THE LAST OF THE MEXICAN DEATH WURST

I'm blaming white people for this. And I should've known better. White folks tend to eat with political correctness and neurosis. You know, all responsible and pure hearted.
Vegetarian. Even vegan.
Idiots.

I had stopped by the market to pick up some comestibles, as I intended to have a clean and morally upstanding break from the hell-sausage mentioned in previous posts. Three evenings of punishing my system was starting to wear on me.
Let's see: cream cheese. Rice stick noodles. Some lovely white wheat noodles from Fuzhou. A jar of garlic chili paste. A green thing that was edible. Crisp apples. Oh yeah, this was going to be good.
And cracked pepper smoked wild salmon.
The cream cheese suggested it.

Plus 2 large bags of bacon and cheddar potato skin snack chips (TGIF).
Those weren't for me.

My former girlfriend (Savage Kitten), who is still my housemate (separate room!) and an all-round decent person, had been wailing for weeks that Tom's Bacon Cheddar Fries could no longer be found within a ten mile radius of our apartment. Oh woe!
She was quite bereft.
Disaster.

So over the past several days I've purchased possible alternatives.
These things looked like they might do in a pinch.
Bacon, cheddar - what's not to like?

She thanked me kindly for bringing the addictive items into the house and ate half a bag.
Happily padded back to her room in her jammies and fell asleep.
It was a large bag, so there was plenty left.

Slight sidetrack:  you can tell a household that likes its snacks by the number of medium size black binder clips lying around. Not only are they useful for closing up plastic sacks of rice stick or wheat noodles, but they also work fine for crispy things.
We've got tons of them.

Anyhow.

I spooned-over the cracked pepper salmon with the cream cheese, added a little balsamic vinegar and olive oil for smooshability plus some capers and chili flakes, intending to have a meat-free healthy vegetarian repast. That's why I didn't mix in any bacon bits (real bacon!), as I normally might have done. Adjusted the taste with a touch of salt and a pinch of sugar, and smeared it on toast.
There were no bagels, you see, but I had toast.

Had some of the TGIF bacon cheddar skin snack chips on the side.

After which there was still a substantial amount left over.

The night was still young - only eight PM.

Apparently you should NEVER nacho-ize these bacon cheddar skins.
At least not with pepper jack, pickled jalapenos.....
And crumbled greasy-fried linguiça.

On the plus side, by two A.M. it had entirely escaped my mind that I am loveless and without anyone to hug, all alone, no girlfriend, no affection, and turning sour and sharp in my middle age.

On the minus side, it's now sixteen hours since dinner, and I still have an insistent throbbing in both my head and my abdomen. The light in the office seems to be flickering on and off, and my hands are sweating.
I don't think I'll be eating any lunch today.
Just go home and sleep.

Don't even think of vegetarian muck again. As the waiter in the Chinese diner asked the young pasty-faced white woman last week, "you want the vegetable special with chicken or pork?"
See, he understood that a person craves animal protein.
It ain't satisfying otherwise.

Tomorrow I'll go into Chinatown for some nice soothing rice porridge.
I look forward to lunch in the neighborhood on weekends.
It settles the stomach after a week of whiteness.
Cures the bloated feeling, too.


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CIGAR-SMOKING DEVIANTS

I regret my mis-spent youth. Angst, anomie, and profound self-doubt.
But I’ve had some vivid technicolour dreams lately.
I’ve eaten the devil’s own linguiça for dinner three days in a row. It has been a profoundly humbling experience.

This particular linguiça seems to be mostly cayenne and pork fat.
You will readily understand that it is utterly delicious. In so far as a WMD can be delicious.
Saddam Hussein was wise to hide his sausages.

As if the sheer torture of standing upright wasn't enough, the cigar smokers at the wall were exceedingly trying when I went over there to smoke my pipe. Apparently one of them has been circulating glossy adverts for midget porn, pursuant the case of a man in Las Vegas cursed with elephant testes.

I stood off to the side, desperately trying to ignore their inane hoots and laughter. One of them was passing around his portable device so that the others could see the illustrations.
They are ALL channeling for Agent Left Testicle.
Who has so far sent three MP e-mails.
That man is obsessed.

At one point, the combination of abdominal distress, low blood sugar level, lack of sleep, and the mental pressure of cigar-smoker prattle caused me to momentarily mistake the nearby pigeons for a flock of schoolchildren.
I swear they were looking at me. Staring fascinated.
Rude little bastards.
Shoo, shoo.

Normally I like children, and their tinkling laughter.
But I do NOT want them near me after linguiça.
They should only see a happy pipesmoker.
As an inspiring example to emulate.
Not pale and shivering.

