A Villain's Soliloquy

I gave this post its title because it kind of reminded me of that scene in movies where the villain is allowed to make a little plaintive speech, trying to garner a little sympathy, a little understanding for his motives, but instead ends up more despised than ever by the audience. Mwa ha!

Warnings: (1) I think I'm about to have my period (never a good time for me or anyone within my reach). (2) It's cold again. It's supposed to be fall, but here I am, shivering in my apartment, turning "white" (my boss finally admitted admiringly, after much choked laughter and glances in the direction of my face, scaring the hell out of me, making me wonder if I'd perhaps developed some sort of facial skin affliction during the hour-long train ride to work) from extreme lack of sunlight, and being forced to witness people putting up Christmas decorations (argh) in shop windows and along the walkways to quaint little Italian restaurants that I have to walk past every day. (3) I've spent far too long--including the entire precious weekend--on a very big, ugly project of endless installments that just won't quit. (4) I was craving chocolate and was mixing up my usual batch of two cookies, but right as I was about to add the cocoa near the end, I decided I wanted oatmeal instead, so I shook in some oats, thinking cocoa and oats could be interchangeable when in fact they are not, and my cookies came out mealy and disgusting but I ate them anyway, and the disgust and irritability that I felt afterward is still lingering. (5) Just as I was biting into the first mealy cookie, I got a call from my boss because it seems I did "more than necessary" on the first installment of the aforementioned big, ugly project, so now I have to go over to the office tomorrow for a chat with the one lady there whose Japanese for some reason I cannot understand one word of, but that fact won't matter because I already know how the chat's going to go. It will be like: "You did a great job. But you did more than you have to (i.e., we are paying you pennies and wish to continue doing so, so please don't do extra work or too good a job, because otherwise, we might have to pay you, like, one penny more)."

Okay, let's break away from the over-burgeoning numbered list, shall we? But carrying on with point number (5), do you KNOW what that kind of talk feels like? Here I am, limited qualifications, barely able to take pride in what I do, yet trying to do the best job I can, and then I'm told not to BOTHER. It's like telling an architect: "Just give me something with four sides and a top." Or a cook: "As long as nobody chokes or dies. Don't worry about that 'tasting good' stuff."

And just maybe I'm feeling extra sensitive because--back to the numbered list for a second:(6) I recently received an email from a good friend, telling me, "Guess what? I got into med school!"

I'm so thrilled for her, I want to keep telling her so. And yet there's another part of me that is feeling horribly self-centered and miserable and angry at myself--though, surprisingly, not jealous (I did think I would be). Still, it's wrong. Here I should be nothing but happy for her. Instead, I'm feeling sorry for myself. Terrible, I know. It's just, there's suddenly all these doubts about what happened all those years ago when I finally gave up on my stupidly complex plans for after I became doctor, since it was apparent I was incapable of accomplishing the critical becoming-a-doctor part. Did I really try hard enough in college? Did I do everything I possibly could? Even though I laughingly agreed with my husband recently that I would have made a scary, incompetent doctor, it is still the most important thing in my life that I've ever had to give up. And it still drives me crazy if I *really* think about it--which I don't ordinarily allow myself to do. It's something best tucked in the back of my mind. Except thinking about my friend going to med school, dissecting cadavers, graduating eventually to become useful, helpful, valuable... it just makes my life seem so petty in comparison. So I mope. And use the approach of my period and a series of silly incidents as excuses to be mopeful[insert trademark symbol here].

And now I feel a little better and I shall return my stupid dream to the far reaches of my little mind--whose limited size means, unfortunately, that I can't send it that far away, but I shall pretend that it is far and that I can't see that little corner of it sticking out, waving for my attention... Now I'm just babbling foolishly, when what I really need to be doing is getting back to that big, ugly project, with which I shall try not to try too hard.

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Japanese Hot Cakes

The expression "flat as a pancake" is unjust. At least I consider it so, as I know perfectly well that pancakes can be lofty and proud. If you've ever seen the picture on a box of Japanese hotto keh-ki (hot cake) mix, that's just how I dream of pancakes: clinically cylindrical and fat as fat can be.

