brown bread ice cream

Farewell, Maria -- We'll Miss You

2006-07-22T04:32:00.000+09:00

It's been almost a month since we moved into our cozy little hotel room and, sadly, our stay is coming to an end: We finally found an apartment. Some might hate the transiency of it all, or feel that a hotel room could not possibly ever feel like home, but I beg to differ. Hell, if my husband's company had offered to pay for a longer stay, I would have happily prolonged our search. The bed is big and so comfy, they put out a basket of the best cookies at the front desk in the evenings, and then there's Maria, of course. Maria always makes sure I've got enough coffee, microwave popcorn, and kitchen paper towels. I love kitchen paper towels; I find them incredibly extravagant--not that I go crazy and abuse my unlimited access to the paper towels in an environmentally unfriendly manner, of course.

In any case, my husband's company gave us exactly a month to find a place. Thus, in the end, we were kind of forced to settle. The place we're moving into is way WAAAAAY too expensive. It's one storey above a busy eight-lane thoroughfare. And...there are these weird clouds of flies that permanently hang out in the lobby. My husband mocks me for objecting to the flies. They're just flies, he says. Okay, no, they are not "just flies." Flies are ordinarily drawn to garbage and things like that, right? But these flies--these massive dark thunderclouds of flies--just hover in the air, in a very scene-out-of-a-Stephen-King-novel-made-into-an-HBO-made-for-television-movie kind of way. Seriously. It's ominous and plain freaky. What do they want?

All that aside, really I should be very grateful that we found anything at all. Palo Alto shop people might be nice about dogs but the apartments people are not. And, hey, after the dog pee at Macy's incident, I can't say I blame them for not wanting all the potential hassles.

Also, I had forgotten how crazy Americans are about the whole "credit history" thing. Which is unfortunate--since my husband and I don't have any! We actually had our apartment application rejected initially. Totally humiliating experience. One second, the leasing agent was all but clasping me to her pillowy bosom, crying, "Welcome home!" (seriously), and the next, I was getting ear frostbite after an extremely chilly phone call informing me that our credit check had come back with unsatisfactory results. Duh, woman, we just moved here from Japan.

Not to get into the nitty-gritties, but eventually, we were rescued by a real estate company that will act as a guarantor of sorts--for a small fee, of course. Which we very gratefully agreed to pay. Makes me wonder though how other foreigners deal. AT-&-Bloody-T refused to give me a stinkin' phone line because I didn't have a social security number or a driver's license--one or the other; no substitutes. And Verizon demanded a $400 deposit from my husband for cell phone service, after another of those pesky credit checks came back with not much to show. I'm telling you, I was practically holding my breath when I called the electricity company, wondering if they'd actually grant us impudent aliens a little light in our new home. Thankfully, they were nice, so at least I won't have to head over to Wal-mart for candles.

Somewhat Unreal

2006-07-14T04:27:00.000+09:00

Sorry, sorry. Everyone now thinks I'm in San Francisco because of my last post and and then my lack of follow-up for weeks. Remember that evil editing project that was sucking the life out of me right before the move? Hmm, maybe I was being too life-sucked to even blog about it. Well, it was taking up my time and it has continued to take up my time, since I got here. Which is why I haven't been as free to blog and, oh, say, search for a place to live as I should have been.

Anyhow, we're not in San Francisco, but close. Well, 45-minutes-ish close. Palo Alto? You know, Stanford University, Google, Silicon Valley, etc. So, we've been here almost three weeks now and will probably be here for three years, at least. Then back to Japan.

Perhaps it's because I'm living in a hotel. Or because I'm coming from a place that is so radically different, but Palo Alto feels...unreal. Not in a good or bad way. It's just... Take the weather: flawless blue skies and blinding sunshine, all day, every day, until about 8pm at night, when the sun finally begins a very languid descent. And it doesn't change ever, we've been told, except for like a month of scattered clouds and drizzles in December. Unreal. Also, with this kind of weather, you'd think the place would be nothing but scorched earth (I, myself, am in fear that a few more months of walking under this unrelenting sun and I'm going to bear a striking resemblance to Clint Eastwood). But no, everywhere you look, there are the lushest, sweetest-green lawns you could imagine. You know the movie "Toys" with Robin Williams? Sometimes this place reminds me of the outdoor scenes for that movie (remember the giant toy elephant perched in the grass, blowing soap bubbles out of its trunk?).

Right now, we're searching for a home, but we haven't had much luck. As I mentioned, we've been staying at a hotel, one that accepts dogs, and life is pretty luxurious at the moment: heated pool (if you don't mind that it's permanently roiling with wee noisy munchkins on summer vacation and, combined with that, is permanently heated to a disturbingly warm temperature), free breakfast, and a very nice lady named Maria who cleans our room. We like Maria, my husband especially. He's always pointing out to me Maria's exemplary cleaning habits: "Look at the way Maria organizes the shampoo and conditioner bottles," he says, eyes glowing with approval. And, "Ahh, it's so nice to come back to a clean house. I wish we could live here forever." I try to point out how exhausted poor Maria looks some days, but that part doesn't seem to register with him. Maria has one other problem: She's scared of Edward. It doesn't help that he squeals and struggles in my arms like a rabid pig to get to Maria so that he can get some lovin', but, essentially, I have to keep Edward out of the room while she's cleaning. Unfortunately, Maria always comes at the hottest time of the afternoon, and so a walk is impossible. Edward and I have thus taken to hanging out in the deserted hotel dining area, me working at my laptop, Edward stretched out under the table while furtively lapping up crumbs embedded in the carpet.

This is another unreal thing about Palo Alto: You can take your dog just about anywhere. We recently visited the Stanford Shopping Center with Edward in tow, and were peering through the window of the Pottery Barn, when another couple cooly strolled inside with their dog. Another time, a security guard actually asked me to come into the store when he spotted Edward and me waiting outside for my husband.

How nice, right? But then...

Recently, still smiling at the sight of a bull terrier trotting through Macy's with its owner, I walked over to a counter and stepped right in a huge, sloshy puddle--though it was more like a small lake; no, a sea; the Parting of the Yellow Sea is what it quite literally felt like--of said bull terrier's pee. Needless to say, it was totally gross. And so I now fully understand the pros and cons of a pet-friendly society.

Welcome to California

2006-07-12T09:18:00.000+09:00

Well, we made it to and through San Francisco International Airport, Edward and I. My husband headed out separately, commanded by the head of the US division of his company to go to New York, say hello, grovel a bit for this grand opportunity bestowed upon him, and then turn around and come back to California. It's an old-fashioned kinda company.

The part I was most worried about--flying with Edward--turned out to be a breeze. Because it was a nine-hour trip from Tokyo, I didn't want the little guy in cargo but I stressed a bit about the idea of him being stuck in his carrier bag for all that time. Thankfully, he's small and quiet, and I don't think the flight crew even noticed he was tucked under the seat in front of me...so, I made quite a few bathroom trips, lugging a rather large "totebag" with me each time. I wonder if I looked a tad suspicious to my fellow travellers. Ah well, at least Edward got to stretch his legs every few hours in the little airplane lavatory. It was quite funny, just seeing him there.

Going through US customs with Edward was also ridiculously easy. They asked me if I had any dog food, I said I did, they took it away from me, and then they told me I could go. I was like, "Don't you even want to see my dog? Or his health certificate?" And they were like, "No. Hey, say congratulations to Bob, here. He just got a promotion." Congratulations, Bob.

One Week to Go

2006-06-26T11:30:00.000+09:00

Looks like I won't be able to blog at length until I get to California, and it has nothing to do with being busy preparing for the move and everything to do with a cruel, unsympathetic colleague who's putting preposterous work demands upon me before I leave Japan.

Quick summation: mad daily deadlines aside, we're pretty much all set, thanks to my wonderful husband, who has had to handle almost all the arrangements. As payback, he says I have to handle everything once we're on English-speaking soil again. He's taking advantage of my currently apologetic state. And I feel bad enough to let him.

Last week: Got Edward microchipped. To enter Japan, your dog must have a microchip that's ISO 11784 or 11785 compliant (in case anyone's confused, we had to get this done in preparation of our return to Japan in a few years). Got a bit worried the night before the chipping, but a quick online search reassured me that it's nothing worse than getting a vaccine and most dogs don't seem to mind. Then we got to the vet and she started saying things about big needles, blood, and it being best if I stayed out in the waiting lounge while they inserted the microchip. After an increasingly tense 45-minute wait, the vet, face strangely flushed, finally stumbled through a door and ushered me into one of the rooms. My eyes instantly fell upon Edward, who lay in a defeated slump on the examination table. (His normal response to those tables is to climb the nearest available person to get off it or simply take a flying leap, never mind that for his height, that must be the equivalent of a free-fall off the Brooklyn Bridge.) Another nurse was pressing some gauze to a spot near his shoulders and it came away bright with blood. Then I saw the needle itself. It was big--2mm wide, the vet said. I think Edward thought so too and tried his best to protest--hence, the red-faced vet. We then had to wait another hour, back in the lounge, with Edward collapsed on the couch beside me like a deflated soup dumpling. When a fat corgi waddled in and Edward's ears didn't even prick, I almost thought they'd drugged him. He remained in this shell-shocked state the rest of the day.

When I took a break from work in the evening, I turned to find Edward huddled against the couch
and finally had to launch a vulture hand puppet (one of his toys) attack, to coax him out of the Land of the Impossibly Betrayed.

He's fine now. And he beeps, like an item getting price-checked at Walmart, when you hold a microchip scanner over his back. It's rather funny in a totally exploitive way.

2006-06-08T23:39:00.000+09:00

I promise that the next post will be about the move to California. Unfortunately, I'm going to be up yet again (see previous post) at 5am tomorrow, this time for an interview to get my American visa, so I have to finish up my work and try for at least four hours of sleep tonight. Since there's no barium involved, I'm almost looking forward to getting grilled.

What Happened with the Barium

2006-06-08T21:28:00.000+09:00

I wanted to blog about what happened with the barium-drinking yesterday after I got home, but was totally monopolized by work. Okay, I was also monopolized by the couch for a while, because I'd woken up at 5:30 that morning in order to walk Edward and then get to the clinic in time for the health check. Which meant I'd only had two hours of sleep, half of which I lost to in-bed agonizing.

I was slightly comforted when Edward and I stepped outside to discover the most gorgeous weather in full bloom. Although I'm never awake to enjoy it, I love the slow, private feeling of early morning. I decided then and there to make a habit of waking up at 5am after I turn 60.

The hour-long train ride brought all the stress right back. I was with my husband, whose "Don't be a baby" pep talks only confirmed that I'd be getting no assistance from his corner. I hunkered down, feeling tense, alone, and really quite thirsty since I'd been told not to drink anything after nine the night before. I waffled for a little bit, telling myself there had to be some way out of this, then trying to talk myself into accepting that I had to do it. But inexorably, my fear gained firm and total control. The barium-water suspension (in a now Super Big Gulp sized tankard) I kept trying to picture myself swallowing had morphed from the consistency of milkshake to plaster of paris. I'd once made a mask of someone's face with plaster of paris and I remember how fast it set. I imagined the barium congealing halfway down my throat.

I could do this. I had to do it. But then I thought: No, I bloody well do not have to do it. People have died from refusing blood transfusions and chemotherapy, and maybe refusing was the wrong choice, but it was their choice to make. Suddenly the expression "pick your battles" popped into my head and, worthy or not, I picked: There'd be no drinking of barium for me today.

A dozen scenarios played in my head as I tested out my limited Japanese, trying to formulate the most articulate, effective argument I could present to the staff at the clinic. I quickly nixed the idea of sobbing out a heartrending plea and prostrating myself before a stony nurse. (I don't know why, but all the nurses I've ever encountered in Japan have been stony, both in heart and facial expression, which utterly baffles me since why would an uncaring person choose a line of work in which it's practically your job to care?) I tried out calm, lucid, and reasonable, but found it difficult to maintain this facade when my only defense was: "I can't swallow thick, creamy drinks." Eventually, I stopped rehearsing and just told myself I'd stick to my guns, no matter what. I wouldn't worry about being polite and accommodating for once. I would stand up for myself.

Finally we were exiting the train, me all grim-faced determination. And then, after a short wait in the clinic reception area, my moment arrived, my battle, and I made myself squarely face the nurse holding my chart.

Me: [Pleasant but firm] Excuse me, is the part of the exam that requires drinking barium absolutely necessary?

Nurse: No.

Husband: [Surprised, almost disappointed at my reprieve, the stinker] Really?

Nurse: Totally up to you.

Of course since the nurse was speaking in formal Japanese, her response took several pages longer to get out. But the above was the essence of it. God, you would not believe the relief that just about caused my chest to cave in at that moment. Admittedly, as far as battles went, it was a pretty pitiful one. Not even sure one could call it a "battle." But I'd won. I wouldn't have to choke down, or puke up, barium. I was the happiest girl in the whole world.

Rescue Me

2006-06-06T12:55:00.000+09:00

I'll be leaving Japan at the end of this month and living in California for a few years. Husband's getting transferred. Before anyone starts screaming "Why didn't you tell me before?"--we were only informed about the move last week. And it's been a bit 'o madness around here, what with procuring all the necessary documents, sorting out our apartment, deciphering animal import/export regulations, and everything else.

That news out of the way, all I can say is: I don't want to drink barium! (Just so you know how upset I am about this, I almost put three exclamation marks at the end of the previous sentence.) I've never liked my husband's company for all sorts of reasons, but I've, as much as possible, withheld my opinions because he gets rather sensitive when I defame that hallowed establishment. Well, this time they go too far. I honestly do not understand why--since I sure as hell am not one of theirs--but they are insisting that I get a full health check before we move, and this health check includes a Barium Swallow. Without knowing much at all about the procedure, all my life, I've felt this is something that I would avoid at all costs. Now that I have to do it (tomorrow), I've of course tortured myself by reading everything I can find on the ordeal.

My husband--and probably many of you, upon reading this post--thinks I'm being a sniveling, wussy cocktail wiener. What he doesn't realize is that this isn't me being what he categorizes as typically contrary, noisy, and difficult. This is me trying my best to tamp down full-blown terror.

I can, in fact, quietly and calmly withstand a fair amount, in terms of medical tests: needles, invasive procedures, all that good stuff. I'm also unfussy where food is concerned. But what I cannot handle is drinking thick, creamy substances. It isn't just the gag factor, the roiling nausea; the thought of it actually makes my innards squidge and my throat close up in a serious panic. Insects, animal entrails, heads, hoofs, claws--fine, serve me up a plate. But mayonnaise, banana smoothies, creamy yogurt--*shudder*. And still, if I took it a teaspoon at a time, I could manage to down those things.

But tomorrow's x-ray is going to require fast gulping of large quantities (two to three cups) of barium mixed with water to a dense, "milkshake-like consistency," some of it done while lying down.

I can't do it! All of a sudden, I'm recalling those fluoride treatments at the dentist that used to make me all but hyperventilate with fear as a child. The dentist would insist that I bite down "harder" on the trays filled with creamy, sweet fluoride, and when I obeyed, the fluoride would gush over the sides and start filling my mouth, flowing toward the back of my throat. Breathe. Deep breaths.

This must be a phobia, right? I mean, if I step back from the situation, I can see that my reaction is verging on extreme. But, A phobia of what?, you might be wondering with some derision: Too much sour cream with my borscht? Strawberry malts? As unappealing as such things are to me, it's more... a fear of being choked, of drowing in viscous substances. It's a phobia--it's not supposed to be logical.

Why, why do I have to have a health check, I ask you? If the company is worried about liability, I'll happily sign a release form, promising I won't cause them any trouble if I fall sick and/or die while overseas. Why am I even their responsibility? I'm just a wife, and a non-Japanese one at that. Who gives a damn about my esophagus and intestines? If I start screaming when the nurse advances on me with a large tumbler of barium, will the doctor put a big red X on my report, deny me permission to leave Japan? For the love of god, this seems so antiquated--surely they could come up with less-crude methods. Well, obviously not in time to save me from tomorrow.

I'm Soooo Over Air Supply. I Am!

2006-05-27T00:21:00.000+09:00

Oh dear bouncing baby Moses, would someone pul-leez take You Tube away from me? I've been repeatedly listening--and singing along!--to Goodbye by Air Supply, a band I thought I'd outgrown when I turned nine, but obviously NOT, since I can't seem to stop hitting "Replay this Video," even though I really cannot stand the squeaky voice of the little dark-haired guy. Okay, am I talking crazy here or do short guys tend to have squeaky voices? What's up with that? Have you ever heard horse jockeys talking? Like little munchkins, every one. But then I'm short and I don't think I sound squeaky. Crap...do I?

You know, for the longest time, I swore the words to Goodbye were:

I don't wanna play you out
I only wanna lead you on

But then, I was nine, so what did I know?

You! Would never ask me waaaahy...

Vietnam Photos: Halong Bay

2006-05-26T23:31:00.000+09:00

I finally got around to sorting through all 28,600 of the photos one of my camera-happy friends uploaded to Snapfish of our trip to Vietnam. Here are a few of Halong Bay, which is a three-hour drive from Hanoi and supposedly a UNESCO World Heritage site. Sadly, the bay is inundated by tour boats (just like the one we stayed on overnight *wince*), nobody seems to be doing much in terms of preservation, and there was a lot of garbage floating in the bay's trademark milky green waters.

As idyllic as this picture appears, I'm fairly certain this woman brings her children out to pose in front of the tour boats on a regular basis, since the minute my friend took this shot, the woman was paddling over to ask for money.

Polluted as it was, Halong Bay--whose name, by the way, in Vietnamese sounds nothing like any way you might attempt to pronounce it--is however quite a photogenic thing, and thus I am sharing these few shots (all of which were taken by my friend, who I'd give credit to, except that I don't know if she'd really want her name posted and, thus, connected with this blog. Of course I could just ask, but I'm too lazy. This is why for the most part I've refrained from using other peoples' pictures on my blog, even when I see something extremely post-worthy. I just don't feel confident of the whole Fair Use doctrine, though my blog is undoubtedly for my own personal, non-for-profit use. I can still see someone having a major hissy fit, and I do believe in asking permission before using someone's work. But in this case, since it's a friend and all that. This parenthesized aside has gotten completely out of hand, so I'll stop now.).

One of the nice tour boats clogging up the bay.

Maddened by Rain and Orange Blossoms

2006-05-19T18:39:00.000+09:00

Early this evening, a warm, gusty wind blew in out of nowhere and cleared away a patch of cloud canopy, and can I just say how damn good it felt to see that stretch of blue sky lit by the setting sun (it's the rainy season, for anyone who missed my last post)? So good I sank to my knees, groceries clutched in both hands, and sobbed right there on the sidewalk beside my neighbor's hedge with the orange tree on the other side that's frothed with the most unbelievable-smelling blossoms.

Oh! Ha! I'm just kidding of course I'm just kidding. I didn't do that. Sink to my knees and sob, that is. Though maybe I saw myself doing that--it really felt like a release to see that glowing blue patch of sky. But I really am stalking my neighbor's orange tree. God, I'm turning into a junkie, a flower junkie, an Orange Blossom Junkie--man, that sounds lame. I was actually contemplating flower theft today, so that I can smell that orange-blossom goodness at home, any time I ~~need~~ like.

At first, I thought: orange-blossom sugar?--like the way you make vanilla sugar. But, no, it's too perfumey. I once tried a chocolate truffle with rose-infused cream and I was not won over. The whole food-smelling-like-bath-soap concept...nuh uh.

So what about orange-blossom-infused alcohol for... sniffing... and stuff?

Well, that would still require the poaching of the neighbor's tree. But there are so many flowers! I mean, would it be so bad? Could I get arrested?

* * * *
119 [911 equivalent in Japan] operator: Ye-es?

Neighbor with orange tree: Help me. Oh my god, you have to help me.

Operator: Ma'am, please calm down and tell me what's up.

Neighbor: That girl... with the short-legged dog... She's back. And she's doing it again.

Operator: Doing what?

Neighbor: Sniffing! For god's sake, please make her stop. She's sucking up all the pollen, leaving nothing for the bees, screwing up the pollination process, ruining next year's orange harvest. [I know nothing about growing things, so give me a break.]

Operator: Holy balls. Okay, whatever you do, do not approach her. She sounds weird. We'll send someone over right away. Don't worry, Ma'am, we will put a stop to this sick, sick girl.

Edward with Orange Blossom

2006-05-17T20:14:00.000+09:00

The rainy season began this week and will last about two months. And that's all I'm going to say about that because I've done more than enough complaining on this blog. One nice thing about these wet pair of months is that they seem to draw out all the beautiful flowers. My favorite right now are the sturdy little orange blossoms, one of which Edward very kindly agreed to model for us. They're fairly plain in form but they smell scrumptious, especially in this moist, heavy air. And I'm talking seriously scrumptious--like "standing in the sidewalk and snuffling your neighbor's hedge for five minutes because there's an orange tree on the other side sending out heady wafts of orange blossom perfume" scrumptious.

What Was Eliot Going on About?

2006-05-15T20:57:00.000+09:00

Garlic and sapphires in the mud
Clot the bedded axle-tree.
-- TS Eliot, from Burnt Norton

Back in high school, I hated English lit. The classics, and their characters, seemed constipated. Symbolism and hidden meanings flew by me without even a tickle. Deconstructing text did nothing but break my concentration and cause my thoughts to flitter elsewhere. For me, reading was purely about escapism, and harping on why Teresa really liked to paint yellow pumpkins was not the way to get lost in a story.

Unfortunately, the passage above came up in conversation yesterday and is now driving me nuts. I spent a good hour searching online for a nice, straightfoward answer, but no one seems able to agree on what Eliot really meant.

