1:50am, BEOTH:
A Brief Encounter with Our Temporary Houseguest

It's 2am and normally, I should be asleep by now (or perhaps reading in bed, or at the very least, getting ready for bed). Tonight, instead, I'm here, typing this post with my trembling hands. Technically speaking, this post does not, and should not belong to my food odyssey blog. However, I'm so overwhelmed that I simply have to write it down and share it with my friends. What makes this post remotely qualified as related to my 'food odyssey' is that our temporary houseguest turned my legs into jello (<-- food reference there).

Yes, jello is the only food reference in this post. I have to make this clear because I don't want you to have any misguided ideas about my culinary progressiveness. Especially because what I'm writing about -- our temporary houseguest -- is.... is... is a CENTIPEDE.

*shivers*

Yes! Don't you shiver at the very sight of it?!
No??? Here s another image of it:

Still no?!??
Why don't you click on the image to enlarge it?!
Oh you can't?!
But look, look at them legs!!

It's worse when you encounter the centipede while you are in the most vulnerable situation! Imagine this: You just stepped out of the shower, drying yourself before putting the bathrobe on. The corner of your myopic eye spotted a greyish blob on the ceiling. You thought to yourself, 'It probably is a moth. No big deal.' One second later after you put your glasses on, you saw that the blob is, in fact, not a blob at all, and it's also not greyish, but reddish brown, with fuzzy long legs. And it's right above the bathroom door, meaning that you would have to walk underneath it if you want escape. Moreover, one of your roommates is gone and the other is fast asleep. So you're all on your own. How would you feel, huh?

Well, million thoughts shot through my mind within a few milliseconds.
I considered different possibilities.
Finally, trying not to alert the centipede, I tip-toed out of the bathroom, and went downstairs to get the vacuum cleaner. I slowly and quietly placed the vacuum cleaner on the bathroom floor. I tried turning on the cleaner and see if the centipede would hear it and run away. Ha, it didn't. So I placed the hose closer and closer to the centip- peeeeeeeeuuufff it was sucked into the cleaner.

Mission accomplished.
I turned off the vacuum cleaner and that's when my legs started to turn into jello.
Because I was worried that the fast-running centipede was still in the tube and would crawl back out. And the power cord simply wouldn't work with me: It didn't want to get back in its place. So clumsily, I hurried downstairs to put the vacuum cleaner back (with its power cord hanging out) before the centipede could crawl out from the bag in the cleaner, through the hose, to my arm...

Walking back up the stairs, I couldn't feel my legs anymore. My hands were unsteady.

Even though I'd like to believe that I trembled at the cruel deed I executed (which makes me more compassionate, perhaps?), the truth is that the centipede really scared the hell out of me.

I'm really proud of myself for getting rid of it!
And I hope it doesn't come back to haunt me in my dreams tonight...

The Upshot of Fruit-Hoarding

I woke up yesterday morning wearing a big smile on my face.

It's the weekend morning. And I had a long-awaited date, with the banana and pear I've been hoarding for four days since that little trip to Fort Tilden.

Martha and I looking silly with our beloved drink
and food.

Me hoarding fruits.

Finally I was going to turn them into fluffy pancakes.

But let me digress a little first. I want to tell you about my mint Mint baBy. I still check up on him every 'morning'after I rolled out of bed. It's not alone anymore. My mint Mint baBay, still in the coin cup, now has brothers and sisters!

Anyways, back to my date with the banana and the pear.

Still in my p.j., I glazed the pear and made the whole apartment smell of butter.
Since it's a date, I showered and powdered and put on a nice outfit (well nicer than my p.j. at least).
My partner-in-crime, Martha, was already in the kitchen, putting a pot of Italian coffee on the stove.

Banana smashed.
Egg beaten.
Milk gushed.
Pancake mix marshaled.
Batter whisked.

I ladled some batter on the crepe pan carefully, but still, a droplet fell on the side, forming a little satellite next to the full moon. I clouded the full moon with glazed pear wedges and blueberries. The many air-bubbles in the batter not only inflated the full moon, but also the egos of me and Martha. 'Whoa! Look at how thick it is!! Fluffier than the last time!' (See picture on the right). I flipped the pancake to toast the other side. And with my thumb and index finger, I picked up the satellite and sent it to the black hole down my mouth.

While the satellite was indeed fluffy, it tasted a bit funny.
No, that didn't happen. I must be mistaken.
I dipped my finger into the batter, licked it, and my face contorted.

'What's wrong?', asked Martha, while transferring the pancake into a plate.

