For someone who doesn't eat breakfast, I know an awful lot about it. It's kind of unavoidable, and almost everywhere most people will consider it normal to eat something. When one is barely awake. And both physical co-ordination, AND dexterity, are at their lowest ebb. My apartment mate, for instance, sometimes prepares a porkchop for herself, or flapjacks, or both. Or has a toasted bread product either with creamcheese and smoked fish, or jam, or Gouda cheese. Or a slice of cake.
At that hour I'm lying in bed listening to her clanging about in the kitchen and running water for a hot beverage and wondering if I should go pee.
She's of Cantonese stock. So wide awake and full of beans from the git-go.
It's one of those baffling survival instincts they have.
Ready to riot at the crack of dawn.
Many Cantonese people have congee and a fried dough stick for breakfast, plus something nibbly and savoury, though Hong Kong people tend towards noodle soup with Spam, a fried egg, toast, sometimes pork chops or fried chicken, and either milk tea or even hot Coca Cola with lemon.
Chive and pork dumplings are also a popular option.
Plus pork offal in noodle soup.
And bakery items.
Filipinos, especially in the Bay Area, tend toward good fun solid food. Their breakfasts, especially at eateries near the house, will be garlic fried rice and eggs (sinangag at itlog, silog for short), pork, garlic vinegar for sourness, and a big mug of hot chocolate.
Plus champorado, which is confusing; sticky rice chocolate porridge.
Bangsilog: egg, rice, and garlicky marinated fried milk fish (bangus).
Longsilog: egg, rice, and longanisa sausage.
Tapsilog: egg, rice, tapa (cured meat, barely fried).
Tocilog: egg, rice, and sugar cured fatty pork (tocino).
Itlog, in case you hadn't figured it out yet, is egg.
There will also be pandesal (buns) on the table, sometimes with coconut jam, bibingka (glutinous rice cake), puto (rice muffins) and as an absolute essential substance for Filipinos, almost mother's milk, vinegar.
A Japanese breakfast has rice, miso soup, grilled or fried fish, plus pickles (tsukemono), seaweed (nori), and nasty fermented soybeans (natto).
I cannot emphasize enough how acquired a taste that natto is.
BUT ELSEWHERE
Dutch breakfasts are boring and solid; bread, and whatever goes on top of bread. Ham, cheese, smoked meat. Eels. Plus coffee or tea. Or, if you are a student at the Technische Hooge School, instant noodles and last night's leftover Indonesian food bunged into the microwave.
But the coffee is good. Not that American or English slop, but quality beans, and strong.
The English are berserk. Bacon, black pudding and fried tomatoes.
The French and other Europeans do coffee, cocoa, buns, and jam.
An American breakfast, of course, is an ugly disgusting nightmare. Often sugary cereal (why do you people eat that horrid stuff?), accompanied by fried bacon, fried pancakes, fried potatoes, fried egg, fried luncheon meat, fried sugar sausages, and pepto bismol. And donuts.
That said, a plate of rice, sausages and an egg, doused with hot sauce, is a great occasional lunch with the Sunday paper at a diner. Plus lots of coffee.
It absolutely requires a smoke afterwards.
For me personally, it's coffee, a cigarillo out on the front steps (because my apartment mate has not yet left for work) and eight pills. Remarkably the medication does not bother my digestion. I am made of stern stuff.
Reading the news at some point is essential.
Maybe in a few hours I'll have a snack.
Don't ever ask me to make you breakfast in bed.
Here's coffee, the paper, and a cigar.
Enjoy them quietly.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Friday, August 09, 2019
Thursday, August 08, 2019
THAT CLEAN FEELING
This blogger should have known better. After a long day at work, made much longer by the fact that I am still weakened from my recent appendectal mis-adventure, I was desperate for news.
On my days off I devour it, but abstain while on the job.
So of course I cruised into a favourite news site.
In consequence of which, I now know more about "vaginal steaming" and "vulva facials" than is healthy for anyone. Let alone a man of delicate sensibilities such as myself.
Not even half an hour of reading recipes for zesty mutton curry could wipe my mind clean of the horror.
Some people are entirely dumber than a fireplace log.
Good-fricking-lord.
Ladies, your private parts are NOT a pork patty with salt fish (鹹魚蒸肉餅 'haam yü jing yiuk beng'). No matter what you've been told.
Was it in high-school?
What on earth is wrong with you?
Look, the only thing that you need to do is use clean neutral soap and lukewarm water, precisely like men do. At least I presume most men, and no, I haven't asked (nor will I) any of the people I know, for all I care some of them treat their privates as a long lost dog that's been rolling in carrion, with industrial hand soap, thorough shampoo, conditioner, and fragrant oils and shit, I don't care, but normal people, sensible people, do NOT squat over a basin of boiling water, no matter what their shaman or Iron John tell them.
This is California, so I suppose I do know people who "yoni cleanse" or "thingy condition", of several different genders. Trust me, I do not seek them out, I don't ask the pertinent questions, and they can damage themselves "privately" all they want. But even if it looks like a food-stained seventies shag rug down there, it won't ever require deep cleansing with steam.
And men, cut out the fragrant oils.
It's not a scented candle.
Soap and water.
Rinse.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
On my days off I devour it, but abstain while on the job.
So of course I cruised into a favourite news site.
In consequence of which, I now know more about "vaginal steaming" and "vulva facials" than is healthy for anyone. Let alone a man of delicate sensibilities such as myself.
Not even half an hour of reading recipes for zesty mutton curry could wipe my mind clean of the horror.
Some people are entirely dumber than a fireplace log.
Good-fricking-lord.
Ladies, your private parts are NOT a pork patty with salt fish (鹹魚蒸肉餅 'haam yü jing yiuk beng'). No matter what you've been told.
Was it in high-school?
What on earth is wrong with you?
Look, the only thing that you need to do is use clean neutral soap and lukewarm water, precisely like men do. At least I presume most men, and no, I haven't asked (nor will I) any of the people I know, for all I care some of them treat their privates as a long lost dog that's been rolling in carrion, with industrial hand soap, thorough shampoo, conditioner, and fragrant oils and shit, I don't care, but normal people, sensible people, do NOT squat over a basin of boiling water, no matter what their shaman or Iron John tell them.
This is California, so I suppose I do know people who "yoni cleanse" or "thingy condition", of several different genders. Trust me, I do not seek them out, I don't ask the pertinent questions, and they can damage themselves "privately" all they want. But even if it looks like a food-stained seventies shag rug down there, it won't ever require deep cleansing with steam.
And men, cut out the fragrant oils.
It's not a scented candle.
Soap and water.
Rinse.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
IT'S DELICIOUS!
The apartment mate stayed home yesterday because she felt unwell.
I could have mentioned that I too felt unwell -- still more or less regularly, as I am only slowly recovering from my appendectomy -- but actually doing that would have been ungentlemanly. Playing one-upmanship regarding physical ailments also seems like something old-farts engage in, and I am still young, full of piss and vinegar, and having lost an additional ten pounds during appendix week, I finally have my trim youthful figure back.
Which I am sure has not escaped her notice, and probably isn't good for her. Women tend to be conscious of their own perceived failings in the matter of weight and body mass more than men.
And stress out about it on occassion.
I had placed one of the stuffed Totoros on her keyboard, with a box of chocolate cookies. In consequence of which, when she came into the teevee room where the computers are, I got to hear all about the yummy snackipoos that small Japanese trolls like. Jigalos, Butter Bozos, Spleen Wafers. No, those are not mistranslations of foreign brand names, but, according to Totoro-chan, dee-licious! He insists that these are available from purveyors of dee-licious foods. Such as are well known to his kind.
And why don't the rest of us know about this?!?
Is there something wrong with us?
What the hell is wrong with us?!?
At one point a soft furry voice asked "what is this shithole?!"
It's probably just a rhetorical question, I'm sure.
He knows his treats can't be found.
Jigalos. Butter Bozos. Spleen Wafers.
Often the small roomies mention things they absolutely need, which the plastic rectangles that live in my wallet would surely help them find on the internet.
A request for which I always answer with a firm "no". Which is one of the many reasons that I am evil and ungentlemanly.
Or, in their words, "mean old dude".
On days when I am the only human in this apartment during the day, the small roomies keep quiet. Probably because I am pissy and will argue.
I am indeed a 'mean old dude'.
When asked what the signal characteristics of jigalos or Butter Bozos or Spleen Wafers are, Totoro-chan responds by happily exclaiming "Dee-licious!" What do they look like? "Dee-licious!" How about their texture? "Dee-licious!" Then what is their flavour? "Dee-licious!" Everything about them is "dee-licious!"
That description really doesn't help.
AFTER WORD
This morning, the furball is attacking the cookies that were meant for my apartment mate, with gusto. He's a hypocrite.
Dee-licious!
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
I could have mentioned that I too felt unwell -- still more or less regularly, as I am only slowly recovering from my appendectomy -- but actually doing that would have been ungentlemanly. Playing one-upmanship regarding physical ailments also seems like something old-farts engage in, and I am still young, full of piss and vinegar, and having lost an additional ten pounds during appendix week, I finally have my trim youthful figure back.
