COVERED IN CHEESE SAUCE

The bakery was filled with speakers of Toisanwaa, so I was at a loss for words. In a manner of speaking. I have many words in several different languages, but hardly any in Toisanwaa. It reminded me of being in a country herberg listening to villagers from outside my dialect zone. Same energy and gerussemus. I enjoyed tea and a pastry in my own silence.

The three old ABCs didn't show up. Neither did the Hong Kong people.

So despite being busy, it seemed empty.


The odd thing is that nearly a dozen people recognized me in between lunch and tea time and said hello (你好，你好！'nei hou, nei hou!'). As did the people at all four of the stores where I shopped. So it's not like I was alone or lonely. Afterwards while smoking my pipe, and later on the bus, more cheery nei hou. The number one California line is kind of like the neighborhood local. We know each other, if not the Financial District Office crowd. Yesterday a fellow passenger asked how often I played mah jong. Regretfully I told her never. It's been years since I played, when I was roped into all-nighters down in Los Angeles.

Today someone mentioned bitter melon. We spoke in mixed languages.
Because bitter melon is not available at white grocers.

If you do buy it, and you're white, might as well cover it with cheese like broccoli, so that your kiddies will eat it. Same goes for yauchoi, or eggplant, or loofah. Many white kiddies are persnickety and prefer their vegetables covered in cheddar sauce.
Or everything with ketchup and barbecue sauce.
And a side of pizza puffs.

Contrary to what you may think, all of us Caucasians do not all look the same. Some of us have piercings or tattoos, some have purple or green hair. Avoid the ones who strive to look like unique individuals with distinct artistic personalities; they're dull. The ones who fade into the woodwark, with clean normal clothing, and briar pipes, are probably safe.
And more intelligent too.

There are three of us that I know of in the C'town area.
Including myself.



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