We've known each other for over two decades. Been apartment mates for most of that time. In all those years I never knew that Cayenne was an ingredient in mashed potatoes.
But then I've never been to a Thanksgiving get-together either.
So what do I know about Chinese American customs?
I'll be spending much of Thursday afternoon in Chinatown, enjoying a pipe after lunch. That, basically, has been my Thanksgiving for several years.
Plus feeling bitter, resentful, and very Dutch American.
Many single men in SF do the same.
THXGVNG isn't our day.
This evening I went out to smoke, aged Virginia leaf in a Comoy's Grand Slam Lovatt under the trees at the nearby bus stop. One cannot smoke legally at bus stops in SF, but those trees provide cover from the rain, and no one at twelve midnight will object. You would think there would be a whole crowd of diseased hacking smokers there, congregating cheerfully while stinking up the place, but it turns out that almost no one shows up. Probably because smoking is not a social activity anymore.
The only smoker I saw tonight left her pack of Turkish tobacco at work, and purchased Camels to tide her over for the long weekend. Her dog disapproves of her vile habit, and her wife/girlfriend doesn't know about it.
I was planning to smoke the Peterson bent bulldog my father used to own. He acquired it, I think, way back before he joined the Royal Canadian Airforce to fly over Germany. Or perhaps after he returned (1946), before he went to sea.
I borrowed it for ten days when he went to London with his girlfriend.
That was a lovely vacation. For myself. Late seventies.
I am very fond of the trees at the bus stop.
Yes, often street people camp there.
But most days just pigeons.
Sometimes me.
Tomorrow, between twelve and five, I shall probably be in C'town. Perhaps chops, definitely milk tea. And a pipe or two. What I'm smoking these days is one of my own mixtures: one third dark aged Virginia, two thirds medium-bright. Scant Perique. Old school. Perfect for rainy days.
I have my father's pipes. Only smoke one of them semi-regularly (Peterson silver banded bent bulldog). I might bring out the Comoy made Bobby B., which (and this is just a guess) is a pipe he acquired when he was still in High School, Beverly Hills in the late thirties. The bowl shape is almost identical to the only pipe I took with me when I came back to the United States (Lovatt versus Liverpool); together they form a matched pair.
Pipes help a man remember the past.
And face the future.
It rained recently. The pavement is wet, fragrant, dark. Other than the sound of cascading glass from the bottle collectors, the neighborhood is silent. The bus stop was deserted, and there are dead leaves scattered about. No sleeping bums. Earlier Mr. Siu had come across the street to talk. Before that, Ah Choi had recognized me and stopped to chat. Both Anna Auntie and Ah-ping jieh had exchanged a few words, socially, and the gentlemen at the herbalist had spoken to me. Other than a discussion about Turkish cigarettes, and chit chat with she who is doing mashed potatoes for the family gathering tomorrow, speaking English has not been a thing.
Tomorrow it won't be either.
Chubby tea-shop sister was at the store today. I may stop by and talk tomorrow. If she's there again. She's good people.
Yes, no damned turkey. Shan't watch the parade either.
Nor the ball-game. No tryptophan napping.
Deals at the mall? Nix.
Aged Virginia. Two thirds bright medium.
One third nicely aged dark.
TOBACCO INDEX
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