Wednesday, April 27, 2022


My favourite grocery store in Chinatown has edibles from all over East Asia. Including potato chips. My apartment mate likes to nibble on chips when she comes home, so I often buy her some new and interesting flavours. One of which, today, is black truffle. With not a single word in English on the bag. She is American-born, and naturally cannot read more than two or three dozen characters.

Black pine dew flavour ain't none of them.

['haak chung lou mei syü pin']

Why truffles are "pine dew" (松露 'chung lou') is beyond me. Other flavours I purchased are fried crab, and roast pork belly. None of them are spicy (辣嘅 'laat ge'), so she should enjoy them more than the claypot chicken flavoured ones from last week.

The crab and pork chips have English texts. One can conclude that the company that makes all three does not expect to sell much truffle anywhere in the English-speaking world.
Or doesn't want the Dutch, Germans, and French, to snag the entire supply.
And the Flemish. They'd go ape. Gourmands.

Selbstverständlich there is NO Spanish or Italian on the bag.
No corn, no chili, no olive oil, no tomato, no basil.

After grocery shopping I retired to a friendly bakery for a hot cup and a delicious pastry. While despairing over all the mask-apathetic psychopaths (white people) on the bus and wandering about. A friend who was fully vaxed and boosted, and wears masks and takes all the sensible precautions, quite recently came down with Covid and is at present uncomfortable, self-quarantined, and scrupulously avoiding his own children and old folks.

Because so many elderly white fossils on the bus have ditched their damn' masks my natural respect for seniors has, especially as regards Caucasians, diminished considerably. As you would expect I have no sympathy whatsoever for people my age or younger who take public transit without masking up.
I smoke outside because I must. While doing so I always keep well away from other people, venturing off the sidewalk if necessary. Please don't talk to me about "second hand smoke" while you are spreading clouds of infectious droplet laden lung-exhaust because you aren't wearing a face covering. At the very least I will ignore your chosen pronouns.
And you might jolly well die accidentally.

"I can't understand it, officer, he fell against my walking stick.
Probably over fifteen times. It must have been a seizure.

My tolerance for fellow Caucasianse letting down the side is zero.

The post tea-time smoke was extremely enjoyable.
Red Virginia, fire cured leaf, and Perique.
A Comoy Sunrise Canadian.

There probably should be a venue for crusty middle-aged farts like myself to smoke inside well away from sensitive people. Except that the last smoking establishment in downtown SF has, per a recent report, banned cigarettes and pipes, permitting only cigars, and now charges an arm and a leg for the privililedge.

That must be why there are so many old codgers dying of pneumonia and blackwater fever on the pavement nearby. They were probably thrown out.
Oh the humanity.

Somebody ought to do something.

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