Of course one must be cautious not to take things toward a level of sheer absurdity. An important point that I think distinguishes a pancake from a regular cake is its egginess, and this means a floppier, less tough consistency--which is why lots of pancakes are flat. They don't have it in them to hold themselves up.

I recently spotted a cook book with a handsome stack of Japanese-style hot cakes on the cover, and could not resist memorizing the recipe to try at home. Of course I have my Near Perfect Pancake recipe, but that does not mean I don't dream of being able to remove the "Near" from the title, some day.

Anyhow, what truly caught my attention in this recipe were the following:

• the technique of taking the heated frying pan off the fire and placing it briefly on a wet towel, before adding the pancake batter (something my Japanese husband would do, in those poignant old days, three years ago, when he would cook me breakfast...sigh)


• the use of a lid


• the long, slow cooking time


• okay, and that gorgeous cover picture of those tall, tall cakes

I tried out the recipe, with a few minor adjustments, and this is what emerged from my pan:


Not flawless, but it was the puffiest pancake I've ever produced. It was also a lot more evenly, prettily browned than the pancakes I usually make on super-high heat. I think it was the lid that did it. I don't know about the wet cloth trick, nor the slow cooking. In fact, my pancake was unfortunately dry and crumbly, but I think that's mostly my fault for a whole slew of reasons, including my using whole wheat flour and cutting down on the amount of sugar and butter, and also overmixing.

I think next time, I'll try my Near Perfect Pancake recipe using a lid during cooking, and see what happens.

I'd like to share the Japanese hot cake recipe, but I'm worried about copyright issues. I wonder though if this counts, since I'm translating from Japanese and thus using entirely my own words.

Ah, well, maybe I'll just put this up temporarily:

Japanese Hot Cakes (adapted from the unfortunately forgotten title of a Japanese cook book)
Makes two to three hot cakes

180g plain flour
2tsp baking powder
1/2tsp salt (This is my own addition, since it never said how much salt in the book)

2 large eggs
40g sugar (Doesn't that seem far too sweet to anyone else?)
30g butter, melted
130ml milk

1. Sift flour, baking powder, and salt together twice.
2. Beat eggs, sugar, melted butter, and milk.
3. Mix the dry ingredients into the wet, in three parts.
4. Take the oiled and pre-heated pan off the stove and place it on a wet towel.
5. Add a thick circle of batter to the pan.
6. Return the pan to the stove, cover with a lid, and cook on low heat for 4 to 5 minutes.
7. When the surface of the hot cake is dotted with bubbles (mine never got bubbly, but I think this is because I left the pan on the wet towel for too long and the temperature dropped too much), flip the hot cake over and cook, covered, for another 1 to 2 minutes.
8. Serve with whatever.

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What Became of the Bird?

The next morning, following my discovery of the wounded pigeon the night before, I and Edward casually strolled past the spot where I'd hidden the bird. As I'd dreaded but rather expected, there on the dark earth was a scattered burst of silvery down--the only remains the cats ever leave behind after a happy feast of pigeon.

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Cruel Nature

This evening I rescued a pigeon from drowning, but it was hardly a noble effort as: (a) it was my dog who charged the creature and caused it to plop clumsily into the lake (at which point I suddenly realized I'd never known pigeons to swim, and sure enough, hurrying over to the edge of the water, I saw amidst the flapping and splashing that some part of the bird was mangled and that it was failing miserably to haul itself out); and (b) I don't know if I would have saved it had it not been for a long tree branch sitting directly and meaningfully between me and the pigeon. You gotta understand, the water in that lake is *seriously* gross and dirty--it would take a lot to convince me to reach in with my bare hands, since immersion would undoubtably lead to sterility or least one becoming a superhero (neither of which might *seem* that bad, but could lead to regrets further down the road).

Anyway, after some rather shoddy teamwork--me clumsily wielding the branch, him doing a lot of weak scrambling and toppling over--the pigeon finally got a good grip with both feet and I gingerly lifted him out of the water.