Won't someone shed some light on my illiterate soul?

Wedding Invitation (the One I Didn't Get)

2006-05-15T17:55:00.000+09:00

Sorry about the previous, overwrought post--though I do enjoy pounding those out, from time to time. I'm relieved to announce that the employment floodgates have opened and I'm now booked to my eyeballs in enough jobs that I should be unable to complain or loll about for a good four months. Hahhh.

Now that I'm feeling a little more magnanimous, I should expound upon the wedding invitation situation. No, I was not mistaken: I'm not invited. If your name ain't on the card...

According to my husband, it's a matter of economics. Having a wedding anywhere in the world is expensive. The more people you invite, the larger a reception hall you'll have to rent--and, to put it baldly, my husband's friends can't afford a bigger reception hall. And while each guest is expected to "help out" by toting along a wedding gift of around 30,000 yen, a couple might only pay 40,000 to 50,000 between them. Not such a good deal.

There's always a casual party following the reception, where even the wives are allowed to show their lowly faces, and where I've chatted with many good friends of the bride and groom who, without any apparent resentment, volunteered that they had not been invited to the wedding either. So I guess I have no right to get huffy. It's just that, before enduring my own typical, torturous Asian wedding years ago, where everyone and my father's client's underaged girlfriend were invited, I was subjected to months of unrelenting ~~brainwashing~~ instruction regarding proper wedding etiquette. I guess some conditioned part of my brain was... triggered when I learned I hadn't been invited. Again.

I do wonder though whether in Japan, things aren't a little influenced by older traditions. In a shinto wedding, from what I understand, there'd be extremely limited guest seating--something like 10 people per bride and groom. And due to a very strict invitation hierarchy, guests would be made up of relatives for the most part. And maybe your boss. I've heard of times where a sibling might even get left out, for lack of space. Though I doubt that happens nowadays.

I Just Need to Vent

2006-05-11T13:24:00.000+09:00

I don't know if other freelancers have this problem, but people seem to enjoy the assumption that my lack of commitment to one company means I instead exist to be at their beck and call, merely idling in the background until a crooked finger sends me scurrying forward, eager to serve. Excuse my language, please, but fuck that.

What makes me so incensed my eyeballs are twitching is that, for the past few days, I have been forced to do just that: wait. Since I've been back in Japan, I've contacted my various job sources, let them know I'm available, been offered work, and then been told, "Please wait. Indefinitely." Or, better still, "We've got a job for you," and then dead silence for DAYS. Urgh, now my butt is twitching in irritation as well. I despise these periods of work limbo. I know that if I'm patient, I'll soon be busy again, and probably whining about it like a little girl. But this, this is infinitely worse. Sitting around baking muffins (albeit pretty darn tasty ones) while I wait to be summoned does nothing but excite that squeaky-voiced, largely ignored sliver of me that isn't altogether satisfied with my peripheral life.

What is it about myself that reassures people: Go ahead and string her along! Really--she loves it! It's like a radiating aura that wraps around a person's conscience like swaddling and numbs them from feeling compunction. Summer vacation, after my second year in college, I was told over the phone by an editor of a magazine I badly wanted to intern with: "Please, come over to New York. We'd love to have you." Flew there and turned out what she meant to say was, "We've already chosen an intern, but we thought we'd hold you with false promises, as backup, just in case." This, people, is how I ended up subletting a small couch that literally filled the entire living room space of a miniature one-bedroom Chinatown apartment already occupied by two other people and found myself walking every inch of the city, begging for a waitressing job.

After days of rejections, I was mercifully taken in by a little Italian restaurant that served things like veal Parmesan, was entirely staffed by foreigners like myself (yes, of course we all had proper working visas), and was owned by a taciturn, older Italian gentleman, whose impromptu visits tended to send our manager into a bit of a pale-faced tizzy: "Quick! Get Mr. Calzone* his usual drink!" Hey, I wasn't going to examine the boss, who could instill terror simply by quietly eating pasta at a corner table, or the place's hiring policy too closely. I was just relieved as hell that someone had accepted my lightly tinkered resume (I wasn't 100-percent certain I'd wow them with my candy striping at Lynn Valley Home for the Elderly nor the instant mashed potato-scooping skills I'd honed while working at the college cafeteria) and was going to let me make some money--even if it would be solely from tips; no pay for the alien workers.

Although there's nothing scarier than a red-faced patron who blames you for the cook getting your clearly written order slip confused, it wasn't a bad job. When people got what they ordered, when they enjoyed the food, it was a pleasure hearing their compliments, even if I had nothing to do with it directly. There were four Ecuadorian cooks in the kitchen and they were surprisingly sweet to me, considering they acted like they didn't see or interact with women very often. I was fed plates of the best French fries I've ever had, fresh out of the fryer and so hot and crisp they sizzled as they made contact with your tongue. And at the end of the night, I walked home with my tips weighing down my pockets in a manner that at least reassured, even if it could not soothe the sharp panic that an entire summer of resume-building opportunity was being squandered.

Twinkling memories and my current joblessness aside, the weather has been depressing the hell out of me. Dirty-white skies that make you squint. Oozing, streaking rain. A neither-here-nor-there temperature that has me sweating in my pajamas and thus forcing me to adopt an in-house attire of knee socks, my husband's board shorts (which have a soothing "support" netting that's supposed to hold a guy in place, and seems to work the same way for my thighs, so that's nice), a camisole, and cardigan--all of which looks as stupid as it sounds; just ask the construction worker dude dangling outside my window who gets the best view of my latest ensembles.

Oh, did I forget to mention that? They've been upgrading the outer facade of our apartment building for months. This means scads of construction workers running about, drilling things, appearing suddenly on my balcony by way of the jungle gym of scaffolding wrapped around the building. Best of all is the magical white netting stretched across the crisscrossing metal frames. It lets in the rain but blocks out all light. This means, for months, my home has been steeped in eternal darkness--I can't even tell without running outside whether the day is sunny or cloudy, although with the weather lately being the bitch that it is, one can most usually guess.

I could actually live with the lack of privacy (reference: dangling construction workers outside window), the early-morning screeching and scratching, and the grey dust that hangs in the air and coats every surface. But I need my light. And can I just say that it sucks in an elephantitis way when one is cut off from one's own balcony and is thus forced to hang all of one's wet laundry inside one's dark, dank little apartment to--ha!--dry.

The final cherry of course is the man who roused me out of bed this morning to tell me that our place was dirtier, older, and more decrepit than they'd anticipated and all this sprucing up is going to stretch on an additional month--minimum.

Oh, wait, let's not forget the sprinkles on the sundae: I think my computer is dying. If I open more than one window at a time, my CPU usage suddenly shoots up to 100% and the hard drive starts humming, whining, and churning, louder and louder, like a vacuum cleaner whose bag is overfull and about to explode. It's doing it right now. It's extremely distracting. And annoying. If it doesn't break soon, I might have to take matters into my own hands.

But where would we be in life without a little extra chocolate sauce: My husband just received a wedding invitation from the friend who was best man at our wedding... But, wait. Where's my name? Yes, that's right, my babies. I'm not invited. Not that I give a bloody damn about attending some wedding for a guy that I don't know or really care about, but it's the principle of the thing. I'm the wife, for god's sake, not some girlfriend who might not last until the wedding day. And you know what else? This is--I swear--like the fifteenth wedding invitation from one of my husband's friends over the past few years that has excluded me. It's totally insulting or something. Or maybe I'm just irate become of my stinking moaning computer. And the lack of vitamin D from insufficient sunlight. And all that other stuff.

Okay, I swear I'm done. And if anything else annoying happens in my life, I'll spare you the details.

*This person's name has been changed to protect... someone.

Pineapple Tarts

2006-05-08T17:34:00.000+09:00

These are certainly not the most exquisite-looking pineapple tarts around, but it is this imperfection in form that, in fact, speaks in their favor. First of all, they're obviously homemade (not by me)--not sleek, mass-produced medallions. Second, if the pastry hadn't cracked and crumbled in the prissy, delicate way that it did, then these wouldn't be real pineapple tarts, in my opinion--they did go through a long flight from Singapore to Tokyo in my backpack.

I'm not going to share my own recipe or anything like that (although I've provided a link to one, below). I just feel like these things are so good, they should be getting more exposure. I'm positively mystified that after all these years, an appalling percentage of the Earth's population still has not heard the word, been touched by the golden light, tasted of The Pineapple Tart.

Let's break these babies down. Pineapple tarts come in two forms, open-faced circlets (as in the picture above) or enclosed parcels. They're always little bite-sized things; you'll never see one great big honkin', nine-inch pineapple tart. Perhaps because of their shape, size, and snackable quality, some might want to label them cookies; however, "tart" rings truer in my mind, perhaps because the pale, buttery base or casing is somewhat like a savory shortcrust pastry. (Quick interjection: Throughout this post, "in my opinion" will be implicit in my pronouncements of what characterizes a "real" pineapple tart; dissenters are expected.) As you might be able to see from the photos, the pineapple tart's pastry is very fine and tender... and, strangely, dry--it is not in the least greasy, nor crunchy or cake-like. These qualities are the perfect match for the moist, sweet-tart filling, which is made from fresh pineapple that has been chopped and cooked down with sugar until it is a caramelized, amber color and firm enough to roll into little balls.

When you bite into a pineapple tart, the pastry instantly begins to disintegrate in a rich, buttery crumble that perfectly balances the sweetness of the dense, almost chewy pineapple filling. For this reason, one should be wary of pineapple tarts with gigantuan balls of filling all but swallowing up the pastry, because these will be much too sweet. It's all about finding the perfect balance.

Although this might raise a flurry of protests, I feel compelled to share the following tip: For the ultimate pineapple tart experience, nuke a couple of tarts in the microwave and then top the hot tarts with a scoop of vanilla ice cream. I cannot overemphasize how good this tastes, with the aromas of butter and caramelized pineapple heightened, and the contrasting textures and temperatures... Orgh.

Now for a quick history lesson. Ahem. Pineapple tarts seem to be claimed by the Peranakans, the descendents of Chinese immigrants that settled in the Malay Archipelago hundreds of years ago. However, although I couldn't find anything online to confirm the fact, it's possible the recipe may have Portuguese influences as well, due to colonists who settled in Malaysia.

I searched around and found a truckload of pineapple tart recipes, but many of them either sounded wrong or the pictures included with the recipe looked, well, bad (in this example, the filling looks pale and insipid and the pastry is so brown and glossy I can practically smell the cooked egg wash). The most promising recipe I could find came from the blog Pinkcocoa Tabetai, using what she calls the "creaming method." I do wonder if the addition of sugar is truly necessary for the pastry though. Also, you should definitely heed her advice and skip the canned pineapple, which is too sweet, juicy, and mushy to achieve the right consistency for the filling. Since I haven't tried the recipe myself though, I'm not sure how it would compare to my idea of the perfect pineapple tart. But her tarts in the pictures look very nice.

Hanoi, Morning

2006-04-27T21:13:00.000+09:00

This is the very first shot I took of Hanoi, our first morning there, just as we stepped out of our hotel. If it isn't clear, those are bundles of lilies loaded onto the back of the woman's bicycle.

Unfortunately, what few remaining pictures I managed to snap before my cell phone battery died did not turn out very well--mostly due to insufficient lighting.

The End, Sort Of

2006-04-27T19:26:00.000+09:00

As I stepped off the very last train today, so my three-week-long journey finally came to an end. And as I tugged my trolley bag down the narrow road home, I was welcomed back with the scent of yaki tori hanging in the air and a grin of recognition from the big guy who works at the corner fruit and vegetable shop.

I already miss the heat terribly and am only realizing that cold weather makes me sluggish. Whereas the warmth beckons me to race outside, almost antsy to enjoy the day (I've even been known to skip), even a slight chill in the air has me reaching for my pajamas and glancing longingly at the bed and its thick covers. It's funny but not only does my body--my muscles, my movements--grow somnolent, even my thought processes seem to be motoring through molasses. Or maybe I'm just tired from the flight, though it was only seven hours, and I hope I haven't become that much of a wimp.

I came home to the apartment looking neat as a pin--thanks to my fastidious husband. I do wonder if he doesn't relish these prolonged absences of mine, even a little, if only for the relief of being able to enter the front door after a long day and know that the place won't look as if it's been ransacked by desperate criminals. As I'm still in the midst of unpacking, that's exactly how the place appears right now. My poor, tidy husband.

To ensure a warm welcome, I saved exactly half of the space in my travel bag solely for twelve bak chang, which are these pyramids of sticky rice stuffed with seasoned pork and steamed in banana leaves. My husband is crazy for bak chang and it's the only thing he requests when I visit Singapore. Unfortunately, one leaf-bound package is about the approximate size and weight of a mini boulder, and twelve of them adds up to a freakin' heavy bag. One of these days, I'm positive immigration is going to demand to know what those things are and then promptly whisk them away. I mean, if even beef jerky isn't allowed through anymore...

Damn, was supposed to go to the supermarket and pick up some things for dinner. But that 10-minute walk in the cold darkness is impossible in my current slack-limbed, pajama-ed state. I guess I'll just have to go hungry. Or curl up in bed and go to sleep. But no! I must first clean up the explosion that is my clothes and toiletries littered all over the floor. Okay, better get to it.

Still on Holiday

2006-04-20T18:25:00.000+09:00

I'm "in transit" in Singapore for a few days, before I fly back to Japan. Am feeling utterly relaxed right now, lulled by the delicious tropical air that my skin, funnily enough, always responds happily toward. It must be the residual Singaporean in my blood. Yet, if I were a true Singaporean, I'd be frowning ferociously and bitching about the heat and the humidity, but, weirdest of all, wearing jeans regardless. I really noticed that, this time round: Southeast Asians somehow find donning long pants on a juicy, 35'C day tolerable. I have no problem with juicy, 35'C days, but the whole joy of this kind of weather is the freedom to shed all those cloying layers, to rejoice in Le Summer Wardrobe.

Ah well, whatever makes you happy.

The battery in my trusty cell phone died and refuses to be recharged, so I've been forced to borrow my mother's super-duper camera, which is so damn good, I swear to god, when I took a picture of a leaf and blew it up on screen, I actually witnessed photosynthesis taking place. So any inferior pictures in this post are entirely due to my own preposterous photography skills and Hello's (or Blogger's) refusal to allow too high a resolution of images to be uploaded (they blurred my photos, damn them!).

These lush jungle shots are actually just of the sturdy plants sprouting from a narrow string of dirt on my parents' balcony. Add a little breeze and sparkling sunshine, and I can practically hear the coconuts thudding to the ground and the ocean swooshing in the background. Unfortunately, my pseudo tropical vacation has been marred by the fact that it's rained every single day since I got here. "We live in a catchment area," my dad explains, and I have no clue what that means, except that any more of this water and the whole apartment is going to one day let out a horrible creak like Noah's ark, uproot, and drift away. Hell, today it was actually sunny and blue-skied, and it still rained. It's like that episode of the My Little Pony cartoon that featured a cursed leprechaun who walked around with a fat little rain cloud permanently hovering over his head--I've come to imagine being in a catchment area to mean something similar.

My Singapore post would not be complete without a little food review, and so I give you: Hock Lam Street Popular Beef Kway Teow (since 1921)!

Okay, here's what you're looking at in this picture (above): The blue thing at the top is just a Chinese spoon. To the left are beef balls, and, just like fishballs or meatballs, they have nothing to do with testicles, although whenever there's ground-up meat involved, I guess one can never be too certain. Well, beef balls are really tasty, so, whatever. There's also a little bit of sliced beef on the right. The white-ish squiggly thing on top of the sliced beef is a salty pickle called kiam chai. And underneath the beefy brown sauce--mmmm, delicious--is your noodles.

There are about six or eight choices of beef kway teow to choose from, and you can have yours "dry" (the one in all these pictures is "dry") or in "soup." You can also substitute the ribbon-like kway teow with a round-stranded rice noodle, as can be seen below:

If you order dry, you'll still get a little bowl of the consommé-ish (in consistency but much richer flavor-wise) beef soup, and I always ladle a few spoonfuls into my noodles to lighten up the sauce a little. I also add a good dose of chilli sauce and a spoonful of cincaluk, which is a soupy, fermented prawn sauce that is a bit tangy and maybe a little scary smelling/looking for first-timers:

Those black specks are the little prawns' eyes.

Hanoi Report

2006-04-13T18:18:00.000+09:00

Our time in Vietnam, too soon, came to an end, but I'm happy to report that it was a near-perfect vacation: no fights, fuss, or puking. In a week, we visited Hanoi, Halong Bay, and Mai Chau, but my favorite was definitely vibrant Hanoi. Mai Chau, with its stilt houses and sharp-green paddy fields, was a close second. And Halong Bay, while not what I imagined, must surely be the most languid, serene overnight trip I've ever had (maybe a little too languid and serene).

I feel guilty admitting this, but one joy of being in Hanoi was how cheap everything was, which fit my tight budget very neatly. We stayed at Classic Street hotel on Hang Be street at just $24 a night, and I thought it was wonderful: clean, air conditioned rooms, really nice people, and great location in the Old Quarter. Of course they put us in what felt like the imprisoned princess's chamber at the top of an impossibly tall tower... Okay, it was only the sixth floor, but throw in a spring-tight spiral staircase, and suddenly the whole world begins to revolve, as you climb round and up, winding endlessly higher and higher and hi-- I almost tripped and broke my neck a few times.

While Hanoi is supposed to be the most quiet and restrained of the main Vietnamese cities, I found it a seriously intense thrill for all the senses. The mere act of walking requires absolute alertness, as you zigzag between sidewalk and road, dodging squatting vendors, walking vendors, racing children, people digging into bowls of noodles while perched on tiny plastic stools in the middle of the pavement, and of course the endless tide of motorbikes and scooters quite literally moving in every direction--sometimes cutting straight across the sidewalk and coming to a stop inside a shop--with all the order of ants pouring out of a stomped-on ant hill.

Almost as numerous as the bikers are the street vendors--all of them female--from the girl dozing on a step with a little aluminum steamer (for buns, was my guess) at her feet to the old woman deftly butchering different cuts of pork on a wooden slab a foot off the ground (raw meats are commonly peddled all day long without refrigeration or ice). Then there are the ubiquitous women with the conical hats, distinct lope, and shouldered wooden pole from either end of which dangles a large platter-like basket. In Hanoi, you can't respectably sell a product unless you've got it in a humongous quantity that can be precariously stacked up, and these wandering vendors are no exception: fresh crusty bread, bitterly sour green plums (to be dunked in salt or pure MSG crystals and perhaps chased with squinty sips of home-brewed rice wine), bags of peeled pineapples and fresh water chestnuts, any of these things will you see heaped up in those flat baskets and artfully balanced on a pole, as the women wend their way through the streets and surging traffic. Hoping to make a little extra cash through a photo opportunity, one vendor pounced on me and I suddenly found myself wearing her cone hat and pinned down by the enormous weight of two baskets laden with pineapples. I was told that some of these women walk as far as 20km a day with their burdens and come home at night to pass out in a tiny room on a bed shared by as many as eight women.

Though we scarcely had more than a few days in Hanoi, we managed to squeeze in a lot of the obligatory cultural sights. But, as always when I travel, what I enjoyed most was simply wandering around (particularly where food was being sold), maybe staring a little goggle-eyed, sampling a lot of new foods, and trying out the few Vietnamese words I'd been practicing, and not being understood by anybody. Sometimes the response would be impatient or exasperated, but at other times, a smiling crowd would begin to form around us as everyone tried to guess what in the lord's name we were trying to say, adding to the overall noise and confusion--I liked that.

First Night in Hanoi

2006-04-08T00:56:00.000+09:00

I'm in Hanoi and blogging... but maybe not for longer than a few more minutes, since it appears my hotel is closing down for the night. Well, it was nice enough of them to supply guests with a computer with Internet access, so one should not complain. Okay, the front door is now shuttered but it seems the front desk guy will be staying up with me for a while longer, at least.

So far, I like it here! When our plane touched down, it was 5pm and the sky was black as pitch from a combination of dark clouds and thick haze. The area surrounding the airport is largely farmlands, so there was not a flicker of light on either side of the highway, and the land seemed rather lonely. But we're now happily settled in the Old Quarter and the place is positively boiling with life. The streets in this neighborhood are closely crowded by two and three-storey buildings on all sides and clotted with pedestrians, scooters, motorcycles, and the odd car.

What we instantly noticed is that honking your car or motorcyle horn in Hanoi seems more the result of restlessly twitching fingers than any truly useful purpose. Garbage is casually and liberally tossed into the gutters lining the roads and other people actually come along to sweep it all up... occasionally.

One thing about walking in Hanoi--or in the Old Quarter, at least--is that you have to remain alert at all times. No dreamy meandering or gawking about like a tourist when you've got garbage and murky gutters to sidestep and motorcycles to dodge. I already have an (invisible) battle wound from a passing scooter whose handle bashed me in the arm as he squeezed/sped past along a particularly narrow road. I'm afraid my ability to yell profanities in Vietnamese is still a little nonexistent. And I get the feeling that cursing every bad driver in this city is going to be a waste of breath.

We were starving after we arrived at our hotel, so we instantly headed out in search of our first meal.

And I'm afraid my tale must come to a halt because Front Desk Guy seems ready to call it a night. Okay, more to come later!

In Training

2006-03-28T03:00:00.000+09:00

A while back, I officially put myself on a strict muscle-training program. For my bladder, that is. Yes, yes, I know I go on way too much about toilet-related subjects for someone who doesn't have a baby. But chalk it up to spending much of the first half of my childhood with two brothers, two half brothers, and one father with a particularly juvenile sense of humor who I did my best to impress.

