TEA FLOWERS

She was glad to be home, it had been a horrid day. The smell of tea revived her almost as much as the actual brew itself. Thoughtfully, she put her cup down and opened up her book. As dusk slid into darkness, the only sounds in the room were the periodic flipping of pages, like a metronome. A very slow metronome; it took her nearly a minute to absorb each page.
Yet she was a fast reader, compared to many other people.
They merely skimmed where she would drown.
Drinking deep of the printed source.

Partly, that characteristic was her mother's legacy. Mom had tried to make up for lost time, and compulsively amassed a library during her college years, shifting her reading after marriage without slackening the pace, then changing tracks again once the child was born; the same child that now, without compulsion but with equal speed and focus, devoured the lifetime library her mother had left behind.
A vastly multi-faceted book hoard, broad and deep.
Translations, and original languages.
Plus reference books.


Some things the mind cannot digest, she knew that. And a few things it cannot even accept. That is why she had deliberately not taken certain history courses, and had avoided delving into her mothers' past. Besides, her mother had been preoccupied with the onrushing finality of it all in those last few years, and had ambitiously, defiantly, acquired all the books that she herself would never read, but wanted her daughter to eventually open.
It seemed a drawn-out process, but ended far too soon.

When one of them was forty, and the other barely fifteen, the older woman died.


Some things the mind cannot digest; others it can't accept.


The Lady of the Camellias is not suitable for a teenager. Drivel about a prostitute succumbing to tuberculosis while regretting her life, and celebrating her love for a very bourgeois devil -- the priggish narrator recounting events -- can scarce be considered morally uplifting. Yet it was one of the first books she truly loved. Marguerite's passion for Armand, her selflessness in leaving him so as to not ruin his sister's life, and the shattering tragedy of their affair, by turns sent her into fits of hysterical laughter and heartbroken weeping.
She wasn't very good with romance; strange that her mother had also loved this book.

As she reread it, she noticed things that, as a grown-up, and far less febrile than the teenager who had first turned these pages, seemed at once more favourable to the heroine as well as more disturbing.
Dumas was more 'sensitive' than he had at first appeared.

Still, if she had been Marguerite, she would have told Armand's father to go fly a kite. Or something worse. "He's mine, dammit, I saw him first!"

She suppressed a giggle, and poured herself more tea.

Her own father would be home in a while, and he too wanted what was best for his children. Mustn't laugh. Far better to carefully put the book away, and read more tomorrow.
Books about courtesans disquiet parents.
At least, they really should.

Her mother had read this once as a teenager, when it was dangerous to have such literature. It had made her dream, and opened her eyes to societies which were not as repressive, but just as restricted.
"Better starvation than chains." Something her mother said.
She had left, and never looked back.

It seemed cruel that she had had to leave again.

And so young, too!


Her child, now grown up, was infinitely fond of the library the dead woman had left behind. When she opened these books, she heard the characters speak, and at times her mother's voice was among them. What she herself couldn't say, the fragile pages expressed for her.
Each one of these books was precious.




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All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
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LOBSTERS SAVE THE WORLD

A SELF-SERVING FABLE, FOLLOWED BY DINNER

She loathed and despised the men who sat on the bus with their legs apart. What were they doing, airing their balls? It seemed so dreadfully uncouth, so ill-mannered. When she sat opposite them, it was like they were thrusting their packet upwards, as if to say "here, admire it, bitch".
In another world, she'd smash 'it' with a well-aimed slam of her backpack. Pity she always forgot to add the rocks. Oh well. Those things were heavy.
Instead, she opened the bag from the fish mongers and pointed the lobster in the direction of the offending male, and whispered "snip snip".
Again, "snip snip". There was a hopefulness to her voice

The crustacean waved its claws enthusiastically. Maybe it -- she, probably a female -- was also repulsed by mister Cod Lumps over there.
She contemplated removing the rubber bands.
Mister Cod Lumps reposed in oblivion. His eyes were glassy, and a pudgy thumb lazily scrolled through his e-mails on his electronic pacifier, a sleepy wart hog.
He resembled nothing so much as a blob.
Probably worked at a start-up.
A programmer.