I guess the poor thing was exhausted because I was just inches from him and yet he didn't flinch--if pigeons flinch. Now that I think about it, it's odd that, while he was in the water, he didn't try to get away from me poking at him with the branch. It was as if he knew I was trying to help him, but I'm sure he'd merely reached a "Whatever" point. And he just kept clinging tenaciously to that tree branch, after I set it on dry ground. It was actually rather sad because, there he was, literally holding on for his life, when from the look of him, I'm sure he'll either die from his original injuries or be feral cat food just as soon as one of those furry beasts who prowl the park catch a whiff of his scent. And I've seen the exploded feathery remains of his pigeon brethren who'd fallen prey around the park many times before.

Anyhow, I stowed the little guy under a bush, still perched quietly on the dead tree branch, but I don't have much hope for him. I know it's silly to get all sentimental about a stupid pigeon--hey, most of the time, I really don't like them, the way they fly up in a panic and beat their dirty, dusty wings right in your face--but, the poor thing, he's going to die terribly, whichever way he goes.

Nature is so harsh, isn't it? Recently, while watching TV with my husband, we came upon what seemed to be a documentary about this fat, fluffy baby owl...for about two minutes before, out of nowhere, a hawk swooped down and promptly de-fluffed it. Good-bye fat, fluffy owlet.

I wish I had something profound to add, after going on *this* long, but, alas, all I can say is I'm glad I'm not a pigeon. Sorry.

And to that pigeon, perhaps still huddled in the darkness under the bush: You were brave and kept a level head, when you could have freaked out, misunderstood my intentions, and drowned slowly in seriously dirty water. Hang in there. And if the cats get you, I hope you don't suffer.

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How to Dress for a Japanese Funeral

The death of my grandfather-in-law--"Otou-chan," as the family calls him--was unexpected. He literally caught pneumonia overnight, but the doctor confirmed it was the lifetime of smoking that caused his lungs to give up in the end. He passed away in the evening, and the immediate family gathered at the hospital for a private farewell. For the first time that I can remember, my husband actually left work at 10pm to meet us, and seeing him so early in the evening, out of the house, still in his business suit--it was all so very odd, but no more odd than Otou-chan himself, who looked light and fragile, like a hollow wax figure. It was not the real Otou-chan, with his gap-toothed smile, sipping happily on o-sake, and flustering me with his frank stare and usual refrain of "You grow more and more beautiful every day." I think Otou-chan fancied himself something of a ladies' man. He was a published poet and a boy at heart.

After returning home from the hospital, the first thing my husband grilled me on was what I had in the way of funeral attire. My old boss had nagged at me to get a black suit. "You'll need it," he'd assured me. And it is true that if there is one item of clothing in every Japanese person's closet, it must surely be The Black Suit, good for every occasion: job interviews, weddings, funerals, birthday parties, you name it. But, men, take note that you only wear an all-black tie for funerals; white tie for weddings; every other occasion, go crazy. (I was just teasing about the birthday parties part, though you can if you want to.)

Unfortunately, I'd failed to heed my boss's nagging. A waste of money, I'd thought, I'll never wear it. If you're a woman though, it doesn't *have* to be a suit; that's just your safest bet. Here are the key rules when putting together your funeral ensemble:

Your top and bottom really have to be black--no navy, dark brown, or whatever. Swallow-up-all-ambient-light black would be preferable. If you think I'm kidding, go check out the extremely expensive, extremely depressing outfits in the funeral section at your nearest Japanese department store.

No shiny, happy things. Everything has to be dull, muted--this includes buttons, clothing material (no silk, for example), hair accessories, and other little details like those shiny, happy buckles on your black dress shoes (bad!).

In keeping with the first point, no jewelry. Except pearls, for some baffling reason.

Keep modestly covered up, even in the dead of summer. No short sleeves or dippy necklines--think stereotypical spinster librarian; really, the dowdier you make yourself, the closer to the ideal model you will be. Knee-length skirts are okay, but black stockings are a must.

One last important point, boys and girls: make sure there aren't any holes in your socks/stockings because this is Japan and you're going to have to take off your shoes eventually, and then the state of your hosiery will be exposed for all the Japanese world to see (horrors).