Anyhow, this bladder training is in fact serious business because I'll be--happy dance--traveling to Vietnam soon and I do not want to be spending half my trip searching for toilets. Sure, it's easy for all you camel-like Water Retainers to be snide and superior. But my whole life, it's been this way: what drink goes in almost immediately demands to come out, which leaves me feeling perpetually dehydrated, and so I tend to guzzle beverages like there's no tomorrow... and the uncomfortable cycle goes on. Due to this inferior holding capacity, whenever I move some place new, I always work quickly to hone an insider's knowledge of as many accessible public toilets as possible. I even once contemplated starting a pocket guidebook series of public loos for all the major cities of the world.

Here would be my proposal to the publishers: Lots of detailed maps marking hidden side entrances into establishments, etc., but also invaluable tips that will get that user into the nearest white-tiled haven ASAP. For example, "There is a key for customers, nestled in a basket next to the cash register and closely watched by the dark harpy presiding over the coffee bar. But it is possible to slip off with the key when she turns to froth milk for her cappuccinos (which are dreadful and should not be bought in exchange for toilet privileges--it would be far better to take deep, calming breaths and wait until she's distracted)."

But when I go traveling, it's like being thrown to the lions. I don't know what to expect, who to turn to, and where my bladder might inopportunely rear it's annoyingly little head. Which is why I wish someone else would take my toilet guidebook idea and just run with it already. Note to my idea thief: Start with Hanoi. And hurry.

Obi Hanging in Shop Window

2006-03-25T21:38:00.000+09:00

A Bit Off

2006-03-23T01:57:00.000+09:00

I was saving my blog template when my computer went berzerk, and the next thing I knew, half my template had simply disappeared. So I've had to use an old backup version. This means that there might be slight... differences. I can't really recall what I've added or changed in the past few months. But I know my sidebar and the links are not up to date. So if anyone finds themselves suddenly missing from my blogroll, not to fear, you have not been banished from the blog for making a goofy comment. I apologize and will try to figure out what needs fixing.

Blood Orange Stink

2006-03-22T18:42:00.000+09:00

Is it just me or does anyone else think that blood oranges smell like verging-on-rotten regular oranges?

Staying Perfectly Still

2006-03-18T13:25:00.000+09:00

There's a recurring conversation between my husband and myself that has become as familiar as a song, and which we sing with perhaps more levity than some might deem appropriate. And it always begins with me: "If you die first." We're not morbid people. We don't consider this subject with relish.

But look at this. My husband works 17-hour days, smokes over the screechy protests of his asthmatic lungs, rarely has time to eat anything but convenience store food, and of course has a high-stress job. I wake up to my bran flakes cereal and fresh fruits, walk the dog, do somewhat domestic stuff, then work till my husband comes home--I'm like the freakin' poster child for an overly long life, I tell you. The most stressful thing that happens to me is when the dog steps in his own pee or I insert a wooden skewer into my baking cake after an hour and fifteen minutes and it comes away coated in raw batter.

Of course I know that anything could happen. I could write the book on not making long-term plans for anything, even death. But my life right now has a way of lulling me into complacency, making me believe that I'll float right through the years without feeling more than a few lapping waves. And that's when that stubborn song pops back into my head, "If you die first."

It's actually a pretty short song, most often ending with "I'll pack up and move to Africa" or "I'll be really mad at you." But there are times, like this morning, when I wake up and I do allow it to weigh more heavily than usual. I once wrote that I'm good at settling in foreign places, at not missing what I left behind, at accepting new and different. But the truth is that it was so easy for me because I wasn't settling. After high school, for a really long time, it seemed I never stopped moving. I may have paused for breath for a year or two, but it was always me who left; I was never the one left behind.

But now that I've been in Japan for about five years--an eternity, to me--I'm realizing that I have to stop living like a transient, but I simply do not know how. Always at the back of my mind is the belief that I'll be moving on eventually. Before Japan, I never accumulated more than would fit into two big suitcases, because who the hell else was going to help me carry my belongings into my new life, onto trains, off buses, and up and down a million flights of stairs until my hands were chaffed and shaking from the strain? When I was living in Brooklyn, a call from a friend who'd spotted an abandoned couch outside her apartment had my roommate and I running over and, with the help of a homeless man, dragging that baby elephant (Why are couches so blood heavy?) all the way home. We then ended up circling it suspiciously for days, wondering why the hell someone would throw away a perfectly good couch. Unless it had fleas or something. But we eventually settled into it. And when I left New York, I didn't spare that couch a single thought. But now my husband and I have furniture that we actually paid for with our own money. I have more things than will fit into my two suitcases.

My concerns about tangible goods aside, there's that little problem regarding human relationships. There are people who need a lot of friends and others who are content with just a few really good ones. I fall into the latter category and have been this way since I was a little girl. This suited my migratory lifestyle because it meant fewer good-byes, but it also means that I've gotten increasingly good at forgetting people who were once important to me. And I'm beginning to get tired of finding replacements.

Although I've tried making friends with Japanese people, when your command of the language is as limited as mine, honest to god there's only so much you can talk about and only so far that the relationship can go. I also notice that I'm firmly placed in the "foreign friends" group, held apart from the "Japanese friends" group, the inner circle. On the other hand, to be perfectly cold, befriending foreigners is pointless because I've yet to meet a single foreigner who actually means to stay in this country. They're here for work or they're here for "the experience." Foreigners are not here because they love it and never want to leave. At first I took what I could get, which mostly meant short-term agreements and saying farewell a lot. But I can't be bothered to keep this up.

So now I'm down to a fistful of friends who I see less than seldom. And I have my husband. This is where the alarm bells start sounding. To calm them, all I have are my feeble survival plans. If he dies first, I shall get mad or I will pack up my things and move--probably, I will have to do both. I couldn't stay in Japan, because as much as I love it here, I don't think I'd love it half as much without him. And there's no where to go home to--I've somehow seen to that. Not Singapore, not Vancouver, not Des Moines, nor any place else I've stopped in between then and now. I'm even thinking of taking out that string of towns at the top of my blog because I'm realizing that those places were nothing more than pitstops in my wandering. They are not a part of who I am. I can scarcely remember anything about them now, in fact, because that is how a person like me moves on.

O-Bento

2006-03-15T19:47:00.000+09:00

Struck the motherload of o-bento resources out there on the Web called e-Obento. An o-bento is a complete meal packed in a box, which one might take to school, work, a picnic, an outing, etc., but it's soooo much more than that. An o-bento made by a mother for her child, for example, is both a gauge and a public exhibit by which others judge the extent of her love--it's like the free skating segment of the maternal olympics.

A classic scene on Japanese TV: a child opens up his or her lunch box to a desert-like expanse of white rice and a single red pearl of a kari kari ume in the center. There can be only two possibilities. Either a serious mistake has been made (e.g., due to mom being delirious with--no, make that dying from--dengue fever while making o-bento that morning) or the child is unloved, and must subsequently be mocked or pitied but most certainly taken away by children's social services. The opening and comparing of kindergarten o-bentos at lunch time can become the motivation for fierce competition amongst the mothers intent on sparing their children from early experiences of humiliation. While discussing this subject one evening, one woman confided the story of a mother of one of her son's kindergarten classmates who would wake up at 5am to do things like peel the membrane off each segment of mandarin orange for her kid's o-bento.

After the membrane peeling is done, though, what else is there to do? How much work could really go into a kid's packed lunch, right? Well, when armed with fish paste, seaweed, and a pair of craft scissors, I assure you things can get well out of hand. Take this hermit crab montage, for instance. Grownups eat o-bentos, too, so how about something more understated, but with a nice traditional feel (okay, can someone please tell me how this Hokusai recreation with the eggs was not a total freak accident)? Plain inarizushi--puh-leez, that's so combini o-bento. Then there's the o-bento with so much going on, it just plain looks like it's going to detonate in your face, as you lift the lid--but does win a few points for bravely incorporating old-school favorites like the stale prawn tempura and tako sausage (basically an octopus shaped from a cocktail wiener).

This site has almost three years' worth of o-bento ideas, kids, so scramble over and marvel at the infinite ways in which egg and fish cake can be manipulated. But please know this: In my four to five years living in Japan, I have never actually seen anybody make/eat o-bentos like these, so don't think all Japanese people are o-bento making fools. Just a few of them.

Link Alert: Recipe Collection from Japanese Pâtissiers

2006-03-10T17:33:00.000+09:00

Quickly wanted to post about this wonderful site I very luckily stumbled upon called Cake Chef. First things first: It's in Japanese. But I think there's enough English and French strewn about that most people could navigate well enough. The site features famous pâtissiers in Japan who have trained in French technique. And the best part is that they each share a special recipe of theirs with you, and take you through the recipe step by step, with pictures and video clips. If you wanted to actually try the recipes though, you'd have to be able to read Japanese.

But there's still fun to be had, for those just wishing to nose about. For example, haven't you ever wanted to see how an Opera is assembled? Or how about goggling the Tarte au Fromage Chocolat (that sounds so good to me). And then there are the little tricks you can learn, merely from looking at the pictures, such as how to add texture to the top of a mousse cake.

Although the recipes on Cake Chef do tend to be a little fancy-shmancy, with more creams and mousses than I'd ever care to actually taste in real life, that's kind of what makes the site fun. I mean, who really wants to see the photo/video recreation of, say, a bran muffin, right? And there is a good mix of more simple recipes as well, such as clafoutis, cheesecakes, and loaf cakes--I am definitely going to try the Caramel Banane one of these days.

Oh, I also read on the website that miam is a child's way of saying delicious, so perhaps that's where the name minimiam came from?

What's on Tonight

2006-03-08T21:33:00.000+09:00

Doesn't matter where you live, if you've got TV, there's going to be stupid/weird stuff showing from time to time, right? Well, in Japan, the weird/stupid stuff is... limitless. Here's what I saw, in just one hour of evening telly:

1) A bunch of comedians forming an impromptu brass band and trying to perform a fairly complex piece while running side-by-side on a giant treadmill for five kilometers.

2) A bunch of comedians taking turns being spun on some weird spinning machine until they're so dizzy they can't see straight and then being made to walk a narrow platform on either side of which is a pool filled with water heated to 50'C (and, to be humane, I guess, a really small kiddy pool filled with crushed ice in front of the scalding pool of water).

3) A pilates instructional program featuring twin redhead instructors who speak in unison in Japanese and have matching pigtails.

4) A show in which numerous dog owners are "kidnapped" while out walking their dog to see what Fido will do when it sees its owner being stuffed into a minivan and driven away. Complete with moving, dramatic music when a dog gave chase.

5) A reenactment of a controversial incident in the 1976 Olympics using Barbie and Ken dolls controlled in traditional bunraku style.

Minimiam

2006-03-04T01:20:00.000+09:00

When I was a kid, I was such the sucker for miniature things. I still remember watching a documentary about an insomniac who spent his nights painting unbelievably detailed landscapes on long-grain rice with a single horse hair and feeling like my nine-year-old heart was about to explode with happiness and want (oh, how I coveted that rice). I soon outgrew this bit of madness, as it did not fit with my increasing dislike of knickknacks. But I suppose there is a part of my heart that still melts, just at the corner, when I see a neat and tiny version of something: baby shoes, petit fours, bonsai (not "BAHN-zai," my husband corrects me, bristling with irritation at the way my West Coast-Midwest accent slaughters the familiar word).

And now, thanks to a post by shaz of nook bistro, I've just seen something that surpasses microscopic paintings on rice grains: minimiam, itty-bitty plastic figurines arranged on regular-size food in some very funny compositions. My two favorites are the mountain climbers scaling a Mont Blanc (complete with confectioners' sugar flurries) and the soldier who detonates a grenade on a pomegranate, resulting in smoking, exploded fruit and a number of toy soldier casualties. The creators of minimiam are photographers Akiko Ida and Pierre Javelle, who do a lot of work for food magazines and cookbooks.

Unfortunately, the minimiam website is a bit of a pain to navigate, so if you don't have the time or patience to fiddle around, you can view most of the pictures on these two pages of the blog that shaz originally linked to. But then you miss out on the titles and some of the photographs.

So which is your favorite?

2006-02-21T16:57:00.000+09:00

Ask, and you shall receive; seek, and you shall find; whine, and get a major butt-whooping. I'm not even a bit amazed that shortly after I published that truculent post about being boooored (and that other one about hovering), suddenly everyone and my uncle's dying hamster decided he/she/it needed 180 pages of something edited RIGHT NOW.

We-hell, at least my present assiduous state has allowed me to bat aside that pesky resolve to extricate my dusty running shoes from the back of the shoe closet (for the purpose of running, I forgot to clarify). Gosh darn it.

To Sit or Not to Sit

2006-02-16T15:05:00.000+09:00

Just got back from the bathroom and thought I'd share some unwanted personal information. Whenever I have to work at an office, I make an agreement with myself that, for the duration, I will allow myself to really sit on the toilet. See, I am one of those girls who ordinarily will not let my butt make contact with the seat of a public toilet. I just sort of... hover. You may roll your eyes if you wish, but I've seen too much pee on toilet seats -- and once, when I was pretty little, I had the traumatizing experience of plopping down on the seat and making splashy contact with someone else's urine. It was every bit as gross as it sounds.

You know what really bugs me? In the movies or TV, when a female character who is upset about something goes into a stall and sits down on the toilet without even looking, and then usually puts her head in her hands. Just ew. And distracting.

Office vs. Home

2006-02-16T14:05:00.000+09:00

I'm boooooored.

It's ironic that when people hear the words "work from home," they automatically think stuff like: part-time, half days, stress-free, lightweight, got it made -- at least, this is what flits about in my own husband's head. I know this will come out as defensive-sounding, but while my schedule may be irregular, I work five days a week (sometimes even seven) and usually 10 to 12 hours a day. In addition, when one's "office" is mere steps from bed, and the majority of interactions are carried out through sterile emails, things like being sick and/or overloaded with work do not apply. Trying to communicate such possibilities to people at the "real office" will sound laughably lame, I assure you. Take my own husband: not even a fever will deter him from strapping on his suit and charging out into a raging blizzard to get to work.

Yet here I am, rising each morning, melting into the flow of regular commuters, as good as chained to a desk by the time clock, being far better compensated for my troubles than I ever am as a freelance editor, and also thumb-twiddlingly, guilt-strickenly, madly devoid of any work to do -- as you may have deduced from the abnormal amount of blogging I've been doing lately. Sure, I get the odd document to edit, which takes all of five minutes to painstakingly pore over (I feel obligated to overcompensate). Then I check my email about 47,000 times, read a little literature online, do some volunteer editing work not related to my present job, drink lots of free green tea from the vending machine, pee a lot. Yup...

Rachel and the Mystery of the False Advertising

2006-02-15T13:40:00.000+09:00

I was trying to pull up my blog at work, but haven't bookmarked the URL on the office computer, so very lazily Googled it. And something weird caught my eye. My blog seems to be included in various blog listings, and always attached to the name are the following words: "Description of the adventures of Japanese cooking." Who wrote that? I didn't. I don't think I've blogged about Japanese cooking once, even. Okay, maybe once. It's nice, I guess, that someone thought to summarize brown bread ice cream for the elucidation of the general public. But I don't like it! It's not accurate and people might come to my blog with mistaken expectations. I don't imagine there's anything I can do about this now. But I really wonder whence the little summary originated.

Every Squeeze of My Heart

2006-02-14T21:43:00.000+09:00

In the insanity that is Valentine's Day in Japan, pink-boxed truffles (and home truffle making sets) start popping up almost a month in advance; overheated department stores are inundated with a fury of women on a grim mission to sample and select chocolates for everyone from their boss to that annoying but pitiful dude who sits in the desk opposite theirs; and even the hapless lemon is made a pawn, deformed in the name of this most frighteningly lucrative Day of Love.

What did I do today for my special guy? I made him breakfast. My poor husband looked so amazed by the miso soup, it dawned on me that I'm a terrible wife. He then commented that one of his friends wakes his wife up every morning, to demand that she make his breakfast. I never liked that jerk.

Been Up To

2006-02-14T14:26:00.000+09:00

I'm at this very moment seated at an honest-to-goodness desk, at a real office, with human beings all around me, filling the air with sounds of officeness. Did I capitulate? Become a Tokyo salarywoman? No, I've merely been hired as a temp at a company, to fill in while the regular editor is away a few weeks. And I only agreed because they promised me I wouldn't have to start work until 1pm, which earned me a lot of eye rolling from my husband.

Since beginning the job, I've been enjoying:

the conversational exchanges with my temporary colleagues, as opposed to the more limited ones I have with Edward, when working from home

sampling the different obentos sold in the area around the office, because I can't seem to bring myself to pack my own lunches and save tons of money in the process

Today's obento: salmon and ikura strewn over rice, with a bit of egg garnishing (the yellow strands)

my much-earlier-than-usual morning walks with Edward, as I realize the quality of light at 9am is quite different from the light at 2 or 3pm--the former is clearer and sweeter

reading on the train, because somehow that seems like an extremely acceptable thing to do, whereas sprawling on the carpet at home and reading seems unproductive and slothful; additionally, the limitations of the train ride allow me to draw out the reading of a book and savor it for days, when I am more apt to gulp down books with a strange, uncontrollable greed

the little food omiyage (gifts) regularly distributed around the office; so far, I've had soba manju, brownies, thin little crunchy almond wafer-cookie-like things, and little mochi things

On the other hand, I have been disliking:

trying to piece together acceptable office attire from my scarcely-updated-since-college wardrobe

having to worry about bad hair days again; lately, bobby pins have become my greatest allies in the fight to subdue my ridiculous hair; however, I have to work with restraint, or after a few hours I start to feel like I'm wearing Magneto's really heavy, really butt-ugly helmet.

evening rush hour and getting up close and impersonal (think their-sweat-is-your-sweat close) with strangers who often (a) smell weird, (b) have weird/annoying habits that trust-me are staggeringly amplified when endured at close range for half an hour without relief, or (c) think your body is their personal Lazyboy

being made to feel conscious and guilty of the fact that I need to pee WAY more than normal human beings--I have a little bladder, what can I say?

But, all in all, this is very short-term stuff and soon I'll be able to put away the ugly formal shoes and forget how it feels to be pressed up against a strange man with exactly 28 long hairs sprouting from his neck.

Creeping Back

2006-02-14T13:59:00.000+09:00

I get the feeling that had I told my mother about this blog, even she would have stopped reading it by now. Then again, my mother...

I haven't checked the date of my last post, but I know it was way, way back. I rather feel like a newbie blogger again, writing for nobody but myself, and maybe liking the freedom of that. I've even been toying with the idea of disabling comments, not because I didn't love hearing from people out there but more because... It's hard to explain. Partly, when there's evidence of actual readers, the way I write is unconsciously affected. I find myself performing, trying to please. I also start worrying about blogging, like it's a responsibility or an unspoken commitment. In case you don't know me (or only thought you did), yes, I am exactly that much of a ninny.

But I do like sharing my thoughts with others--that's how blogging is different and infinitely more satisfying than private journaling. So what is this girl to do? Not sure yet, but have decided to get into the swing of succinctity (I realize, but I dislike the sound of "succinctness"--clumsy-sounding) by attempting a series of short posts. And so ends the first.

Being in Singapore

2006-01-10T21:48:00.000+09:00

Yes, yes, not long ago, I promised to write more often. I haven't forgotten. I just haven't been keeping my promises, as usual. But here I am, trying again.

So Christmas this year was spent in Singapore. I've never been a big fan of this holiday--too much noise, too much frantic energy, just too much everything. Thank goodness my family was unanimous in the agreement to forgo the exchanging of gifts from this year forth. Thus, apart from the obligatory roast turkey and chicken buah keluak (I have no idea who is responsible for this cross-cultural meal that presents itself each year. One of my aunts either isn't crazy about turkey or has a skewed sense of humor that the rest of us are not appreciating.) dinner at my grandmother's, this Christmas passed by peaceably enough... were it not for the fact that as a dutiful daughter, while I am in Singapore, I am expected to attend church service with my parents every Sunday at a house of god that obviously is experiencing religious warfare within its sound system, since every squeal of electric guitar, clash of cymbal, and fervently roared "Jee-zus" that is blasted into our eardrums is a painful physical assault.

Why must I go to church and suffer this weekly ordeal, you ask? Can't I just say, "Nah, you two go on without me."? No. Because I may be 28 years old, but when I return to Singapore, I seem to leave my adult status behind at the airport baggage claim area. In Singapore, my identify is solely defined by my relation to my parents. I'm A and B's daughter. I'm expected to address all my parents' friends as "Auntie" and "Uncle," and they in turn refer to my parents as "Your mummy and daddy" when I haven't used anything but "mom" and "dad" since I was old enough to speak. Because no matter how many times I've flown in for short visits throughout my life, and no matter how much my father wishes it were otherwise, Singapore is my parents' home, their territory, not mine. I'm just the youngest girl who never accomplished anything more impressive than to live in Japan. For that, for not making gobs of money, for not starting my own business at the very least, in Singapore, in my parents' world, I'm still a child.

And it's funny how easily I slip into the role of the child, at random moments. When my mom nags at me from the passenger seat about something for the hundredth time (no hyperbole; my mother is a maddeningly repetitive woman), I all but slouch down in the driver's seat, roll my eyes into the rearview mirror, and I'd pop my gum too, if they actually sold gum in Singapore. "Oka-ay, Ma!" I say through my teeth, in a voice I haven't used since I was about 14 and pissed off about everything in life, especially anything to do with my mother. Then my dad, ever mom's champion, will speak up from the back seat with a smile but a firm, "Alright, enough." It's pretty humiliating when I can actually look at myself objectively in this reduced state.