Which I am sure has not escaped her notice, and probably isn't good for her. Women tend to be conscious of their own perceived failings in the matter of weight and body mass more than men.
And stress out about it on occassion.
I had placed one of the stuffed Totoros on her keyboard, with a box of chocolate cookies. In consequence of which, when she came into the teevee room where the computers are, I got to hear all about the yummy snackipoos that small Japanese trolls like. Jigalos, Butter Bozos, Spleen Wafers. No, those are not mistranslations of foreign brand names, but, according to Totoro-chan, dee-licious! He insists that these are available from purveyors of dee-licious foods. Such as are well known to his kind.
And why don't the rest of us know about this?!?
Is there something wrong with us?
What the hell is wrong with us?!?
At one point a soft furry voice asked "what is this shithole?!"
It's probably just a rhetorical question, I'm sure.
He knows his treats can't be found.
Jigalos. Butter Bozos. Spleen Wafers.
Often the small roomies mention things they absolutely need, which the plastic rectangles that live in my wallet would surely help them find on the internet.
A request for which I always answer with a firm "no". Which is one of the many reasons that I am evil and ungentlemanly.
Or, in their words, "mean old dude".
On days when I am the only human in this apartment during the day, the small roomies keep quiet. Probably because I am pissy and will argue.
I am indeed a 'mean old dude'.
When asked what the signal characteristics of jigalos or Butter Bozos or Spleen Wafers are, Totoro-chan responds by happily exclaiming "Dee-licious!" What do they look like? "Dee-licious!" How about their texture? "Dee-licious!" Then what is their flavour? "Dee-licious!" Everything about them is "dee-licious!"
That description really doesn't help.
AFTER WORD
This morning, the furball is attacking the cookies that were meant for my apartment mate, with gusto. He's a hypocrite.
Dee-licious!
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Wednesday, August 07, 2019
DO YOU DISAGREE WITH YOURSELF?
According to a pop cultural meme, you are the average of the five people you spend the most time with. Which, if true, means that I am 20% Chinese American, 20% Italian American, 40% Old Fart.
And 20% Lesbian.
But I identify as a Dutch American Honey Badger.
There may also be an element of Filipino in the mix. Early yesterday evening I had just finished a plate of coconut keema pullao, when my Cantonese apartment mate returned home with dinner.
Despite being full I beetled into the kitchen happily exclaiming 'anong itu?'. Which is Tagalog for "what (then) is this?"
A pork dish, a garlicky vegetable dish, and roast duck. Plus rice.
I've also had conversations in Taglish several times recently.
With actual 'people'. Not just myself.
My apartment mate, very Cantonese, thinks a lot about food.
Three weeks ago when the hospital let me go she brought home food to assist my recovery. Two meat dishes, and rice. I vaguely remember that there was also a vegetable, because she knows that we white people are neurotic about a balanced diet.
To a Cantonese American, a balanced diet is one that doesn't tip over.
It's simple mechanics. Meat here, and meat there. See?
That I mention her ethnicity is deliberate. It's a key part of her personality, despite the fact that she thinks entirely in English, which is her native tongue. As a Dutch American, I cannot say that I think entirely in anything, but that's rather accidental; I've been exposed to several languages, and will lazily grab whatever word or sentence seems a handy tool for that moment. Obviously more so when I'm talking to myself, which is not necessarily aloud, most of the time it's internal.
The monologue intérieur is often best kept strictly intérieur; last night on Grant Avenue two people within the block where I was smoking my pipe did not grasp that. One of them was deeply, personally, furiously, insulting one of her luggage items, and another one was disquisitioning on the subject of 'bitches', for which he had his own definition, and about which seemed to know an awful lot. Both of those "conversations" would have been better kept within the head.
How you talk to yourself, and how much you do so, are a large element of your identity and what you self-identify as. The Chinese American twenty percent is sane, though often identifying as one of the stuffed animals. The Italian twenty percent is varied and enormous, consisting of separate sane individuals. The lesbian element is professional. Sane too.
The Old Farts (plural) and the Honey Badger are only borderline sane.
The two people on Grant Avenue are batshit crazy.
And probably identify as artists.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
And 20% Lesbian.
But I identify as a Dutch American Honey Badger.
There may also be an element of Filipino in the mix. Early yesterday evening I had just finished a plate of coconut keema pullao, when my Cantonese apartment mate returned home with dinner.
Despite being full I beetled into the kitchen happily exclaiming 'anong itu?'. Which is Tagalog for "what (then) is this?"
A pork dish, a garlicky vegetable dish, and roast duck. Plus rice.
I've also had conversations in Taglish several times recently.
With actual 'people'. Not just myself.
My apartment mate, very Cantonese, thinks a lot about food.
Three weeks ago when the hospital let me go she brought home food to assist my recovery. Two meat dishes, and rice. I vaguely remember that there was also a vegetable, because she knows that we white people are neurotic about a balanced diet.
To a Cantonese American, a balanced diet is one that doesn't tip over.
It's simple mechanics. Meat here, and meat there. See?
That I mention her ethnicity is deliberate. It's a key part of her personality, despite the fact that she thinks entirely in English, which is her native tongue. As a Dutch American, I cannot say that I think entirely in anything, but that's rather accidental; I've been exposed to several languages, and will lazily grab whatever word or sentence seems a handy tool for that moment. Obviously more so when I'm talking to myself, which is not necessarily aloud, most of the time it's internal.
The monologue intérieur is often best kept strictly intérieur; last night on Grant Avenue two people within the block where I was smoking my pipe did not grasp that. One of them was deeply, personally, furiously, insulting one of her luggage items, and another one was disquisitioning on the subject of 'bitches', for which he had his own definition, and about which seemed to know an awful lot. Both of those "conversations" would have been better kept within the head.
How you talk to yourself, and how much you do so, are a large element of your identity and what you self-identify as. The Chinese American twenty percent is sane, though often identifying as one of the stuffed animals. The Italian twenty percent is varied and enormous, consisting of separate sane individuals. The lesbian element is professional. Sane too.
The Old Farts (plural) and the Honey Badger are only borderline sane.
The two people on Grant Avenue are batshit crazy.
And probably identify as artists.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
CHINESE HOSPITAL -- 東華醫院
Ten months ago I decided that I needed health insurance. So I signed up with the Chinese Community Health Plan, despite being non-Chinese, and decided that primary care would be at the clinic on the ground floor of the Chinese Hospital. The reasons for my choices were that if any one had experience dealing with stubborn old dinosaurs they would, and it was near enough to my apartment that it was incredibly convenient. Besides, I know that neighborhood, I'm there several times a week for eating, shopping, and smoking my pipe after a cup of milk tea, I speak enough city Cantonese to get by (and I might as well capitalize on that), and ninety percent of their demographic consists of individuals who won't give up all of their bad habits despite doctors orders or their kin.
The wife of one of their patients years ago would swap out hospital food for things her husband loved to eat; salt fish, fatty pork, roast duck.
Conspiratorial, ill-advised, and probably quite unhealthy.
It's pointless to argue with people like that.
So far, they've helped me dodge a bullet twice.
Everyone I've dealt with is courteous, warm, helpful, plus incredibly professional and knowledgeable. And tolerates neurotic eccentrics.
At least, I think they tolerate me; if I drive them to drink or up the wall,
they'll never let on.
東華醫院
[Chinese Hospital ('tung waa yi yuen')]
That I am still alive, still full of piss and vinegar, and still capable of irritating the spit out of certain folks (especially habitual cigar smokers and other social deviants) is entirely their fault. And I appreciate that.
The last few times I was there I did not get the lecture about the evils of tobacco that are obligatory. An oversight, I am sure. When I was recovering from my emergency surgery, it wasn't brought up. I'm certain that if I had expressed a desire to smoke afterwards they would've slapped a nicotine patch on my cheeks so fast it would make your head spin, we don't need that right now dear fellow.
A week later at the follow-up visit, my doctor didn't mention it either, and a few days after that I was just there to pick up refills at the pharmacy.
As I said, an oversight.
Chinese Hospital has ties to the Tung Wah Hospitals in Hong Kong.
Their staff are Chinese and non-Chinese, and multilingual.
There is a convenient awning at a vacant shop across the street which provides shelter from the rain for pipe-smoking Dutch Americans.
That's icing on the cake.
Plus nearby bakeries and chachantengs.
A man has to have snackies.
It's a good place.
Thank you.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
The wife of one of their patients years ago would swap out hospital food for things her husband loved to eat; salt fish, fatty pork, roast duck.
Conspiratorial, ill-advised, and probably quite unhealthy.
It's pointless to argue with people like that.
So far, they've helped me dodge a bullet twice.
Everyone I've dealt with is courteous, warm, helpful, plus incredibly professional and knowledgeable. And tolerates neurotic eccentrics.
At least, I think they tolerate me; if I drive them to drink or up the wall,
they'll never let on.
