IT'S TOASTY

Late at night a homeless person laboriously shleps his barang up the street from Polk, dawdles a bit at the bus stop, then in a doorway one over, before trudging past. We exchange polite good evenings, he proceeds further on and further up, I return to thoughtfulness half awake in the portico of my apartment building with my pipe. Perforce I must smoke outside (for the better part of the bowl), because my housemate is upstairs asleep in her room with the Teddy Bear and the Giant Penguin, and would be aghast at the idea of tobacco fumes sneaking in and stinking them up.
I am conscientious, up to a point.

Near the end of the bowl I come back in, and do some dishes, in the kitchen next to the open window. This is not the same window that the Malaysian shrimp pickle erupted out from several years ago, when the bookseller and myself wished to sample it after our usual late night jaunt.
When I uncorked it, it spewed.

We never tasted it. And I haven't bought another bottle.


Tonight's dinner was also Malay. Sort of. Dutch Indonesian. Nasi goreng, which is fried rice with sweet soy sauce, dried salty fish, grilled meat, vegetable, a fried egg (mata sapi) on top, and various spices.
A large quantity of plain chili paste (sambal ulek).
And a dozen dark-fried birdseye chilies.

That last item is not really standard, though highly recommended, primarily for the flavour they give to the oil. And you might come a cropper next morning if you consume them. The heat is ... "much".
Eh, I'll eat a few. Sangat sedap.


A last and final cup of strong coffee before bed.


I am tempted to smoke another pipe.


But I am too tired.




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