Linguiça sandwich, linguiça steamed with tofu and ginger, linguiça with red beans and rice.
The sandwich was excellent as well as infinitely regrettable, the steamed dish was delicious and nearly floored me, and the zesty beans and rice have convinced me that I should avoid beans.
Many other things too, but mostly beans.

I am full of angst, anomie, and profound self-doubt.

Well, not so much filled.

Different word.


There's only a little of the evil sausage left.

I know what I'm having for dinner.

It's an excellent product.

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MUSICAL INTERLUDE: BOOMP

There's something wrong with my head. This morning, on the way to work, a melody was mentally playing that cannot be eplained logically.

Specifically, the Hohenfriedberger March.

I am not Prussian. The victories of the Prussians against the other quarrelling tribes of Germany in the eighteenth century do not lubricate me.

Nice tune, though. It's boompy.

Nobody did boomp like the Prussians.


On the other hand, after having been at the office half a day, an entirely different tune is going through my head:

THE OTHER TUNE

[Source: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=G2kD1YUtA5o.]

It's been playing now for several hours.
It, too, is boompy.
The Brits do good boomp.


"YOU, SIR!"

I'm blaming what I ate for dinner last night. Perhaps I should have added more ginger. In any case, my dreams were vivid, and waking up was infinitely exciting.

Hook up with me, kiddo, and share the fun.

Boomp.


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ENVELOPES WILL BE PUSHED

This blogger, at times, makes deliberate choices that are not based on sound common sense. Yesterday evening I returned to my neighborhood too late to shop for toilet paper at the store on the corner, but fortunately the Vietnamese grocery around the other corner is open until very late at night.
You will undoubtedly be pleased to know that thanks to the neighborhood Vietnamese merchant, we now have enough bumwad to last for over a week. 
Thank you, Vietnamese merchant.
We were on our last roll, you see, and it is my task to keep us supplied.

The Vietnamese store also sells linguiça...

I had a tasty and delicious linguiça sandwich for dinner.

Tasty, and delicious.

Here it is, sixteen hours later, and my stomach is STILL making angry noises.
Furiously rumbling sounds, after a night of rioting.
Shut up down there! It was good!
Exceedingly good!

This evening I'll have some more of that linguiça.
It is very tasty and delicious.

I'll crumble it among cubes of tofu with shredded ginger, and steam it.
That ought to render zesty rubicund juices, yummy with rice.
Tofu is virtuous, being all vegetarian and crap.
So my stomach will have NO cause for complaint.

Vegetarian, remember? That's GOOD karma.
And as long as there's a rough parity between the Linguiça and the tofu, it's totally like a credit balance.
If I get home before the grocery closes, I'll also buy a vegetable.
Not that I really need one, I've got tofu.


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THE SIMPLE LIFE

Most single men know the experience.  You wake up and wonder "what crawled into my mouth and died?"
No, it's not alcohol related.  It's late night snack related.
Way more surrealistic.

I have no idea how old those microwavable chicken frank corndogs were. 
The sauce I made to dip them in disguised much of their saveur, and it wasn't till halfway through the second one that I realized 'hey, this sucker tastes off'.  Still, with enough chilipaste and mustard a wealth of flaws can be hidden.
The sauce was zesty and delicious.

An unbeatable combination of stale chicken frank, dried out corn meal crust, hot sauce, lemon juice, jalapeño mustard, and chopped olives, with a heady top note of toothpaste from brushing my teeth afterwards.....

Do you taste that, son?  Nothing else in the world tastes like that! 

It tastes like victory!

Mmmm, it is minty fresh.

I've made similar mistakes fairly regularly in the past two years. 
There's little reason to buy food in advance, seeing as I seldom feel like eating when I'm at home. And by the time I come in after a long day of whatever it is that I do nowadays, the stores are closed.
Well, other than the Vietnamese grocer around the corner, but there's only so much spicy linguiça and Mexican chorizo one can consume. Even with condiments.
At times I've looked at what I had on the shelf, and decided to simply have rice stick noodles with the contents of a can picked at random. Fortunately almost everything can be improved with hot sauce. Or curry paste. And chopped olives. Capers. Hyderabadi lime pickle.
Had to throw out an entire bag of wonton last week because I had forgotten about it.
Hermetically sealed dumplings are not supposed to look bloated.
The bag is not supposed to bounce, either.

It was a good brand.  I'll probably buy more soon.

Single men aren't tied in to the dining schedules of other people. 
We make our own rules.

I've got lots of teabags. 
And cookies.