A long day surrounded by programmers made her wish that she could set some of the office yobbos against rapacious outer-space fighters.
Venky against Predator, Gunther facing Alien.
The contests would prove amusing.
Short. But very amusing.

***   ***   ***

She had had to fight her way onto the vehicle, as there were several office-types clustered near the back door who didn't grasp that there was plenty of space further in. The driver understood it, which is why he had stopped to pick people up. At this hour of the day buses often cruised right by, filled with selfish paper-pushers from the Embarcadero Center office towers. On her way in she gently pushed the old woman ahead of her up, forcing the yuppies to yield. Elderly Chinatown women are not so much human shields as, with the right encouragement, human battering rams. Make your move wisely, and Grandma over there will part the sea for you.
G'wan, grannie; forward!
Good show!

On her way to one of three empty seats, she inadvertently elbowed a pudgy blonde giantess in the kidney rolls. She said "sorry", but that merely confused the large woman more. The beast looked around frantically, not realizing that the voice had spoken from somewhere at the level of her overgrown bosom. Where she came from, people were not so small, and she still hadn't gotten used to normal sized humans.

What WAS it with some women and their thing for Hello Kitty? She just didn't understand why anyone would have a Hello Kitty jacket on, if they were physically an adult, and it was a relatively warm day. Hello Kitty fabric does not breathe, and grown-ups wearing Hello Kitty crap don't look cute; they look ridiculous.
The only Hello Kitty clothing she herself owned was a tiny tee-shirt she had put on her Predator action figure. She would have put it on Hell Boy, but it was far too small, and would have made him look like a poofter.
Or at the very least, very British.

***   ***   ***

One man on the bus wasn't playing with his cell-phone, but had something else instead. After a few moments she recognized it as a pipe. He pensively rubbed it with the thumb and forefinger of the hand that held it, and stared off into space. Curiously, he was the only man sitting upright.
She speculated that unlike all the other males, his testicles did not need airing. Were they prematurely dessicated? Or did he powder them before leaving the house?

Maybe he was just 'cool'.

***   ***   ***

Today she would have a lobster. It had been so long, so very long! And she was heartily sick of the mediocre lunch options in the downtown, where suburbanites, and their predictable pedestrian tastes, dominated the gustatory discourse.
Sandwiches. Pizza. French fries. Salads. And lots of tuna fish.
It was a ghastly replay of these themes in every block.
The gates of culinary hell.
Purgatory.

The fat beaky-nosed engineer had not understood a thing she said, and always treated her like an idiot. She supposed she should not have scowled so fiercely when he had first met her, but he really was exactly like every woman's worst nightmare. Self-absorbed, transparently judging her physical appearance, and clumsily over-familiar. The word "girl" should never be uttered in an office environment.
Unless you are respectfully mentioning a child.
Who is, obviously, not present.

When she scowled, her eyebrows terrified adult men.
Except for lawyers; they never noticed anything.
Strangely insensitive creatures.
Probably all ego.

***   ***   ***

It struck her that the bus whiffed of dead body. Were the blondes in the habit of transporting cadavers? Or was it their implants and folds of useless flesh, going bad in warm weather?
Often they were more like animatronic corpses than humans.
Some were indistinguishable from zombies.
Too damned much make-up.

No doubt all of that was necessary to attract the attention of a breeding male. Even during the height of rut or musth, the type was dense and not very aware of their surroundings.
You could probably hit them over the head without them noticing.
A baseball bat is, when you think about it, very subtle.

She had never gone out with a man, and barely even looked at the species. Most of them were dullards, and could not hide their strange obsession with televised spectator sports. The moment anyone mentioned football, she pulled out a crossword puzzle.
Conversation is over, there is no intelligent life on this planet.

Judging by the specimens on the bus, this transit pod would not be orbiting any time soon. No mother ship would bother beaming these masculine exemplars up, there are limits to what you can learn from anal probing.
The reason for analysing most humans ass-first, she figured, was that spongy brains are all alike, whereas diet affects emotion.
Fatso over there looked like he ate children.
She wished him a probing, soon.
He'd be better for it.