東華醫院
[Chinese Hospital ('tung waa yi yuen')]
That I am still alive, still full of piss and vinegar, and still capable of irritating the spit out of certain folks (especially habitual cigar smokers and other social deviants) is entirely their fault. And I appreciate that.
The last few times I was there I did not get the lecture about the evils of tobacco that are obligatory. An oversight, I am sure. When I was recovering from my emergency surgery, it wasn't brought up. I'm certain that if I had expressed a desire to smoke afterwards they would've slapped a nicotine patch on my cheeks so fast it would make your head spin, we don't need that right now dear fellow.
A week later at the follow-up visit, my doctor didn't mention it either, and a few days after that I was just there to pick up refills at the pharmacy.
As I said, an oversight.
Chinese Hospital has ties to the Tung Wah Hospitals in Hong Kong.
Their staff are Chinese and non-Chinese, and multilingual.
There is a convenient awning at a vacant shop across the street which provides shelter from the rain for pipe-smoking Dutch Americans.
That's icing on the cake.
Plus nearby bakeries and chachantengs.
A man has to have snackies.
It's a good place.
Thank you.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Tuesday, August 06, 2019
HONG KONG FUJIANESE
From the South China Morning Post: "Fujianese people living nearby were preparing knives and other weapons to fight anti-government protesters if they came to the neighbourhood." This is in North Point, Hong Kong, where Fujianese refugees from Indonesia ended up after fleeing anti-Chinese violence during the fifties, sixties, and seventies.
Further:
"According to conversations in chat groups set up on WeChat by Fujianese in Hong Kong and on the mainland, people from the province were being mobilised to visit Hong Kong and take revenge for the clash in the neighbourhood on Monday night."
And:
"At least five buses of Fujianese have already left for Hong Kong,” claimed one message seen by the South China Morning Post. But it was uncertain whether and when they arrived. In a video clip circulating on social media, a speaker says: “We Fujian people should go to fight back!”"
End cite.
You know what? Screw all of you 福佬.
You folks are insane.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Further:
"According to conversations in chat groups set up on WeChat by Fujianese in Hong Kong and on the mainland, people from the province were being mobilised to visit Hong Kong and take revenge for the clash in the neighbourhood on Monday night."
And:
"At least five buses of Fujianese have already left for Hong Kong,” claimed one message seen by the South China Morning Post. But it was uncertain whether and when they arrived. In a video clip circulating on social media, a speaker says: “We Fujian people should go to fight back!”"
End cite.
You know what? Screw all of you 福佬.
You folks are insane.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
BUT THAT SMELL!
There are some dishes that transcend boundaries, because more than one group wishes to claim it as their own. Goans. Straights Portuguese (Malacca, Penang, S'pore). Macanese. Eccentrics.
Even a few people in San Francisco.
Maybe just one person there.
Ballichao, for instance. The name of the dish is based on Malay 'blachang', which is a common term for stinky shrimp sauce or fish paste, used in a lot of South East Asian cooking. Cooking with it gives the perfume you remember from that disgusting flop house near Mabini.
Ballichao is more of a condimental side than a main. As with rendang and empal, there should be more than that on the table. Perhaps Portuguese Chicken (葡國雞 'pou gwok gai', for instance, plus stirfry vegetables with oyster sauce, rice, sambal, and lalap. And "old fire soup" (老火湯).
Ballichao is also made with shrimp.
Such as here: Six Recipes.
It keeps for a day or two at room temperature.
For ages in the refrigerator.
PORK BALLICHAO
Ingredients for the enamel stew-pot:
One pound pork, cut into smallish cubes.
Four tablespoons wet shrimp paste.
Two onions, minced.
Half a dozen cloves of garlic, sliced.
Two TBS chili paste (sambal oelek).
Two to four Tbs oil.
Spice paste:
Two TBS chili paste.
Two TBS Louisiana hot sauce.
Four TBS tamarind water.
One head of garlic, separated into cloves, feet trimmed.
A piece of ginger, roughly three slices.
One TBS peppercorns.
One Tsp. ground cumin.
Half Tsp. turmeric.
Half Tsp. cinnamon.
Quarter Tsp. ground clove.
One cup of white vinegar.
Put the spice paste ingredients into the blender, reserving some of the vinegar to rinse out the remaining sludge after blending well.
Reserve it all.
Sautée the pork pieces till slightly browned at the edges, but not fully cooked. Decant and set aside.
Lightly gild the garlic, add onion, fry till the onion starts to brown. Now add the chili paste and the shrimp paste and close the kitchen door if you haven't done so already.
Cook until colour and smell change, add the garlic and spice sludge, cook for a few minutes till everything is incorporated, put in the pork chunks, stir, and simmer for half an hour on low, stirring occasionally. Add a pinch of sugar at the end. When it's nice and stiff, squeeze a lemon over it.
For me, one of the main points of appeal is that preparing something like this very nicely disguises the treacherous odeur of whatever I've been smoking in the kitchen, even a nice reeky Nicaraguan robusto. My apartment mate won't notice the tobacco over everything else, and will just think "oh, the old Toad has been doing 'cuisine' again". She dislikes the fragrance of tobacco.
Last week I did a ground meat rendang preparation.
Lots of coconut milk, lots of chili paste.
Coriander, turmeric, garlic.
Too much to eat at one sitting, but I've been having a bit frequently with other food. Like ballichao, it's great with rice.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Even a few people in San Francisco.
Maybe just one person there.
Ballichao, for instance. The name of the dish is based on Malay 'blachang', which is a common term for stinky shrimp sauce or fish paste, used in a lot of South East Asian cooking. Cooking with it gives the perfume you remember from that disgusting flop house near Mabini.
Ballichao is more of a condimental side than a main. As with rendang and empal, there should be more than that on the table. Perhaps Portuguese Chicken (葡國雞 'pou gwok gai', for instance, plus stirfry vegetables with oyster sauce, rice, sambal, and lalap. And "old fire soup" (老火湯).
Ballichao is also made with shrimp.
Such as here: Six Recipes.
It keeps for a day or two at room temperature.
For ages in the refrigerator.
PORK BALLICHAO
Ingredients for the enamel stew-pot:
One pound pork, cut into smallish cubes.
Four tablespoons wet shrimp paste.
Two onions, minced.
Half a dozen cloves of garlic, sliced.
Two TBS chili paste (sambal oelek).
Two to four Tbs oil.
Spice paste:
Two TBS chili paste.
Two TBS Louisiana hot sauce.
Four TBS tamarind water.
One head of garlic, separated into cloves, feet trimmed.
A piece of ginger, roughly three slices.
One TBS peppercorns.
One Tsp. ground cumin.
Half Tsp. turmeric.
Half Tsp. cinnamon.
Quarter Tsp. ground clove.
One cup of white vinegar.
Put the spice paste ingredients into the blender, reserving some of the vinegar to rinse out the remaining sludge after blending well.
Reserve it all.
Sautée the pork pieces till slightly browned at the edges, but not fully cooked. Decant and set aside.
Lightly gild the garlic, add onion, fry till the onion starts to brown. Now add the chili paste and the shrimp paste and close the kitchen door if you haven't done so already.
Cook until colour and smell change, add the garlic and spice sludge, cook for a few minutes till everything is incorporated, put in the pork chunks, stir, and simmer for half an hour on low, stirring occasionally. Add a pinch of sugar at the end. When it's nice and stiff, squeeze a lemon over it.
For me, one of the main points of appeal is that preparing something like this very nicely disguises the treacherous odeur of whatever I've been smoking in the kitchen, even a nice reeky Nicaraguan robusto. My apartment mate won't notice the tobacco over everything else, and will just think "oh, the old Toad has been doing 'cuisine' again". She dislikes the fragrance of tobacco.
Last week I did a ground meat rendang preparation.
Lots of coconut milk, lots of chili paste.
Coriander, turmeric, garlic.
Too much to eat at one sitting, but I've been having a bit frequently with other food. Like ballichao, it's great with rice.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
BIAS: ALWAYS RIGHT!
Regarding Racism, and reverse racism: There are behaviours in every group that will mirror stereotype. This does not mean that the stereotype holds true for everyone in that group, or even most. The only function of a stereotype, when expressed, is mental shorthand.
Laziness.
That having been said, Dutch people are stingy and stubborn, obsessively detail oriented, and always right. If you disagree, they'll argue with you until you concede the point. Even if it takes all evening.
I will speak ill of my own group most, AND employ all the stereotypes.
Because they are closest to me, I can get away with it, and often, from my perspective, they need it more; their occasional stupidity and misbehaviour reflects badly on me. It isn't because I'm saying "not all of us are like that", it's group-specific, because I wish to express "dammit guys, you're making all of us look like asshats", and "stop embarrassing ME, you fools".
What are you? Savages? Illiterates?
As well as "step away before I slap you".
And "get OFF my lawn".
"Dutch people are all stingy and stubborn, obsessively detail oriented, and always right. If you disagree, they'll argue with you until you finally concede the point.
Even if it takes all evening."
