FLUFFY PARADIGM

It is axiomatic that many little girls love Hello Kitty. Especially little Chinese girls. And Chinese girls between early teens and mid-thirties, as well as several mature women who have never grown up. Which is why I will not have my Hello Kitty backpack with me whenever I head to Chinatown, which I often do for food and milk tea, because I do not wish to be arm-wrestled for it by fearsome little minxes whom, as a properly brought up fellow, I cannot kick in the goolies to prevent them from winning. It would be ungentlemanly.

Also, I am not the stuff of nightmares. That little miss who has EXACTLY the same backpack? She will never know.

An additional factor is that after the Hello Kitty backpack started wearing out I graduated to a Minions backpack, followed by an angry death metal red panda. Neither of which are with me when I go anywhere in the city anyway, because I only need something to carry extra pipes and tobacco when I go to work across the bridge. Normally I have two briars and a small leather pouch of flue-cured leaf in my coat pocket.

That little girl will probably grow up to be a geologist out in the dessert with a rockhammer and a hand lens busily whacking stones and dodging gila monsters at some point.

One fervently wishes that if this happens, she has a supply of cookies with her. Because even though there are enterprising Cantonese people everywhere, running restaurants that provide the only edible food for several miles around in the most heathen and unforgiving environments -- like Iowa -- they're probably spread out considerable in the Mojave. Hardly a large enough customer base (and gila monsters), so there's probably just one of them there. Next to a gift shop that sells Hello Kitty holding geology equipment.
And cute little pans for gold.


Windsor Castle is ringed by Cantonese restaurants.
Bet you didn't know that, eh?


Whereas on a middle aged man a Hello Kitty backpack says "mature Dutch American man with pipes who reads habitually", on a middle aged woman, Hello Kitty anything just about screams "I have many screws loose and am emotionally unstable". It's a different dynamic. The first mentioned has it because it's practical, carries anywhere up to a dozen tobacco related items plus emergency teabags, and cannot be accidentally left behind in a food or drink establishment because then everyone will yell "hey, senile old geezer, don't forget your granddaughters bag, what, are you out of it?" The second person simply advertises that she is emotionally about eight years old, loves cutesy crap plus butterflies, flowers, and little fairies, and still wants her dolly and some mango pudding!


I also like mango pudding, but I do not need my auntie to make it for me.


MANGO PUDDING

¾ Cup boiling water.
1 TBS gelatin powder.
2 TBS sugar.
1 Cup mango puree.
½ cup coconut milk.
1 Tsp lemon juice.
1 Cup chopped mango.
2 TbS evaporated milk.
Plus a drop or two of vanilla extract.

Dissolve gelatin powder in hot water, stir in sugar. Add mango puree, coconut milk, lemon juice, and vanilla extract, and mix until smooth. Then add most of the chopped mango and pour into a pyrex pie dish. Cover with plastic and let it set in the fridge for a few hours.
Strew remaining mango on the top and drizzle with the evaporated milk.
Sago pearls can be added for more fun.


I'll be heading out for lunch at a chachanteng soon. Sadly, there will be no mango pudding. But there is cheesecake in the refrigerator for when I return.



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