When I'm in Singapore, eating is always the main agenda. This time, the most enjoyable meals for me were home-cooked chicken curry and dim sum at the Lei Garden (Orchard Road), where one of the steamed dumplings we were served were these little square parcels with skin so smooth and delicate that I could clearly see right through to the finely cubed vegetable filling within--oh my god, it was so good, it scrambled my brain waves, and I didn't even think to ask the name. In my defense, I tried to take a photo, but just as I pressed down, the screen turned blue and I was told I needed to recharge the battery. Damn it!

Within my family, there are always multiple dramas unfolding, and this continued to be the case during my two-week stay. So after all the bickering and eating, screaming and nagging, visiting and passing many, many hours with people I scarcely know (blood relatives included), there came much furious discussion, analysis, and judgment of each family member and his or her situation. All in all, it was an often exhausting trip for someone like me, who cherishes her quiet life. But it can be considered a nice change of pace, when one knows that such a pace will not continue indefinitely.

And it's always good to be with people who--no matter how much they shout at you--you know unequivocally are happy to be with you.

California Pictures

2006-01-10T18:51:00.000+09:00

This was one of my favorite views, at the beginning of a weekend trip, just a short drive from San Francisco. Right after driving over the Golden Gate Bridge, you take the first exit, drive uphill for a bit, park somewhere, walk further uphill, and suddenly you're standing practically over the bridge, buffeted by the wind and taking in a really lovely, expansive view of the water.

After only about an hour's drive, winding north along the coast, we were at Point Reyes. But to get to see this, Point Reyes Beach stretched out endlessly before us, we had to drive almost a full extra hour through the park.

A white buck, who finally stopped stuffing his pretty face with grass long enough for this shot to be taken. We came across these deer right at the start of our hike, which eventually led to...

...Sculptured Beach, I think. The wet white sand was so fine and smooth beneath my feet, it'd be a beautiful spot to come back to in the summer for a long, lazy picnic.

Beautiful oysters, waiting to be shucked.

Shucked oysters, waiting to be devoured. Apologies if the dots of hot sauce make this shot a little gruesome at first glance.

Except for the oysters, all of the above photos were taken by my husband, who as you can see, is a far better photographer than I.

Palo Alto

2005-12-23T12:05:00.000+09:00

The two weeks I spent in Palo Alto, California, were actually quite lovely, despite my being alone for the most part--didn't know anyone there, and it seems a Japanese husband's work hours do not change at all when overseas. I'm discovering that I deal with solitude rather well. I wonder if my life in Japan has taught me that, or if it was just that all those friendly, chatty Americans (or maybe just Californians?) kept things from ever getting too quiet. Abruptly thrown into an environment where I could at last express myself fluently, even brisk exchanges with bus drivers and store clerks seemed to blossom into somewhat meaningful dialogue--oh no, that sounds pathetic, doesn't it. I did take absurd pleasure in being able to quip and jest and tease, where in similar situations in Japan I'd only be able to smile stupidly, brain and tongue paralyzed by my limited vocabulary.

One observation about America: if everyone started walking more than they drove, perhaps obesity would be less of a problem. Too expensive, I decided not to rent a car, and instead walked everywhere. Simply traversing the vast, endless parking lots that stretch like the Great Plains between the roads and each Walmart-type establishment took me ages. Combine that with navigating the formidable aisles of one enormous American drugstore or other in search of shampoo, and you've got the equivalent of an afternoon jaunt through the Rockies. I'm not kidding: I lost weight, my stomach got all nice and flat.

I admit I adore walking, getting the feel for a place, the people, the streets, the architecture, which moving on one's own two feet is the absolute perfect pace for doing. I'm also somewhat anti-cars. You miss so much, when you're speeding along, closed off from the outside world in your little moving cubicle. And personally, like wars and weddings, I think cars bring out the crazies in otherwise sane individuals. I've known sweet, mild sorts who'd suddenly start foaming at the mouth when placed in the driver's seat. Same goes for people personally involved in a wedding--one day sane, next day foaming mouths. There are obviously certain things in this world that human beings are not capable of handling in any semblance of a reasonable manner, and I think we should recognize and do away with such things.

Okay, sorry, back to my California trip. The highlights:

1) Spending the weekend in Olema, a little town just an hour-and-a-half drive north of San Francisco and near to Point Reyes National Seashore, an enormous national park with soft green hills, sheer cliffs, immense white-sand beaches, and sudden glimpses of wildlife: a hawk (or falcon?) perched on a fence, a shiny black flash of seal playing in the water, a whole herd of elk resting on a slope, an all-white deer nibbling grass.

We were surprised and thrilled with freakishly warm weather, allowing us to do some leisurely hiking and I to tear off my socks and sneakers and walk barefoot on the beach. The area was so beautiful, I only wish we'd had more time to explore. (I took pictures, but I can't upload them until I'm back in Japan.)

2) Stopping for lunch at an oyster farm and greedily slurping down three dozen fresh, salty oysters between the two of us in the warm sunshine at a picnic table right on the water of the Tomales Bay. Discovery: I suck at shucking.

3) Walking into an English library for the first time in four or five years, inhaling that collective old-book smell, and simply absorbing the fact that there were hundreds of books before me, free for the borrowing. What bliss.

4) Pho Kim Long (2082 N Capitol Ave, San Jose, CA; 408-946-2181)
Thanks, Anna, for the recommendation! I made the surprising discovery that the kind of meat cuts you choose to go with your pho can drastically alter the flavor of the soup. Once, I ordered just rare steak and my husband ordered some kind of combination, and his soup was so much more beefy and flavorful than mine.
***A bonus of eating at Pho Kim Long is that just a few shops up the street is Thanh Huong, where you can get a ginormous, crusty French roll sub sandwich with, say, liver pate, roast pork, and crispy, fragrant bits of coriander and pickled veggies for $2.50, people! There are about 15 other kinds of sandwiches, all made to order, ranging from $2 to $3.

First Stop, California

2005-11-29T09:45:00.000+09:00

I'm finally getting a breather--a fairly long one--from work and am leaving today for California, to join me hubby. No idea what I'm going to do there, except swim in the hotel pool (it's the outdoor kind, and heated--hooray) and eat a lot of bahn mi and pho in San Jose, which a Vietnamese friend assures me is a really good place for both. Okay, I will reveal a bit of my geekness to admit I've researched where the nearest libraries are and fully intend to luxuriate in all that free English text. That's right people, for two weeks, I will once again be a literate creature, with the capability of reading hand-written menus, the backs of cereal boxes, and Trespassers Will Be Executed signs. It's heady.

Another thing I'm hungrily anticipating is all that unlimited hotel room heating--indoor warmth, I love you.

Persuaded by the dual threat of expiring frequent flyer miles (a family member's, kindly donated to me) and a grandmother who may not see another year--though at the risk of sounding callous, we've been hearing that one for years, interspersed with, "She's going to outlive all of us," which I think is a far more accurate assessment--after California, I'll be flying back to Singapore for another couple of weeks. What a jetsetter I am turning into. Unfortunately, I'm doing this back to back, which means I have to pack two bags: one with my summer vacation clothes and one with winter woollies, as I just checked the weather and it seems sunny old California is colder than Tokyo. And it's going through a... rainy season? Ah well, hopefully I'll find some really good Mexican food to make up for the weather.

Japanese Pumpkins and Homemade Applesauce

2005-11-28T01:31:00.000+09:00

I foolishly clung to the hope that an overnight rest would magically loosen up my pumpkin pie, but the next day, the filling was dense and dry as ever. I spoke with Lynn, who confirmed my suspicion that Japanese pumpkins are a lot drier than the American(?) varieties. If I ever again try making pie with fresh Japanese pumpkin, I think I'd have to halve the amount--but I wonder if this would mess up the proportion of the other ingredients. Perhaps I should just stick to the canned stuff.

On a happier note, I made a fruitcake today with the dried fruit that I put in a bottle of brandy over a year ago. This was a bit scary, since I don't really know how long fruit can safely sit preserved in alcohol. Thankfully, the cake tasted very good and I'm not dead yet from food poisoning. Though that's not the happy note. The recipe required applesauce, but I didn't have time to make a trip to an imported food store. I decided to try making my own, and this turned out to be laughably easy to do. Even more surprising was how good the fresh applesauce tasted, thanks to good apples (I'd forgotten it's apple season--what perfect timing) and a splash of the vanilla essence I made a while back, which has tons of little vanilla seeds happily drifting about in Polish vodka and which has mellowed a lot since the last time I tried it.

I used a yellow Japanese variety of apple. I don't know what the name is in English, but they're tarter and larger than Golden Delicious, and two apples yielded about 1 1/2 cups of chunky applesauce. I didn't use any sugar or lemon juice or any other stuff usually called for. I simply skinned the apples and chopped one up into little bits. The other, I finely grated with my Japanese grater (which happens to be incomparable for grating ginger)--this made all the juice come out and so I didn't need to add any liquid, aside from a splash (about 1 tablespoon, I guess) of my vanilla essence, when I brought the apples to a boil in a small, heavy pot. Then I simmered the apples, covered, on low heat for about 15 minutes. That's it! There was such a bright flavor, and the sauce was the perfect sweetness.

Pie Vision

2005-11-25T19:42:00.000+09:00

I don't like to throw around words like "I have psychic abilities," but the whole time I was putting together my pumpkin pie tonight for tomorrow's potluck, over and over, I kept seeing my eggs... Well, let's not jump ahead of the story. Not that there's much of a story. But suffice it to say, I love pumpkin pie, it's been a year since I last had some, and I badly wanted mine to come out well, which for me means a light and custardy texture--so, naturally, I did a search for a Cook's Illustrated version, and then I followed it, word for stinking word.

For once, I had my mise en place going on, and as my crust was blind-baking in the oven, I was even gently warming up the eggs a little in a water bath, because the recipe calls for the hot pumpkin mixture to be mixed with the eggs, and I didn't want my eggs to scramble from the shock of the heat--the point is to get the filling firming up before it's poured into the shell, to ensure a crisp crust. Timing is rather crucial in this recipe because you want to quickly mix up the warm filling, pull the baking crust out of the oven, pour in the filling, and quickly put the pie back in the oven.

In keeping with the Cook's Illustrated mood, I was being downright militant about the prep work, and weighed everything possible, even the eggs--the recipe calls for 4 large eggs (224g), but I only had mediums. Unfortunately, all the while I was moving about the kitchen, in my mind, I kept seeing my carefully weighed bowl of eggs go flying through the air. But, I pushed the dread aside and soldiered on. What could I do?

So... my crust was about ready to come out, my pumpkin mixture was gently bubbling on the stove, and my eggs were warmed and ready. And then, of course, my 224g of eggs went flying, straight into me (I didn't envision that part). I allowed myself a few seconds to stare miserably at the big warm orange puddle at my feet, which Edward was hovering over with the stiff and ready stance of a guard dog watching an intruder approach. Thank god Edward is such a good boy. I'm sure I wouldn't have been able to stop any other dog from pouncing, and then I'd have to put my pie on further hold while I cleared up the muck, because, really, how much egg should one little dog consume?

After a brief, frozen moment, I broke into action. Unfortunately, there was no time to re-weigh 224g of egg, so I just grabbed four from the fridge, pulled my crust out of the oven, and did my best to combine hot pumpkin with cold eggs, very slooowly and with lots of crazy whisking, all the while dodging around the egg puddle and trying not to trip over Edward, who was tentatively helping to clean up some of the egg soaking through my jeans and socks.

I finally got the pie in the oven, cleaned myself up, cleaned up the mess, cleaned up Edward (who somehow managed to get a little eggy), checked on my pie five minutes before it was supposed to come out, and discovered with a sinking heart that the filling was weirdly ballooned and overcooked--the recipe says that the center is supposed to be quivery, like gelatin. I admit it: I looked at my pie and wailed. The surface looks and feels exactly like a soft, smooth...

...firm leather car seat. I couldn't wait the prescribed one hour--I cut out a little square and much to my disappointment, the filling is dry and a bit grainy, sort of like mashed potatoes, nowhere near a custardy quiver. I don't know what happened. I guess I should have checked on it earlier. Perhaps it was because I didn't use enough egg. Also, I used frozen pumpkin (which is very common in Japan, and surprisingly good), and there was very little water in this variety--this might have contributed to the filling cooking more quickly.

The pie wasn't that difficult to make (if one overlooks the egg mishap), so I guess I shouldn't be making such a fuss. I can do this again, damn it. I mean, I'm not North American, why do I have to wait until whenever Thanksgiving is to have pumpkin pie?(Okay, admittedly, the anticipation of a once-a-year treat kind of hypes up the enjoyment, for me.)

But then, I should have known from my vision with the flying eggs that this pie was doomed. I was just watching X-Files yesterday and there was this guy who could forsee a person's death but felt he was helpless to actually prevent the death from occurring--I know just how he feels. Sigh.

Feeling Fall

2005-11-24T23:05:00.000+09:00

I'm finally feeling better, and the weather has been so sweet these past few days.

2005-11-15T16:41:00.000+09:00

I'm afraid I've been blindsinded by a stupid cold. Will finish up my work and then possibly burrow under the covers for three days straight... except when I must emerge to stagger deliriouslyy after Edward on our daily walk of course. Later.

Left Behind

2005-11-13T21:30:00.000+09:00

This appears to be a shot of Edward going, "See, I hardly take up any room, so you have no reason to leave me behind," but it's actually yet another photo where he's wondering if he can move yet. Sad to say, I don't think Edward really cares if we go away and leave him with my in-laws--he *loves* his granny and gramps. He's not going anywhere however because, this time, I too have been left behind.

My dear salaryman husband has been sent to America on business until Christmas. Depending on how busy he is, I may or may not fly over to keep him company. But for now, I'm trapped at home by a two-week work commitment. Sigh.

It's funny, I'm often alone for the majority of the day and evening, but knowing there's no one coming home tonight has made the apartment seem deathly still. I miss you, honey. Yesterday night, we bought ice cream after walking home from dinner--during which we had the most delicious oysters; one large, plump one each; so fresh and full of the tangy smell of the ocean, I wanted to stick my nose in the shell and just snuffle all night (they were so beautiful, I took a picture with my husband's cell phone camera, but then forgot to upload it before he left). When we got home however, I found I was too full to eat my ice cream, so now I've got it sitting in the freezer. It seems rather lonely to have the caramel sundae by myself, somehow.

I've also decided that while my husband's away, I'll probably be sleeping on the couch, though not so much for sentimental reasons. Our bedroom has already turned frigid with the change in seasons (bad insulation, for those of you not in the know), and I don't seem equipped with enough solo heating power to make the bed a bearable place. I recently huddled, shivering between the icy sheets, for an entire hour before I gave up and dragged myself and my blankets into the much-warmer living room.

A Cake and a Website

2005-11-09T21:47:00.000+09:00

A few weeks ago, I made some uncharitable comments about cakes and other sweet confections in Japan. I take it back. Well, some of it, anyhow. I recently went to a wedding, and one of the thank-you gifts was an apple cake made, according to the box, by King Macadamian--whoever that is. From past experience, edible thank-you gifts in Japan tend to be fairly blah in nature. But this little block of (much to my chagrin) likely mass-produced apple cake was... I don't want to use the word "astounding," but it was the best damn cake I've eaten in Japan so far. Seriously!

I should have taken a picture but my husband polished it off today--which had me feeling aggrieved but helpless to object (I mean, if someone says to you, "Oh, this is the best blah, blah, blah I've ever blah" and she's been slowly savoring it, stretching it out, for days, and there's only a bit left--do you polish it off, I ask you? No. The answer is firmly no. Even if you haven't tried a single bite. It doesn't matter because you never would have known what you were missing anyway. But for the person who had already tasted of the forbidden apple cake...).

The cake was very simple. A little pale-golden loaf, very fine light crumb, a fanned layer of poached apples on top, as well as thin apple slices within the cake itself. It was so good, I'm going to have to unsuccessfuly attempt to recreate it, I think. The two ingredients that caught my attention were almond powder and cornstarch. In addition, it used oil instead of butter, so it seems to be some kind of sponge, and yet it was denser and moister than a sponge--but so fluffy...

I tried to track down the cake by searching for King Macadamian and was taken to "murmurer de patissier"--whatever that is. I never found it, but this website (which I don't believe is connected to my apple cake) did have a fun Flash trick for their cake section, whereby you can view each of their cakes from four angles and also move a magnifying glass over the cake to get a close-up view of the details. It's quite funny... Okay, I at least found it amusing. If you are also someone who is easily amused, go play.

Saveur Magazine -- What Happened?

2005-11-09T17:57:00.000+09:00

What in the madre de dios is going on with Saveur magazine? Being in Japan means I haven't physically flipped through its pages lately and it's been a while since I visited their website, but the cover of their latest issue... blueberry pancakes?! I realize I've been going on and on about pancakes myself of late, but--a loyal reader has set expectations, and one does not expect to see pancakes on the cover of Saveur; Martha Stewart Living, maybe.

While Saveur's always kept fairly conservative about its covers, it had a distinct feel, compared to the other food magazines out there. And one always knew that, within, one was likely to find a classy feature on, say, pig's blood porridge from a little village in nothern China. But it seems this issue is featuring Maine and blueberrries (frozen blueberries, at that). What are they doing? Trying to compete with Cook's Illustrated? Oh geez.

Also, the design has changed. The colored border framing a white cover is gone. What's happening? And what's next? Christmas cookies? Hot chocolate? How sad.

That Magic Lid

2005-11-02T19:38:00.000+09:00

So today I tried making my Near Perfect Pancake recipe, using the lid trick--okay, it's really not a "trick" per se; it's more like lid... usage?--the idea of which came from the Japanese hot cake recipe I posted about, down below somewhere. And... it worked! It worked nicely! I wouldn't go so far as to remove the "Near," but my near-perfect pancakes were lighter and flouffier than they've ever been. I was a happy girl. I had to adjust the heat to medium-lowish though, so that the cake had time to rise under the lid without getting scorched. This means it took a few minutes longer than it usually does. But all's good when pancakes puff prettily.

So now I bid you all to go dig out your favorite pancake recipe and--get this--try cooking it in a pan... with a lid! Though, really, I cannot guarantee results for all, so you'd be best off using my pancake recipe, which you'll have to search for yourselves because I'm really too busy to be adding hyperlinks and whatnot. I really have to go. Oh, I forgot to add that I also sifted the flour this time--something I never did before but is actually ridiculously easy when you're only sifting 6 tablespoons.

Oh, PS: The bloody fleas are back! On Edward, that is. My husband took him for a walk the other day and somehow ended up at The Golden Kingdom of the Flea Universe--i.e., my in-law's house (anyone puzzled will have to seek out the post "Much Ado About Fleas"). When I found out, of course the first thing I shrieked was "Fleas!" but he was all, "Tsk, it was only five minutes." Yeah, well, yesterday, what do you know? Little happy black critters skittering and skipping about on my puppy's belly and me going nuts, busy as hell, needing to catch the train to the office, but having to through through all that mad vacuuming and toxic fumigations... I hate to sound like a bad commercial but "Five minutes is all it takes, people." You know the worst part? Walking a flea-ridden dog. I mean, you don't want to come across as unfriendly, when you meet other dogs. But you hardly want to admit the truth of why you are so meanly dragging your dog away before crotches can be sniffed and fleas transferred. I mean, if you had a human child, would you announce to the world that it had lice? It doesn't matter if it was a one-off thing or that the child was promptly treated. You can bet your panty-shields that no mother is going to let their kids play with your cooty-ful offspring henceforth. Okay, I *really* have to go now.

A Villain's Soliloquy

2005-10-31T23:23:00.000+09:00

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.

Japanese Hot Cakes

2005-10-27T16:23:00.000+09:00

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.

What Became of the Bird?

2005-10-22T03:03:00.000+09:00

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.

Cruel Nature

2005-10-19T22:10:00.000+09:00

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.

How to Dress for a Japanese Funeral

2005-10-12T20:56:00.000+09:00

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.

Catching Up

2005-10-12T00:41:00.000+09:00

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.

Disappearing Act

2005-10-11T20:31:00.000+09:00

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.

Steady, Old Boy - Picture Yourself in a Nice Meadow, Far Away

2005-09-27T22:31:00.000+09:00

Have I Unlocked the Secret of the Universe?

2005-09-15T13:04:00.000+09:00

Huge revelation. Stunning discovery: drench cantaloupe in fresh lemon juice and suddenly the world becomes a better place.

I try not to blog about foods I don't like probably for the same reason someone caught up in that first clutch of infatuation wouldn't badmouth his life's blood's dinky family--I'm not newly in love with food, but I share a similar level of blind loyalty. I also like to think that there's always room for a change of tastebud down the road (when I was little, I wouldn't let my tongue in two feet of ice cream that wasn't chocolate).

The same respectful treatment goes--but just not today--for the foods that I'll willingly eat but never crave and could live the rest of myself without tasting again: cashew nuts, Japanese shoh-to keh-ki (shortcake), melons, and the like. As you can see, the unifying thread here is blandness. All three could be considered "sweet," but that's as complex a write-up as they'll ever get. Much as it pains me to admit this, many Japanese sweets tend to be stuck in an unrelenting, monotonous sugar rut. Take castella, a much loved, adapted Portuguese cake--soft, moist, oh-so-fwuffy, and just brimming with the taste of sugar (do not be fooled by variations in color--there's only one flavor, sugar). And wagashi. If you ever see a prettily formed creation that looks like it's hiding a filling inside, let me destroy the mystery: it's sweet bean paste. Every time. Okay, it might on the rare occasion be a sweet potato paste, but the sweet potato will have been mysteriously divested of all its original flavor so that it will taste just like sweet bean paste. (I do like sweet bean paste, but I prefer the Chinese version, which is quite moderate with the sugar.) To be fair, wagashi's purpose is to cut the bitterness of the accompanying green tea--so it's meant to pack a sugar wallop that will freak out your pancreas.

