing with my doll's hair and I did something to it that looked really nice. I was so excited, I showed my mom, who of course was totally unimpressed, "Great, honey, you braided your doll's hair."

Okay, so I'm almost 100% certain I did not invent this thing that I came up with yesterday. Maybe every home baker already knows about this the way a freediver knows holding one's breath underwater is a good idea. But considering how many times I've read the instructions "Butter and flour a pan," I just KNOW there are others out there who could benefit from this gem of a non-discovery that I made yesterday, while baking fruitcake (anyone feeling I might be a bit late in my fruitcake making, there's an explanation here).

First, an announcement...ahem: You don't have to bloody butter and flour your loaf pan anymore! Or use Pam, if that's your poison of choice.

I own only one pan for cakes and breads--a loaf pan--and sometimes I think I hate it. I definitely hate buttering and flouring it. The block of butter gets all shmoozy, your fingers get greasy, the flour explodes everywhere, and for me, after all that work, this still occurs more often than not:


(the bottom of my pan and remnants of a loaf of bread)

But yesterday, I honestly don't know where this inspiration came from (probably some cooking show I saw ages ago and had stored in my subconscious until a much later date, when I could then claim credit for somebody else's idea--okay, to be fair, it's not like I'm trying to get a patent or anything. And I'm sharing this freely with all of you, aren't I?), I was fiddling with the parchment paper, trying to think of a neat way to line my loaf pan. Recently, I'd been folding the paper to fit just the bottom, so if I baked something sticky, I'd only have to saw away at the sides. But this technique still left something to be desired.

So I started cutting away with my scissors, and after a few botched attempts, I swear I heard trumpeting angels when I pushed the parchment paper into the loaf pan and it fitted...almost perfectly! No, it isn't perfect. But I was totally satisfied with the results of my cake, which slid sleekly out of the pan and had gloriously unmarred sides and bottom. I don't know if it was because of the parchment lining, but I also noticed my cake rose much more evenly, without the usual huge dome on top.

Here are the instructions:
1. You need a pair of scissors and parchment paper (pencil optional).

2. Set your loaf pan facedown. Tear yourself a piece of parchment paper large enough to cover all sides of the pan.


3. If you want to be precise, you can mark the four corners of the pan with a pencil, but I don't find it necessary.

4. Turn the pan so that one of the short ends is pointed toward you.

5. Making sure the paper is properly covering the pan, cut two parallel lines, one toward each corner of the pan.


6. You have to make two more cuts, but this part is a bit tricky to explain, so I'll just show you a picture:


7. Don't worry about being precise. You can see my cutting was pretty sloppy, and yet when you fit the parchment inside the pan...


...it quite neatly folds into place:


8. Just tuck the triangular flaps around the center square flap, with the square flap on the inside.

9. That's it. It's really easy.

10. When the cake (or whatever) is cooled a bit, I just grasp the paper ends and pull the cake out of the pan.

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Kindness of Strangers

I'm something of a staunch pessimist who believes the worst of human beings and is completely on guard against such threats as smiles and other suggestions of niceness from people I don't know.

A while back, having left my umbrella on the train for about the 26,000th time, I was making my way home through a typhoon (which really is just a lot of wind and rain and the occasional falling tree branch) when I heard the pitter-patter of feet swiftly approaching, and suddenly, this little old man appeared at my side and held his umbrella over my head, struggling to keep pace. And horrible me, amidst my protests and thanks, what I wondered was whether this old dude was trying to pick me up. (In my defense, I do seem to attract old ("old," not "older") men, much to my bewilderment; furthermore, whether it is due to the reluctance of Japanese to invade another's personal space or some other sociological reasoning, in my three years in Tokyo, I have not observed a lot of old-world chivalry, let alone common courtesy, from the male population.) Well, we finally neared my apartment and I escaped without any requests for a telephone number or an assignation to share warm sake in the moonlight. I was forced to accept that the elderly gentleman had simply been kind. How odd. But nice.

Then, quite recently, I received a wondrous package from someone I'd never met and with whom I'd scarcely even corresponded. If you check out my list of links in the sidebar, one of my favorite sites is eGullet, particularly the Pastry and Baking section. I don't participate that often, because most of the members are actually professional bakers and pastry chefs with quite technical questions and answers. But I do love to read the threads and I always get help when I post a query. Well, I recently asked a question about candying peels (that I hope will someday go into the fruitcake I'm planning on making), and one woman in particular gave me very helpful instructions. We only posted back and forth a few times, but I discovered she also candies her own ginger--something like 15 pounds of it at a time! And this process takes hours. I'm talking serious time consumption and a scary gas bill. Well, I must have expressed my awe and also regret that I probably wouldn't have any homemade candied ginger in my fruitcake in a fairly pitiful manner because the next thing I knew, she was offering to mail me some.

