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!