I am Dutch. And American. And Caucasian, although there is definitely a trace of something native American in the mix, and there might be a few other things from late mediaeval times there too. So when I criticize the behaviours of other people, it is from that perspective and with those pertinent details in mind. Usually.
Because I speak Cantonese, as well as mediocre Indonesian, and totally fractured Hindi (Hinglish), plus bits and pieces of other languages, I am slightly more aware of certain cultural characteristics (both good and bad) of some people than most folks are. On a few occassions I will bring those up. Yeah, I'll try to be diplomatic. I frequently do not wish to cause offense.
Cantonese people are admirably stubborn; they're like the Dutch in that regard.
Punjabis and Bengalis, when bored, may start a ruckus; just for funsies.
Turks and Persians can be very charming.
When white people do something stupid and show their ass in public I will often be more blunt. For crapsakes, you blistering pustules, STOP DOING THAT!
If you actually want everyone to be like us, kindly act in a way that sets an admirable example. Be courteous, be gallant, forthright, and above all, act like gentlemen! Don't be so golddarned iggerunt! Especially in public. You can be an unwashed barbarian and invade Rome in your basement.
Where no one can see you.
Please keep your redneckism in redneckistan.
This ain't a damned trailer park.
Hold the effing door!
Don't grunt.
Also, all of you goddamned Christians, start acting like Christians.
Not like Mitch McConnell.
Okay?!?
Oh, and by the way, in case it slipped by you, Dutch people are stingy and stubborn, obsessively detail oriented, and always right. If you disagree, they'll argue with you until you concede the point.
We also remember what you did wrong.
It's impossible to forget.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Laziness.
That having been said, Dutch people are stingy and stubborn, obsessively detail oriented, and always right. If you disagree, they'll argue with you until you concede the point. Even if it takes all evening.
I will speak ill of my own group most, AND employ all the stereotypes.
Because they are closest to me, I can get away with it, and often, from my perspective, they need it more; their occasional stupidity and misbehaviour reflects badly on me. It isn't because I'm saying "not all of us are like that", it's group-specific, because I wish to express "dammit guys, you're making all of us look like asshats", and "stop embarrassing ME, you fools".
What are you? Savages? Illiterates?
As well as "step away before I slap you".
And "get OFF my lawn".
"Dutch people are all stingy and stubborn, obsessively detail oriented, and always right. If you disagree, they'll argue with you until you finally concede the point.
Even if it takes all evening."
I am Dutch. And American. And Caucasian, although there is definitely a trace of something native American in the mix, and there might be a few other things from late mediaeval times there too. So when I criticize the behaviours of other people, it is from that perspective and with those pertinent details in mind. Usually.
Because I speak Cantonese, as well as mediocre Indonesian, and totally fractured Hindi (Hinglish), plus bits and pieces of other languages, I am slightly more aware of certain cultural characteristics (both good and bad) of some people than most folks are. On a few occassions I will bring those up. Yeah, I'll try to be diplomatic. I frequently do not wish to cause offense.
Cantonese people are admirably stubborn; they're like the Dutch in that regard.
Punjabis and Bengalis, when bored, may start a ruckus; just for funsies.
Turks and Persians can be very charming.
When white people do something stupid and show their ass in public I will often be more blunt. For crapsakes, you blistering pustules, STOP DOING THAT!
If you actually want everyone to be like us, kindly act in a way that sets an admirable example. Be courteous, be gallant, forthright, and above all, act like gentlemen! Don't be so golddarned iggerunt! Especially in public. You can be an unwashed barbarian and invade Rome in your basement.
Where no one can see you.
Please keep your redneckism in redneckistan.
This ain't a damned trailer park.
Hold the effing door!
Don't grunt.
Also, all of you goddamned Christians, start acting like Christians.
Not like Mitch McConnell.
Okay?!?
Oh, and by the way, in case it slipped by you, Dutch people are stingy and stubborn, obsessively detail oriented, and always right. If you disagree, they'll argue with you until you concede the point.
We also remember what you did wrong.
It's impossible to forget.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
A CHANGE OF FEATHERS
For many people the most significant times of their lives are the last year of kindergarten shading into the first year or two of grammar school, and the last few years of high school followed by the early college years. Chronologically. Those, really, are the formative memories of a social person. Mid single digits, late teens.
In the middle of the night you may remember incidents and people. The comfortable childish socialization of kindergarten was replaced by a different crowd, some of whom were older, taller, and frightening. The need to learn things was impressed upon you, and with luck by the end of that first real school year, some of it would have sunk in. You were charmed by the tale of the two frogs in your first reader -- but what happened to them after multi -syllabic words got introduced, where is the narrative continuity? -- and the ekster being disruptive and adventurous, was a new friend that the authors of those texts sadly neglected in later lessons. Curiosity taunted one.
What happened to the ekster?
An ekster is a magpie, by the way. The illustration was altogether lousy, one would not have recognized it in real life.
By mid to late teens the people around you were different. As were the texts. You were already reading the unapproved stuff, unrecquired, yet never-the-less crucial. Some of your friends were too, and those would be the people whom you would later still want contact with, friendship from.
You remember early grammar school companions, late high school friends, fellow college students.
Maintaining those relationships was a different matter.
Shortly after one o'clock I woke from a long nap with the faces of people from long ago still in my mind. Folks I have not seen in years, and haven't thought about in most of that time. But I appreciate their being there, then.
Another significant time of life is late at night, when you are on the front steps of your building having a smoke. The street is empty at that time, not even a late night drunk stumbling home or insane person voicing off. At the intersection further up the hill a dogowner crosses with his leashed beast, from one street over there's an unrecognizable sound, but otherwise all is still and quiet.
And cold. San Francisco in early August is frigid at night.
In my younger years it was tee-shirt weather then.
Different place, different climate.
Eksters.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
In the middle of the night you may remember incidents and people. The comfortable childish socialization of kindergarten was replaced by a different crowd, some of whom were older, taller, and frightening. The need to learn things was impressed upon you, and with luck by the end of that first real school year, some of it would have sunk in. You were charmed by the tale of the two frogs in your first reader -- but what happened to them after multi -syllabic words got introduced, where is the narrative continuity? -- and the ekster being disruptive and adventurous, was a new friend that the authors of those texts sadly neglected in later lessons. Curiosity taunted one.
What happened to the ekster?
An ekster is a magpie, by the way. The illustration was altogether lousy, one would not have recognized it in real life.
By mid to late teens the people around you were different. As were the texts. You were already reading the unapproved stuff, unrecquired, yet never-the-less crucial. Some of your friends were too, and those would be the people whom you would later still want contact with, friendship from.
You remember early grammar school companions, late high school friends, fellow college students.
Maintaining those relationships was a different matter.
Shortly after one o'clock I woke from a long nap with the faces of people from long ago still in my mind. Folks I have not seen in years, and haven't thought about in most of that time. But I appreciate their being there, then.
Another significant time of life is late at night, when you are on the front steps of your building having a smoke. The street is empty at that time, not even a late night drunk stumbling home or insane person voicing off. At the intersection further up the hill a dogowner crosses with his leashed beast, from one street over there's an unrecognizable sound, but otherwise all is still and quiet.
And cold. San Francisco in early August is frigid at night.
In my younger years it was tee-shirt weather then.
Different place, different climate.
Eksters.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Monday, August 05, 2019
THESE QUESTIONS THREE
One of the things which my recent hospital stay impressed upon me was the rather limited conversational possibilities when you're waking up from an operation and battling infections. Every ten or fifteen minutes someone will come into your room, say 'hi', look at the machines that go beep, and ask one of four questions.
Always the same four, usually a different person.
1) Have you passed gas yet?
2) Have you moved your bowels?
3) Have you urinated today?
4) 嗨，我聽過你識講廣東話。眞嘅咩？
The answer 'no' leads to confusion. As well as pills you did not want. Well, not for the fourth question, not the pills. But however you answer, the resultant conversational exchange is uncommonly narrow-focused.
The first three questions make one think of an English Public School.
In retrospect, I understand that there is a point to the inquiries, but at the time it seemed more than a little repetitive. Intrusive, too.
By the end of the second day I simply lied.
An Asperger syndrome person, fighting sepsis and resultant high fever, has other things on his mind than eliminative events. Everything between my sternum and my scrotum was stressed out. The food seemed quite horrible. Meaning, really, no appetite whatsoever, no inclination to eat, that tube in my arm is keeping me nicely hydrated, thank you, but a cup of coffee might make me do what you want.
I have since then realized that all of the first three questions are perfectly adequate social icebreakers, better than any remark about the weather or politics, and safer than mentioning our current president.
I'll start employing them.
The fourth question is very situation specific.
The man with Aspergers speaks Cantonese.
Not everyone does.
There's one other question which the staff down at Chinese Hospital also ask, but under somewhat better circumstances; what is your date of birth? The reason, I'm sure, is to see if I still have all my marbles or am finally losing the ball.
The moment I my faculties start slipping, I'll have it tattooed on my arm.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Always the same four, usually a different person.
1) Have you passed gas yet?
2) Have you moved your bowels?
3) Have you urinated today?
