THAT SCENE IN THAT MOVIE

It was delightfully foggy last night, the horns were moaning from nightfall on. So of course this morning I bounded out of bed keen to start a new day. While still remembering the dream. The one where the girls from Saint Boadicea's Academy hunted down the corrupt policeman and slaughtered him, precisely like arctic foxes do to small rodents under the snow.
They listen carefully, then pounce headfirst.

Something much like that. Apparently some medications may cause intense dreams, itching, dizziness, and problems during or while trying to achieve pregnancy.
Don't operate heavy machinery, avoid ladders.

Tell your doctor immediately if you have disturbing side effects.
Or find yourself on a ladder with a printing press.
While missing a period.

When I pick up my refills nowadays I get rid of the warning sheets and tags immediately, even before leaving the pharmacy. I've already read all of that, and it took a magnifying glass to do so, because of the small print, page after page of it.

Dreams have been more intense, a little stranger than before, and at work on a daily basis the ladder comes into play. Some of the warnings are the same as on a container of tobacco, the outside of the hospital, or the projects on Pacific. From which one can deduce that my doctor works inside a pack of ciggies, and I should avoid pregnancy during medical appoinments.



And, speaking of such things, I saw surreptitious cigarette auntie (秘密香煙阿姨 'bei-mat heung-yin ah-yi') guiltily sneaking into her building the other day while coming home. Auntie with the pistacchio-coloured sunhat was across the street a few days ago when I was out with my pipe, and deaf uncle with the sunglasses is still taking his walks at an early hour.
I'm glad these fixtures of the neighborhood have survived thus far.

What I've done so far today is first cup of coffee, and the first pipe of the day while walking an imaginary dog. There were still traces of fog lingering, and it was dark when I left the house. Second cup of coffee is to my right, apartment mate is fixing herself breakfast, the stuffed animals are quarreling.


Of course we all know what really causes the weird dreams, right?
Too much caffeine in the evening before bed.
A big cup of strong black tea.
Boiled with dates.



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SMELLS HEAVENLY!

One of the distinct advantages of a childhood in Holland, where we moved when I was two, is that I knew all the ingredients in my lunch today: 蝦醬三絲炒米。It contained 蝦醬 ('haa jeung'; trasi basah), 豆芽 ('tau ngaa'; taugeh), 米粉 ('mai fan'; mi beras), plus sliced meat, onion, and scallion. Stirfried together. Absolutely stupendous with sambal.

Shrimp sauce three shreds stirfried rice noodles.
Trasi basah, taugeh, and mi beras are Dutch.

[dot dot dot]

Well, okay, not originally Dutch. Chinese, Chinese Indonesian, Indonesian, Dutch Indo, same supermarket aisle as Italian and Spanish. And sambal is the Dutch answer to tomato ketchup. Chili paste. It belongs in every pantry, and on every dinner table.

Remarkably, 蝦醬三絲炒米 ('haa jeung saam si chaau mai') was from the list of Chinese specials on the white board, without any translation into English. Probably because they assumed that Caucasian Americans who would eat it could also read it. Same with the dishes that contain salt fish (鹹魚 'haam yü'). One might suspect, based on this, that they have an awful lot of American Dutchmen eating there (sambal on every table definitely would suggest that also), but I may be the only one. I am a solitary outlier.

I like that place. It's home


By the way: shrimp paste and sambal stirfried together with chopped scallions in plenty of oil, then flamed with a generous splash of sherry (and cooked until reduced and the alcohol has dissipated) makes a superior alternative to ketchup on grilled burgers. Try it sometime.


It was a good afternoon. Some shopping, stopped by the pharmacy, had lunch and a hot cup of milk tea, and smoked a pipe while wandering about. At the top of the hill fog was visible, which also shrouded the upper floors of Financial District office buildings. A thick veil covered the bay all the way past Alcatraz.

It wasn't particularly cold. But the moisture in the air was tangible.

