COOKING ON THE BRAIN

It strikes me that one problem with getting older is that the mind starts folding into tighter twists, as the sparky trains of thought take shortcuts which may, at one point, have been thoroughly justified and logical, but eventually become less so. Especially to the observer. Quite naturally I see a connection between the sometimes absurd or comical martyrdom of various saints and comedic routines but the person to whom I am speaking might at that point wonder where my head is at. As just one example.

When I woke up this morning my brain was going over a conversation I had with a good friend over the weekend which had me hearing clopidogrel when he mentioned atorvastatin. The two aren't at all alike. And remembering the goofiness that ensued when a coworker found out about clopidogrel did not add materially to his understanding of anything. The coworker worried that my doctor was praescribing the jalopy of medicines, and urged me to get the Ferrari. Having totally overlooked that it was precisely the antiplatelet characteristic that was both the reason for taking it at that time -- we can't have the stent gumming up and caking over, can we? That would be ... bad -- as well as why my finger bled like a stuck pig after whacking my right hand in the storeroom. Scant platelets means scant clotting. Which meant that the next day while enjoying lunch at a chachanteng the waitstaff looked at me like I was an ambulating biohazard. They were disturbed and worried. At which point I became aware of the fact that the bandages on that finger were not as they should be.

Long story short: Shrimp. Atorvastatin is a medication that lowers cholesterol. Which is why shrimp are on the menu again. Mmmm, garlicky shrimp.

They've actually been on my mind for three weeks now.


It does not help that my apartment mate is Cantonese, many people in this city are, and I live near Chinatown. Shrimp are often mothers milk to Cantonese people.

I'm fairly certain that elderly Canto patients at the local hospital (SFCH) often try to sneak out and grab a plate of shrimp or fatty red meats, because hospitals are not known for super appetizing dinners. I'm surprised that I haven't run into them yet.

I am not Cantonese. But like them I am often food-obsessed. As are many of the people with whom I prefer to associate. The bookseller is, so is a very dear member of the pipe club, and my fondest memories of those early years back in the United States are coloured by food.

When I travelled in South East Asia, I ate fabulously.
It formed lasting wonderful impressions.


The idiot whom I see occasionally who believes in ancient aliens, vaccination conspiracies, plus nanobots to track the citizens, and something like the deep state but impossibly more absurd, is also a food maven and a skilled kitchen man, which is why whenever I have to deal with him I steer the conversation toward pizza, barbecue, and fruit cake.

We have not talked about shrimp. I'll have to keep it on the plate for the next time I see him.
He's approaching eighty. His mind makes weird jumps at this point.
Sometimes it smells the flowers along the way.
Or strays a bit.


Curls up tighly like a shrimp in hot oil.



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