4) 嗨，我聽過你識講廣東話。眞嘅咩？
The answer 'no' leads to confusion. As well as pills you did not want. Well, not for the fourth question, not the pills. But however you answer, the resultant conversational exchange is uncommonly narrow-focused.
The first three questions make one think of an English Public School.
In retrospect, I understand that there is a point to the inquiries, but at the time it seemed more than a little repetitive. Intrusive, too.
By the end of the second day I simply lied.
An Asperger syndrome person, fighting sepsis and resultant high fever, has other things on his mind than eliminative events. Everything between my sternum and my scrotum was stressed out. The food seemed quite horrible. Meaning, really, no appetite whatsoever, no inclination to eat, that tube in my arm is keeping me nicely hydrated, thank you, but a cup of coffee might make me do what you want.
I have since then realized that all of the first three questions are perfectly adequate social icebreakers, better than any remark about the weather or politics, and safer than mentioning our current president.
I'll start employing them.
The fourth question is very situation specific.
The man with Aspergers speaks Cantonese.
Not everyone does.
There's one other question which the staff down at Chinese Hospital also ask, but under somewhat better circumstances; what is your date of birth? The reason, I'm sure, is to see if I still have all my marbles or am finally losing the ball.
The moment I my faculties start slipping, I'll have it tattooed on my arm.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Sunday, August 04, 2019
IT'S POSSESSED!
Nah, not going to see what's under the tarpaulin. It sounds female and angry, and has a well-developed vocabulary. Many of the itch, it, uck, and unt words and related expressions. Plus, the tarp is quivering. Fiercely. Not an untypical welcome back to the hood after a day at work. I am hoping that tomorrow morning when the little kids arrive at the daycare place, that tarp is gone. They do not need to be exposed to such a wide spectrum of the human condition at that age.
Other than registering the phraseology from underneath the tarp, I paid it no attention. It's recumbent, there's no danger of direct eye contact, it won't follow me down the street screaming obscenities.
As time goes by, I appreciate the under six crowd more. There is innocence and likability there, and great promise. They could end up little geniuses, or just regular decent folks, valued members of the community, nice people, or, like miss Angry Tarpaulin, bitter dysfunctional nutballs. But the point is they can become so many things, and they haven't yet manifested many disturbing and disruptive behaviours.
Other than occasionally being far too noisy.
And, usually, they don't defecate on the sidewalk.
Elsewhere that isn't a major consideration.
This is the SF Bay Area in 2019.
Besides "Mademoiselle Daemonic Blue Tarp", what was most particularly evident was the lovely aroma of Korean Barbecue from a Polk Street restaurant, noseable two blocks away. Divine.
Welcome home.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Other than registering the phraseology from underneath the tarp, I paid it no attention. It's recumbent, there's no danger of direct eye contact, it won't follow me down the street screaming obscenities.
As time goes by, I appreciate the under six crowd more. There is innocence and likability there, and great promise. They could end up little geniuses, or just regular decent folks, valued members of the community, nice people, or, like miss Angry Tarpaulin, bitter dysfunctional nutballs. But the point is they can become so many things, and they haven't yet manifested many disturbing and disruptive behaviours.
Other than occasionally being far too noisy.
And, usually, they don't defecate on the sidewalk.
Elsewhere that isn't a major consideration.
This is the SF Bay Area in 2019.
Besides "Mademoiselle Daemonic Blue Tarp", what was most particularly evident was the lovely aroma of Korean Barbecue from a Polk Street restaurant, noseable two blocks away. Divine.
Welcome home.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
BUT OTHERWISE ANONYMOUS
My apartment mate is a very considerate and forbearing woman. She's been an absolute pillar during these past few weeks, and six months ago when I had the coronary stent put in, she was totally solid too. So, because she dislikes the smell of tobacco smoke, I have been going out to the front steps for a puff now and then. Which is how I came to realize something strange, beautiful even.
[During the days when she works and I don't, however, I close her bedroom door and open the windows.]
At night, after dark, you can tell that there are people a block or more away in the thick fog by the light from their cell-phone screens. Even if nothing else is visible at that distance, the glowing blueish white rectangles give them away.
Years ago it would be the flame flares from cigarettes.
But those are much rarer now.
Grey velvety mists, blueish rectangles.
Extraordinarily lovely.
I do not have a cell-phone.
I'm probably invisible.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
[During the days when she works and I don't, however, I close her bedroom door and open the windows.]
At night, after dark, you can tell that there are people a block or more away in the thick fog by the light from their cell-phone screens. Even if nothing else is visible at that distance, the glowing blueish white rectangles give them away.
Years ago it would be the flame flares from cigarettes.
But those are much rarer now.
Grey velvety mists, blueish rectangles.
Extraordinarily lovely.
I do not have a cell-phone.
I'm probably invisible.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Saturday, August 03, 2019
HE'S BENGALI, SHE'S CANTONESE, I'M DUTCH
First day back on the job. One of the regulars remarked that I looked gaunt. Well, yeah. I lost nearly another ten pounds over the past month. And I feel gaunt. But my visual appetite is just fine, so I've really been enjoying Mr. Bhattacharya's lovely food photos and recipes on the Anglo Indian forum. Gorgeous GORGEOUS pictures of mutton curries, among many other delicious looking things.
My actual physical appetite, however, has not yet recovered.
And I'd rather read about food than the news right now.
Another mass shooting in the United States.
Petrol bombs, teargas in Hong Kong.
One of Mr. Bhattacharya's delightful recipes:
SPICY MUTTON AND POTATO CURRY
Recipe : Mix mutton pcs (300gms) with 2 chopped medium sized onions, 1 chopped small tomato, 1 & 1/2 tbsps ginger garlic paste, little less than 1 tsp each of turmeric & Kashmiri red chili powder and salt to taste. Boil 4-5 small potatoes, peel off skin, fry golden brown on hot cooking oil & keep aside (when cool, prick the potatoes with fork lightly at all sides) On same heated 3 tbsps cooking oil put the mutton mixed with all ingredients and fry well to dryness, till oil separates then put it inside pressure cooker with 1 & 1/2 cups of water. From first whistle give 8 mins time, let it cool then transfer it back to wok, keep the boiled fried potatoes in the bottom of the wok so that the curry seeps in, stir after few mins, add few broken green chilies, sprinkle 1/4 tsp of garam masala powder, stir and done, it's ready to serve.
If you are in the U.S., 300 grammes is slightly more than half a pound.
I'd go for mutton on the bone for more flavour, with some fat. Kashmiri red chili powder is made, I believe, from sweet mild chilies, so high quality paprika would probably work. Or dump some guajillos secos in the spice grinder. Instead of Delhwi style garam masala, use one which has plenty of cinnamon and green cardamom, but in any case the aromatics; Delhwi garam masala is basically coriander, cumin, black pepper, and used towards the beginning.
Serve with plain rice and parathas.
And something vegetable.
The photo is absolutely mouthwatering. Food magazine quality. I would paste it here, but that would be too much copy-cattery.
In other matters, the Asperger-syndrome apartment mate just got off the phone with her Asperger boyfriend; I am now listening to a long rant about how he far too often brings up the fact that he's Jewish, and, as a Jew, is constantly worried about survival. It's a thing with his people, okay?
She's heard it very many times. She's Chinese American, and they have their own problems in that regard. Remember Vincent Chin?
How about Dennis Kearney?
I would now like to remind everyone that I am Dutch. Dutch American. We worry about getting flooded. Near-constantly! That is why this apartment is uphill. That way, even if the shoddy American-made dykes give way (we do have dykes in this city, don't we?), I'll still be several feet above the swirling floodwaters. Fifty years from now the sea level will be higher, because of global warming (caused by you people), it will be lapping at my downhill neighbors' doorstep, not mine. Maybe that's why they're selling the building after all these years; they finally did the math.
Floods are a serious problem!
Mary Mapes Dodge and her truly horrible book have a lot to answer for.
I seldom bring it up, because y'all should realize this by now.
All of you flood-causing non-Dutch foreigners.
You're heartless. Inconsiderate!
Global warmers.
Dinner tonight: a cup of strong milk tea. Cookies. Cheroot.
Might have something else later, near ten o'clock.
There's still sausage and nimboo achar.
And some French bread.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
My actual physical appetite, however, has not yet recovered.
And I'd rather read about food than the news right now.
Another mass shooting in the United States.
Petrol bombs, teargas in Hong Kong.
One of Mr. Bhattacharya's delightful recipes:
SPICY MUTTON AND POTATO CURRY
Recipe : Mix mutton pcs (300gms) with 2 chopped medium sized onions, 1 chopped small tomato, 1 & 1/2 tbsps ginger garlic paste, little less than 1 tsp each of turmeric & Kashmiri red chili powder and salt to taste. Boil 4-5 small potatoes, peel off skin, fry golden brown on hot cooking oil & keep aside (when cool, prick the potatoes with fork lightly at all sides) On same heated 3 tbsps cooking oil put the mutton mixed with all ingredients and fry well to dryness, till oil separates then put it inside pressure cooker with 1 & 1/2 cups of water. From first whistle give 8 mins time, let it cool then transfer it back to wok, keep the boiled fried potatoes in the bottom of the wok so that the curry seeps in, stir after few mins, add few broken green chilies, sprinkle 1/4 tsp of garam masala powder, stir and done, it's ready to serve.