Why did all these men smell of Cheetos? Was it a glandular imbalance? That certainly would explain their peculiar obsessions with sports; the poor dears were chemically unstable.
They probably breathed in the hormones at sportsbars.
A whiff of concentrated testosterone.
From a herd of junkies.

Individually, they were deprived. They needed to congregate for any magic to happen.

Strange things went on in sportsbars. Insane yowling and the like.
Hubba hubba hubba, go team go team go team.
Now, everybody sweat together.
Feel the power.

***   ***   ***

She got off, wishing that she wore stiletto heels, so that she could stab some of these big galoots in the arch of their over-sized feet. Mentally she already knew what it would feel like. A moment of resistance, then it sinks in surprisingly smoothly, and only when you withdraw the spike do the victim's synapses fire.
In pained bafflement they raise their heads and moo.


The pipe smoker got off too. He paused to fill the briar, and she passed him before he lit up. He seemed preoccupied.


Several people on the street were walking their dogs. The animals wagged their tails, and sniffed at her bag. Mrs. Lobster inside was making friends, and didn't even know it.
How sad.

Among dogs, chihuahuas are ridiculous, and completely moronic. There is no character there. No brains! Large dogs like retrievers, however, have distinct personalities. There were only two problems; they didn't understand that they were NOT four-footed humans, and they were very large. If one of them tried to lick her face, she would fall over. Never-the-less, that was one hella personable animal accompanying the bald man. Handsome, too.
She never would have noticed him if it weren't for the dog.
It was the first time she had seen him around.
He must have recently moved in.

Bald men, she knew, had too much testosterone.
It affected their scalp surface adversely.
Probably everything else as well.


What did pipe smokers smell like? Actually, she wasn't that curious. Like all men, if she spoke to him, he would reveal a perverse fascination with spandex bottoms on the football field, and mention beer and pizza.
No doubt about it. Men aren't interesting.
A very predictable lot.

Time for lobster.


***   ***   ***

薑蔥龍蝦
GINGER SCALLION LOBSTER
['geung chung lung-haa']

One lobster, about two pounds.
Quarter cup chicken stock.
Quarter cup cornstarch.
Quarter cup sherry.
One TBS oyster sauce.
Half a Tsp. freshly ground pepper.
Half a Tsp. salt.
One thumb of ginger, peeled and slivered.
Half dozen scallions, cut diagonally.
A few drops sesame oil.

Oil as needed.


Mix sherry, soy sauce, and one tablespoon corn starch in a bowl and whisk smooth. Add chicken stock and set aside.

Dump lobster headfirst into a cauldron of boiling water, and cook for about three of four minutes more after it returns to a boil. Remove, rinse under cold water. Drain.

The head may be removed and cleaned to decorate the serving platter, OR chopped in half and whacked, cleaned of some of the weird stuff inside as you see fit, and treated the same as the remainder of the beast.
Some people like sucking on the head.

Twist off tail and claws. Using a heavy cleaver split tails in half along the length, then across into large chunks. Whack each part of the claws to expose the meat.
In a large bowl, dust the lobster pieces well with the cornstarch and the salt and pepper, tossing to coat.

Heat one or two cups of oil in a large wok till almost smoking. Slide in the lobster pieces and fry till pale golden and barely crisp. Remove and drain in a sieve over a metal bowl.

Decant almost all the oil, and heat what remains till almost smoking. Add ginger, scallions, and stirfry fragrant. Return lobster to pan and stir to mix. Re-whisk the sherry and cornstarch mixture, and pour into the pan. Once the glaze thickens, add a few drops of sesame oil and slide everything onto a platter.


Please note: you could substitute abalone sauce for the oyster sauce, if you wish. Either one is perfect, if used as a minor flavour additive when cooking lobster. Or crab. Or large shrimps. Or oysters and abalone.

Oyster sauce was invented by mr. Lee Kam-sheung (李錦裳) slightly over a century ago in Naamseui village (南水鎭), Guandong province, just south of Canton. Within a few years it had become such a beloved and essential part of their regional cuisine that most Cantonese-speakers cannot conceive of life, food, love, insurrection, or philosophy, without it.
Abalone sauce is a nice variation on the same theme.