I immediately protested. In fact, I really didn't want the ginger because (a) I know how expensive it is to mail even the smallest parcels to and from Japan; and (b) I'm not exactly in the habit of receiving edibles from people I don't know. She naturally said it was no trouble, and because I didn't want to be mean and ungrateful, I wrote: okay, thank you so much.

Well, the package finally arrived, and I admit to being rather excited as I pulled out the enormous bag. The woman did not skimp. Having never tasted candied ginger before, my taste buds were all but whimpering. My husband was eyeing the bag rather skeptically, but I felt reassured when Mr. Levelheaded did not immediately tell me to toss the bag into the trash. Okay, I reasoned out loud, what is the likelihood that this woman would go to the exorbitant trouble of poisoning me--me in Japan--when there were so many more accessible victims in her own postal district? Had I been that annoying the few times I posted on eGullet? Did she want to ensure I never asked another stupid baking question again?

After a few moments of internal debate, I decided to trust this stranger with my life, pulled out a small, pale yellow oval encrusted in glittering sugar, and took a bite: a slight crunch followed by tender, mildly spicy flesh--no discernible fibrous strands. And then: ack, tongue-curling sugar flood. But no seizures or foaming at the mouth. Admittedly, the ginger is too sweet to ever be a snack, but I've already thrown a handful of chopped-up slivers into a fresh ginger cake, and it was pretty darn good.

I guess after my self assessment at the beginning of this post, some might think that, on the contrary, what I am is naive as hell. I ruefully concede that I should not have eaten the ginger. But it's done, and I'm still alive. I can only promise I won't do something like that again.

Worse still, now I have to go shopping for a thank-you gift for someone I know nothing about, when I can't even decide what to get my husband for Christmas. See the lesson here kids? If I'd just stuck to my distrustful nature and told that woman on eGullet to keep her kind gestures to herself, I wouldn't be in this predicament. But then I wouldn't be having real, homemade candied ginger in my fruitcake either.

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Somber Announcement

Yesterday morning, at around eleven o'clock, my cell phone took a flying leap straight into the toilet bowl. Trying hard not to think at all, I reached down and fished it out. But, obviously, this silver water baby was never meant to be, and I fear the damage may be irrevocable (and I don't know if I'd want it, even if it was perfectly fine--it's not like I can give it a good soapy scrub).

Disturbingly, this is not the first time I've found myself wrist deep in toilet water to make an emergency rescue. I don't know what the heck it is about me and dropping things in the john; but rest assured, the only thing I ever kept afterward was my goldfish (I was six, the fish was slippery).

Some would say of this unhappy incident with my cell phone that it had only been a matter of time. As I may have mentioned before, I'm a big-time klutz, and distracted to boot: a dangerous combination to myself and my possessions.

More things have met a cruel end at my bumbling hands than I care to admit. I won't frighten you with details of past destruction. My husband did once suggest that we keep nothing but plastic dishes in our kitchen. I didn't care for that suggestion--what is this, playschool? Unfortunately, it is true that anything not forged of titanium that enters our home is ultimately doomed.

As for what I've done to myself, sometimes I marvel that I'm still walking this earth in one piece. Under my picture in the high school yearbook could have been printed: "Most likely to accidentally die at her own hand (and probably in a ridiculous manner)." I once meat cleavered my finger when I was eight, helping my mom chop water chestnuts, singing at the top of my lungs, and not paying attention. Thank god I'd been a wimp and there hadn't been much power behind the chop. When I was ten, I was glancing back while racing out of an old bomb shelter I'd been exploring, and faced forward just in time for my face to collide with the low concrete entrance. Actually knocked myself out for a second; woke up on the ground with one hell of a sore head. I'm also just a tad too familiar with what burning hair smells like, and I've since learned not to lean so close to the stove, no matter how cold I am. The list goes on.

An unsettling update. My cell phone, damn its sturdy design, seems to have recovered from the shock of dirty wet circuitry--this much I deduced with a bit of prodding behind a nice shield of tissue paper (I'm not a freak; the phone is coated in dried toilet water, for god's sake.) So what the heck do I do? Do I waste a perfectly good cell phone and get a new one, thereby also breaking my phone contract? Or do I think of some way to clean the darn thing so that I can actually bring myself to touch it without a desire for rubber gloves? I am more inclined toward option number one.