Did end up bringing home left-overs. I don't eat so much anymore. They'll make a splendid late night snack, with some extra chilies and a fried egg. The turkey vulture will want his share, of course. He just loves food.

I already gave him some ice cream. Apparently it was not enough.

He's still peckish.



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DEAD WHALES ON WAVERLY

It is of course axiomatic that what I like may not appeal to you. And, if you are NOT a pipe smoker, it may offend you. If you are a pipe smoker it will still probably displease you, because the overwhelming majority of pipe smokers huff aromatics -- that's well over eighty percent of the market -- and there are large numbers of bright tweed-garbed college boys jauntily huffing Balkans who aver that Latakia blends are top shelf everything else is inferior, and yes they remember Levine in the East Bay who smoked Saint Bruno and ruined his pipes with soggy drool because of it. Actually, that last category has been replaced by expert hipsters who learned nearly everything about pipes and whisky from videos on Youtube.
But no matter. Latakia is definitely it.

[As well as Haunted Bookshop. Because of cult status.]

Everything else, they say, is strictly for elderly coots in bib overalls driving their tractor around the north forty. Grampa really shouldn't be driving, but he's harmless (tolerable) out there even though he has a bloodhound (old, blind, arthritic), his favourite hunting riffle, and a jug of corn mash to wile away the time.

Other than the dead city slicker we had to bury underneath the barn last year, we can deal with him out there. And yes, it is indeed a bitch to get him out of those stained overalls for a bath, but we often hose him down and give him a bar of soap, then the hose again.
He just scrubs without undressing. He's sun-dried.
Let us not speak of him.


Haunted bookshop is mighty fine tobacco, even though in anything other than a corncob it wallops me in the jaw. And I do have over a dozen cobs, that I've smoked for years. They last nearly forever, unless you shove 'em in your back overall pocket and sit on them while toting haybales and swilling corn mash. Many people I've met here in the Bay Area apparently do precisely that -- one old gentleman goes through a dozen of them a year -- but not me.

[What with being neurotic and details-attentive, I naturally know how to take care of my smoking equipment. It's a gift.
All my pipes are clean, and even after decades, in exellent condition. As are my imaginary bib-overalls.]

Most of the time I smoke pressed Virginias or Virginia based blends.

Virginias are soft with an old-fashioned smell, evocative and discreet. Unlike Latakia blends, which trigger vegans and earth-moms from several streets away, old-style flakes ("tobakk skivver", "schijf tabak", etc.) do not reek of creosote and terpeneols, but have a whiff of carotenoids and deliver sweetness and gradual flavour on the centre of the tongue.

[Latakia blends can be velvety, with an intensely stimulating mouthfeel and retrohale. Old fashioned incense, leather armchairs in the library, Englishmen home on leave and desperate to get back to Rangoon, coffee shops on Telegraph Avenue during a poetry event, angry hipsters in North Beach reading both Howl and Robert A. Heinlein, then Dune, spaghetti dinners with an urban guerrilla commune, and traumatized Karens.]

Sadly, there is no product named Dead Whale ("finest Virginia tobacco slices"). But there should be. It would go great with a cup of coffee right now.

Later today I'm picking up refills at the pharmacy and having lunch, after wich a quiet pipe somewhere in the neighborhood where there aren't many pedestrians, nor feral tourists. Someplace familiar. A good place for "Dead Whale Flake", which is delightfully sweet.

Waverly Place is one of my spots for a smoke. During these times there are few people about, and at present the weather, though cold, is quite bearable. One can sink in thought there.
It's near all the places where I go for a cup of milk tea when I'm in Chinatown.

Man I wish that product actually existed! It's one of my very best ideas.
I should write up a business proposal and formulate the blend.
Red and dark Virginias, steam-pressed.

Dead whale flake. A concept.