Hey, fruit juice and buttermilk, that's it!  I can simply drink my dinner!
With some pieces of matzoh, I'll have all the major food groups.
The matzoh will provide fiber.  Still got tons of it.
Fruit juice and buttermilk.
Matzoh.



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GOOD SENSE

Bad decisions will be made. This is especially so when it comes to food and love.
Which became clear this morning.

As it turns out, a lovely hot meal that includes spinach, noodles, and cheese, is not improved by the addition of more cheese.  Much more cheese.
As well as hot sauce.
And cream.
And miscellaneous meats, including spicy linguiça.
And crunchy bits.
Soy sauce.
Plus tomatoes, chilies, and capers.
Salt, pepper, curry paste, and a touch of horse radish.

It tasted wonderful, though. I ate all of it.
Appropriate term: "single man kibble".
Alternatively: "big bowl of muck".

No, there was no love involved.
The term love refers in this case to the mature couple I observed yesterday evening while having a quiet smoke at the Occidental, and their bad decision.
It did not involve food.
For her, the decision was probably worse than for him.
Liquor had far more to do with it, for both of them, than appetite or "hunger".

However, their flamboyant behaviour with each other last night was quite as misguided as what I did with the contents of the pantry when I got home, and just as likely both of them woke up with profound regrets, too.

In retrospect, my kitchen activities were also obscene.
My internal organs are still chastising me.
But it was very delicious!
Sinfully so.

Heck, after six bowls of tobacco, anything strong flavoured tastes fine.
Burnt tire dipped in cod liver oil and cayenne? Dee-lish!
Something similar probably informed their spur of the moment courtship at the Occidental – they were both on their third or fourth cigar when they left, and one suspects that their sense of smell and their common sense had been effectively neutralized by Caribbean leaf at that point.
He ponged of cheap aftershave, she reeked of floral perfume, both stank of stogies.
All three are the common characteristics of cigar afficionadoes.
Quite unlike civilized pipe-smokers.
We’re calmer, too.


All I really want is a peaceful place where I can smoke and have a cup of tea in the evenings.
No one makes bad decisions following a pipe and a cup of tea.
It’s just not possible.


I'm going straight home after work today. Planning on having a cup of tea or two while smoking in the kitchen. One bowl of a matured Virginia, one of a sooty English blend.
It will be an evening marked by good sense and good taste.
Without cigar smokers.


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CHEESE IS A LIFE-STYLE CHOICE

The other morning my roommate disconsolately wailed that she had found weevils in the rice. So she was throwing all of it out. I could tell that she really wanted cooked rice to go with her stew for lunch.

The problem is, neither of us prepare rice anymore.
Rice is what you make when you share meals.
Our rice supply was from two years ago.
That tells you how long it's been.

We do still have supplies of other starchy things. Her penne pasta, packets of kongchaimien (noodles), and the bean thread. As well as boxes of cereal.
My various thick and thin rice stick noodles, tagliatelle, farfalle, and cheesits.
I know. You're saying that cheesits are NOT a meal-time starch.
But politely I must disagree.
Think of them as instant pasta with the casein, salt, and grease already built in.

At some point I'll see if I can bake them with cheese, cream, and garlic added.
It's what you would do when you come home late and don't really want to eat.


WHY DOES THIS CAN RATTLE WHEN I SHAKE IT?

All of this indicates that eating habits around the apartment have been markedly eccentric in the years since the relationship ended. Consequently I'll probably have to throw out many items that are past their prime.
How old are those cans of coconut milk? Haven't prepared Indonesian food in over two years. The jars of tomato sauce? Probably at least as old. Those wonderful dried Mexican chiles are almost certainly no longer good either, and some of those tins of anchovies and cans of fire-roasted rajas de chile verde might as well be chucked too.
Indian pickles will surely survive the zombie apocalypse.
Those jars of jam are probably fermenting. Out.
The marmalade I'll keep. All three kinds.

I can't have buttered toast in the bath if there is no marmalade!

The grits stay. I bought those only a few months ago.
Of course I'm the only one who eats them.
Same goes for the spicy linguiça and the container of chiles en escabeche that went into the refrigerator a few days ago.
Not her taste.

We still share a few things. Per ancient tradition I buy the milk, bumwad, kitchen paper, and coffee, we both buy tea, eggs, and various household necessities.
And we split the cheese.

Seriously, one should not eat cheese more than three times a day.
I've tried. It has consequences.

Evenso, I'll start adding funds to the bowl on top of the teevee for cheese.
It's proven near-impossible to get her to take money out of that supply for expenditures that she believes only benefit her or are extravagant, and despite my urging she keeps spending far too much of her own money on things that really are for both members of the household.
Guilt, generosity, and a stiff sense of pride.