Now on to melons and cantaloupes--the king of overpriced fruit in Japan. The preferred gift of givers striving to make a respectable gesture. Gar! Whenever we get a big, unwieldy gift of melon, I inwardly groan. I mean, melons are...big. They take numerous sittings to go through. They swallow up precious room in my dorm-room-size fridge. And there's always the possibility that someone forked over precious cash for them--though of course they could just as easily have been picked up at the supermarket for 600 yen. But I'm not enough of a melon connoisseur to tell.

So I'll eat the melons thrown my way, but there's little relish involved, even if I do somewhat appreciate the floral aroma.

But then! As the title of this post states, I unlocked what could possibly be the secret of the universe itself: lemon juice plus cantaloupe equals far better cantaloupe. That somehow comes across as a lot more anticlimatic than it really is. But, truly, it's a full transformation of a previously boring fruit. Suddenly all that aggressive sweetness of the cantaloupe is balanced, and I can taste complexity! And it tastes good.

What's next? Lemon juice on cashew nuts? Lemon juice on wagashi? Who knows! I have the entire universe stretched out before me.

2005-09-14T00:10:00.000+09:00

Gee Whiz

2005-09-13T22:43:00.000+09:00

If you've commented lately, you'll notice I've upped the security around here because the spammers seemed to have found me. It was all so nice and peaceful, so I don't know what changed. My only gripe is that when I want to comment on my *own* blog, I have to do that ridiculous word verification thingy too. For goodness sake, would it be too much to ask that I be spared that? I wish I could spare you all as well, but for obvious reasons that's impossible.

Worst of all is when I read the jumble of letters incorrectly and I'm asked to try again. I feel like I'm failing a combined eye and literacy test, and it's mortifying as hell.

Ninja Akasaka

2005-09-12T21:37:00.000+09:00

Having out-of-town guests is a treat, especially when the guest is an old friend that you haven't seen in a decade and, sadly, probably won't see again for another. Jaime and her husband Bert recently came to visit, bearing such Canadian bounty as Map-O-Spread (creamy, spreadable maple-y goodness) and eleven pounds of Five Roses Specialty Whole Wheat Flour*--do I have good friends or what?

In preparation of Jaime and Bert's arrival, I dug up information on where to take them and was rewarded with the discovery of all sorts of places that, after all these years, I've yet to visit (A parasite museum? Hello, where *have* I been?). I also learned of an old trend in Tokyo, which I had no idea was so extensive: theme restaurants. After receiving confirmation that this was just the sort of thing they wanted to experience, I found myself making an online reservation for Ninja Akasaka.

I'm going to be a party pooper here and admit that I am neither a fan of ninjas nor theme restaurants. However, caught up in my guests' enthusiasm, and reassured by all the positive reviews online, I found myself not dreading the upcoming meal. Really, you just have to be in the right state of mind. Which is probably why we were all thoroughly disappointed by Ninja Akasaka. We came with full expectations of overblown cheese; instead--except for the baffling lava-tube-like interior and neon-lit pools of water--what we got was an overpriced restaurant, battling against self-inflicted odds to be classy while rushing diners through their two-hour time slot.

Our walk to the table was probably the high point of the evening. We were waiting at the entrance when a "ninja" burst through a sliding door in front of us with a hearty shout. I think we were meant to be surprised and impressed by his swiftness with sliding doors. We were then led through the sliding door and into the lava tube--I mean, ninja's lair. The lava lair was narrow, windy, nearly pitch-black, and low enough that the threat of a concussion was quite real. In fact, right after I bumped my head, our ninja courteously warned me to watch that I didn't bump my head. At one point, we came to a large piece of plexiglass and our ninja demonstrated his masterful ability with a remote control, causing a drawbridge to lower and allowing us to traverse the otherwise perilous plexiglass.

Eventually, the tunnel opened up into a cavern and we reached our black little cubbyhole, where a petite, chirpy young lady promptly greeted us. I guess I was expecting a menacing waiter in dark costume, looking more likely to bring us a quick death than a cocktail, perhaps taking our order while hanging upside down, and at least slicing up our veggies with a deadly spray of shuriken. Maybe we expected too much, but because our waitress was dressed the part, we kept waiting for her to... do something. Well, she did this one trick where she disappeared into the cavernous darkness for about 15 minutes after handing over the drink menu, but then she came back. She then whipped open a black scroll--our menu--with a little chirrup and promptly disappeared again.

Okay, I'm totally getting long-winded, so let's pick up the pace. The menu (available in Japanese and questionable English): there were about eight set menus, ranging from 70,000 to 150,000 and also a la carte items. I want to say the food is fusion, but really it seems like the menu planner just went plain mad: foie gras, Cesar salad, sushi, foie gras, sweet and sour pork, Vietnamese pho, foie gras, steak, and also some foie gras. I'm sure we would have enjoyed ourselves a bit more, had we ordered the set course, but it was more than we were willing to spend at a theme restaurant, where we had come for the entertainment, not the food. Perhaps we were paying for the overall "experience," but at a restaurant that seems targeted at children and tourists, the menu was a little overzealous about things like foie gras and wine going for as much as 100,000 yen.

The food came and went. Everyone admitted it was good, but the portions were inadequate, to say the least. For 2,800 yen, I received a little eggplant and five paper-thin coins of duck breast. Words like "Saw a McDonald's near the station" were bandied about. Still, nothing ninja-ish had happened, and we were starting to wonder if we were being punished for not ordering enough. Then, finally, a man appeared at our table. We all sat up, riveted, faces expectant. He did some magic tricks with coins, cards, and rubber bands, we clapped a little too enthusiastically, and then he left. Our chirpy waitress reminded us our two hours were almost up. I asked for tea to stall for time. We heard delighted gasps from other tables in dark, far off corners. I thought I saw a small burst of flame. The tea arrived. We sipped slowly, willing another ninja to come to our table. Ms. Chirpy begged us to pay the bill. We did. We were gently ninja-d out of our booth and toward a side door, which brought us back to the entrance of the restaurant. We emerged onto the street to see another party drunkenly posing for pictures, obviously having just had the time of their lives. Our waitress, who had followed us out, happily yanked open a "Please come again" scroll, which was kind of cute.

So there you have it. I have read outright rave reviews of Ninja Akasaka, so I suppose we were merely unlucky that we were ignored by the roaming ninjas and their tricks. I also think certain dishes come with a bit of song and dance, so if you do go, I'd ask your waiter to recommend things. But for me, Ninja Akasaka is too much of a pricey gamble, when you're expected to go there and simply hope something fun will happen. After all, who enters a theme restaurant praying for subtlety? I want the gimmicks and tackiness to club me over the head, preferably with a staff like Master Splinter's**.

Ninja Akasaka
Hours: Monday to Saturday, 17:00-26:00; Sunday, 17:00-23:00
Address: Akasaka Tokyu Plaza, 1F
Tel： 03-5157-3936
Nearest station: Akasaka Mitsuke (via Marunouchi or Ginza train line)
Directions: Take the Sotobori Exit and go up the escalator. Turn left, cross the street toward Tokyu Plaza, turn left, walk until you're almost at the end of the plaza, and you'll see the restaurant logo and a doorway.

*My friends aren't lunatics. It's truly quite hard to find whole wheat flour in Japan. What they have in the stores are these dinky five-gram bags of flour for 500 yen, of which I'd have to buy about 30 in order to make a little loaf of bread.

**Who's Master Splinter? Sage old rat? Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles? If you still don't know what I'm talking about, never mind, it's not worth Googling, I assure you.

Goodnight, Sour Prince

2005-09-03T02:11:00.000+09:00

I killed my sourdough starter. There, got that out of the way. It wasn't murder, really, so much as starter slaughter--would that be the correct legal term? Most of you might even know that this happened quite a while back. But I shamelessly kept that little starter thumbnail up there in my sidebar, all proud and loving. But it was wrong. Wrong! So I took it down (though you can still find the About the Starter post under "projects" in the table of contents).

I didn't mean to do it. I thought he was doing okay in the fridge. Then one day I took him out for a feeding... and kind of recoiled back at the sight of a little starter tentacle snaking upward toward the lid--except that it had turned all green and moldy. And kind of frozen.

That's the whole story.

I made another starter easily enough. But I've been having trouble with it--it's weak, unreliable, and too sour. I've actually been considering buying a well-established starter and seeing how it compares. I haven't given up on sourdough altogether! I miss the taste and textures already, because I've lately fallen back on yeast breads. Sad, huh?

Much Ado About Fleas

2005-09-02T14:22:00.000+09:00

So I came home to a flea-ridden dog, courtesy of my mother-in-law's cat Neru. You might be reading a little huffiness in my tone and your reading would be accurate. I allow that I have no right to said huffiness. My in-laws probably saved me about 100,000 yen in doggy hotel expenses by warmly welcoming Edward into their home while I was away, and they always take good care of him. But for the good love of god: (a) why can't they treat their cat (according to them, he's had fleas forever and there's just no point)?; (b) aren't they concerned that after all these years, surely their house must by now be the very Golden Kingdom of the Flea Universe itself?; and (c) couldn't they have warned us about the fleas before Edward came home...and wiggled happily against the curtains, carpets, and the side of our bed. Argh.

Of course it wasn't long after I set down my bags that I noticed Edward frantically gnawing at his tail, and with a sinking feeling did a quick fur check. This was Edward's first flea encounter, but unfortunately I can't say the same for myself. I don't think I've ever mentioned the summer I spent in San Diego with a crazy (and I don't use this epithet in a fond way) old artist, an angry guitarist, and two dogs who were engaged to be married.

It all began my first year in Des Moines. Summer vacation was fast approaching, everyone was leaving, and the threat of macroeconomics and calculus (two dreaded but required courses) was hanging right over my head. I'll be honest and admit that thoughts of the abandoned college campus and an entire summer of just me, the corn fields, and lonely trips to Super Walmart filled me with dread. So I panicked and, without thinking it through, found myself enrolled in summer school in San Diego. My faulty logic went something like, I want to do something independent and I want to be near the ocean (which I kinda like more than corn fields), but I don't have much money, and I can't go too far, so I'll go to San Diego. I booked myself a cheap air ticket, reserved a room at a motel with a freakishly low weekly rate, and off I went. Aside from knowing nothing about San Diego, the utter badness of my plan was compounded by the decision to find a place to rent after I got there. Meanwhile, I had my nice little motel, which naturally turned out to be an adventure in itself: an hour-and-a-half-long bus ride to college, ankle-deep furry orange carpeting, a perpetual wet-dog smell, windows without locks (there was a metal bar instead to keep the glass from sliding), and a bulletproof cage for a front desk, within which there only sometimes sat a human being. The day after I arrived, I also came down with the flu. I had a week to find myself a room for the summer.

I realize I'm spending an awful lot of time building up the background of this story, but I wanted you to understand why I made the stupendously stupid decision that I did. After a punishing week of combing newspaper ads and hunting down all sorts of dingy, inappropriate, and overpriced places while half delirious with a fever, I found an ad for a short-term rental that was in walking distance of the college. I called to inquire, was directed to a cute little one-story house, and was met at the door by what looked like a plump Zsa Zsa Gabor on a hippy streak, complete with platinum hair and big, twinkling eyes. Everyone, meet the crazy old artist Isabelle, who was renting out two rooms in her home. Unfortunately, my normally sharp people instincts were blurred by a combination of desperation, dizzying relief at the convenience and affordability of the place, and a weakened immune system. Also, Valerie really played up the breathy, girlish voice and innocent old grandma in a muumuu routine on our first meeting. Because my sinuses were totally clogged up, I also missed the smell of cigarettes. I'm not a fan of that smell. Turns out, Valerie was a chain smoker, but kindly managed to control the impulse during our first meeting.

So before the week was out, I gratefully moved in, and was perfunctorily introduced to the other housemate, a seemingly quiet 37-year-old guy with long, dark hair and every inch of wall space in his room covered with really large posters of naked women (Valerie let me take a peek one afternoon while he was out of the house). Everyone, meet the angry rock band guitarist Brad, who would come home drunk all the time and bellow furious obscenities at Isabelle (to be fair to Brad, Isabelle often made me feel furious and insane as well; she had a special way about her). Thankfully, Brad pretty much ignored me, although he could be fairly charming when he wasn't drunk and raging.

While we're at it, let's bring out the rest of the family: two little Shih-Tzus whose names I can't remember but were inspired by a pair of ill-fated lovers in a Welsh legend, I think. Let's call them Bitsy and Bob, the unwitting cause of my primary hell that summer. Soon after I arrived, Isabelle shared with me her plans for Bitsy and Bob's wedding, complete with tux, white gown, organ music, and a ceremony. Extreme, I suppose, but not crazy. I only really started thinking she was crazy when she brought home some guy she'd met in a bar and told me he was "a gift" for me. Gee, thanks. But no, really. I'm afraid I may have been a bit rude, the gift took offense, and left. Isabelle was miffed, but thank god I didn't get any more presents after that. I think she decided to keep them for herself, which was okay by me.

What drove me nuts though was Isabelle's refusal to treat Bitsy and Bob's flea problem, claiming the medicines were toxic. One day, while poor Bitsy was scratching like the Furies, I examined her and instantly found what looked like fast-moving black rivulets running all over her body. They were actually long lines of fleas. There were so many of them.

Eventually, I would wait until Isabelle went out, and then promptly attack the poor dogs with flea spray and comb, chasing them around the house, and even (gently) throwing Bitsy in the pond a couple of times. I'm afraid I didn't know much about fleas back then and thought that that would be enough. What I didn't realize was that every day thousands of eggs were falling off the dogs and hatching all over the carpet. It was a hopeless battle.

It wasn't long before the fleas found a nice new source of food however: me. They'd moved from the dogs to the carpets to my bed, and there was no escaping them each night. Isabelle refused to do anything--it was easy for her to ignore the problem as, she admitted with a throaty laugh, the fleas probably avoided her because she was constantly smoking, haha. There were only a few weeks left before summer school ended. So I decided to endure. But by the time I left, my back looked like the American flag, full of red stars and scratched-on stripes. Not a pretty sight.

So. You can imagine I might have freaked out just a tad at the discovery of little black dots spunkily racing through Edward's fur. We hustled over to the vet, who confirmed the problem and pulled out a colorful poster, illustrating the four stages of a flea's life. There was also a nice photograph of a grapefuit-sized swollen lymph node in someone's armpit--the plague, you know. It actually can be transferred through fleas. Isn't that interesting? And here you thought that the plague had died out in the Middle Ages. Nope.

The vet promptly laughed when I asked him if I should wash all the rugs. If this had been a movie, I could imagine him abruptly stopping in mid-chuckle and telling me with burning lunatic eyes, "Burn them. Burn them all!" Instead, he ordered me to throw away whatever I could and to vacuum daily. That's it? And the rest? The sofa? The curtains? I got another chuckle and a doubtful, "Good luck."

Well, luckily, I think we caught the problem in time. I vigorously threw myself into the task of extermination, tossing out what I could, fumigating every inch of the apartment with flea-killing sprays. And the vacuuming. Never again in history will I be seen so frequently with vacuum in hand. Unless the fleas come back.

Everyone Wins

2005-09-02T14:13:00.000+09:00

Ding, ding, ding! The winner is Rae, for correctly guessing the Big Island of Hawaii, with Jaime coming in a close second. See? Did I promise instant gratification or what? So much better than two first-class tickets to the destination of your choice. Ruth, I hope you're happy.

Where Did I Go?

2005-09-01T18:30:00.000+09:00

It's quite possible I previously wrote something like, "Blah blah blah, gone for two weeks, blah." I can't quite remember. It was so long ago. Regardless, this is a good time to drive home the lesson that you should question everything I say and never believe I mean any of it. That's me in a nutshell: lots of promises and good intentions but zero follow-through. And I really did mean to blog all about my trip right after I got back. But then all sorts of other things began demanding my attention--like the fleas running wild and free through Edward's fur and dropping thousands of eggs all over my home. Yeah, that was a nice experience to come home to.

I am sorry I didn't give ~~any~~ much warning about the going-away part. It kind of crept up on me too. And suddenly it was the day of our flight, and I was like, “Oh dear, I haven't started packing,” and then, “Oh crap! I haven't finished compiling my hand-written notes on all the places where I want to eat!" (We don't have a printer.)

Anyhow, let's take advantage of my rude and sudden departure—ahem—two weeks ago and play a quick game. Do you know the Where Are You? contest held by Condé Nast Traveler? I thought we could have our own thrilling contest. However, instead of luxurious prizes, you'll have to settle for the near-instant gratification of finding out the answer as soon as someone guesses it or I grow tired of waiting for someone to come visit my seemingly dead blog and just give the answer away. Yay, right? Also, I'll give you more than one picture clue and I'll skip the smug little descriptive passage that is supposed to steer you in the right direction.

Okay, let's get started with photographic Clue Number One:

Hoho, this is so much fun, n'est pas?

Dare I admit I'm subjecting you to this game because although I had a nice time, I really don't feel like writing about it, travel writing holding very little appeal for me?

And still I forge onward with Clue Number Two:

I know, even I can't tell much from this picture. But the colors are so soft and pretty. Ahhh.

Clue Number Three is humongo. I mean, if you can't guess after seeing this one... well, I'll just have to keep going until you scream and beg me to stop.

(Note: I do not know who those two little people are.)

You know, don't you. Really, I need for you to know, because if I keep going with all these high-resolution images, there are people for whom this page will never load. Ever.

Okay, Clue Number Four, and this one will surely give it all away.

(Yet another note: No, Edward did not go on holiday with us. But he quite obviously recreates the setting of where we were.)

So. In shameless imitation of the Condé Nast contest... Where was I?

Going Away

2005-07-30T06:29:00.000+09:00

Things might get quiet around here for the next two weeks, unless I somehow find high-speed Internet access and the time to blog while I'm on summer vacation. Yes, that's right: once a year, my husband finds the will to break free of his job so that we can get away--or at least pull as far as the company leash will stretch. We still have to provide them exact details on where we will be staying and how they can contact my husband, just in case something big happens and they need to reel him back in, non-refundable tickets and endless hours of vacation planning be damned.

So everyone keep their fingers crossed for us that nothing big happens.

Hopefully I'll have something interesting to report when I get back. I better start packing. Have to leave in a few hours.

Ripples

2005-07-27T22:54:00.000+09:00

Consumed by Marriage

2005-07-25T12:01:00.000+09:00

Yesterday, while having lunch with a bunch of girl friends, the conversation turned to chick lit. I've disparaged the use of the term "chick flick" in the past, for its illogically negative connotations; I am not offended by "chick lit." Why? Perhaps because I think the limiting sound of it fits the writing style.

Before any chick lit fans start rolling their eyes, relax, this is not a bashing post. I'll be the first to concede that I probably haven't read widely enough in the genre to form a fair and accurate opinion. So any chick lit related comments that follow are based solely on what I have read to date.

My main problem with chick lit is that it seems to paint women with very narrow brush strokes. And this is what I stated at yesterday's lunch. I explained that in my limited chick lit experience, the female protagonist's desperation to get married always seems so disturbingly extreme. You know how they say men think about sex every seven seconds? Well, the books I've read would have us believe single women think about marriage at an equal frequency, with expensive footwear and/or losing weight dominating the intermittent seconds.

Anyhow, around the table came varying responses. One friend professed to having never heard of chick lit. A few said that they enjoyed the genre (but as a somewhat fluffy, guilty pleasure). Then, a lady who I'd only met that day smiled at me and asked, "Are you married?" I said yes, and her smile widened knowingly as she assured me that that was why I couldn't possibly understand the appeal of chick lit. She then added that she and her fellow single sisters were indeed thoroughly consumed with thoughts of finding that special man and could readily relate to chick lit characters.

Is this truly how the majority of women feel? If so, why? Because of the security marriage brings? But a husband could die tomorrow. Or meet a woman and think, "Oops, actually I think maybe this one's the love of my life." Sometimes I wonder if human beings were meant to pass such an extended amount of time in the exclusive company of one person, or even a handful of specific people. For example, if we're forced to spend more than two weeks together under the same roof, my family begins plotting ways of killing each other.

Then why did I get married? Before I met my husband, I'd been dead-set against it--mostly as a result of long-term observations, and thanks in part to my dad's enthusiastic accounts of his own friends' marriages in all their gory detail: infidelity, resentment, abuse, loss, and not a happily wed pair in the lot. If I found a nice guy, wonderful; but marriage was to be avoided if I had any sense of self preservation. Unfortunately, I never foresaw the obstacle called Japanese immigration. But that's another story.

On the other hand, at one time or other, many of my single friends have admitted concern that they might never get married. And I sympathize. I do remember what it feels like to be single. But while my views on marriage may be a bit extreme (and outright hypocritical now, given my marital status), I'd like to think that the woman at yesterday's lunch wasn't entirely correct, that not all women are wholly consumed with the Quest for Man, and that most realize that finding a guy is only one of life's many satisfactions. And maybe I don't want to believe that real women can actually relate to the chick lit characters I've encountered.

Am I being an insufferable, arrogant married lady again?

Been a Mad, Mad Girl

2005-07-23T01:21:00.000+09:00

A strange sickness has overwhelmed me, compelling me in the direction of manic domesticity. This evening, in between fielding emailed questions and requests from the office, I baked a sourdough banana cake, mixed up two batches of sourdough bread (one extremely wet dough and one dry; I'm experimenting), washed all the rugs and carpets, vacuumed the apartment, got down on my knees and wiped every inch of floor, gave the shower room a thorough scrubbing, I've got chicken marinating in the fridge for tomorrow's lunch, and as I type this I've got a rejuvenating face mask on. All I need to complete the picture are cotton balls between my freshly painted toenails.