Acting as cool as a cucumber, I said in the most casual tone possible, 'I think it might be a bit salty, I don't know,' I even shrugged, if I remember correctly.

Martha put a little piece of the pancake on the plate into her mouth, and her face contorted, 'It's *very* salty!'

Yes, my friends, you guessed it right.
We had a little Bridget Jones kitchen incident, which does happen to even the most proficient cook from time to time.

I am the culprit.
Instead of putting a tablespoon of sugar into the batter, I added salt.

A perfectly-ripen banana sacrificed.
My ego bubbles burst.

The whole routine of pancakes-in-the-making restarted. Only with a much greener banana which I hadn't hoarded at all.

The results? See for yourself:

Well, perhaps one day, the internet will transform so that you can actually taste how sweet and soft this pancake is! Or, if you're lucky and loved, we'll make you some!

Tonight, I have a candle-lit dinner with...


...Dum dum Dum dum...

...Martha.
And Francois - my other roommate.

Francois was not originally in the plan (which explains why there are only two plates in the picture). But he came home at the right time. Let us give him credits for that.

Nor were candles planned.
Nor, in fact, was a dinner together planned.

It must be the summer weather, the stuffy apartment, and the papers awaiting both me and Martha that prompted a spur-of-the moment decision in our study room, accompanied by unusually spontaneous dash down to the supermarket (which, by the way, SUCKS), followed then by extraordinarily swift coordination in our kitchen. In no time (well, actually, in about an hour - we aren't really THAT good at cooking after all), the candles were lit up (so that we didn't have to turn on the burning hot floor lamp) and the following dish was ready to be served:

Hmmmmmmm... Black bean and rice salad.

5 minutes to dinner time, when tomatoes were about to be added to the salad, the door facing the kitchen was flung open and in walked Francois. We thought adding tomatoes to the dish would deter Francois. But we were Oh! so wrong.

After all, it's a delectable delightful dish: colorful, eclectic, uplifting, and luscious. Just what a salad is supposed to be.

And this is why if a dish is named after me, it will have to be a salad dish. Probably this black bean and rice salad, but I'll have to think of a fancier name for it. This reminds me, an 'old' friend of mine since high school, McQuixote (麥吉.疴得), once commented that I'm the type of vegetable that's better served crunchy and raw, therefore not too appealing to the traditional Chinese palate...

Later tonight in the kitchen, when Martha was doing the dishes and Francois making the dessert bananas flambées, I entertained. I entertained by asking them what kind of dish they would want to be named after them.

Francois obviously picked a Norwegian omelet, which in France is a dessert, called Omelette Norvégienne. He gave the following reasons for his pick (repeated verbatim):

"one, my favorite dish is the dessert"

"two, I like this feelling of hot/cold (it is a cold cake but you have tu burn it) maybe it represents my charactere... quite shy and cold at the beginning but when you know me... i'm not shy and cold, more the contrary..."

For me, I see more of the resemblance between the shape of the dessert and the color and spikes of his hair.

Martha, on the other hand, wavered.

The first thing she mentioned, however, was that the dish had to have something to do with avocadoes. I'll therefore either settle with Guaca-Martha-Mole (which, by the way, is one of Martha's signature dish) or work her into a prix fixe menu, featuring a sundry of random foodstuff she enumerated. And just when I thought I was really original and clever, I found the picture on the left by doing a simple google image search on 'martha mole'...

What about you, my friends? If a dish is to be named after you, what would you want it to be?

Don't think too hard! Be spontaneous! What's the first dish that pops up in your mind? How does the dish look like? Smell like? Taste like?

May be one day, you'll find your name on the menu of my little bistro.
Alongside Omelette Norvégienne de Francois and Guaca-Martha-Mole.

Note: Like previous posts, pseudonyms are used throughout.

Live (and Born) to Eat - Muses in My Family

Disclaimer: I wrote this post in Chinese because it's a post about my preadolescence and my preadolescent memories are primarily in Chinese...

這篇文章是獻給我的幾位長輩。

他們大概不知道，是他們，在我還是豆丁的時候，在有意無意之間，啓發我對食的興趣，教我甚麼都吃，都試。因為他們，所以我嘴刁，但並不揀飲擇食…

老竇、媽子

撇下他們賜給我的「為食癦」不談，我的第一杯滴漏咖啡，是在家吃早餐時老竇「醒」我的，用70年代泥黃色裙黑邊的咖啡杯盛着，那咖啡杯總像在「家變」，「流氓大享」，甚至「義不容情」中出過場。也是在吃早餐時，老竇示範吃一隻soft-boiled egg的正確方法：「嗱，你見隻疍連殼喺隻杯度嘅？你用支茶羮輕輕力敲隻疍個頂，剝咗少少殼佢，咁就可以用支羮「畢」啲疍黃嚟食嘞，或者用啲麵包點嚟食都得!」