I must say that this present phone is sporting some severe battle scars, having endured my less-than-graceful handling, and perhaps it is time to get a new one that I will promise to take better care of, one which perhaps has a better digital camera...?

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Edward & Mr. Donut

Le Beignet, the Happy Donut [To understand the reasoning behind Edward's French stuffed toys, there actually is an explanation, sort of].



Le Beignet Putting the Squeeze on Edward (Oh, he's having so much fun!)

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Hua Hin

While I was in Singapore a few weeks ago, I also made a short trip to Thailand, landing in Bangkok and then driving to Hua Hin with some family friends. Hua Hin is a little beachside town about two hours from Bangkok, not much to see or do, but the weather was lovely and hot, and I managed to snap some shots while we shopped for lunch at the local market.



Assorted Variety of Eggplants (and bumpy little bitter gourds at the top left-hand corner)



Ocher Pyramids of Dried Shrimp (apologies for tilty angle)


Just a handful of these little guys lends an intense flavor to any number of dishes, such as stir-fries.



This is a steamer, on top of which has been ladled a thin mixture of rice flour and water. The amber lumps of candied peanuts will soon be enfolded in the delicate, slightly chewy crepe.



At this little stall on wheels, a woman is preparing a dessert of grilled green bananas that are then smushed between two metal plates and dunked in a creamy concoction of coconut milk and gula melaka (dark brown palm sugar), before a final grilling.


I was really excited to try this because I adore cooked bananas, and don't those bananas look plump and lovely?


Unfortunately, I wasn't crazy about the type of banana used. Some green bananas turn succulent and sweet when cooked, but these did not. The cooked banana had a dry, leathery texture, necessitating regular sips of water to help wash things down. Ah well, the anticipation had been fun.

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Vancouver - It's Been a Long Time

Can't sleep. There haven't been many jobs lately and now my brain is understimulated and revolting against further repose.

Brain: I did nothing all day and now you want me to rest?!

Foremost in my restless thoughts tonight: this February, I'm going back to Vancouver. It's been ten years.

Of course, for the most part, I'm very glad because I'll be attending one of my oldest friend's wedding as--ugh--matron of honor (isn't it past time "matron" became politically incorrect or simply deemed an offensive term only to be used as an insult?).

But there's the other little part of me that quite honestly is filled with dread. Thomas Wolfe wrote, "You can't go home again;" I always thought, "Who wants to?"

I knew a girl who was an army brat--you know, a different town every year growing up. My childhood was never that extreme. But I've done my fair share of moving in 27 years: so far, five countries, eight cities, sixteen homes, and eleven schools. I knew another girl who, at the age of 16, was still living in the same house she'd been born in and who had never left the country. It was hard for me to comprehend.

When I was young, my parents were restless, energetic people--they still are--who couldn't seem to bear staying in one place for long. I can't even count the number of different church pews that have been polished by my fidgeting butt. We were always moving forward; we never went back.

When I was 17 and trying to decide between UBC and McGill University, my parents and brothers had already left Vancouver years before, and I knew that if I left too, I would never return; there would be nothing left in Vancouver for me to return to. Truthfully, I couldn't wait to get out, go somewhere new. At the time, I thought I had inherited the same restless bug that seemed to plague my parents. I didn't feel anything but impatience when I said good-bye to Vancouver, while the prospect of a new life in Montreal was thoroughly exhilarating.

The main thing this life has taught me is how to let go, how to forget. I'm so good at these things. I never got homesick when I was a child, going on a camping trip, staying over at a friend's house. When I was 15 and my parents moved back to Singapore, leaving me in Vancouver to finish high school, I never felt sad or missed them. Each time we moved, each time I left people and places behind, it was easy--well, maybe being the new kid in school wasn't so easy. But moving on and never looking back, that was a snap. Pieces of my life have a scary way of slipping smoothly out of my head in no time at all, so that I can't remember them even if I try: the street I lived on in Brooklyn, my dorm at McGill, the name of the big park right before Lion's Gate Bridge. These days, I can't seem to hear peoples' names as they introduce themselves, as if my brain is thinking, "What's the point? They won't be around for long."

And suddenly, instead of moving on, I'm going back. Back to Vancouver and everything that slipped out of my brain a long time ago. I feel like I should be recalling all the places I used to go and making plans to visit them, for "old time's sake." But when I think of Vancouver, a place I spent almost ten years of my life, it's all a big white fog. I know there must be people I should meet up with, but they all feel like strangers, or characters in a book I read a long time ago. Even my closest friends--after all these years, there are undoubtedly others in their lives now who know them far better than I. What would we talk about? We won't even be able to fall back on the "Remember when...?" game if I can't remember.