I'll persuade her that cheese is a household supply.
Woman, buy cheese. You know I like cheese.
I ate some of YOUR cheese the other day.
Get us good cheese. Your choice.

The California Cheese Board would approve.
They also want you to be happy.
And well fed.

Think of cheese as a substitute for rice.


AFTER WORD

In case you're wondering, I've had rice every week for the last two years.
Lunch in the financial district, plus eating alone in C'town.
Just haven't cooked any at home.


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THE LINGUIÇA SANDWICH

I asked a friend if his kitchen was still open, because I really wanted some of his nice empanadas.
They're very good empanadas, freshly made and fragrant.
The perfect yummy snack.

"No, I am sorry; we're closed for a private party."

And he really was sorry, too. He's in the food business, the yuppies throwing the private party were not eating, so the kitchen area was dark and deserted, deepfryer off. But everyone was having tons of cocktails.
He wasn't happy being no more than a drinking hole for folks who wouldn't talk to him, save to order another libation. Feeding people is fun.

The empanadas are utterly delicious. Deep fried heaven with two sauces.
So is the rotisserie chicken sandwich, which comes with fries.
You can feel cheeriness returning while you eat.
And he's an exceptional host.


The main reason why people like eating together is the comfort of seeing someone else enjoy their food. Their faces become more radiant as their blood-sugar level returns to normal, the fine taste of scrumptious morsels encourages cheer and happiness. A good meal, even a wonderful snack, nourishes friendship. It's a splendid way to start the afternoon.

Who knows what else the day may bring? It's all good, as it started with something nice to eat.

It's also fun to observe other people dining, as long as they are the kind that likes exploring new things. "Oh", they'll exclaim, "this sounds lovely!" Then they'll ask the waitperson what exactly it is, and happily order a serving to share. Along with something else exciting.
A while later they wander out of the restaurant with a smile on their face, murmuring "man, that roasted gershlaknturfer sure was good......., thank you for suggesting it!"
You're very welcome. I like eating with you.
Gershlaknturfer. Tasty.

Seeing as the empanada place was closed for the private party - nothing but drinkers - I went home and fried up some linguiça for a sandwich.
Ate it with some crunchy stuff and a glass of milk.
I'll have the empanadas some other time.
They're very nice empanadas.
You should try them.
Seafood.


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BRUTAL ASSAULT

Really, I should know better by now. It may be called "Linguiça" by its utterly misguided and criminally insane manufacturer, but that is a complete misnomer.
It's actually something that came out of Satan's body. Possibly the devil's earwax.
Darn thing redefines corporal punishment.
Juicy, flaming red, gut-busting punishment.

They should feed it to children. Properly chasten the little monsters. Bruise them good.
But they probably don't because of the delayed effect.

Whatever it is, it sure isn't Linguiça. That gentle name is entirely misapplied to this evil comestible. Calling it by so innocuous a name is a villainous slander, and Portugal should sue the bastards wot done it for defamation.


One thing you should know about your digestive system is that it strips the protective oils and fats (i.e. "hog grease") off certain foods. The reason why those foods have those things is because the manufacturer is a vicious sadist who enjoys pulling the legs off of kittens, fiercely whips his wheelchair-bound granddad, and slow-boils the pet goldfish.
I can only speculate about how he treats his poor wife and kids.
They probably go to bed crying every night, scared of what the mean sob will do next.
A real Christian.

Once the protective oils and fats ("hog grease") have been stripped off, the fiery chilies within are no longer masked, nor subdued.
They come awake inside your stomach, and dance around on their little spike heels doing the cha cha.

Several hours later those chilies will collectively try to fight their way out of your system. Kind of like the Vietcong in the tunnels of Củ Chi. Same bloody mindedness. They're intent on doing as much damage to the United States as possible. Savage.
Think in terms of a napalm attack.


The fire, the stinging, the pain, the cramped curling up in agony, the girlish screaming in terror.

Which is a horrible way to wake up!

And I should know better by now. Each packet of these alleged Linguiças has two large long sausages composed of crumbly fatty bright red coloured pork.

Half of one sausage is enough to fill a toasty bun.

Yesterday evening I fried up the remaining half.

So I really should've known what to expect.

Especially as I had already used the first sausage, and this was the last part of the second one.

Guess I just didn't want to waste good food.

So it's my own fault.

I know what those daemonic wursts are capable of.

Boy-howdy.

I'm already on my fifth pack.

This brand is totally excellent.


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