I realize this may be a "So what?" moment for some people. But you have to know me. Have you ever lived with a person who could drop, say, a sock or magazine on the floor and happily ignore it until it fossilized and melded with the linoleum? I do that. You know that thing called "making the bed"--what is that about? And although I do the dishes fairly regularly, I have to make little deals with myself, like, "You want a cup of tea? Not until you wash that mug in the sink." It's rather sad, but I've learned to live with myself. Unfortunately, my husband, who is something of a neat freak, hasn't had nearly as much time to come to terms with this slob called wife.

Just a second--time to take off my mask and turn my doughs.

Okay, I'm back. Wow, the dough that I made extra hydrated is looking like a milkshake puddle on the kitchen counter while the firm dough is standing a little too stiffly at attention. I hope I didn't go overboard. I'm feeling pessimistic because the banana cake I baked earlier came out gross. YES, there is such a thing as over-overripe bananas. I guess the mist of fruit flies drifting over the blackened lumps should have given it away... I'm kidding. I am. But you know what alarmist bananas are, going from Spring Green to Diseased Bumblebee overnight. Since there was still yellow visible, I thought they were doing okay. But, blech, you can smell and taste the over-overripeness of them in the cake. It's actually bitter. Very disappointing.

Anyhow, this unnatural desire to clean and tidy up (yes, I even picked up the sock petrifying on the floor; no, I did not make the bed), to be an admirable and organized homemaker, all these weird feelings will mercifully dissipate, most likely by tomorrow. Or now.

Tanabata

2005-07-20T19:29:00.000+09:00

A few weeks ago, all over Tokyo, leafy bamboo branches festooned with paper wishes began appearing in public places for Tanabata, or the Star Festival. This special day all began with a Chinese legend about a girl called Vega, whose only fault was that she was a little too into her weaving. In a rather weird unfatherly move, Vega's dad actually got worried about his daughter and hooked her up with a cowherder named Altair, another workaholic. But the two crazy kids took one look at each other and promptly forgot all about cows and weaving. Which you'd think would make Dad happy, right? Sigh. Suddenly there was too much lovin' going on and not enough weaving and herding. And that made Dad mad.

So he separated the two youngsters by a deep river (a river that could possibly have been the Milky Way, and these characters may have been celestial beings, but as is the case with legends, who knows?) and only let them meet once a year, which has since become the day of Tanabata. Talk about cruel and unjust. I mean, whose idea was it in the first place to play matchmaker?

Anyhow, originally, people would hang little colored strips of paper on bamboo branches, praying that it would not rain, because if it did, the river would flood and Altair and Vega wouldn't be able to meet. Well, time passed and people seemed to forget about the lovers and started hanging up their own personal requests instead. From what I can tell, this seems to have evolved into something of an event for children, who write their wishes on hand-made paper decorations and fasten them to a communal bamboo branch.

In our park, the most common wishes came from the more career-minded toddlers--"I want to become a lawyer," wrote one. Another child seemed to have his or her heart set on becoming a dango, which is essentially a ball of pounded glutinous rice. A third child asked to be allowed to eat limitless amounts of ice cream--good one.

There are different ways of celebrating Tanabata in different regions of Japan. In some areas, there are large festivals in the streets. Some people even end the day by throwing the decorated bamboo bough into the river, in the hope that any bad luck will be swept away by the water.

Hidden Depths

2005-07-20T17:50:00.000+09:00

Is this not the most homely plum (yes, that's what you're looking at) you've ever laid eyes on? For the first two years that I was in Japan, these ugly little dudes received nothing but quick, disparaging glances from me before I toted my shopping basket to prettier produce pastures. But finally, frugality overpowered my shameful skin-color prejudice, and I ungraciously decided to give the soldam plum a chance. In all fairness to myself, when I tried to find out the English name for this fruit (in Japanese, it is pronounced so-ru-dum) through Google image search, the few results that bore a close resemblance took me to articles on plum disease. Seriously!

But that day a year ago, when I bought my first pack of soldams, it took only one bite to win me over. Not, in truth, because of the flavor but because of this:

I assure you that the real thing is even more stunning. I couldn't believe the lushly colored flesh that had been hiding beneath that grungy, mottled exterior. It was such a fun, lovely discovery that I slowly devoured the rest of the fruit with my eyes almost crossed, concentrating more on the jeweled hues than the actual flavor.

Truthfully, there's nothing extraordinary about the taste of the soldam plum: a sour skin and the usual sweet plummy interior. I mean, it is nice and juicy and all, but really I buy it for the fun factor. I don't know why I should be so dazzled, but it seems my head is easily turned by showy little flashes of scarlet and tropical punch. Oh, who am I kidding? I'm a total sucker for garishly colored foods--seasonal Oreos, kueh lapis, blazing yellow turmeric rice. Natural or chemical, there is a place in my heart for them all.

Reassessment

2005-07-13T22:38:00.000+09:00

I received such nice, bolstering comments in my last post--thanks, you guys! Hearing from you really made me feel better. But I'm beginning to think that perhaps Oxfam is not for me.

I know the overall response was "Don't be too hard on yourself," but the truth is that I'm really not. I'm much too easy on myself most of the time, which is why I live an extremely carefree life--a life that I do love. But it's a selfishly wonderful existence, and when I'm not savoring it or wondering with dread how long happiness can stretch uninterrupted, I know it's not right.

I didn't explain myself well in the previous post however. The reason I felt so down about my unwanted forum was not so much a matter of putting all my eggs in one basket--rather, the forum was the only egg I had in the basket. I did also try to help out with public relations--an area I was told could do with more people--but I have no experience in PR and I was not exactly stunned when my attempts to contact the Japanese media were flatly ignored. The bald fact of the matter is that now that my forum idea has crashed, I cannot think of a single way to contribute any further. I've mentioned to the volunteers that I'd be willing to offer my assistance to anyone who needs it, but the Oxfam volunteers are a competent, rather independent bunch. Everyone is encouraged to create their own projects, and it is nobody's fault but my own that I find myself floundering.

And realistically, even if the forum had gotten a positive response, it wouldn't have required that much more effort on my part to develop it and keep it running. It wouldn't have required a huge, long-term commitment on my part.

So I guess I'm a little too...er...uninspired to be a part of the Oxfam Japan family. I need a more structured, less solitary environment (and maybe a touch of feverish desperation for help, any help, on the part of the organization). I'm certain there's something out there! There must be loads of opportunities in a city the size of Tokyo.

Plus, I never really got my feet wet, so ~~being a quitter~~ easing out of Oxfam and taking my rather unvaluable self elsewhere surely won't be too hard. There, I've talked myself into--or, rather, out of--it.

Back to square one.

Sob Story

2005-07-09T15:40:00.000+09:00

On the volunteering front, though the last time I wrote I'd been feeling optimistic, my fledgling hope has since been kicked to the curb. For a while, I'd been happily challenged with my bulletin board project, confident that an online forum was exactly what the volunteers at Oxfam Japan needed to unite our scattered troops--weeks after joining, most of the volunteers out there remain silent faceless figures, doing their independent thing. Which of course is great. I mean, sure, I read The Power of One when I was a young lass and had, then, felt ready to take on the world single-handedly (and to also take up boxing on the side). But now, fully entrenched in stodgy-hearted adulthood, I'm more inclined toward The Power of More-Than-One, especially when the goal is to make a significant difference.

Unfortunately--or fortunately, as most people would likely agree--it would seem that Oxfam Japan only has one uninspired sap who needs the crutch of others to accomplish anything. My online bulletin board has not met with much enthusiasm. While I’ve been imagining long, active threads where we volunteers would exchange ideas, offer feedback and criticisms, and get motivated, the reality is that my fellow volunteers have been doing just fine without any help; while I've been dithering about online, everyone else has been out there, getting real things done.

Sorry if this is a bit whiny, but I feel so discouraged. It seems my initial reaction of doubt about my ability to do much for Oxfam Japan was well founded. I was right: I lack the necessary qualities for this particular environment.

I’ve always been a background support kind of girl. I adored singing in the choir but performing solos made me nauseated. When our drama class did a production, I was in the sound effects department, not up there on stage. Though I’m too proud (and foolishly so) to be a follower, I’ve never had the heart of a leader. I hate giving orders as much as I hate being ordered, and I'd be a hopeless, floppy mess if I tried to gather people together for a rousing rally or fundraiser. So when I came upon the idea of a bulletin board, I felt charged with a real purpose. I thought I could do something that, if not loud and proud, might at least have indirect, long-term benefits.

When I check in on my message board from time to time, the lack of response from the other volunteers feels like a personal failure. In some ways, volunteering can be more intimidating than any regular job, because you are offering your self on a fundamental level for something more important than personal satisfaction or gain. You’re forced to ask yourself: What is my value? What can I do for a community, for a human being, for an organization that needs help?

I may not have initiative or creativity, but—at the risk of sounding like I’m at my first job interview—I’m a hard worker. I feel like somewhere very close by, parallel to my own path is a whole other road that I should be on, doing something more, giving something more of my self. And I would, if only I could find the connecting lane. Sometimes I get so wound up because it feels like every second I spend living is wasted. Some people depend upon religion to give them the reassurance that there is more to life, more than life. I’ve never cared or worried about what comes after. For me, only life now matters and we are free to use it or let it be snatched out of our hands like litter dangled out of a speeding car’s window. I guess this kind of thinking could lead to insanity. But anyone who’s read my blog long enough probably can tell, this restlessness and dissatisfaction sweeps in and out of my life--self preservation, I guess. Because at the core, I'm essentially a selfish person. Don't ever let these little blips of conscience make you think otherwise.

Life's Little Updates

2005-07-08T02:34:00.000+09:00

Wow, so many things to share, all of them trivial or mundane, but I'll write about them anyway--because when have I ever let the inconsequential quality of my life stop me from blabbing endlessly about it?

In no order of importance, since none of them hold any:

I actually baked the fruitcakes I'd vowed to bake and write about months ago. But, I never got around to the "writing about it" part because this suddenly transformed into something I should do, like homework, which instantly made all desire to record my Fruitcake Odyssey vanish. Poof. Gone. Anyhow, due in part to my painstaking preparation of the various ingredients, the cakes were absolutely scrumptious, straight hot out of the oven. But, contrary to my understanding of the logistics of fruitcakes, they seem to have deteriorated over time, rather than aged and improved. What's going on? In a word: overboozed. I just did what everyone told me to do--a spoonful of liquor dribbled over the wrapped cakes every few weeks. Now, some six months of brandy basting later, taking a bite of my fruitcake makes me feel like a firebreather in training. I am literally transformed into a leaky and hazardous gas stove, and am certain that if a match were lit near my mouth, my whole head might ignite or possibly implode. I feel a bit sad. All that time invested and hope culminated...

I finally caved and bought the long-coveted Soie, to rid my forearms of "those unsightly hairs." I'm not a beast or anything, but there's just enough hair there that I've been bugged by it for quite some time. Sorry, is this rather personal topic making you uncomfortable? I grew up in a family that thrived on inappropriate discussions, with bonus points if you brought up offensive subjects at the dinner table. Anyhow, Soie is a handy little electric hair plucker--yes, you know you want to know more--with a special head that simultaneously applies pressure to the skin as it yanks hair, supposedly to minimalize pain. I suppose it's true what they say, that having a hair plucked feels like an ant bite. Except it's not really comparable because using an electric epilator is really more like have a little contingent of ants steadily nipping their way across a large expanse of your skin--remember when Barbarella found herself overpowered by those jaw-snapping dolls? Or am I thinking about the dainty little pecking birds? Too long ago. Anyhow, the user manual claims the pain will reduce over time. Perhaps the nerve endings, after extended attack, eventually break down and die. Whatever. The important thing is that my arms are now silky smooth. And I'm totally weirded out by this. Have you ever worn braces? Well, looking at my now hairless arms reminds me of the day I got my braces removed after three years of having a metallic grin. My reaction then had been one of utter dismay, for I'd transformed from Jaws into Rocky, but without the annoying squirrel cuteness. My teeth looked gigantic, overexposed; I refused to smile for days. Well, I'm not going to hide foolishly behind long sleeves, but my arms so do not look right.

Soie actually comes with a smaller epilator for removing hair down there--no, not your legs. I don't think I should be embarrassed to admit that the thought of trying it out makes me want to flail and shriek like a big scaredy girl. I wonder what women think after having a Brazillian wax for the first time. I bet the shock factor of all that southern exposure would be double that of naked teeth or arms.

Oh dear, so many updates not yet recorded, but morning has arrived, and I actually have to wake up in a few hours at the ungodly hour of 9am to go to the office. So I shall continue with my stories tomorrow, if possible. I'm really going to try to write more regularly from now on.

Star Wars, Episode III

2005-07-05T01:39:00.000+09:00

This weekend I saw "Star Wars, Episode III." Didn't really want to. Would've rather watched "Batman Begins"--no, not because I want to stare at Christian Bale. I happen to think the story sounds very... Hey, look, there's no shame in wanting to stare at Christian Bale. In addition, Roger Ebert wrote, "This is at last the Batman movie I've been waiting for... Bale is just right for this emerging version of Batman. It's strange to see him muscular and toned,...but he suggests an inward quality that suits the character." I trust Roger's judgment. Roger and I are always in perfect accord--though admittedly "strange" is not the first adjective that comes to mind in conjunction with a "muscular and toned" Christian Bale.

My husband, however, is a huge fan of "Star Wars"--due in part to the portion of his childhood in Portugal when the only thing he could watch and understand on TV were the family's "Star Wars" videos--and so the decision was made.

I admit that I really liked the old "Star Wars" trilogy, with Harrison Ford and Carrie Fisher. They were plain good, adventuresome fun. Unfortunately, the most recent two episodes left me disappointed for the reasons everyone has already complained about (took itself too seriously, too much reliance on computer graphics, shallow characterization, etc.). But what aggravated me the most was the sulky, mumbling West Coast teenager, who we were expected to believe, in a single episode, was suddenly going to start articulating like James Earl Jones. I know Anakin was supposed to be young, but why did they have to cast someone who looked like any minute he was going to stomp his foot in a hissy fit before taking off on his skateboard?

I figure that anyone who really cares about this movie must surely have seen it by now, but just in case: spoilers coming up.

To be fair, "Episode III" was definitely the best of the new trilogy. Though I wonder if my judgment was slightly softened by a sense of sentimentalism (it doesn't take much; I'm a sentimental sap) that the movie stirred, especially at the end, when you see the two babies in their new adoptive homes. I also thought Ewan McGregor did a good job as the gentle Obi-Wan, and his confrontation with Anakin at the end of the movie was rather moving (no, no, not the cutting off of limbs part, but the "You were like a brother to me. I loved you." part.).

This time round, I was most exasperated by Natalie Portman's character: a dithering, tearful girl, perpetually distraught in uncomfortable-looking nighties. I have no idea what the point was of making her a senator. Well, "A young, powerful Jedi knight and a wimpy crybaby" doesn't have quite the same impact as "wimpy crybaby senator." Since her only purpose seemed to be that of mothering Anakin's kids, I guess she had to be a good little broodmare with strong lineage.

Anakin was no slouch in the annoying department, but, on top of it all (quite literally), he was also sporting a maddening hairdo. I know this may seem like a ridiculous thing to zero in on, but in a movie that paid so much attention to detail, what was the deal with Anakin's long hair being all limp and plastered to the back of his head? I kept hoping a good, stiff intergalactic breeze would come along and fluff it up a bit. But no go. Needless to say, it was a distraction.

All those petty details aside, what baffled me the most about Episode III was Anakin's abrupt leap from "Must save my darling Padme!" to "I want to rule the universe!" It was a total huh moment for me, and made his transformation into Darth Vader that much more unnatural. What the heck was he so angry about anyway? I wish the character was given more reason for having all this supposed darkness inside, or at least given more chance to exhibit said darkness, rather than what appeared to be nothing more than teen angst.

Can't Help Myself

2005-07-02T00:02:00.000+09:00

I just wrote a post trying to stand up a little bit for Blogger, but here I am, back again at the bitching post. I know I shouldn't even be using Blogger's spell check to begin with, but I do. Oh, stop looking at the screen incredulously. Anyhow, what I wanted to ask is: Why doesn't the spell checker for Blogger recognize the words blog and Blogger, for Pete's sake? And for that matter, who was Pete? What kind of man was he, that his name is now interchangeable with god, goodness, and heaven?

How to Create a Message Board (For the Clueless, From the Clueless)

2005-07-01T17:29:00.000+09:00

Poor Blogger--I'm sure there isn't an online service out there more simultaneously maligned and employed to such a comparable degree. Even I have been guilty of bitching about Blogger with one hand while posting on it with the other. And it's inexcusable. Well, maybe a little excusable, when things go horribly, horribly wrong, as they are wont to do on Blogger from time to time--look at me, already doing it again, bitching.

But when have I ever sung Blogger's praises? When did I ever express my appreciation for how easy it made setting up a blog? For the exhaustive list of tips and tutorials under Blogger Help? For the unlimited space offered. And back again to just how gosh-darn easy it is to use? When? Never!

And I'm not alone. Blogger has been slandered, abandoned, and taken for granted, and frankly, I believed the abuse to be justified. Until this past week, when I tried to create a message board for my volunteer group. Holy buffet of deep-fried crap, Batman! Have you ever tried to create an online forum? Have you?! Well, I thought--I do not know why--that it would be easy. I thought, hey, I can change the background color of my blog, I sure as hell can put up one dinky little bulletin board. That is what I thought. And that is what I volunteered to do.

As any good little Internet child will do, I started my project with lots of searches. Lesson one: creating a board sometimes requires the forking over of money. I refined my search with the addition of "free." Lesson two: most free boards do not mention, while urging you to register with them, that they will foist garish banners and even pop-up ads on your board. I further redefined my search: "no ads." Initially, a no-ads board seemed an impossible concept. Many supposedly ad-free boards had apparently caved. Finally I came upon one that required only the use of text ads--Forumer.

This is when the first challenge presented itself: phpBB or IPB? Huh? Back I went to Google. I'm a pragmatic girl, however. I didn't really need to know what these two types of boards were; I just needed to know which one was better. What did I learn? After much time lurking around places like anime forums, I learned this: no consensus. But, what repeatedly came up was that phpBB was "user friendly" and IPB had more advanced features. What was obviously yoohooing me in the face was that phpBB was for me and IPB was for people who actually knew how to use words like SQL, BBCodes, safe mode skins, and permission masks (I still don't know what any of these things are, but as administrator of a forum, I think I'm supposed to). But because I love to waffle and add unnecessary stress to my life, I had to give both a chance--"Because what if I go with the easy one, then become this total Message Board Master down the road, and realize I missed out by not going with IPB?" With all the wisdom hindsight doth bestow, verily I say, "Message Board Master? Bwahahahaha!"

So I signed up for one of each: phpBB (BB stands for bulletin board, and that's all you need to know) and IPB (Invision Power Board). This is where, although blog and bulletin board are distinctly different animals, I cannot help but draw comparisons between the services. With Blogger, seconds after I had my own blog, I was posting; and not long after, I was happily exploring, playing with my template, getting useful tips from the Blogger Help pages. Registering with, say, Forumer happened relatively quickly, but once the page opened and I was faced with my brand-new board, I ran smack into a big fat blank. I spent one full evening trying to figure out the Admin CP (administration control panel)--it took me ages just to figure out that it was the Admin CP I needed to figure out--for my Invision board. During this time, I came as close as I've ever come to wanting to snatch my head bald from sheer rage and frustration. I can now empathize with those pet parrots who rip out all their feathers and require therapy sessions with an animal shrink. Anyhow, I really did try. And then I gave up.

On to Forumer's phpBB. This was supposed to be the easy one. It also turned out to be the extremely limited one. Another evening went by, and just as my deranged state had my fingers once again inching their way ominously toward my vulnerable mane, I happened upon something. Something called FreeBB. With its childish logo communicating this was closer to my level of [cough] expertise [cough], the promise of an idiot-friendly control panel, and no ads to boot, this time I did not ignore the yoohooing voices. With about four (or five? I've lost track) bulletin boards somewhere out there, registered in my name, what was one more?

Like all the others, FreeBB has no help documentation. You're not going to find a page that says something like, "So, you've got yourself a bulletin board. Lost? Confused? Don't worry, keep reading and we'll tell you, step-by-step, exactly how to set up your board!" However, after a bit of experimenting, I was able to add categories, change the template of my board, and even adjust the colors to match the Oxfam website. If you're curious as to what even an idiot can produce through FreeBB, here's the board I created. Now I just have to convince my fellow volunteers at Oxfam Japan to use the damn thing. They're a bit shy--or that's what I'm telling myself about all the participation that's not going on so far.

The sole form of support for bulletin board administrators are the member forums, so my advice to fellow newbies is to take advantage of them, but try not to wail and use lots of exclamation marks, even when you're at the end of your tether. I can't believe how many people write as the subject title: "Heeeeeeelp Meeeeee!!!!!!!!" Yeesh. Oh, one thing I wish somebody had explained to me: Registering for your own message board doesn't automatically register you for the connected support forum; you have to register separately for this. I couldn't understand why I couldn't sign in to the support forum with my board's user name. You have to create a separate user name--rather lame, if you ask me.

One other important thing to keep in mind. I did find that Invision board forums were not for the new and ignorant. As I said before, the people who use Invision know what they're doing and they expect you to as well.

