Saturday, December 30, 2017


When I got home this evening, my apartment mate was drowsing in her bed, seemingly exhausted. Now, yesterday she had spent the evening preparing food for her boyfriend to eat later in the week, because the poor little doofus can't cook and if left to his own devices would eat raw celery, supplements, protein shakes, and wood chips -- he's white, and despite his Russian Jewish ancestry remarkably Wasp in his tastes, tendencies, and lack of culinary ability -- and she got up late today in consequence. But as far as I know she had absolutely zilch planned for today, and wasn't at the sporadic volunteer thing she does alternating Saturdays.
So I was slightly baffled.

I worked, so I can honestly claim to be pooped.
What did she do to tire her out so?

When I looked in the kitchen garbage receptacle, it all fell into place. She feasted. A decadent repast. Lobster tails and langoustine. Jayzus.
Of course she left none for me, for several reasons, number one being that I am not a lobster fanatic, unlike her, and the second that such a meal would cause my gout to flare up. We both shared some of the good stuff from the recent commercial holiday, but rich gouty seafood is strictly her pigeon.

Well, other than the luxurious crab cioppino I had over at a friend's house on Christmas Eve. For which my system did severe penance later that night.

Two lobster tails. No wonder she's zonked.
I suspect that if I looked at her face, she would appear to be blissed out to a fare thee well. She's Cantonese, and those people have a seafood thing of monumental proportions. There is nothing more angelic in this world as crustacean-stuffed Cantonese woman.

We Dutch like seafood too, as do our kin the Flemish. But we aren't quite that absurdly in love with it. And, being cold-blooded Northerners, rather like dead fish emotionally, we won't go all nom-nom-nom orgasmic when consuming such things.

Deep-fried monstrosity after heavy drinking may see us crack a smile.
Frikandel, or gehaktbal. Perhaps a bami schijf or kapsalon.

Yesterday I ate a late lunch at one of my favourite haunts in Chinatown.
I was the only man there, all the other customers were women.
Salt fish and chicken fried rice.

But they also have black bean shellfish, and yellow croaker.
The latter can be steamed, or seal-the-surface fried.
I'll have to find someone to share that with.
A person who looks nice eating.

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