TOBACCO INDEX


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ATTENUATED CRAWLING

We avoided the karaoke place because there were too many white people yowling. Life is too short to hear that. White people can't jump. White people can't dance. This was already known. White people also can't sing worth diddly. Which is something you always suspected, but you need to go to a karaoke place to have it rubbed in your face.

Apparently white people can't hold their liquour either.
Something to which the pavement gave testimony.

Gonna sound like an old fart now. In my day, you would act sober no matter how squiffy you were. You could have been out all night drinking your damned fool head off, but as soon as the Trip van Zoutlandt Barracks were in view, you pulled yourself up, restrained the urge to let loose your bowels and dinner simultaneously, marched up to the gate, saluted, and passed through. Yes, you might fall flat on your face a moment later, but you had made it, and in the proper form. Youngsters these days!

And by "youngsters", I mean stupid white folks in their twenties or thirties.


By the way: I too am white. And I abstain from alcohol.

My friend arrived about two minutes after I finished my pipe at the usual spot. What I'm smoking these days is an old codger blend, Gold Block ("the aristocrat of pipe tobaccos"), formerly by Ogden's of Bristol, now made by Mac Baren in Denmark. When I first tried it as a teenager I wasn't impressed. Now that I'm over my teens, twenties, and thirties, I actually rather enjoy it. It's really quite good.

It's probably better than what Bristol ever put out. Decent stuff.

Also had a bowl of it after banking and lunch.

Usual spot. I'm not, strictly speaking, enjoying the outdoors. It's winter, and feels like it. But my apartment mate is a non-smoker and would prefer that I wouldn't stink up the place.
She's been very tolerant of my peculiarities all these years.


My bar crawl friend, my apartment mate, and I myself have never acted like stupid white folks.
Yes, all three of us have been that age. But that was a different age.


A proper karaoke bar should be a quiet place where one can contemplate existence and the meaning of life, perhaps entertained by melodious singing. Or not.
And drink in moderation, if at all.



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GREAT BOOBIES, HEARTLAND!

All over the world, civilized people of all kinds enjoy a cup of tea with milk and sugar at some point during the day. That's just the way it is. Englishmen, the Irish, Scots, Welsh, Indians most especially Parsees, Hong Kong working people, and several educated Dutch Americans (*) in San Francisco or Boston. It's calming, comforting, and reviving. Gives you the energy to hod that bale, go up the rickety bamboo scaffolding, or salt down the herring in the barrels.
So you can understand why I'm baffled almost no Americans do likewise.
Not all or even most of them, naturally.
But more of them.

Most Americans swill bad coffee or sugary carbonated beverages for "energy". And I must admit that in the morning I will have one or two cups of coffee to kickstart the day, especially because it spurs peristalsis at some point -- a process I have found beneficial -- but the day does not continue without a nice cup of tea.

Americans, quite peculiarly, seem unable to grasp "tea". If you order it at restaurants, you will be offered a cup of barely warm water and a selection of herbal teabags, almost always including chamomile, Red Zinger, and something with dried fruit or citrus peels.

All of which, quite frankly, is f*7king barbaric.



By the way, that jar of non-dairy "creamer" powder in the office kitchen is mostly palm wax and chemical stabilizers, unsuitable for any beverage. You wouldn't put it on your cereal, would you? Why do you think it goes in coffee or tea?



Today's plan involves another cup of coffee (post walk peristalsis!), ablutions, followed by a pipe, a good read through the news of disasters, political scandals, Republican treachery, the increase in disease, and a cup of tea. And another one before I decide to go to my bank, have lunch in Chinatown (which will include tea), another smoke, then home for some more tea.

The rest of the country will go to Starbucks to get something with syrup and soy-milk, extra sugar or sprinkles, while breathing on each other and spreading disease, several times during that period, then wonder why they need an entire aisle of medicines for their stomach, lower intestines, acid reflux, and gallbladder malfunctions at Walgreens.
It's one over from the get-well-soon cards.