If you are in the U.S., 300 grammes is slightly more than half a pound.
I'd go for mutton on the bone for more flavour, with some fat. Kashmiri red chili powder is made, I believe, from sweet mild chilies, so high quality paprika would probably work. Or dump some guajillos secos in the spice grinder. Instead of Delhwi style garam masala, use one which has plenty of cinnamon and green cardamom, but in any case the aromatics; Delhwi garam masala is basically coriander, cumin, black pepper, and used towards the beginning.
Serve with plain rice and parathas.
And something vegetable.
The photo is absolutely mouthwatering. Food magazine quality. I would paste it here, but that would be too much copy-cattery.
In other matters, the Asperger-syndrome apartment mate just got off the phone with her Asperger boyfriend; I am now listening to a long rant about how he far too often brings up the fact that he's Jewish, and, as a Jew, is constantly worried about survival. It's a thing with his people, okay?
She's heard it very many times. She's Chinese American, and they have their own problems in that regard. Remember Vincent Chin?
How about Dennis Kearney?
I would now like to remind everyone that I am Dutch. Dutch American. We worry about getting flooded. Near-constantly! That is why this apartment is uphill. That way, even if the shoddy American-made dykes give way (we do have dykes in this city, don't we?), I'll still be several feet above the swirling floodwaters. Fifty years from now the sea level will be higher, because of global warming (caused by you people), it will be lapping at my downhill neighbors' doorstep, not mine. Maybe that's why they're selling the building after all these years; they finally did the math.
Floods are a serious problem!
Mary Mapes Dodge and her truly horrible book have a lot to answer for.
I seldom bring it up, because y'all should realize this by now.
All of you flood-causing non-Dutch foreigners.
You're heartless. Inconsiderate!
Global warmers.
Dinner tonight: a cup of strong milk tea. Cookies. Cheroot.
Might have something else later, near ten o'clock.
There's still sausage and nimboo achar.
And some French bread.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Friday, August 02, 2019
BUSY MINDS ARE THE DEVIL'S WORKSHOP
For the past ten days, while convalescing, this blogger has kept himself busy with a lot of reading, taking walks to improve stamina, belly-aching (both literally and figuratively), and cooking to disguise the reek of tobacco before his very patient apartment mate comes home. She does not smoke, hates the smell, and thinks of smokers as somehow lacking moral fibre.
I've got plenty of moral fibre! I avoid associating with drug addicts and loose women, and years ago I gave up on watching smut or dealing with Christians! And I shave and shower regularly. Soap and water.
Nor do I abuse stuffed animals or small children.
I'm fond of the little dingoes.
Distantly.
Three subjects in particular have kept me reading.
HONG HONG RIOTS
A good source for news has been the South China Morning Post, which among other things has mentioned the unseemly pressure from Mainland Authorities on the HK government to do something. Anything. Water cannons. Arrests. More police. And above all, stop allowing the Taiwanese gangsters, the United States government, and English imperialists, to influence events or encourage the severely misguided activists. They've also detailed those activists' points of view, which is that A) There must be an independent investigation into police violence, B) That the proposed extradition law shouldn't be just tabled, but scrapped entirely, C) More actual democracy, as was promised before the handover years ago.
Possible reasons for so many people to join the protests have been housing prices and a very American lack of opportunity and democracy. There is, obviously, a huge amount of frustration. When you combine that with rock hard Cantonese stubbornness and a tendency to push envelopes over a cliff, mayhem may result.
Sun Yatsen was from that part of the world.
So was 洪秀全。
ANGLO INDIAN FOOD
Lovely food photos, great recipes, spirited people. It all looks fabulously delicious, and the commentary before and after the recipe postings makes for great reading and insight into people's present and past. Almost all the dishes detailed on that page include chilies. It reminded me of much that I've enjoyed eating or cooking in the past. And sometimes still do.
As all of Yesterday's essays here show.
A mental feast.
PIPES AND TOBACCO
Several of the members of that Facebook forum are quite literate, highly intelligent and very liberal (which is why I've friended them over the last several years), and their input about pipes and tobacco has been witty and informative. And yes, there are lovely pictures of pipes, both restored pieces and beautifully made new items. Quite a few are talented craftsmen.
Not all of them are men.
Some are women.
One of those members has a bee in her bonnet about Halloween, which is her favourite holiday. She's probably putting up the decorations this week, and disturbing her neighbors with that. In her favour, I should mention that with age comes sanity, and she seems to have given up on the aromatics she used to smoke. It was because of her that I sampled Cult Blood Red Moon -- not as bad as I thought it would be -- which is a cherry froo froo mixture, extremely popular among pretentious hipsters.
I once also tried pumpkin pie pipe tobacco.
It was seasonal, and surreal.
Terrifying.
The walking has been for more blocks every day. The folks at the hospital told me that it was good for me, and would help me fully recover faster, as well as greatly benefit the eliminative processes, concerning which they evinced a fascination bordering on obsession.
They're almost English in that regard, really.
Fortunately, they aren't into cold showers.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
I've got plenty of moral fibre! I avoid associating with drug addicts and loose women, and years ago I gave up on watching smut or dealing with Christians! And I shave and shower regularly. Soap and water.
Nor do I abuse stuffed animals or small children.
I'm fond of the little dingoes.
Distantly.
Three subjects in particular have kept me reading.
HONG HONG RIOTS
A good source for news has been the South China Morning Post, which among other things has mentioned the unseemly pressure from Mainland Authorities on the HK government to do something. Anything. Water cannons. Arrests. More police. And above all, stop allowing the Taiwanese gangsters, the United States government, and English imperialists, to influence events or encourage the severely misguided activists. They've also detailed those activists' points of view, which is that A) There must be an independent investigation into police violence, B) That the proposed extradition law shouldn't be just tabled, but scrapped entirely, C) More actual democracy, as was promised before the handover years ago.
Possible reasons for so many people to join the protests have been housing prices and a very American lack of opportunity and democracy. There is, obviously, a huge amount of frustration. When you combine that with rock hard Cantonese stubbornness and a tendency to push envelopes over a cliff, mayhem may result.
Sun Yatsen was from that part of the world.
So was 洪秀全。
ANGLO INDIAN FOOD
Lovely food photos, great recipes, spirited people. It all looks fabulously delicious, and the commentary before and after the recipe postings makes for great reading and insight into people's present and past. Almost all the dishes detailed on that page include chilies. It reminded me of much that I've enjoyed eating or cooking in the past. And sometimes still do.
As all of Yesterday's essays here show.
A mental feast.
PIPES AND TOBACCO
Several of the members of that Facebook forum are quite literate, highly intelligent and very liberal (which is why I've friended them over the last several years), and their input about pipes and tobacco has been witty and informative. And yes, there are lovely pictures of pipes, both restored pieces and beautifully made new items. Quite a few are talented craftsmen.
Not all of them are men.
Some are women.
One of those members has a bee in her bonnet about Halloween, which is her favourite holiday. She's probably putting up the decorations this week, and disturbing her neighbors with that. In her favour, I should mention that with age comes sanity, and she seems to have given up on the aromatics she used to smoke. It was because of her that I sampled Cult Blood Red Moon -- not as bad as I thought it would be -- which is a cherry froo froo mixture, extremely popular among pretentious hipsters.
I once also tried pumpkin pie pipe tobacco.
It was seasonal, and surreal.
Terrifying.
The walking has been for more blocks every day. The folks at the hospital told me that it was good for me, and would help me fully recover faster, as well as greatly benefit the eliminative processes, concerning which they evinced a fascination bordering on obsession.
They're almost English in that regard, really.
Fortunately, they aren't into cold showers.
==========================================================================
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Thursday, August 01, 2019
BURN
While simmering vegetables with some meat and coconut curry for dinner, the following lovely statement caught my eye:
"The president -- this comes as no surprise -- really doesn’t know what he’s talking about. But maybe you could ask his son-in-law, who’s a slumlord there, if he wants to talk about rodent infestations."
------Nancy Pelosi
This in response to Donald Trump's recent idiotic and juvenile hate-tweets regarding Baltimore, a city that probably didn't vote for him.
Jared Kushner’s firm owns thousands of apartments in the Baltimore area and has racked up hundreds of code violations. Black mold and rodents.
Jared, do you want to talk about rodent infestations?
Slumlord; an apposite term.
I think I'll enjoy my dinner. I'm just wondering, should I cook some noodles or simply have it with crusty sourdough?
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
"The president -- this comes as no surprise -- really doesn’t know what he’s talking about. But maybe you could ask his son-in-law, who’s a slumlord there, if he wants to talk about rodent infestations."
------Nancy Pelosi
This in response to Donald Trump's recent idiotic and juvenile hate-tweets regarding Baltimore, a city that probably didn't vote for him.