Ah well, maybe the people I once knew will be kind enough to remind me.

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Okara Donut

This is no ordinary little donut. It's an okara donut, which is sold at precisely 3pm at the local corner tofu shop. Tofu shop? Yes. And now you are just dying to know, aren't you? What's okara? Why would a small shop lit up at eerie hours in the middle of the night (I know cause I was walking Edward), presumably hard at work making tofu, bother with donuts?

Well. First some background on how I discovered okara and, subsequently, okara donuts. It all started on the second floor of my friendly neighborhood library, which, bless the librarians' souls, actually has English books--precisely one fairly tall shelf of books. Okay, so it's not exactly a treasure trove of literature, but who am I to complain when the next closest thing is a second-hand English bookstore approximately 40 minutes away by train and a real pain in the ass to get to?

When supplies are limited, you take what you can get. So on one rather unfruitful trip to the library, I convinced myself that The Book of Tofu, by Mr. William Shurtleff, could be an engrossing read. After all, I love tofu and yet know virtually nothing about it. The book turned out to have many fascinating facts, which were unfortunately presented in a less than fascinating manner. I never managed to complete this slim volume before the return date came up. But I did force myself to read a few chapters each night, and learned a couple of valuable things:

1) Storing tofu submerged in water--which is what I'd always done in the past--makes your tofu soft, waterlogged, and rather tasteless. I now leave my tofu in a dry tupperware container and let the water in the tofu seep out naturally overnight. This does give me a more intense-flavored tofu that holds together better in simmered and stirfried dishes.

2) When making tofu, you eventually have to give the grounded up soy beans a good wringing. The strained soy milk is made into tofu. The white fluff left behind in the colander or cheese cloth is called okara, which can be eaten. Okara doesn't actually have that much flavor. But it is full of fiber and seems to make cakes and breads light and fluffy, while actually being nutricious.

I hope it's evident that I had to give the above lengthy explanation because if I just said that okara donuts are made from the "by-product" or "leftover pulp" of tofu, that wouldn't sound so good. Okara used to be frequently used in Japanese cooking, back when most Japanese households made their own tofu. It was often stirred into soups, stirfried with veggies, and sometimes mixed with mashed potatoes to make croquettes--mmmmm, croquettes (the Japanese, by the way, make absolutely gorgeous croquettes: light, utterly crisp, perfect golden color, and so damn cheap). Okara, unfortunately, doesn't keep well, which would explain why I often see bags and bags of okara sitting outside the tofu shop, waiting to be thrown out, one presumes. This is really sad because okara is so good for you and could possibly be free, for me, if I ever could be bothered to ask the tofu man to give me his okara. I would love to try making a fluffy okara bread.

A few years back, when everyone was getting all health-nutty, and it was soy-this and soy-that, I think that was when okara started going into things like soy burgers and other imitation meats. I'm also guessing that that was when the idea of okara donuts started getting more common in Japan, cause I hardly think this is a traditional treat. I could be wrong. But traditional or not, they're good.

The first thing you notice as you bite down is the texture: not a Krispy Kreme airy cushion; somewhere between a cake and the inside of a canelé, but with a totally different fragrance.

I have to accept that there are some people who in fact do not like the taste and fragrance of tofu and soy milk. God, really? Yes, yes, it's true. But spending my earliest years in Singapore left its mark, and tell me, please, what is more delicious than a plastic bag of soy milk (that's how it's often sold in the local markets) sweetened with a little ladle of sugarcane syrup? Ohmmmmmm.

Sorry, I actually have a point. The local tofu man explained to me, the secret to his okara donuts is that he uses his own fresh soy milk in his donut batter. So not only do you have a moist product from the okara, but you also have a sweetly fragrant donut. Another magical thing is that although there's no coating of granulated sugar or--ugh--glaze, there is a definite caramalized crunch to the donut as you bite into it that, to me, is just right.

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So Far So Good

Look how healthily I started my day:


That says All Bran, for those of you unfamiliar with the sight of those tasty little twig-like bran thingies. You know what? They're pretty good, if you don't let them sit more than about five seconds in the milk, because after that, the bran just gives up the fight and expires into a not-so-pretty brown sludge that may or may not trigger your gag reflex.

Still, it fits in well with my vow to eat healthier and I feel so fortified after my dose of bran that, now, it seems I am almost justified in my ongoing 1001 Arabian Curry Puff Nights. Okay, they're not Arabian, but when I first opened the box of homemade curry puffs that I was probably forced to break Japan Customs regulations carrying back from Singapore, it sure looked like there were 1001 of them. At first my husband didn't seem too keen on them, so what's a girl to do but eat those delicious curry puffs? I mean, we're talking fresh curry leaves, people. But of course this also means I've been eating puff pastry on a daily basis. I'm sure there's going to be repercussions, but hopefully I will counter them with my...drum roll..ALL BRAN!

