Tuesday, November 17, 2020

COWS AND PIGS FOR TWO THOUSAND MILES

One of the things I fondly remember from a year ago, when I got out of the hospital, was heading over to Cafe New Honolulu (新品味 'san pan mei', 850 Stockton Street, SF, CA 94108) for bitter melon omelette over rice, with tonnes of hot sauce. That and Hong Kong milk tea got me back on my feet again, after recovering from an exploding appendix and immediately subsequent operation to remove the offensive organ.

There is no way to restore a malfunctioning appendix. Fortunately, it is useless, and the loss of it, if handled by trained professionals, will not be lamented.

[Bitter melon omelette over rice: 涼瓜煎蛋飯 'leung gwaa jin daan faan'. Hong Kong milk tea: 港式奶茶 'kong sik naai cha']


Oh yeah, I also had self-induced food poisoning five weeks after the hospital stay. So I lost a lot of weight between mid-July and September. It was an interesting period.
And I'm a rather scrawny fellow now.


In lieu of bittermelon omelette over rice, which is what I'd really like to have today, I fixed myself chopped mustard omelette with a big wedge of cheesy bread. Also good. Plus lots of sambal.


Followed by a slow smoke; flake in a Canadian made by Comoy probably older than myself.
Read while listening to the drip drip of rain, and searching on the internet to find out if the nasty orange turd ball has conceded yet. He hadn't this morning, it's unlikely that he matured much in the seven hours since then. Our president's child like innocence is a major drag at this point, and it's sad that nearly half the country enthusiastically enables him.

There is a large part of this country I do not wish to ever visit. Friends have said that one really must travel all over America to understand the people and know what the United States is all about, but judging from their voting patterns, the increase in hate crimes, ghastly food on the internet, methamphetamine statistics, and their religious practices, that would be a roadtrip to hell. I am not a masochist. And you don't want me angry behind the wheel while trying to get the heck out of Texas or Georgia. Besides, the Bay Area is like a catch drain, in consequence of which I've met every kind of American right here in San Francisco.
They eat too much, smell bad, and dress funny.


Even thinking about motoring through trailerparkistan fills me with the sound of banjos.
Tea time later. Another pipe. Perhaps a Charatan.
Filled with something ancient.
And very English.




TOBACCO INDEX


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