Jared Kushner’s firm owns thousands of apartments in the Baltimore area and has racked up hundreds of code violations. Black mold and rodents.
Jared, do you want to talk about rodent infestations?
Slumlord; an apposite term.
I think I'll enjoy my dinner. I'm just wondering, should I cook some noodles or simply have it with crusty sourdough?
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
PULI FRY -- FRAZZLED MEAT WITH TAMARIND
The following dish is Indonesian Dutch as well as Anglo Indian. They call it 'puli fry' and I've entirely forgotten what we call it. Dammit.
PULI FRY
Half pound meat or slightly more, small chunk cut.
One big onion, sliced.
Tablespoon chili paste.
Teaspoon ground coriander.
Two cloves garlic, mashed.
Equivalent amount ginger, ditto.
One cup tamarind water.
Mix the meat with the chili paste, coriander, garlic, and ginger. Fry the sliced onion golden in sufficient oil, add the meat, fry till fragrant. Pour in the tamarind water and cook till thick. Adding a pinch of ground nutmeg while frying the meat is my recommendation here. The chili paste I use is usually sambal oelek, of which there is always a big jar in the refrigerator.
There's a reprinted late nineteenth century Dutch cookbook of Indonesian food in one of my bookcases, which I cannot find (I just looked, this place is a mess), which has essentially the same recipe. I forgot what we call it. Dutch websites are NO help. Pamela C. might know the Malay name.
Old school. Once very popular.
Because it's so easy.
Like empal.
But wet.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
PULI FRY
Half pound meat or slightly more, small chunk cut.
One big onion, sliced.
Tablespoon chili paste.
Teaspoon ground coriander.
Two cloves garlic, mashed.
Equivalent amount ginger, ditto.
One cup tamarind water.
Mix the meat with the chili paste, coriander, garlic, and ginger. Fry the sliced onion golden in sufficient oil, add the meat, fry till fragrant. Pour in the tamarind water and cook till thick. Adding a pinch of ground nutmeg while frying the meat is my recommendation here. The chili paste I use is usually sambal oelek, of which there is always a big jar in the refrigerator.
There's a reprinted late nineteenth century Dutch cookbook of Indonesian food in one of my bookcases, which I cannot find (I just looked, this place is a mess), which has essentially the same recipe. I forgot what we call it. Dutch websites are NO help. Pamela C. might know the Malay name.
Old school. Once very popular.
Because it's so easy.
Like empal.
But wet.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
VINDALOO, BALLICHAO, JHINGA MASALA, KONKANI FISH CURRY, KHARI BISCUIT, AND SALI MARGI; THINK OF IRANI CAFÉS IN THE FORT
Sunday lunch should be fun and filling. I work on Sunday, so that's quite out of the question. My Sundays are on Wednesday. Which was yesterday, but I did not have any of the lovely food described below.
Years ago I often did stuff like this.
I'm older and lazier now.
[Note: the snarky Parsee grandma I mentioned elsewhere on this blogsite will know where and when these recipes are from. So will the bookseller.]
VINDALOO
Ingredients:
Two pounds pork, large cubes.
One onion, chopped.
Quarter cup of cilantro.
Marinade:
Quarter cup vinegar, tablespoon sugar, tablespoon ground pepper, plus one or two green cardamom pods, cloves, bay leaves, green chilies.
Masala:
Tablespoon chili paste.
Tablespoon ground coriander.
One teaspoon cinnamon powder.
Half teaspoon ground cumin.
Ginger and garlic.
Quarter cup vinegar.
Quarter cup strong tamarind water.
Mix the ingredients of masala smooth in a blender. Marinate meat for several hours in marinade.
Brown onions, add the masala, cook till the oil separates. Add meat and marinade, heat to boil, add two or three cups of water, turn flame low. Simmer for a few hours. Add the cilantro, remove from heat.
Serve with plain white rice.
And sourdough bread.
SHRIMP BALLICHAO
Ingredients:
Two pounds shrimp, shelled and veined.
One cup minced onion.
Half cup chopped tomato.
Masala:
Three tablespoons chili paste.
One tablespoon golden sugar.
One teaspoon garam masala.
Half a teaspoon ground black pepper.
Quarter teaspoon each ground cumin, turmeric, salt, cayenne.
Half a cup of vinegar, half a cup of tamarind water.
Put everything except shrimp, onion, and tomato in a blender. Fry the prawns a scant two minutes, remove and drain. Brown onions, add spices, then add the tomatoes. Cook till blended well and thick. Add the prawns and fry till done.
Sourdough bread.
JHINGA MASALA
Ingredients:
Two pounds large fresh prawns.
Half cup oil, half cup finely chopped onions.
Masala:
Three tablespoons chili paste.
Half tablespoon turmeric.
Half teaspoon each: paprika, cinnamon powder.
Quarter teaspoon clove powder.
Plenty chopped ginger, a little garlic.
Four tablespoons vinegar.
Four tablespoons tamarind water.
Put spices, vinegar, and tamarind water in the blender, add water if necessary.
Fry onions golden, add the masala, cook till the oil separates.
Add prawns, cook till done.
Plain white rice and sourdough bread.
KONKANI FISH CURRY
Ingredients:
Two pounds firm fish, big chunks.
Half cup each: Oil, chopped onions, chopped tomatoes.
One and a half cup coconut milk (more or less one can).
Half dozen green peppers, slit and seeded.
Masala:
Three tablespoons chilipaste.
One tablespoon ground coriander.
One teaspoon each: ground cumin, turmeric, sweet chili powder.
Minced ginger, minced garlic.
Half cup of tamarind water.
Put the chili paste, spices, ginger, garlic, and tamarind water in the blender.
Brown the onions. Add tomatoes and masala, fry fiercely for two minutes. Add half the coconut milk and cook till oil separates. Put in the fish, green chilies, and some water. Cook for five minutes. Bring to a boil, and remove from heat.
Rice. Bread.
KHARI BISCUIT
Ingredients:
One cup rice flour.
One cup unbleached flour.
One cup atta flour.
Half cup ghee.
Teaspoon salt.
[Oh heck, simply use frozen puff pastry, that's what everyone does.]
Mix the flours with cold water, ghee, salt, and spices (cayenne, ground cumin). Chill for an hour. Then roll out and cut rectangles. Fold over four times. Chill again. Either fry, or bake at four hundred Fahrenheit ten-fifteen minutes, then 325 to 350 for about twenty minutes till gold and crisp.
Brushing the top with butter is optional, but if you sprinkled cumin seeds on the dough, it is essential.
Have these with masala chai.
SALI MARGI
Ingredients:
One chicken, cut into eight pieces.
Two onions, finely sliced.
Two large potatoes, peeled, shredded.
Masala:
Mashed garlic and ginger, one tablespoon each.
One tablespoon ground coriander seed.
One teaspoon ground cumin seed.
One teaspoon cayenne.
One teaspoon salt.
One piece of cinnamon.
Pinch sugar.
Rub the chicken with the garlic and ginger plus the ground coriander, cumin, cayenne, and salt. Cover and put it in the refrigerator for several hours.
In a pan fry the onion golden. Add the chicken pieces and cinnamon, and brown all over. Add a splash of water, add the pinch of sugar, cover and keep on low heat for an hour. Put the chicken pieces and gravy on a large serving platter.
Fry the potatoes and strew over and alongside as a garnish.
AFTERWORD
I have never been to Bombay. But years ago I delightedly discovered food columnist Busybee, who wrote for several newspapers. His essays were little gems filled with happy gustational tidbits. Which nicely augmented my reading about Indian food, and experimentation over the hot stove. Among the things he mentioned where Irani Cafés, usually corner locations, with rickety chairs, and ceiling fans, marble topped tables, and very strong chai. As well as toasty melted butter buns, and an idiosyncratic food selection. Places where you could spend long hours with a refreshment, writing the next great American novel. Kind of like Italian coffeeshops in North Beach before all the uniquely artistic spiritual people descended.
Parsees, like the snarky grandma and Busybee, tend to be ecclectic eaters. Sadly there is no Parsee restaurant in the Bay Area, and those places which claim to offer such fare are usually run by unscrupulous salesmen types. Mediocre dal-gosht is NOT dhansak.
Busybee liked to drink rum and gin. Snarky Grandma sometimes has a bit of Scotch. I myself am fond of Scotch, but have not touched any since the beginning of this year, because it combines badly with medication; on the other hand, like Busybee I still smoke. But a pipe, not chain ciggies.
And I too like a nice greasy biriani.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Years ago I often did stuff like this.
I'm older and lazier now.
[Note: the snarky Parsee grandma I mentioned elsewhere on this blogsite will know where and when these recipes are from. So will the bookseller.]
VINDALOO
Ingredients:
Two pounds pork, large cubes.
One onion, chopped.
Quarter cup of cilantro.
Marinade:
Quarter cup vinegar, tablespoon sugar, tablespoon ground pepper, plus one or two green cardamom pods, cloves, bay leaves, green chilies.