I realize this post won't interest many people, but since I ~~wasted~~ invested so much time learning about the creation of message boards, I'll offer what limited resources I gathered, and hopefully someone, as clueless as I, will get something out of it.

Free Bulletin Boards
FreeBB
-this is the only free bulletin board I found that is 100% free of any kind of ads
-hands-down the easiest board to work with, of all the different boards I tried
-being fairly new, the support forum is still quite small, but people are quick to respond

CE7.net
-offers boards powered by phpBB 2.0.16 and IPB 1.3
Pros: text-only ads
Cons: no support forum

Forumer
-phpBB 2 and IPB 1.3
Pros:
-text-only ads
-promising to upgrade to phpBB 3 "some day"
-good support forum
Cons: phpBB board not customizable

InvisionFree
-well-established support forum

Additional Resources
phpBB - downloads, mods (same as hacks?), styles, templates, and support forum
phpBB Hacks - hacks, templates, downloads, and support forums

Lights Out

2005-06-24T17:07:00.000+09:00

Yesterday, after luxuriating in a little bit of book before bed, I reached over to turn off the lamp only to realize it wasn't on. It was 6am and what I'd been trying to turn off was the light of day flooding in through those damn glass cubes that make up one wall of my bedroom.

I don't know if this is some form of retarded insomnia but I regularly fall into a pattern of going to bed later and later, and before I know it, things are completely out of control and I'm sharing the same hours as certain truckers, gas station attendants, and convenience store clerks.

Transcriber, Travel Agent & Volunteer-in-Progress

2005-06-22T18:59:00.001+09:00

It's been ages since I posted something real--not a list, not a column of snapshots, not a panic-stricken warning. Naturally I'm presently swamped by everything, all at once: work is picking up, my parents have appointed me their personal travel agent (because "you're good at these things"), and I'm slowly finding my way down this young, uncertain path of volunteerism.

Work needs no explanation, although it's rather grueling at the moment because I'm transcribing a speech by a French man with a really bad stutter, and the client insists they want it verbatim, which means I'm not allowed to edit anything--not even to smoothen the flow of text. Not even if I know how to make a passage make sense. Sigh. I also feel like a bit of a jerk for focusing so hard on all the parts where the speaker has a real tough time getting the right sounds out. Sometimes, with the touch of the foot pedal, I make the poor man choke and trip over the same words over and over again. I've never realized how tortured a stutter can sound and I wonder at the mean person who asked this guy to present something at the last minute. I imagine the speaker is nervous and that is what is causing him to fight so hard against his own lips and tongue. Am I being grossly condescending? It's possible he had a good time. Might a person with a stutter enjoy public speaking?

Mom and dad commandeering my services is another matter. My parents are two seemingly nice people who have left a string of broken travel agents in their wake. I've read faxes and emails from these poor traumatized women, where words such as "desperate," "confused," and "lost" peppered the pages like drops of blood. It's difficult to convey just how breezily destructive my mom and dad can be to one's mental equilibrium, without you all brushing me off, assuming I'm being my usual melodramatic self. Or worse, somebody thinking, "Oh, everybody's parents are like that." No, I say, no.

I won't ply you with the minutiae. That wouldn't be kind or interesting. Just maddening. But suffice it to say, I've been witnessing many a hazy sunrise in my peripheral vision, while hunched over the computer, driven by the running requests and urgent itinerary changes that have been laying siege to my email account for weeks. I now think of cities not by their names but their airport codes. I'm learning that almost all English travel-related sites are exclusively for people holding US credit cards (To all those sites: Do you not WANT my business? Well screw you. I hope you soon discover with abject horror just how much business you're losing by refusing money from the rest of the world, particularly my part of the world!). And I actually forgot to reply my boss because her email was pushed to the back of the shelf, so to speak, by a flood of messages regarding flights, hotels, car rentals, and activities.

On a happier note, I'm very slowly finding that I can be of some use to Oxfam Japan. Today I sent off my first PR-esque missive, writing to a Japan website about an upcoming Oxfam fundraising event and asking if they would pretty-please mention it in their calendar. I've also decided to create a message board, and possibly a blog, for all the volunteers in the hope that we'll start to feel a little more connected and aware of what everyone's up to. I believe we need to create a stronger feeling of community, where we can get involved with each other's projects, or simply offer encouragement and suggestions. I'm also thinking that a blog would give a more human, approachable voice to a large entity like Oxfam, especially for non-volunteers, people wishing to know more.

But first I have to get the volunteers to all agree to participate or it will be a very barren message board/blog indeed. We're going to have a meeting this Tuesday, so I'll present my case then. Wish me luck!

Not as Serious as I Thought

2005-06-20T23:44:00.000+09:00

I've probably terrified the bejesus out of everyone who used my coding instructions. Turns out, the problem wasn't as grave as I originally believed--or at least I don't think it is.

After calming down from my initial panic of being responsible for a sudden mass-crashing of blogs everywhere (ha, how I flatter myself that my readership is that large), I went back and studied the critique on my code, and it seems I left out one directly at the end of the code in Step 2 of my instructions. If you look now, you'll see that it's been added. Wait, I'm going to break my own rule of No Overexuberance with Multicolored Fonts and make this forgotten bit of code a bright hussy pink so nobody will miss it.

Sorry for all the mad flapping and the slip-up everybody.

Hydrangea Galore

2005-06-17T18:56:00.000+09:00

Edward giving the hydrangea a personal blessing

Solution to Expandable Post Problem

2005-06-16T18:23:00.000+09:00

Latest Update: Great big apologies: I left out one in Step 2 below. I've since added this missing in bold coral pink--you can't miss it.

Previous posts:
September 2004 - Wrote to Blogger Help but it's been days and still no word. Was wondering if anyone knows how to prevent the "Read more here" link from appearing after every single post. I just want it to appear for posts where there actually IS more to read. Ho hum.

16 June 2005- Help from Blogger Help never came. Or, do I recall receiving a message to the effect of, "There is no solution. Live with it."--yeah, maybe that was it.

Anyhow, you may or may not have noticed that I figured it out. Not by myself, but with the aid of the excellent Blogger Forum. Unfortunately, I couldn't find the original thread *, so I am going to have to actually use my brain and attempt to recollect what the heck I did, because Obachan asked, and I'm something of a sucker for a call for help (even if my assistance if often of the incompetent, and sometimes even erroneous, variety). Heh, now you are all terrified to take my advice, yes?

Sadly, I'm all you've got--believe me, I Googled. Okay, let's begin, class [mwa ha ha!].

Go to your blogger Template. Right before </style>, paste the following:

<MainOrArchivePage>
span.fullpost {display:none;}
</MainOrArchivePage>

<MainOrArchivePage>
span.shortpost {display:none;}
</MainOrArchivePage>

<ItemPage>
span.fullpost {display:inline;}
</ItemPage>

After <$BlogItemBody>, paste:

<MainOrArchivePage> 
<a href="<$BlogItemPermalinkURL$>">Read more!</a>
</MainOrArchivePage>
Save your template and republish the blog.

Go to Settings, then Formatting, then scroll down the page to find Post Template. Whatever you type in this text box will appear in each new draft. Type in:



and (in the following line to prevent confusion):

.

Here comes the extra work. When you click Create (new post), you'll see both and .

If you write a short post, and don't want the "Read more!" link, then erase from your draft and make sure is at the very end of your post.

If you write a long post, then erase . Paste where you want the "Read more!" link to appear, and paste at the very end of your post.

Make sense? God I hope so.

I really am incompetent when it comes to HTML and coding however, so if you follow my directions and things don't work out, I truly recommend asking someone over at the Blogger Forum. The people over there are very nice and almost all my blogging questions have been answered by them.

*I did find a different thread, but the person's suggested solution sounded a lot more complicated than what I do, so I think my way is better.

Questions that Cause My Brow to Crinkle Adorably

2005-06-14T21:16:00.000+09:00

While some people sit and ponder philosophical matters, I sit and ponder:

Why...

would people with hairy armpits use stick deodorant? Does the waxy stuff somehow fight and claw its way through the thicket to reach the skin beneath?

do people who go on a diet that cuts out one of the major food groups think that (a) this is a good idea and (b) they could possibly maintain such a diet without eventually [i] going bald/toothless from malnutrition (which strikes me as counterproductive to the most common goal of dieting) or [ii] caving like a big pile of rocks?

don't men fight for widespread acceptance of skirt-wearing? Women fought to wear pants, and I believe skirts are just as worthy. They're so much more comfortable and well-ventilated than pants, especially on hot summer days. You'd think, with all those sperm in danger of overheating, that guys would wish to get with the program.

does synchronized swimming have to propagate an overall atmosphere of a psychotic military-run funhouse? I think what those women can do is an athletic miracle. Yet for reasons I cannot fathom, they feel the need to ridiculize (yes, my word) the dignity of the sport with the goose-step march to the pool, the hair that looks like they practiced too close to an oil spill, the painted dummy grins, and the menacing music compounded by a lot of exploding in and out of the water with "grrrr" arms and clawed hands. Whenever I watch synchronized swimming, I want to focus on the athletes' skill, but I end up helplessly distracted by the theatrics instead.

before the pesky existence of borders and mean customs officers, when humans were free nomads traversing the earth, did a bunch of us decide the Arctic would be a neat place to settle? I imagine these people, wandering further and further north, witnessing the steady recession of most life-forms, and they thought what? This is great. Let's keep going until we're engulfed on all sides by blinding-white landscape, where we'll never have sex naked ever again, and we'll eat mostly frozen things as chapped as our faces? I know there are people out there who love cold weather, and maybe we were a little more hirsute back then--but I'm talking about the very beginning. If life was once all about the most basic survival, wouldn't wanting to move to a place that cold be like having an evolutionarily suicidal gene? Obviously I've forgotten everything I ever learned in social studies class--except how sailors used to get scurvy; and also pemmican (like an energy bar made with powdered meat, berries, and fat)--so I'm sure there's a painfully obvious answer behind this migration mystery.

Slow Sweet Sips

2005-06-08T20:53:00.000+09:00

Yesterday, I woke in the middle of a dream about the cherry liqueur described by the protagonist Framboise in the book Five Quarters of the Orange *: eventually, the alcohol seeps through the drupe to penetrate the stone, drawing out the scent of almonds, she explains.

It's not surprising I'm dreaming of liqueur. The next season is already looming and the signs are everywhere: the blossoming balls of hydrangea, the bags of ume (Japanese apricots) in the supermarket, cherries getting cheaper (100 yen per 100 grams--a miracle!). It's the rainy season! This means two things: seriously soggy people and homemade ume shu--lumps of rock sugar and tart ume steeped in shochu--and maybe ume boshi if you're a fanatical Japanese Martha Stewart type. I tried making ume shu three years ago, but tragically, my husband's fear of the two little jars I have stashed at the back of the kitchen cabinet has infected me as well. Let's just say I wasn't terribly thorough in the sterilizing of those jars.

But that's old news. This year, my dreams are telling me to give cherries a go. I did a search on making cherry liqueur and I was rather disappointed when many of the recipes suggested piercing the cherries and/or crushing the cherry pits with a hammer to speed the process along. Such a no-nonsense approach ruins the appeal, which for me is the idea of whole unmarred cherries suspended in alcohol, the two initially trading colors--the alcohol staining red, the cherries bleaching white**; and finally after half a decade (or so), the natural and inexorable surrender of the seeds' perfume. What fun would there be in pulverizing everything for more immediate results and losing half the treasure: those whole cherries, plump with liqueur, and perfect for adding to ice creams and--as the book that pervaded my dreams suggested--crepes?

I did eventually find a recipe for whole Cherry Schnapps, but now that the dream has lots its immediate grip and I'm wondering where the heck I'll be geographically in half a decade (or so), I don't know if such long-term plans fit into my life.

Alternately, summer and the aromatic peach (with its also almondy, albeit supposedly poisonous, stone) is just a couple of months away. Bourbon peach tart, anyone?

*In case you were wondering, Five Quarters of the Orange (by Joanne Harris, author of Chocolat) was a pretty damn depressing read and Framboise a stoic, unsympathetic character--though maybe that's just me not being able to handle "serious" books--but the bits that focused on food were pretty wonderful.

**At least this is how I imagine it--I'm not sure that the cherries really do turn white.

Crack That Whip!

2005-06-06T22:24:00.000+09:00

This news is a little late, but remember when I got all conscience-ridden, which prompted a lot of vague things, one of which was to eventually write to Oxfam? Well, I'm now an Oxfam volunteer--and I say this with no proud puffing out of chest. Maybe even a slight chest deflation.

When I received a reply to my inquiry about volunteering, I was thrilled silly because, one, they replied and, two, they didn't tell me to "go away, you pitiful non-Japanese-speaker, you." In fact, I was so pepped, I agreed to a 10am (ouch*) meeting, I dutifully did my reading on Oxfam, and I even debated with myself as to whether to wear a skirt to the "interview."

Turns out I could have been spared the wrenching torment of an early rising, I didn't need to wear the skirt, and it wasn't an interview. The meeting I attended a few weeks back was not, as I'd assumed, an interview but an orientation. I was not being asked to come in to fill a position several times a week; instead I was pointed to a shelf of brochures and told, "Do whatever you like." With perhaps one or two full-time staff, Oxfam Japan is extremely new and virtually unheard of in this country. In fact, from what was explained to me during the orientation, they were having a hard enough time that, just last year, a foreign volunteer group was created in the hope that the Japanese public would be inspired to get more rigorously involved. Because it is the support of the Japanese people that is needed; most foreigners just don't stick around long enough.

There seem to be quite a few volunteers, but everyone does his or her own thing at his or her own pace. It is this casual flexibility that has allowed me to be so readily welcomed, and for that I'm grateful. But--and here comes the big, horrifying revelation--I fear I won't accomplish anything in this environment. It's not that I lack initiative--okay, yes, I lack initiative. Why do you think it took me 27 years just to admit that I need to actually *do something*? Hell, if I were brimming with solutions as to how to be more socially/politically active, wouldn't I have done something by now? It's not like I've simply been waiting to don a lime-green Oxfam t-shirt or to be told to "Do whatever you like" in order to burst into action.

Please don't get me wrong. Ignore my bitchy attack of the lime-green (which in fact is rather fresh and charming). I don't fault Oxfam Japan--they're doing the best they can on extremely limited resources. And don't think I'm apathetic. I want so much to help in any way I can. But I had hoped for a bit of direction, a bit of a crash-course intro into everything. I'd imagined ongoing projects that I'd assist with and through which I'd learn a bit about the workings of an NPO. Instead, I got what felt like a brisk handshake and a "So long and good luck!" Not even a pink Mary Kay starter kit, damn it. What worries me is that I don't feel that my situation is any different from when I was first flapping my hands about, uselessly crying, "What should I do?"

And now that I've grumbled a bit, now I've got to figure out what the heck to do, start setting projects for myself, because it would seem that Oxfam Japan is what I've got to work with, and if I don't act soon, I'll just get lost in one great big dither. I'm a ditherer! And a slacker. I am the Goddess of Slackery. Anyone feel like helping to crack a whip over this goddess's head? I need all the help I can get.

Note to foreigners in Japan: Don't be discouraged by my dung-headed pessimism. If you've got more energy and creativity than me--you do, trust me--please join Oxfam and help with what I think is the most crucial mission at this time: to increase awareness of the organization, particularly among the Japanese people. Or, as I was encouraged: Do whatever you like!

*You may roll your eyes, but 10am is no laughing matter. I sleep at around 4:30am, have a dog that needs to be walked, and live an hour's commute from anywhere. For me, waking up at 7am is like asking someone with a nine-to-five job to wake up at 4am. Seriously!

Anthropomorphism My Ass

2005-06-01T17:30:00.000+09:00

Edward: I look like I'm posing for a Polident commercial...

...but inside, I'm really crying.

Hmmm, okay, no, inside I'm also smiling.

For Your Amusement

2005-05-27T19:34:00.000+09:00

Work has been picking up again, and I shouldn't be blogging right now. Hell, I shouldn't have blogged this entire week. Thus, rather than spewing today's mess of thoughts onto the screen, instead I offer you a little Web basket of assorted goodies:

BooksFree
Warning: For US residents only damn it! Yeah, as if having entire libraries of English books wasn't enough, you damn Americans now get BooksFree as well. Arrrrr [brief pause for jealous teeth gnashing]. I recently learned about this wonderful (but utterly selfish and exclusive) book-rental service that torments me with its humongous selection.

Who Links to Me ("For the Ultimate Narcissist in You")
You're not narcissistic, you just want to know who's reading you, loving you, linking you, you, you!

kitchenmage
A welcome new addition to the food blogging world, not only does kitchenmage know her way around the kitchen (and herb garden), she's an honest-to-god writer [girly squeal], and one with a distinct, funny voice, to boot. Bonus tracks: a category just for bread, a cute cat, and insights into life in "evenTinierTown," Washington.

Manolo's Shoe Blog
I never thought there'd come a day I'd tolerate a person writing about him/herself in the third person, much less enjoy it. But the playful, and sometimes snarky, pseudo-European tone of "the Manolo" (no connection to the designer) has somehow won me over. I don't even like shoe shopping, let alone reading about shoes--the Manolo does address other issues, often of the mockworthy celebrity variety--but his fashion posts (accompanied by big, colorful photos) tend to be brief and surprisingly fun. I may be an Old Navy girl, but that doesn't mean I can't admire a pretty red Prada dress or giggle at the reviews for The Gallery of The Horrors.

Have a good weekend, everyone!

Removing Melted Plastic

2005-05-25T14:54:00.000+09:00

Overall, it's been a particularly harrowing week in the kitchen--I intended to mention that the other day when I whined about my salty bread, but I was indulging in incoherence at the time, and writing about related matters would have been out of place. I really *was* exhausted that day, and if this is any sort of indication, I think I sleepwalked the next morning, after I woke up. I remember dragging myself out of bed, feeling extremely woozy; I closed my eyes for what felt like just a moment, and the next thing I knew, I was out of my bedroom, past the living room, and standing by the door leading out onto the balcony. Weird, huh?

So what else went wrong for me, culinary-wise? Let’s see. I baked a lemon-olive sourdough quickbread, which usually doesn't give me any trouble but this time came out looking like loaf-shaped regurgitated matter—and, much to my unease, seems to feel and taste the way it looks; though, rest assured, I’m not positive of the latter, having never had first-hand experience with such. Though, thanks to Edward, I have *seen* my fair share of regurgitated matter, as well as the re-eating of said matter, if I don’t move fast enough). Okay, so I think I've established a suitably gross mood to match the foul quickbread I had somehow brought forth into this world, and which I have been dutifully eating with the help of *loooong* toastings, bits of melted cheese, and other disguises. I don’t throw food away ever, unless I suspect an extreme reaction upon ingestion, like my death. I have some sense.

Then the other day, I was trying to tip out some of the thin fluid that inevitably separates from the yogurt (I don't remember this happening with yogurt in America, but then I never ate plain yogurt in America either)--even though a food scientist on TV reassured me once that this liquid is full of some nutritional element that in Japanese becomes a word I could never hope to retain in my memory or translate into even a semblance of English--when the entire mass of yogurt shot out of the carton and hit the floor. Thankfully, I happened to be sitting on the floor at the time (long uninteresting explanation) and the yogurt didn't have very far to fly. Also, plain yogurt in Japan is quite firm, and thus it didn’t spew everywhere so much as glop en masse. Still, surprise and dismay caused a chilling screech to issue forth from somewhere within me, startling Edward and traveling out the window to effectively silence a group of children frolicking below—have I mentioned how nothing hurts me more than wasted food?

But the pinnacle of all my kitchen trials began with an innocent, bonny blue Tupperware top forgotten in the microwave. And it is really this final story that prompted me to write this post, because—yes, that’s right, children—I have a fresh cautionary tale to share, as well as more of those priceless gems of wisdom that come only upon my committing the truest acts of asininity.

It’s funny that a piffling moment of forgetfulness could have the potential to lead to brain damage, possible sterility, and/or a finger-scalding blue gel puddled on the floor of my microwave. Have I mentioned that my microwave is also an oven? It’s one of those neat space-saving inventions that are practically a basic necessity to the average Tokyo resident, who would never have room for a toaster, microwave, *and* oven—absurd! Little factoid: In the cheapest apartment buildings, there isn't even room for a communal bathroom, which is why you will sometimes see Japanese people walking along the road with a towel around their neck and toting a little basket of toiletries as they head to/from the public baths.

Anyhow, as much as I dearly love my oven-microwave, there are certain unavoidable setbacks. For example, after using the oven setting, the microwave quite staunchly refuses to operate until the oven’s interior has cooled down to an acceptable temperature. Well, another example would be if, say, some idiot leaves a Tupperware lid in the microwave and then later decides to pre-heat the oven to a very high temperature to bake what will later turn out to be painfully salty bread, never seeing the plastic lid (somewhat excusable if this idiot were short of stature and the oven was set quite high up, like on top of the fridge) as she walks away and buries herself in work until 20 minutes later, when she opens the oven door and is greeted by a grey cloud and stinky fumes, which she suddenly realizes have begun to permeate the room and whose origin is a Windex-blue puddle that the idiot slowly realizes was once a forgotten Tupperware lid.

But now you are caught, you are intrigued by this example I have supplied. Your mind is abuzz with questions, namely: What would be the best way to remove melted Tupperware from the floor of a microwave?

How to remove melted Tupperware:

Do a frantic Google search.

Following the instructions of some guy on the first website you come across, snatch up a wooden spoon and try to scrape up the mess.

Observe that the mess is a lot more liquid in consistency than it first appeared and that the wooden spoon has done nothing but paint pretty swirls through the blue goo.