Furthermore, the 1001 nights have sort of dwindled to a mere 10 nights, so pretty soon I'll have to come down from this fat high.

As for Vow #2, the No Speaking to Thy Husband in English vow, I have augmented this to include Edward because (a) I do sort of talk to him; and (b) I figure the more I think and babble in Japanese, even if only to a dog, the more my mind will get into The Zone, The Japanese Zone.

Unfortunately, Edward only knows a few choice Japanese phrases like, "Onaka suita?" That means, "Are you hungry?" And also, "Tabenai!" or "Don't eat that!"--this one I use frequently when we are out on walks and strange things find their way down Edward's throat, thus forcing me to reach in and drag said objects back out, regardless of what said objects might be. Today, for example, I successfully extracted a dead fish. When the neighborhood feral cats feast on the park pidgeons, I have to be on guard or Edward will try to gulp the leftover bones.

What was my point? Oh yeah. Anyhow, so Edward isn't used to me speaking in Japanese to him, and I was given this look in response:


Which was rather sad, so I made an exception for Edward and asked him properly, "Do you want to go for a walk?" And he said:

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Neighborhood Tree

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I Do Hereby Solemnly Swear

It seems that I have become a girl with a mission. Two missions:

1. I will lose the bulk around my middle that keeps prompting panic attacks that I have somehow become three months pregnant overnight (ha, beat that, Mary).

2. From this day forth, I will speak nothing but Japanese to my husband until I bloody well master this damned language and am able to buy moisturizer, for goodness sake, without it turning into a major, unintelligible battle of wills with the sales clerk.

The first vow, well, that's nothing new. But after my trip to Singapore, filled with not-so-gentle suggestions from family members and the sight of many skinny girls strutting about in skimpy outfits, well, I am struck afresh with the desire to not look like something is alive and growing inside me.

I must state for the record that vow #1 is in no way related to the D-word. Diet, that is. I can't diet. It's actually dangerous for the people around me because I have only one reaction to be being hungry, and that is to become very, very angry. I can't help it, my body does not react well to being starved. What I mean by trying to, well, slim down a little is that I will start eating like a normal, healthy human being--rather than a rapacious wild beast who doesn't know when its next meal will be...which I do sometimes resemble, just a little.

The second vow was long overdue. I have lived in Japan for THREE YEARS. I studied Japanese--and paid a painful amount of money to do so--for an entire year. My husband is Japanese, for god's sake. I should be fluent. I should at least be able to communicate with my in-laws. I should be able to perform simple tasks, like asking a department store clerk about the contents of a jar of moisturizer--she kept ringing the thing up and handing me a receipt, when I kept insisting I wasn't ready to buy it yet.

The problem is that, first of all, I hardly use Japanese in my work and, second, I just don't know enough Japanese people that I can talk to on a daily basis, and thereby improve. The only solution: my husband. Sure this might mean a sharp decline in the intelligence of our conversations. Oh, hell, it's not like we ever get that philosophical when conversing in English. But now it's going to be more like:

Me: Today. What you do?
Him: The usual.
Me: You. Tell me. What do?
Him: The same old stuff. Interviews, press conferences, you name it.
Me: What..."press conf--"...? Guh. Glck. Grr.
Him: Honey, I don't understand what you're trying to say.
Me: Glack. Gurgh.
Him: Good night, dear.

You see? Soon, my husband is going to start looking at me like I'm a babbling baboon. Or perhaps a slow-witted child. But I am determined to improve. I refuse to allow my Japanese abilities to deteriorate any further.

The only problem is that I am never very good about keeping promises that I make to myself. I once came up with the really excellent vow to never leave a dish in the sink. It was wonderful for a few weeks, my kitchen sink ever clean, shiny, and bare. But then quite abruptly I just couldn't be that dish washing freak anymore, and now my sink is back to being the dirty dish holder.

Even more humiliating was the time I vowed to write a book. And I got so excited about it I told everybody. I still haven't written any books, dammit. But people keep asking me, "How's the book coming along?" I consider the look on their faces as I tell them exactly how the book is coming along--the expression is always so understanding--to be my penance for my supreme idiocy and for making big empty promises.

So, sure, I am feeling a little self-doubtful, a little less than intrepid. But I figure that if I publicly state my intentions on this blog, there is something more holding me to my promises. Please help cheer me on!

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