Masala:
Tablespoon chili paste.
Tablespoon ground coriander.
One teaspoon cinnamon powder.
Half teaspoon ground cumin.
Ginger and garlic.
Quarter cup vinegar.
Quarter cup strong tamarind water.
Mix the ingredients of masala smooth in a blender. Marinate meat for several hours in marinade.
Brown onions, add the masala, cook till the oil separates. Add meat and marinade, heat to boil, add two or three cups of water, turn flame low. Simmer for a few hours. Add the cilantro, remove from heat.
Serve with plain white rice.
And sourdough bread.
SHRIMP BALLICHAO
Ingredients:
Two pounds shrimp, shelled and veined.
One cup minced onion.
Half cup chopped tomato.
Masala:
Three tablespoons chili paste.
One tablespoon golden sugar.
One teaspoon garam masala.
Half a teaspoon ground black pepper.
Quarter teaspoon each ground cumin, turmeric, salt, cayenne.
Half a cup of vinegar, half a cup of tamarind water.
Put everything except shrimp, onion, and tomato in a blender. Fry the prawns a scant two minutes, remove and drain. Brown onions, add spices, then add the tomatoes. Cook till blended well and thick. Add the prawns and fry till done.
Sourdough bread.
JHINGA MASALA
Ingredients:
Two pounds large fresh prawns.
Half cup oil, half cup finely chopped onions.
Masala:
Three tablespoons chili paste.
Half tablespoon turmeric.
Half teaspoon each: paprika, cinnamon powder.
Quarter teaspoon clove powder.
Plenty chopped ginger, a little garlic.
Four tablespoons vinegar.
Four tablespoons tamarind water.
Put spices, vinegar, and tamarind water in the blender, add water if necessary.
Fry onions golden, add the masala, cook till the oil separates.
Add prawns, cook till done.
Plain white rice and sourdough bread.
KONKANI FISH CURRY
Ingredients:
Two pounds firm fish, big chunks.
Half cup each: Oil, chopped onions, chopped tomatoes.
One and a half cup coconut milk (more or less one can).
Half dozen green peppers, slit and seeded.
Masala:
Three tablespoons chilipaste.
One tablespoon ground coriander.
One teaspoon each: ground cumin, turmeric, sweet chili powder.
Minced ginger, minced garlic.
Half cup of tamarind water.
Put the chili paste, spices, ginger, garlic, and tamarind water in the blender.
Brown the onions. Add tomatoes and masala, fry fiercely for two minutes. Add half the coconut milk and cook till oil separates. Put in the fish, green chilies, and some water. Cook for five minutes. Bring to a boil, and remove from heat.
Rice. Bread.
KHARI BISCUIT
Ingredients:
One cup rice flour.
One cup unbleached flour.
One cup atta flour.
Half cup ghee.
Teaspoon salt.
[Oh heck, simply use frozen puff pastry, that's what everyone does.]
Mix the flours with cold water, ghee, salt, and spices (cayenne, ground cumin). Chill for an hour. Then roll out and cut rectangles. Fold over four times. Chill again. Either fry, or bake at four hundred Fahrenheit ten-fifteen minutes, then 325 to 350 for about twenty minutes till gold and crisp.
Brushing the top with butter is optional, but if you sprinkled cumin seeds on the dough, it is essential.
Have these with masala chai.
SALI MARGI
Ingredients:
One chicken, cut into eight pieces.
Two onions, finely sliced.
Two large potatoes, peeled, shredded.
Masala:
Mashed garlic and ginger, one tablespoon each.
One tablespoon ground coriander seed.
One teaspoon ground cumin seed.
One teaspoon cayenne.
One teaspoon salt.
One piece of cinnamon.
Pinch sugar.
Rub the chicken with the garlic and ginger plus the ground coriander, cumin, cayenne, and salt. Cover and put it in the refrigerator for several hours.
In a pan fry the onion golden. Add the chicken pieces and cinnamon, and brown all over. Add a splash of water, add the pinch of sugar, cover and keep on low heat for an hour. Put the chicken pieces and gravy on a large serving platter.
Fry the potatoes and strew over and alongside as a garnish.
AFTERWORD
I have never been to Bombay. But years ago I delightedly discovered food columnist Busybee, who wrote for several newspapers. His essays were little gems filled with happy gustational tidbits. Which nicely augmented my reading about Indian food, and experimentation over the hot stove. Among the things he mentioned where Irani Cafés, usually corner locations, with rickety chairs, and ceiling fans, marble topped tables, and very strong chai. As well as toasty melted butter buns, and an idiosyncratic food selection. Places where you could spend long hours with a refreshment, writing the next great American novel. Kind of like Italian coffeeshops in North Beach before all the uniquely artistic spiritual people descended.
Parsees, like the snarky grandma and Busybee, tend to be ecclectic eaters. Sadly there is no Parsee restaurant in the Bay Area, and those places which claim to offer such fare are usually run by unscrupulous salesmen types. Mediocre dal-gosht is NOT dhansak.
Busybee liked to drink rum and gin. Snarky Grandma sometimes has a bit of Scotch. I myself am fond of Scotch, but have not touched any since the beginning of this year, because it combines badly with medication; on the other hand, like Busybee I still smoke. But a pipe, not chain ciggies.
And I too like a nice greasy biriani.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
BIT OF BOMBAY, LOT OF SAN FRANCISCO
Imagine a khada pao bhaji with karela (bitter melon). No softroll, instead toasted sourdough. Fried peanuts added to the vegetable curry for textural excitement. An inclusion of coconut milk. Cast iron skillet, well seasoned, in lieu of a tava. No potato. No jeera, lavang, or amchur. Also, non-vegetarian, because the sauce had a little pork mince.
Plenty spicy, because the cook likes spice.
Well, sort of a San Franciscan pao bhaji, because the cook has never even been anywhere near the real article. Pao meaning bread, bhaji meaning vegetable, which in the real thing is cooked mushy, like saag or dal. Lumpy sarson ka saag is a frequent meal, whereas palak ka saag is rare at "Villa Back of Hill". And dal is so rare here as to be non-existent.
Toasted Sourdough, often.
So, it was a pao bhaji purely on linguistic grounds, bearing absolutely NO resemblance to the real McCoy.
Pao bhaji masala usually has twice as much cumin (jeera) as coriander seed (sabut dhania), the same amount of fennel seed (sonf) as coriander, plus minor and predictable amounts of dry ginger (sonth), dry chilies (lal mirch), turmeric (haldi), black cardamom (bari elaichi), black peppercorn (kala mirch), as well as the usual aromatics: mace (javatri), cinnamon (dal chini), clove (lavang), nutmeg (jaiphal), along with black salt (kala namak) and dried mango powder (amchur). The amount of dried chili (lal mirch) is variable, depending on the chilies and your tastebuds.
The vegetables you will find in the sauce made with the spices above plus garlic ginger onion and tomato are usually cauliflower, potatoes, carrots, peas, and haricots. Plus fresh red chilies for colour.
Sometimes paneer is added.
The only other thing you need is a soft breadroll and butter.
Chopped onion, lemon wedge, optional.
Hot tea NOT optional.
So yeah, my version did not resemble the Bombay version.
My type of bhaji, my kind of pao, my masala.
A late easy dinner.
Please note: spellcheck here was useless.
Absolutely, utterly, and totally.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Plenty spicy, because the cook likes spice.
Well, sort of a San Franciscan pao bhaji, because the cook has never even been anywhere near the real article. Pao meaning bread, bhaji meaning vegetable, which in the real thing is cooked mushy, like saag or dal. Lumpy sarson ka saag is a frequent meal, whereas palak ka saag is rare at "Villa Back of Hill". And dal is so rare here as to be non-existent.
Toasted Sourdough, often.
So, it was a pao bhaji purely on linguistic grounds, bearing absolutely NO resemblance to the real McCoy.
Pao bhaji masala usually has twice as much cumin (jeera) as coriander seed (sabut dhania), the same amount of fennel seed (sonf) as coriander, plus minor and predictable amounts of dry ginger (sonth), dry chilies (lal mirch), turmeric (haldi), black cardamom (bari elaichi), black peppercorn (kala mirch), as well as the usual aromatics: mace (javatri), cinnamon (dal chini), clove (lavang), nutmeg (jaiphal), along with black salt (kala namak) and dried mango powder (amchur). The amount of dried chili (lal mirch) is variable, depending on the chilies and your tastebuds.
The vegetables you will find in the sauce made with the spices above plus garlic ginger onion and tomato are usually cauliflower, potatoes, carrots, peas, and haricots. Plus fresh red chilies for colour.
Sometimes paneer is added.
The only other thing you need is a soft breadroll and butter.
Chopped onion, lemon wedge, optional.
Hot tea NOT optional.
So yeah, my version did not resemble the Bombay version.
My type of bhaji, my kind of pao, my masala.
A late easy dinner.
Please note: spellcheck here was useless.
Absolutely, utterly, and totally.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
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Oh dang, according to the news we're starting another heat event today with an indefinite end. This will please all the sweaty nudists. ...