還有老竇煮的煎釀三寶(Alex 口中的「大大舊」)、漢堡牛肉、蘿蔔糕…

至於小時候媽子的撚手招牌菜， 我真的想不出來。別誤會，我媽也極能煮。可能是她的家常小菜水準太平均才想不出她的招牌菜來。特別點的，應該是菲律賓豬手吧。舊年住在Manhattan 的時候，便特別到家附近的菲律賓餐廳，看看是否真的有菲律賓豬手。哈!媽子煮的Paksiw Na Pata比菲律賓阿姨的好，因為金針多。

最記得在每個星期五在尖沙咀學完鋼琴後，媽子便會帶我到不同的餐廳吃一頓。至今還記得在加連威老道牛家莊吃下我第一碗的菜飯，可惜牛家莊早已不在。幸好，想懷舊時還有印尼餐廳和它的印尼糯米鷄。

公公

原來公公很西化! 他霸道，惡得不得了，但很饞嘴。記得九樓飯廳旁櫻桃木色的廚櫃內，總有公公的花生醬和果占。早餐、下午茶就見他烘方包，弄多士。我來到了美國之後，才發現PBJ是這兒的美點，是不少小童，甚至大人的午餐！ 而細佬最愛，就是溜到公公房中，偷食他收收埋埋的吉百利朱古力果仁、樂家杏仁糖、積及橙餅。因為被公公發現的話要挨揍，所以細佬更覺刺激更要偷！

婆婆

我和細佬還未完全戒奶之前，不知喝下多少樽婆婆用青紅蘿蔔湯、木瓜湯、西洋菜湯冲的配方奶粉。我戒奶之後，仍十分樂意地喝下表弟妹喝剩的青紅蘿蔔配方奶，雖然通常只有一兩口。還有婆婆的蕃茄粥，至今仍是我的comfort food。還有她從泰國帶回家的榴槤(一整個一整個用報紙包着放在電視櫃下)、枇杷(一整盒一整盒放在地主公前)、燕窩(不知存放於哪，只知很有疍白味)。

夕夕(=叔叔)

他是公公的同鄉，和我們沒有血緣關係。在他成家立室之前、在我還跟公公婆婆住在一塊時，我的早餐好像大多是夕夕關照的。記得飛鳳街口那間茶樓，好像就叫鳳凰酒樓，髒得很；但夕夕從那兒買回家的蝦餃燒賣牛肉球，跟公公夕夕沏的杯仔茶，卻又是我小時候所嚮往的。

二舅父

他應該是家中最奄尖刁鑽的了。例子: 到茶餐廳午膳，餐牌上的他不點，要叫一客乾煎鷄脾飯，飯要海南鷄飯的鷄油飯，鷄脾要淋上咖哩汁。印象中二舅父在我很小時下過兩次廚：一次是羅宋湯、另一次是天婦羅。應該是他從美國留學回來後show show off的。記得是他留學回來買給我的手信--某航空公司的souvenir小童圍裙，寶藍色圍紅邊，過頭笠的。可能就是這條圍裙，從此，我愛上煮食。

細舅父

最記得我小時候某一個晏晝，我不停嚷着肚餓。細舅父(應該還未離家讀大學)不勝/厭其煩，只好到廚房給我煮即食麵。可能那是他人生第一次煮麵，三分鐘的麵, 我怕他煮了起碼六七分鐘。那碗原本是出前一丁麻油麵，以漿糊狀出場，嗅着已有點反胃；我嚥下一口，便嘔！從那天開始到初中，再也沒有吃過即食麵。

謝謝細舅父，使我有個沒有即食麵的童年。

三姨

對不起，想了真的很久，還是想不出三姨煮過、吃過、好的、壞的、令我印象深刻的食物。只想起小時候在天棚，她與我和細佬(或表弟妹)時常玩「十字豆腐」和「老鼠偷油」。我已忘了這兩個遊戲怎麽玩，只知道我最愛的豆腐烹調方法，是清蒸豆腐，再灒豉油熟油；兩者，有關係嗎？

My mint Mint baBy and The God of Small Things

Over the last few weeks, one of the first few things I do after I rolled out of bed was to check up on my single-sprig mint plant who's been stretching lonelily but earnestly and stubbornly on the windowsill of our living room. I broke the routine two mornings in a row because I had to dash out early (in my sense of the word) to collect data for my QP and would come home pretty exhausted. A couple of afternoons ago, I walked up to the mint again to see whether he would like a drink under the setting sun, and voila-

Look!!!! A little guy had stuck his head out from the soil, saying hello to me, and to the world, with a coy smile. After much anticipation.