(*) Educated Dutch Americans: two people. One in each city.



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THE LADIES, BLESS THEM

One of the things that happens seasonally is that pipe or cigar smokers on the internet remark that for various reasons they cannot smoke inside, and it's cold and unpleasant outside.
And how do the rest of us deal with this?
Several of them are married, and have family members.
Whom they wish to keep.

CITE:
One thing I haven’t seen discussed anywhere yet is where do you all smoke? Do you have any tips for good places for a smoke? Smoking is banned from the grounds of my workplace in Ireland. I’m not allowed smoke in my rented accommodation. Most of the outdoor smoking areas aren’t covered or heated. It’s very cold outside in the winter months, even for my car. It’s something which really bothers me. I have bought a hot water bottle recently and I’m thinking of taking it out to the car with me for a smoke. However, it’s a lot more effort than I like and smoking in the car isn’t good for my windows. I’m too lazy to clean them that often. Any guidance would be truly appreciated.
END CITE.

Some of the responses were enlightening.

JOHN:
You're in a tight spot! I'm single, live alone, and am a co-owner of the house I live in, so have far less issues. I might smoke a pipe a day inside of my house, though am careful about removing long-term smells. I also smoke a lot in my back yard. There is a small building there with two open sides, which provides shelter yet also visibility. I often sit out there with a pipe, watching the various birds which come to my feeders. If I'm driving I'll smoke in the car (and clean windows). I'm sorry that you've been so restricted!

JEFF:
Luckily, I have a vented room in our house. I miss being able to smoke anywhere but I side with the non-smokers.

TOMI:
If you currently have no possibilities to smoke indoors, you just have to get used to smoke your pipe outdoors. As a Finn I can say it is no hard after little practise.
I live in my own house. I have one room where I can smoke if I want to but i hardly ever do so. I prefer smoking outdoors in a fresh air. However it gets really cold during storms.

MYKAL:
Sadly, my cat hates my pipe smoking! Runs off the easychair we share whenever I light up! Clearly afraid of second-hand smoke so I have to respect his position.

STEVE:
I have a small office in basement and a dog. In warmer weather, the back porch. There was a time I smoked by the fire, had a beautiful holder for wooden matches, pipe holders new the table. You know, a civilized life. My wife put an end to that about 20 years ago.

DOC:
A few years ago, I was collecting my mail and discovered a notice that smoking of any kind on the premises would be an eviction offense. This after over 35 years of occupancy. Since then, I smoke very carefully, puffing into a rolled up tea towel. Life does get unfortunately complicated now and again.

Now, I know the first responder (John), and he is the exception. For other men living alone is not advisable. It leads to stagnation and hygiene issues, as well as too many cats or dogs, talking to the walls, and strange eating habits. Plus living quarters severely yellowed.
That last does not seem like a problem.


The best advice I can give is move to California, settle somewhere near a Chinatown. That way food as well as ingredients for cooking at home can easily be found, the weather will usually be mellow enough to smoke outdoors, and there are enough examples of stubborn old gentlemen around that the inevitable pressure to quit may be alleviated by the awareness that there are many others who are far worse smokers, more crotchetty and arthritic, and more in need of urgent care or live-in nursing, wandering around alleyways hacking and coughing.
Men there smoke like Chimneys.


Certain awnings and abandoned doorways in Chinatown near the clinic are favourite haunts of mine, especially during inclement or windy weather. Haven't run into any of the medical staff or ladies from the pharmacy yet. During the pandemic, the only times I see them are during appointments or when picking up my praescription refills.



Burrowing directly into the hillside, then installing machinery to pipe in oxygen if you've gone deep enough, is also an option. Permanence. Plus insulation, privacy, and badgers.