Note grimly that you missed the part where the guy breezily tells you to throw away your now-ruined wooden spoon. He doesn’t know how much you hate throwing perfectly good things away; it's not the wastrel's fault.

Realize that as the plastic cools, one of two things might happen. The plastic might turn into a malleable sheet that will easily peel off the oven floor. Or, the plastic will fuse itself to the oven and will have to be re-melted, meaning: more toxic fumes, additional brain damage, and further increased chances of sterility (not that you're absolutely dead-set on having children, but, you know, burning bridges and all that).

Scan kitchen utensils and triumphantly seize meat cleaver.

Wield cleaver like car windshield squeegee thingy, carefully drawing melted plastic toward the edge where you hold a wad of paper towels to sort of scoop everything up—careful, that stuff is hot; not that I burnt my fingers or anything, but this is what I as a sensible person would assume.

When the majority of the plastic is scraped off, finally, use a pot scrubby thingy to buff of any remaining residue.

Proudly examine floor of microwave, which is now looking cleaner than it has in a very long time.

Mother Mary, this post was way too long for such an inane subject.

Lilly Pads

2005-05-24T16:54:00.000+09:00

A Rape Victim Who Became a Hero

2005-05-22T16:36:00.000+09:00

Thanks to Nadz's post on a few amazing women, I was reintroduced to Mukhtaran Bibi (also known as Mukhtar Mai), whose story I had read in the newspaper three years ago. Then, she had been a hopeless victim in a small village, sentenced by a Pakistani tribal council to be gang-raped, as punishment for an alleged offense committed by Mukhtaran's little brother. Then, what set Mukhtaran apart from all the countless women before her who had endured a similar ordeal was that she miraculously did not commit suicide, as is the expected course of action for a "dishonored" woman in a conservative Muslim society. Instead, she went public.

No matter what kind of environment a ~~woman~~ person [edited because boys and men shouldn't be excluded] grows up in, reporting one's own rape must be frightening and humiliating. But in a society where a woman's word has little authority, trying to stand up for oneself can be downright dangerous. According to this article by New York Times journalist Nicholas Kristof:

"In Pakistan, if a woman reports a rape, four Muslim men must generally act as witnesses before she can prove her case. Otherwise, she risks being charged with fornication or adultery--and punished with a public whipping and long imprisonment."

Now, three years later, I was amazed to learn that not only had Mukhtaran testified against her attackers at court--six men were sentenced to death--but she had used the settlement awarded to her to build two schools for her village, one of which is for girls, a first. She could have taken the money and run; and I don't think anyone would have blamed her. Indeed, Mukhtaran was offered the option of living the remainder of her life in comfortable anonymity in Islamabad. But it was in her own village that she believed she could make a difference--and she has. Through education, Mukhtaran hopes to create a fairer, more hopeful world, where someday women will not be subjected to rape and murder to appease men's whims and honor and to assuage their fears.

Mukhtaran however did not quietly retreat to her village, never to be heard from again. She has openly invited interviews and accepted offers to speak about her experiences and about women's rights in her country. With her quiet strength and her willingness to put herself on the line for the sake of others, she has won the support of the media, the public, and even the Canadian government. With the contributions she has received, she has installed electricity in her schools and has other plans in the works, such as improved medical services for the people in her village. But perhaps Mukhtaran's most important achievement to date is the courage she has given to the unheard and unknown women who have been through a similar situation. Demonstrating in a very public way that she will not obediently shut up and die, and that a woman can fight for herself and even win—for Mukhtaran, the consequences of such radical actions have meant living with 24-hour police protection, because of the very real threat posed by her rapists' supporters. What’s more, by remaining devoted to her village, she has accepted the possibility that her rapists might soon return, free men, to become her neighbors once more.

That's right, those men were convicted, but then they got acquitted, and even set free for a bit. However, just weeks earlier, the Supreme Court of Pakistan decided to take over the case.

If I were the praying sort, I’d be praying for this woman. As it is, the only thing I can do is help spread her story and encourage support not just for Mukhtaran but every woman who could be spared her fate.

Some interesting comments in this blogger's post on Mukhtaran.

I Don't Think I Can Think of a Title for This One

2005-05-20T22:59:00.000+09:00

I woke up this morning, haunted by the same question that had transformed sleep into an elusive spirit the night before: What should I do about my nearly unpalatable bread? Yeah I'm still harping about the damn bread--you got a problem with that?

I refuse to throw the loaves away. What a waste. I can't bear the thought.

If I pulverize the bread and funnel the crumbs into pretty glass bottles, they might make a nice gift of bath salts. What do you think? A steaming tub, redolent with the aroma of freshly baked bread. When I was enrolled in one of the big mistakes of my life called Architectural Assocation in London, our end-of-term project was "Breakfast"--don't ask; I'm still bewildered to this day--and I envisioned people steeping in giant cups of tea. I think it was a rather superb idea: tea baths. I'm sorry, we were heavily pressured to be absurd at that school. One of my teachers had neon pink hair and often taught class in a lederhose/barmaid outfit that kind of looked like a combination of these--she was forever exasperated with us and her favorite invective to bellow at our heads was that we were a bloody dull lot.

There was one redeeming point to my time at the AA. It was there that for the first time, I fell in lust with a man's single body part.

I'm referring to his neck. Oh dear god above, this senior student had the most sexy neck I have ever laid eyes on. The rest of him--eh. But with his back turned to me, I could not tear my eyes away from his nape. It was a sickness. It was beautiful. Elegant but strong, smooth, and curved just so, in a way that said "Hello!" to me quite distinctly. Hey, is a girl not allowed to have a few cherished memories from her youth?

Special note to husband: Honey, if you're reading this, the rest of him did nothing for me. Nothing! In fact, I found him decidedly unappealing when he opened his mouth and spoke.

I did come up with one solution to make my bread more endurable: For lunch, I soaked a few slices in a generous egg bath (no extra salt added!...Hmm, egg bath) and then made french toast with my Vitantonio hot sandwich maker, which is hands down the simplest, least messy way to make perfect french toast--i.e., puffed, crisp, and golden on the outside, tender inside. Not bad, except that I actually find fluffy white bread makes the best french toast--crusty, hearty whole wheat does not.

Still, it wasn't awful. But can a person really eat two entire loaves of savory french toast? And despite the salt being diluted by the egg, would I still technically be consuming an alarming amount of sodium that might lead to a severe stroke 40 years down the road? And if I continue in this delirious, pointless fashion, will I lose you, dear reader, forever? Perhaps I could wheedle a little tolerance from you with the admission that I missed two nights of sleep this week working overtime. I think I'm going to stop now.

I leave you with a closing image of tonight's dinner: natto makizushi. Fermented, slimy, gossamer thread streaming goodness. Drool--oh wait, no, that's the natto.

Amy's Rustic Italian Bread

2005-05-20T21:25:00.000+09:00

Dried Fruit and Walnut Bread

I recently tried the Rustic Italian Bread recipe on the Amy's Bread website. It's kind of pretty isn't it? Look at those big holes--oh. Yeah, it's just too bad that my bread is so damn salty it could be used as a murder weapon on someone with even moderately high blood pressure.

Gargh. What makes it more aggravating than the other failures in the past is that this bread took forever--or at least I made it take forever--to prepare. I wanted to experiment with using infinitesimal amounts of yeast paired with very long rising times: would the yeast be strong enough to ultimately raise the bread? Would the flavor have more depth? The answer to the former question is yes. The answer to the latter is I sure as hell can't tell because every time I try to take a bite, the only thing I'm aware of is a painful burning sensation in my mouth from the angry sodium assault.

The cause of the problem I suppose is that the recipe calls for kosher salt--something I didn't notice. I just used the regular, fine stuff. I guess it makes a SUPERHUGE difference.

Now I'll present my results on the yeast. Warning: most people's eyes will likely start to glaze over from here on, so you really don't have to read this following part if you're not interested in yeast. The recipe asks for 1/4 teaspoon of active dry yeast for the sponge starter; instead I used 1/16 teaspoon. I then put the starter in the fridge to slow things down even more, left it for 24 hours, and then took it out to finish rising, which took another 24 hours.

Is it just me, or is there something about the sight of a happily bubbling starter that makes the heart go "awww" the way some people coo at the sight of a baby? Okay, just me then.

I then made the final dough, which calls for 3/4 teaspoon yeast; instead, I used about 1/8 of a teaspoon. Quick knead, into a tupperware, and then the fridge. After almost a week, the dough had risen just a teeny bit. Again, took it out to finish rising. After about eight hours, the dough had big bubbles coming out the top (it was an extremely wet dough). And yes, when I finally baked the loaves, they rose with no problem and the finished texture, at least, was lovely.

One thing: the first time I took the bread out after baking, the crust was quite brown but soft. I put the loaves back in the oven, baked them for ten extra minutes, and then left them in the oven with the heat turned off for about five minutes. This made all the difference, and I got a nice, crusty crust. Too bad I have no desire to eat my nice, crusty bread, and I'm the one in the house who eats everything nobody else wants.

2005-05-19T11:58:00.000+09:00

Cutting My Own Bangs

2005-05-18T23:21:00.000+09:00

So I was trying to save a little bit of money--more like a whole hog load of money--by cutting my own bangs the other day. I know. But some Allure-type magazine assured me that anyone could do this and look really cute, just like the model in the article who had cut her own hair. Yeah, I know.

Bangs grow really fast, or at least mine do. And there's no such thing as a bangs-only haircut price in Japan. Oh, no, whether you cut it all off or just get a little bit of a trim in the front, it's always 6,000 yen, which is ludicrous. And a grave financial threat, since my bangs reach eye-stabbing length every two to three months.

I think a trip to the hairdresser's in Tokyo is so exorbitant because, sometimes, it feels like there are more salons than human beings per block in this city--and that's saying a lot. Seriously. In my podunk little neighborhood, we've got about three supermarkets and about 40 salons, and there are more opening all the time. It's like, you're pondering what kind of business to start, and as you walk pass six struggling, unpatronized hair salons all lined up in a row, you think, "I know! What this place needs is a hair salon!" Groan.

Anyhow, in the spirit of frugality, I grabbed the kitchen scissors, and started snipping in front of the bathroom mirror. After the first few tense moments--particularly when I had to bring the scissors extremely close to one of my eyes--I got rather into it, and was soon feeling pretty happy. A revelation: cutting one's own hair can be addictive. Wasn't long before the sink looked like a scene out of a Japanese horror movie--i.e., lots of black hair everywhere. But I thought the results weren't so bad.

Until my husband got a good look at me. For an entire weekend, a disturbed expression would spring up every time he glanced in the direction of my forehead. At one point, he declared that I looked like a samurai--and I don't think he meant this as a compliment. And, no, he wasn't referring to those samurai who seemed to work quite hard at achieving a look some men seem helpless these days to prevent from naturally occurring. No, I'm quite certain he was talking about this guy.

Hello! I do not look like that. I don't. Okay, maybe on a very windy day or right after I get up in the morning. Or if I went to bed with wet hair. That's it. Otherwise, my forays into hairdressing really did not go too badly at all.

Quote of the Day

2005-05-18T22:27:00.000+09:00

"Do not lick dead fish on the road."
-- Rachel to Edward, who licked a dead fish that was lying on the road

Five Ways To Become a Social Outcast in Japan

2005-05-12T18:02:00.000+09:00

Have I mentioned that I'm married to the Emily Post of Japan? Ask my husband questions about wagashi or Buddhist shrines and you'll get a bored shrug; stab your chopsticks into a bowl of food * (the most effective way, in my opinion, of keeping the blasted things from rolling gleefully to the floor for the umpteenth time) however, and my dear hubby's posture will grow so rigid, you'd think you'd stuck your chopsticks up some place else entirely. He will then proceed to berate you to such a degree, the need to strap on a corset and balance a book atop your head will become fairly overwhelming (but don't, because then he'll think you're mocking him).

The Japanese are so nice and polite, you'll never know you ever committed a faux pas in their presence. But people will know. And according to my husband, that would simply be unacceptable (sharp, matronly sniff). As well as mortifying--to him (indignant little quiver).

Being a rather bungling sort of creature, I'm quite guilty of having committed--in some cases repeatedly and allegedly without compunction--almost all of what in my husband's book are the major no-nos. For those desiring not to appear gauche and ignorant during a visit to Japan, take careful note:

Never pass food between two pairs of chopsticks - Sometimes, during a funeral, the bones of the deceased are passed with chopsticks from one family member to another **. Just remember: human bones okay, food no-no

Never rest your chopsticks horizontally on top of your plate or bowl - The plate forms a circle, which is pronounced "en," which can also mean "relationship," and so symbolically crossing out the "relationship" with your chopsticks is an offense to your dining partner

When using chopsticks, only the top chopstick is supposed to move - and don't hold your chopsticks too close to the tip, or you're liable to find yourself being mocked by some little kid.

Hold your bowl and tea cup like this - But according to my dear Mr. Post, the fingers should be held more neatly together, and pointed more to the side. I'll get a picture.

Always wear clean, matching socks - People are constantly taking off their shoes in Japan: in homes, restaurants, offices, clinics, toilets. If you're expected to remove your shoes, slippers will often be provided. But this doesn't mean there won't be many moments for people to catch a glimpse of your socks and whatever state they might be in--gasp! I must say, if the sheer popularity and variety of socks is anything to go by (really, it almost needs its own post), nice foot undies do seem de rigeur.

*Sticking one's chopsticks into a bowl of rice is a surefire way to draw a collective mental gasp from every Japanese--and probably Chinese--brain in the room; something to do with how that's only done when offering food to a dead person. What is it with chopsticks and death?
**I found an extremely interesting and detailed description of a Japanese funeral, which also covers the subject of handling bones with chopsticks.

New Man on the Block

2005-05-12T17:35:00.000+09:00

I saw him yesterday for the first time and then again today. Exact same clothes, dark skin, and a slow meander to his steps--in Japan, these are sometimes the only signs of a homeless person. The homeless in Japan are vastly different from those I've encountered in Canada and the United States; they have their own society, their own world, they often dress quite well, and they almost never speak to me; they never ask for anything.

In my park, us regulars know each other's faces. But yesterday there was a new face. I wasn't sure he wasn't just a man enjoying a stroll until I saw him again today. Unlike the handful of homeless who frequently hang out here, and can often be seen chatting and laughing together for hours at a park table, this man seemed so lost and so painfully thin, his mint green sweatshirt all but flapping in the wind, with nothing within to protect but a sheaf of skin and bones. At one point, I saw him crouched against a fence, his gaunt face in his hands.

What does one do in this situation? The homeless in Japan do not beg and do not welcome the charity or attention of passersby. But it seemed so wrong to simply keep walking, to pretend there wasn't a man by the side of the road, utterly alone. Should I speak to him if I see him again? Being the cowardly custard that I am, I gotta say I'm a bit afraid to do so.

Dreaming My Nights Away

2005-05-12T14:20:00.000+09:00

For two months straight, I've been having extremely long, complicated dreams every single night. Is this normal? I've always been a pretty heavy dreamer and sometimes my dreams are so vivid, especially the recurring ones, when I think back on them, they're more like memories that can stir up emotions and everything. There are dreams I've had between the ages of five and ten that I still can recall today.

I also used to be plagued with nightmares, so many in fact that my greatest fear as a kid was when I hadn't had one in over a week. It's like your period; you think, "Oh crap, it's been too long. I just know it's going to come any day now," except that I'd actually lie in bed trembling with fear and dread (not that having one's period is a night at the ballet or anything, but it's not exactly a terrifying sort of blood-letting, is it). My nightmares, however, were entirely attributable to all the horror movies my brothers and I watched from a far-too-early age. Every stupid kissing scene on the Love Boat, I was told to cover my eyes; while Jason on his usual slaughter spree was somehow okay, if "a bit noisy, kids." My brothers and I could actually scream the lines of Friday the 13th right alongside Jamie Lee Curtis ("The keys! The keys!"). I'll never forget one grueling dream I had though of being stalked by Freddy Krueger for what felt like half the night. Only, when Freddy finally caught up with me, it turned out he just wanted my help to find his little boy, who had been kidnapped by an Egyptian queen. After that, he was very sweet, though naturally anxious about his son. Somehow Nightmare on Elm Street was never as scary after that.

Although I'm not sure exactly when, somewhere along the way, all that dreaming eased up. I still have on occasion a few of the same dreams I've had since I was six, but for a long time I would wake up with only a vague notion that I had dreamed; and during one period of my life, it seemed as if I stopped dreaming altogether.

But two months ago, all those stoppered-up dreams came spilling out. Every night feels like a movie marathon, and I wonder if my waking up exhausted each morning is connected. My husband says I'm recalling every dream because I'm sleeping shallow, and he thinks I'm sleeping shallow because I'm sleeping too much. I say he's just jealous because his work doesn't allow him the necessary number of hours of sleep that a normal human being requires.

I'm curious as to whether my excessive dreaming is connected to the hayfever medication I've been on--I also began taking it about two months ago. Although I woke up sniffling and sneezing this morning, hayfever season should be coming to an end--finally!--and with it my drug-enslaved existence. After that, we'll see what happens to the dreams.

2005-05-10T18:24:00.000+09:00

What's That Word...?

2005-05-10T17:51:00.000+09:00

Is there a word for the moving, rippling reflection made by light on water? Seeing as it's the way the light shimmies and undulates on the reflected surface that captivates me, attempting to capture a still image is ridiculous, but I find the sight so hypnotic that I can't resist.

Breakfast Memories

2005-05-09T17:15:00.000+09:00

Brace yourself, people. Last night, I was spending a rare moment in front of the telly when what would flash before my dazed eyes but the music video of Paula Abdul singing Rush, Rush and prancing around an extremely-dopey-looking-even-for-him Keanu Reeves. Sorry, Keanu fans; if it's any consolation, at the time this video came out, I was about 12 and had a mondo crush on Mr. Reeves myself. But the whole thing--Paula crooning and prancing, Keanu flipping his floppy hair about and sounding very circa Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure--was too much, and now I'm totally in...a nostalgic mood. Ack, and I can't fight this feeling anymore!

When one is caught up in nostalgia, one's thoughts naturally turn to breakfast. After all, I only ever ate it at the correct hour (i.e., in the morning) when I was a child. I'm rather swamped with disbelief when I consider that there was a time I would wake up without the aid of an alarm clock. Morning would approximately arrive, my eyes would magically pop open, and I'd be able to get out of bed at 6 or 7am without any feeling of pain or reluctance.

One reason I loved early mornings when I was young was that I'd have the whole house to myself, while the rest of my noisy family continued to slumber. It would be just me, my breakfast, and a goodly number of hours of uninterrupted cartoon time. Heaven.

As an added bonus, my mom didn't seem to care what I fed myself when I got up. Oh, sure, she had her own stern rules regarding dinner: good girls drink soup (my mother's people believe soup should have its own category in the food guide pyramid) and good girls eat lots of leafy green vegetables. However, breakfast was a freer time when girls, good and bad, could eat as they pleased, most likely cause mom was too tired to keep track. It was possibly the greatest thing about growing up in my house. I could nibble slowly on giant puff marshmallows interspersed with sips of milk, savoring the whole white-on-white scheme; I could scarf down countless Eggo Waffles so supersaturated with syrup the synonym that came to mind when one took a bite was "juicy"--the trick was to toast the waffles well enough that when you filled each hollow square to the brim with syrup, the waffles would hungrily suck up all the syrup like a sponge and require at least two or more refills; or I could microwave frozen mini chicken pies, as opposed to baking them, so that the crust would be all white and soggy...mmmm.

During those early years of morning concoctions, I learned some valuable lessons, and as always, I am more than happy to share my bounty of knowledge with all of you:

Although melted cheese works quite nicely, liver pate is not a good topping for waffles; in fact, I might even be moved to use such harsh words as nauseating and inedible.
Pizza Pops contain mechanically separated chicken (or at least they used to).
There is actually a limit to how much extra chocolate one might melt in one's hot cocoa (disappointed by the anemic quality of Swiss Miss, I'd sought to create a darker, more chocolatey beverage, but soon became a tad overenthusiastic in my endeavor). The chocolate gets all sludgelike and clumps together at the bottom of the mug, while unsavory bubbles of oil rise to the surface.
In Canada, "Bombay toast" is called "French toast!"

Perhaps you're thinking my mother let us kids run a bit amok, but I assure you she simply knew how to choose her battles, channeling her energy toward the areas she felt were really important, sometimes with the aid of a cane as backup. Not to fret--no revelations of child abuse here. But from what I can tell, it is a fact of life that Asian parents beat their children. Or at least they did when I was a kid. And in Singapore, the ~~weapon~~ disciplinary tool of choice was the cane--a long, polished (wouldn't want it splintering--yow) bamboo pole, which struck fear into the hearts, and welts into the buttocks, of many children.

In our house, there was an ominous umbrella stand in the coat closet filled with an assortment of canes that rattled happily against each other when jostled. The fatter ones could do more damage but the slender, more flexible canes whistled terrifyingly when rapidly whipped through the air.

We kids would often gather round to compare notes, and I assure you I was the object of no small amount of derision because mommy had only really whaled me once: I'd been six or seven and stubbornly objecting to the idea of doning a dress. I think I'd been a bit of a brat, and the confrontation with the dress finally drove mom over the edge. I recall bellowing like a deranged cow during the ordeal, not from the pain--though of course it hurt--so much as from the utter indignity of being beaten with a stick. I don't remember what happened after, but I'm quite sure I wore the dress.

I in fact had it extremely easy. My brothers, who were a little more mischievous, suffered far worse. And I have plenty of friends with downright chilling stories of their parents' own brand of punishment. Yet we've all since grown up to be fairly normal human beings, I guess. Heh.