I did have most of the important bits: tights, shoes, and a seriously ugly-ass skirt I'd bought in a fit of rage one afternoon in New York right before a job interview, not able to bear one more lascivious "Ay, mamma" from those delivery truck guys who, I swear, would mutter and stare at anything remotely female. Two sizes too big, the skirt hits at the most unflattering possible point around the calves, and that day, I stalked defiantly out of the store wearing my new purchase, daring any fool carting stacked boxes of bottled water to even glance my way. I almost cackled with glee as I made my way down Broadway, ignored.

Anyhow, the skirt was perfect. All I needed was a top, but I didn't have much time. I'd never realized how fast funerals are set in motion in Japan. Maybe it's the same all over the world, but the morning following Otou-chan's death, we promptly received a phone call regarding the funeral details. It seems I had only a few hours to get myself an appropriate jacket that would not shock or shame my Japanese family, before I was to hustle over to my mother-in-law's house for the otsuya, the wake.

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Catching Up

After all that rambling in my previous post about not rambling as much, I’m back, to ramble some more.

This month began with the promise of breathing space. I’d finally seen the last of a monstrous project that had taken up all of my September (hence, the long stretch of non-blogging). As a celebration of sorts, I set aside an afternoon to leisurely explore some new neighborhoods with Edward, our regular haunts having gotten rather old. Unfortunately, I got lost—something that only happens to me in the insidious urban layout that is Tokyo—and our happy jaunt stretched into over four hours of grim trudging through the darkening and, eventually, rain-slick streets. Without money or cell phone—though in truth, the only thing I could have done with the latter was call my husband and bawl, “We’re lost!”—Edward and I were on our own.

By sheer luck, I eventually stumbled upon my regular train line and gratefully followed the train track home. I’d mostly been worried about Edward, with his little legs, walking such a great distance; but to my amazement, after I’d washed all the mud out of his fur, he did his usual joyful berserker zipping around the apartment at full speed. I guess I was the only one feeling drained—chalk it up to the stress of being lost and the fact that rubber flip-flops are not the best footwear for long-distance concrete trekking.

Anyhow, once I’d had a shower and a hot coffee in my hand, I was feeling safe and snug, when the phone rang. It was my husband, calling to tell me his grandfather had just died and asking me to meet the rest of the family at the hospital. And so began my first experience dealing with death in Japan.

Unsure what to expect, and what was expected of me, I searched online but couldn't find very much on the subject of Japanese funerals. Since it was her father who had just died, I wasn't going to bug my mother-in-law on correct etiquette and all that. My husband hadn't much experience either--i.e., no help whatsoever. So I winged it, and everything turned out okay. I, the clumsy foreigner, managed not to horrify any grief-stricken individuals during this somber time. But for the sake of others who might find themselves in a similarly ignorant position, I thought I'd try to record some of what went on in the couple of days following my grandfather-in-law's death. Later.

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Disappearing Act

Barring the odd vacation and the recent photo of Edward in a necktie, I believe this is the longest period I've neglected the blog. Whereas some people find blogging addictive, I find the opposite to be true: the longer I stay away, the harder it is to come back. It's not that I consider blogging a chore. It's really my own damn fault. You see, I can't write short, breezy posts. No, every little remark or observation has to wind and twist and expand into this overbloated monologue that takes me ages and ages to write. I can't seem to help it. And, yes, I’m an appallingly slow writer.

So you see, reader darlings, it’s not you. It’s me.

Oh, god, how lame is that? But it’s the truth. Every time I think about sitting down to blog, I realize I just don’t have the time that it takes to bang out one of my interminable essays. But this is going to change. I’m going to learn to be snappy, to the point. Sure I can indulge in verbosity, if I have the time or inclination. But I want to be capable of blogging, even when I’m busy with other things—because, honestly, when isn’t there going to be other things demanding my time?

So, for my own sake—because I do derive pleasure from blogging—as well as for the sake of anyone out there who pops in from time to time, I’m going to try to post more regularly. And be succinct about it.

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