Naaah, don’t have to thank me for this. Glad to do it. Well… don’t hate me for it either. If you are finding this angelically beautiful but appallingly offensive all at the same time, I can’t help you. Just as the curtain of the swimsuit-season is about to go up in all its rudeness and the rim of jello hanging over your jeans is being increasingly disagreeable, I’m putting this on your HD retina-display screen. I’m bad. But again, gelatinous pork belly confit under a jacket of perforated crispy skin and a lace of amber-like caramelized sugar… Pass?… Nah, you’ll have to go to the beach fat.
I’ve got a lotta nerve coming here telling you about a cocktail. Because if you ever had the pleasure of meeting me in real life, the first couple of things you’d pick up before too late is A). you didn’t really find it a pleasure at all and, B). Uh-hum… I don’t drink. Wooh-oh wait, that’s not entirely accurate. More like, I don’t drink ANYMORE. (Gaaasspp~ AA!!) Pfffff, sorry no. I wish the story was that interesting. The thing is, I was no different than any rule-abiding youngsters out there who at the height of their kick-ass erra, drank for absolutely no apparent reason just to wake up with my neck flaccidly draping over the rim of
any my toilet soiled in… well yeah (the number of shower I pulled off safely under this no-state of mind was pretty impressive in retrospect). Then at the first grasp of any level of consciousness to speak of, swore to lay off this demonic fluid for the rest of her life only to have the blur repeat itself the next Friday and, one morning… I actually did. For good.
It’s May. The wild tree-sex month. There are “organic matters” in the air carrying a vicious assault on my eyes, nose and throat, bashing my brain into a piece of stiff, over-chewed gum. Who knew that these stationary stick-figures could get so violent and nasty in bed…? Every year, trying to peddle through this merrymaking orgy-time with whatever strain of functionality left at the rear-end of it, is going to be the excuse I am using to explain the current inspiration-draught pillaging through my kitchen.
We can at least all agree that it sucks to live under someone else’s shadow right? It’s a cruel life to carry if you know that you’ll forever be on the edge of someone else’s spotlight. Does anyone aspire to be Robin who always looks comparatively ridiculous in his spandex and at least one foot shorter than Batman? Whoever marries Prince Harry… well good luck, and frankly it makes you a loser if you are dating Harry Potter’s best friend What’s-his-name. As personal experience goes, it’s quite depressing being my right face as my left-side always gets the photo-ops (shrugging my left shoulder).
If you hoard much. You know, unable to let go trunks of junks that’s jamming your life, and aren’t quite sure what the normal reaction is when you look down on a shampoo bottle where the shampoo is long gone (hi Jen) , or that your loved ones take great pleasure to be on a reality show as the world watches you being eaten away by your own shame. Yeah, hoarders. You keep everything. It’s a disease and I’m your new BFF. Because I let go of possessions beautifully. I
trash donate things with a clean swift cut-throat almost artful peeerfection (someone needs this cheetah-print denim more than I do). And I extend my virtue to touch those in need around me – may or may not be with consent – by trashing donating their shit for them, too. They’re welcome.
I stare at the blinking cursor on my screen and completely blank out. My mind is sucked dry from a trip to the veterinarian, and as my 13-year old Dumpling lays in the hospital with a tube down his throat and a three-day-hospital-stay ahead of him, the last thing I can gather my mind to gush about are these monotone desserts. But let not the frosted land of sugary world be soiled by real-life shit that come our way, because it isn’t the desserts’ fault, no. The almond tofu is innocent, and we’re going to talk about them even with my mind absent.
Taiwanese like to fancy themselves as major eaters, extraordinaires among the yumness-community. ”Taiwanese food is da bomb! Huh-huh-hah-hee!”. ”Too spicy for who??! Huh-huh-hah-hee (…forget it, it’s an inside joke)!!”. But the truth is, relative to all the many other cultures surrounding us, Taiwanese cuisine is… blaaaaaaaaand… I don’t know what it was like 40 years ago if somebody wants to make that argument, but perhaps their mentality hasn’t caught up to reality that Taiwanese have grown quietly inside their small and cozy shell over recently years… into independent health-nuts. WAKE UP and smell the SALT guys! It isn’t for anti-bacterializing. It’s to season your food? so it tastes like SOMETHING? And WHAT THE HELL are you doing to that fat on top of your noodle soup?! It’s there for a REASON! Called YUMMO! I can go on and on…