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GRUMPY MORNING DICK

Two statements stick in my head this morning: 1) "Mercury is in retrograde"; 2) "Many of my favourite people are older than their Bourbon". The first is virtually meaningless. Mercury (the planet) has no effect on your life, because astrology is horsepucky, we live in a heliocentric solar system and all planets will at some point seem like they are backtracking. None of them have any effect on your life whatsoever except the one you are on. If you choose to believe any of that astropucky, then more power to you. I am a chiropractor and have a bridge for sale.

[And please enter your social security number, mother's maiden name, and your banking information in the comments field.
For faster service, a credit card number with cvc and expiration date are especially useful.]


The second phrase highlights that at a certain point many people you know will be heading into old age, and making creaky sounds when they walk. Or might be deceased.


Yesterday one of my favourite people and his dog dropped by the saltmines. Like many people older than anyone under forty years of age, he likes tobacco. And, though a pipe smoker, he admits to not being very picky.

"Any tobacco will do, I can't tell the difference anyhow."


Years ago I listened to another pipe man disquisition about the pleasant past time. "This leaf was picked during a dark phase of the moon by a virgin dancing widdershins. It performs best in a straightgrain from a burl harvested in a Bedouine graveyard, carved by a mage in a trance. Notice that dreamy warm amber hue to the lighter wood in between the dark lines?" Naturally, I am rather glad I haven't seen that pretentious dick in years, his type are quite as dreary as the people into Lord Of The Rings or the Sherlock Holmes stories who have taken up pipe smoking. The old fellow whose taste buds are on the wane is far preferable.

One of the bowls I smoked recently absolutely sang it was so nice.
Absolutely dreamy. No idea whether it was Gandalfian.

Whether or not a severely emotionally stunted neurotic fictional detective would have liked it was entirely immaterial. The tobacco mixture was sixty percent Red Virginia flake, with Bright, Burley, and Turkish to tweak the edges. I have NO idea about the grain patterns of the briar itself, because I had rusticated the outside of the bowl years ago.

No virgins danced while harvesting the briar.
Mercury may have been in retrograde.
And something was alive.



Neither Sauron, Gorthu of legend, nor Doctor Watson, the cripple from the Afghan Wars, had anything to do with the making of this pipe or the harvesting of the various tobaccos. There was no "three pipe problem". Lestrade and the horrid Baker Street Hobbits did not come into play. It tastes fine, feels good in the hand, and means another walk around the neighborhood.
If I weren't a pipe smoker I would get almost no exercise whatsoever.




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STUMBLETY-BUMBLETY WASN'T ON BOARD

Actually, that's just my nickname for the fellow. When he boards the bus he holds his hands close enough to his eyes that no one can catch them, and runs off-kilter at high speed to the back of the bus. It's an amazing performance. But I'm probably not the only person who has a nickname for him. The other frequent passengers on that line at that time of day undoubtedly have a pet-term for him too.

On the other hand, Little White Nipple Dude is, thanks to me, now often referred to when people talk about him as 'Little White Nipple Dude'. The name stuck.

The two of them should meet up.
They belong together.


The day would not seem incomplete without them.
My working week includes both of them.


Today it also included loud screaming and rabid growling. From the gentlemen in the back watching the ball game.

I myself did not watch -- homoerotic displays do not interest me -- but judging by the wet spots on the comfy chairs the hometown team won. Santa Clara can be proud of them.
The shiny golden buns beat the powder blue buns.

Maybe that's why Stumblety-Bumblety didn't board the bus this evening. He stayed home to not watch the game. And remain unexposed to giddy boys.
Little White Nipple Dude came in after it was all over, tried miserably to make conversation, and failed. My colleague elicited the information that he's forty seven years old now.
I believe his wife and daughter are still imaginary.

It was a very long day.
Noisy.




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BLESS THEIR HEARTS

One hundred and twenty five years ago they held a fair in Golden Gate Park. It was staggering. One could ride rickshaws pulled by German men wearing face paint, something that these days one might expect during the Folsom Street Fair (a yearly multicultural event popular with the tourists). Would I wish to ride in a rickshaw pulled by German men (with facepaint)? Probably not. It seems exploitative.


