At the back of the hill

Warning: If you stay here long enough you will gain weight! Grazing here strongly suggests that you are either omnivorous, or a glutton. And you might like cheese-doodles.
BTW: I'm presently searching for another person who likes cheese-doodles.
Please form a caseophilic line to the right. Thank you.

Saturday, July 05, 2014

DAL, CHAPATI, AND PAJAMAS

This blogger is presently in the television room watching emotional drama on the tube, while scarfing down yummy curried noodles. Lemon grass, ground coriander, cumin, turmeric, ginger, and star anise. Plus, of course, chilipaste.
There is no chilipaste in heaven, heaven is in the chilipaste.
Something either Chuang Tzu or the Dalai Lama said.
Forgot who. It's unimportant. Zen, baby.


I was thinking of Indian food all day. Mutton burgers, kabobs, and roti. Golden orange lentil muck with ghee and a finish of fried onions, black mustard seeds, and dry chilies.
Plus tej patta.

The problem was that I didn't feel like looking for a suitable Indian dabba to dine alone, no matter how bahut yummy-shummy the roti-shoti.
I've been around people all day, I need some down time.
Sparkling eyes and ghee-greased lips would be fun.
Elegant little fingers lifting a bit of paratha.
Kissy silken cheeks aglow.
Indeed!

[Please understand that that is NOT a description of myself, but a fantasy just as imaginative as the detailed food images. The food would be easier to achieve, however.
In San Francisco women are not likely to be companionable while eating. First they'll worry the free bread to crumbs, while talking about handbags, lawyers, and fabulous shopping. Then they'll spring upon the waiter and rip him to pieces with their sharp fangs, biting huge raggedy chunks of red-dripping flesh from his bones, and howling while he screams.
San Francisco females, particularly the ones who have moved here in the last three or four years, are savage midwesterners with no table manners or small-talk whatsoever, and unreal expectations about dinner. Precisely like Night of the Living Dead all over again.
It's all about her, bitches; she wants a bmw, louis Vuitton, and human sacrifices. She got a business degree, she deserves it. Someone has to die, it might as well be one of the restaurant staff. Zombie apocalypse.]


But it's been a long day, and I need some down time.

Which requires pajamas, torrid junk on teevee, and something chopstickable and easy.

Rice stick noodles. Gailan, pork, chilipaste, and spices.

Cup of hot milk-tea to the left.


OOH! TITTY POOH!

I gesticulate at the teevee and remark pensively "you know, that woman there would look much better without the pancake make-up and all that exposed cleavage. The make-up makes her seem coarse and hag-like, despite her youth, and the exposed freckly cleavage simply shows that she has big-ass boobies."
I am both fascinated and appalled by the plumber's crack on her chest.
She's blonde, which might not be real, and has that typical skeevy taste that so many modern Americans have. Glitter, glam, and great big fake jewelry.  I just cannot work up much sympathy for her mental distress, given that she combines it with vulgarity and sexual preening. Or at least showing off her excellence as a broodmare, what with those huge globby bosoms and the bottomless valley between them.
No wonder she married a football player.

"Good lord, why doesn't he sincerely ask her to shut up for once?"

She keeps on yacking, seemingly unconcerned with anyone except her own repulsive self. Quite likely her parents and teachers encouraged that me-centered behaviour; that seems to be the norm. "Just be yourself, honey, as long as your happy." She obviously doesn't understand that being a worthwhile human being, and being an egocentric spoiled twit, are almost necessarily mutually exclusive. Not surprisingly, she conflates the two, despite there being no overlap whatsoever.

"Oh look, she's pouting!"

I giggle at her whining histrionics as I snap up a chunk of fatty pork from the rubicund broth. Man, despite the fact that I only cook for myself nowadays, I'm still a damned decent kitchen-meister.
I totally rule! Thank heaven for Sriracha.
As well as Thai shrimp-paste.

Maybe there's an episode of Bob's Burgers I haven't seen yet. I'll check the listings once my hands are free. At the moment, the fingers are totally occupied by chopsticks, pork curry soup and noodles, chunks of gailan, and big blonde boobs.


Despite being the only person here, it isn't quiet in the apartment.

I'm having a stimulating conversation with myself.

Food brings out the best in me.




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