I rode the Number One bus this afternoon, in case you were wondering.
It may have affected my otherwise sunny disposition.
Today's tobacco was red virginia flake.
In a semi-bent Hardcastle.




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All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
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THE GIRL WITH THE AWESOME EYEBROWS

It had been a long hard day.  She had spent all afternoon with her sister and her cousins pillaging the department stores and make-up counters, despite having gotten all of her shopping done months ago, and not having any interest whatsoever in eye-shadow, lipstick, and foundation.
Well, maybe lipstick. A risque hue of red or brilliant burgundy did remarkable things. She knew that; experiments in front of the bathroom mirror proved it. But till now there had been no need to display that wisdom.

It was fun in some ways spending the day with a clutch of other women. But also enervating, tiring even. The racket had gotten on her nerves. She had left when they suggested going over to the sample-sale south of Market Street, in the old Jewelry and Fashion Center. No way! Expensive horrible coffee, bad snacks, a depressing horde of frantic Philippinas, Jersey-type bimbos and suburbanites, AND her dear dear female relatives! There would have been bloodshed.
Imitating Cartman on Southpark, but only silently to herself, she mouthed the words "screw you guys, I'm going home!"
Audibly however, she pleaded a headache.
Her sister snippily opined that she should save it for when she was married, but told her to take a cab and handed her a twenty to pay for the ride.
Naturally she took the bus instead.
Crazy, she wasn't.


After a long luxurious soak, she came downstairs in her fluffy bathrobe and bunny slippers, and happily opened the refrigerator in the kitchen. She knew there were still some eclairs there, from the big pink box her dad had picked up at Bob's Donuts on Polk. Her jaw dropped, with dismay she observed the wasteland. Not an eclair left! Not a single one! All gone! Dang!
She loved eclairs. Especially heated up slightly in the microwave so that the vanilla filling inside was warm and oozy. Creamy donut-eclairs dripping custard, yum. So good, so very very good.

From the living room she heard cheerful male laughter, and the sound of a football game. The men were all there - her brother, her father, uncle Bork, cousin Poopiehead, and her despicable brother-in-law.
Whose name shall NOT be mentioned.
She never could understand what her sister saw in the man. A perfectly ordinary dweeb, naught more than a computer geek. The only thing even remotely remarkable about him was his health-club physique. Thick thick arms, defined pecs, and (and here she was just guessing, albeit with distaste) buns of steel. If he didn't work out everyday, she knew that her sister would have not found him nearly so interesting. His personality wasn't anything to write home about, and as for social graces she doubted he had any. She herself was not into muscle-men.
And without question HE had eaten the eclairs! She knew exactly what had happened: he had spent three hours on the treadmill and lifting weights at the gym that morning, then he had come home ravenous and attacked the best thing in the ice box. Selfish beast! Yesterday he had made fun of her fondness for pastries and pies, and when her father said he would pick stuff up from Bob's, his eyes lit up.

Some day she hoped to have a refrigerator of her own, in a private place, with a lock on the door, and a hidden entrance. She would only share the good things inside with nice people.
Eclairs are NOT for everybody. Neither are peach cobblers and apple turnovers.
Nor cream pie. All of these were the best part of Thanksgiving.
Bugger the turkey, gimme fried pastries!
You can also have the pumpkin pies, I don't wann'em!

She was convinced that her brother-in-law had only come to stay with them over the holiday weekend for the free food. His contribution to the family feast had been pumpkin pies from Safeway. With, oh totally gross, cool whip!
Cheap odious bastard. He really didn't want to share.
What on earth DID her sister see in him?
Hah, stupid steel buns!

She was determined that before the weekend was up, she would have her very own gooey luscious eclairs. It would be a feast! These she would lovingly consume, sucking up gobs of vanilla goodness.
In private, without any of her relatives knowing. Warm and delicious. Mmm!
Plenty of paper towels to hide all evidence of her secret passion.
With the curtains drawn, and the lights off.

Maybe she should ask for a refrigerator for Christmas?
After all, a young lady has certain special needs.
And everyone else would have more space.

She furrowed her eyebrows contemplatively, while the masculine sounds of sports and eclair fuelled gaiety in the living room rose and fell.
She looked fierce and determined, while thinking of eclairs.





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NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
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