Even though I live in the civilized world (San Francisco), for a few days each week I end up in the suburbs for work, where edible food is hard to find and rabid Karens roam, objecting to anything that even looks like a taco truck or curry wagon. Heaven forefend that something tasty might disturb our manicured lawns in front of our neo-Florentine ranch houses and mission revival palazzos, with two and a quarter kiddiewinkies practising soccer and minipugs playing on the Guatamalan hand-woven rug while we burn sage!
There is no cat. Cats can't be trained to be vegan.
That horrid carnivore ate the goldfish!
Consequently, at the beginning of my weekend, I am desperate and crazy.
This week, without even thinking about it, I hit a trifecta.
A veritable triple-crown of gustatory self-assertion.
More urban than this you cannot get.
Up yours, Marinite pig butts.
My food. Mine!
Pork and chive dumplings in soup with mustard green, dried fish and peanuts congee (with the accompaniment of a fried dough stick), and salt fish and short ribs claypot rice.
No vegans, sage burners, or fashionable minipugs were harmed during these meals. And other than myself, no snarling or snooty white people were present. They couldn't find the places where these dishes were served, and wouldn't have thought that anything edible was on the premises in any case. Well, other than the German family that wandered in desperate because die gute ehefrau mutter der familie had low blood sugar and needed something fried noodles fast. Just one dish for the entire table. The rest of them were all fine, we don't need anything, honest, wir sind 'fine'.
I can sympathise. Low blood sugar is a bitch.
Cannibalism starts with low blood sugar.
Today lunch will be in a place where hot sauce and chopsticks (essstäbchen, 筷子) are on the table. Afternoon tea will be yat pui gong sik naai cha and a dan taat.
No sage will be burned, no chakras will be out of whack.
Mercury may or may not be in retrograde.
No pugs on the horizon.
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