He caught me by surprise.
He melted my heart.

He made it, he made it, he made it!!

He had to fight for his life from the very moment he was pulled out from the backyard of this proud Israeli homeowner in Providence, RI. He had to endure a 4-hour drive back to New York (wrapped only in a moist Kleenex), to someone who possessed no pot and no soil, and who decided it was more important to have a nice dinner before giving the mint a new home.

When he was finally home with me, the mint looked like he had started to give up, slouching and all. Two of his leaves had turned brown... I ran downstairs to see if I could borrow a pot and some soil from my landlady (a.k.a. my godmother). She pulled out a plastic bucket from a corner in her living room (which I thought was the bucket you got from KFC, which Martha thought was a popcorn cup from a movie theatre, which later turned out, upon closer examination, to be a coin cup from some casino), and went to her front yard with me to get soil. After perhaps 7 hours in the run, the mint finally could rest in a temporary 'home'. Little did I know that I had planted a part of its root upside down and had to pull him out after two weeks to straighten things out.

As you can see, my friends, it has not been an easy journey for the mint. The mint Mint baBy cannot be taken for granted. He's a little miracle. The joy he brings to me is enormous compared to how small this baby is. It's truly amazing. I have been checking up on the mint Mint baBy every single day since he sprouted. He's been growing, little by little. More pictures will sure follow.


Incidentally, two months ago, I picked up a copy of The God of Small Things which had been lying around someone's stoop when I was strolling around my neighborhood (actually, 'strolling around' isn't really correct. I was more like hurrying back to my apartment on that sunny yet freezing afternoon). I actually bought my own copy years and years ago, but have never finished it... This time, I'm going to finish it, while watching the mint sprouting and growing slowly, and learning to enjoy the immense satisfaction and happiness small things in life can bring.

Finally, I feel the need to explain why this post qualifies to be under the roof of 'Amy's Food Odyssey'. Well, this is a post about my mint Mint baBy. I have to confess, the first thought that came to my mind when I was given the minty baby root was that I'd be able to make Israeli *int Tea out of it some day (using the asterisk so as not to scare my baby).

Yes, some day.
But not any time soon.

Not when it's still a baby trying to grow bigger, taller, and stronger, in the coin cup from some casino in Atlantic City. Not when it has only one sprig and a few baby leaves.

This means that I need to protect him from my roommate Martha, who's already got a few recipes lined up: 1. Moroccan *int Tea; 2. Mojitos; 3. Coriander/Cilantro + *int pesto. Even Martha believes that mint Mint shrinks whenever she’d walk pass, possibly hearing the silent chant coming from Martha, going "Fair is foul, and foul is fair...".

The monkey in me (and you too, perhaps?)

Dear friends,

I have a question for you: How do you peel your bananas?

From its stem or from its butt? (If you can't tell a stem from a butt, please see picture).















I had a little epiphany the other day at 6:21am. This sprang up from a conversation I had over breakfast (please don't ask why I was up at that time!). My friend asked if I knew how monkeys peel bananas and proceeded to show me.

My friend: (Start peeling from the banana butt that has the black spot)
See? Monkeys do it this way! Upside down!
Me: (Scratch, Scratch)

To my bewilderment, that's exactly the way I'd been peeling my bananas.

Until one day I noticed that it was done somewhat differently by
some
other
people -
they did it 'upside down'. I experimented with this other way and realized that this other people's way made things slightly simpler: you do not need to bite off the top bit of the banana and spit it out!! You could let it stay where it is supposed to be and throw it out with it still attached to the peel. Since then, I've been peeling bananas the 'human' way.

Now my question is: when and from whom did I come to that realization and made my evolution leap from being a monkey to a human? My friends in Hong Kong or when I was in England? Or do all Hongkongers peel bananas the 'monkey' way? I know for sure that my mom is the monkey. Is it yet another cultural difference? This brings me to a different question:

When do you take your shower? In the morning? In the evening? Both? Whenever before you go out?... Never?!

When my cousin Alex (pseudonym - to protect his anonymity) was visiting New York and crashing at my place, I realized that he showered twice - once in the AM and once in the PM, just like me and my brother. And my roommate Martha's comment:

'This showering habit seems to run in the family...'

By the way, Martha is not my roommate's real name. It's again a pseudonym. She wanted it to be Julia, but I decided that I like Martha better. Since she decided that I'm bossy, so I'll be bossy. Martha she is!