THE VERY DEFINITION OF TASTE

On Thursday I swilled tea all day and was moderately high as a kite by evening. This was while at work, where I also smoked my pipe and said nasty things about and to cigar smokers. On Friday I got up late and drank coffee and smoked till early afternoon. I also caught up on the news, seeing as I neither use Facebook while at work nor spend hours on the internet when dealing with cigar smokers.

[Thursday: Greg Pease's Stonehenge Flake and Regents Flake, Samuel Gawith's St James Flake. Pu Erh tea. Friday: St James Flake, Luxury Bullseye, and Dunhill's Nightcap. Strong coffee, auf Türkische weise.]

Today I acted reasonably social, and smoked.
I didn't insult anybody grievously.
Though tempted.


On my days off I live like the badger. Obviously I am very fond of Wind In The Willows, but rather than seeing myself as Ratty or Mole (or, lord help us, Mr. Toad), the badger appeals to me. A solid individual, not particularly social, who occasionally likes company. In this metaphor normal human beings are like the field mice, and cigar smokers are weasels.

The problem is food. Good food requires company. Either one prepares a banquet and requires an audience, or one seeks interesting variety and must go out to eat. I no longer cook very intensely -- dinner Thursday was pork, chilipeppers and bellpeppers, cooked with chilipaste and currypaste, then seethed with stock, over noodles -- and on Friday I went to a place where they know me and I can sit in the back observing other people.

My job puts me in frequent contact with cigar smokers. They are not small and cute, and I am no longer thrilled with their antics.
On my own time I usually avoid them.
One cannot eat with them.


It strikes me that Kenneth Grahame's beloved book does not tell us what any of the characters truly felt about breasts. That's probably something we should be grateful we do not know, though we can presume that Mr. Toad was not particularly hep on them, what with being non-mammalian and a sexless egomaniac to boot.

[And a cigar smoker.]

Anthropomorphic heroes have parents, but no sex life of their own.
This is just an observation; do not read anything into it.

Let us take for granted that if a main character in Wind In The Willows was female, she would probably also enjoy a pipe, as Badger, Ratty, and Mole do. Or conceivably a cigar, like the Toad. Queen Victoria is reputed to have liked a big fat cigar now and then, by the way.
Queen Victoria was sexless.
Thank heavens.


I fear I know way too much about the reproductive cycle of cigar smokers, and rather wish it weren't so.

They are born, they discover cigars at roughly the same time that they start torturing puppies, they commit bestial pornographic acts in early adulthood, and become more disgustingly perverse as they age, then they die as respected members of the Republican Party.
Or commie dictators.


Just so you know, many cigar smokers have an incomplete appreciation for members of the opposite gender; they like them like they like their food: big and brutal. They are creatures of ooze and slime. It is entirely unknown whether they have any refined sensibilities at all.

Pipesmokers are different.

I need to associate more with the field mice.
Some of them are very good company.

And, I believe, they like food.




AFTERWORD

On Facebook a discussion on Friday mentioned Chinese restaurants, which apparently are nowhere better than in New York. Why, the lobster sauce shrimp and eggrolls are just fabulous!

Here are some links to Chinese food elsewhere.

HK French Toast and Milk Tea

Little Cart Noodles

Soup




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