It's almost a guarantee that tourists back then did not understand either that in order to make wearing a surgical mask effective at protecting both the wearer and other people, it is best to have it closely pulled up over the big foreign nose.


Not leaving the big foreign nose free as a bird on the bus to infect other passengers.
Not cupping the chin only like a scrap of blue bikini brief.
Or a fashion statement below the pouty lips.


Sausalito is a mass spreading event and a public health hazard that should be burned down and the earth salted like Scipio Aemilianus did to Carthage.
With the tourists still inside.



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PRODUCT PLACEMENT

Apparently, Prince Andrew can't sweat, because a rush of adrenaline during the Falklands Campaign left him unable to. That, at least, is the claim which his lawyer or legal team is now pushing with a straight face. Very well then, I shall now assert that due to the trauma I suffered during my sixteen years in Holland I'm unable to fart. It's utterly impossible. I have tried.
I wish to smell just as much as normal Americans, but I cannot.

Also, I couldn't have farted. I'm a helicopter pilot and war hero.
I was wounded by a jezail bullet during the Afghan war.
I left my spleen on the desert sands.


At least during the Victorian Era, prominent families could detail their more dysfunctional members to join the clergy. Where perversion was expected of them. Imagine Prince Andrew as Mr. Collins in Pride And Prejudice. A kinder and more gentle member of royalty.
Everybody's favourite dreadful bore and skeevy dingus.
Padre Randy Pants.

PICTURE STOLEN FROM AN IN DEPTH REPORTAGE BY A SERIOUS FLEET STREET

NEWSPAPER THAT USUALLY REPORTS ON BANKS AND INSURANCE COMPANIES.

The British royals seem to be letting the side down.

Last time this happened, it was Jack The Ripper.


It looks like other than the Scandinavians and the Swiss, in Europe only the French are normal sexually (strike that; Dominique Strauss-Kahn). The Germans have cannibalism, the Dutch and Belgians bestiality and bondage, the English are all Roman Polanski. The Irish, Scottish, and Welsh are into turnips or potatoes. And I shan't even mention the Spanish and Italians.

It's that beastly climate, and the chronic alcoholism of the entire region.



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HAMBERDERS, A THOUSAND HAMBERDERS!

Today marks three years since Trump tweeted about serving hundreds of crappy meals to a winning national team. For which reason this date should be known as "Hamberder Day". Other than causing a tourist riot in the capital city of a shithole country, it was the most impactful thing he did.

Massive amounts of fast food are what this country is all about.

And you thought that the holidays were over!

It's festive!



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IT TASTES LIKE VICTORY

One of the things I do while waiting for the bus is count the number of people happily skipping down the street maskless then swear under my breath. Seeing as I am distrustful of people and do not wish to know which doorknobs they've licked, and above all do not want to catch the boojums that they blithely spread. Can't wait for the mothership to evacuate me.

Oops. What I mean is Covid. Don't want to catch Covid.
Or be part of a chain of transmission.
Zhengzhou is a safe place.
鄭州。

That city is under partial lockdown. Because the Chinese government understands that dealing with mass hospitalizations is expensive, besides a burden. Whereas here in the Western World we're all perfectly happy if our neighbor dies and we get his job.
Also, did his apartment become vacant?

Zhengzhou (鄭州 'jeng jau'), a city of over well twelve million people in Henan province (河南 'ho naam'), is tight as a drum. They had over a hundred Covid cases in the last few weeks, entirely without Americans wandering around, and they're taking no chances.

I give tourists a wide berth, as many of them do not wear masks. In Chinatown that's easy, they seldom stray off the beaten track. Porkchops for lunch at a place where tourists don't go, and everyone speaks Cantonese. Smoked a pipe in the alleyways afterwards. In Northbeach it's harder to do. Ended up having a cappucino in a place that doesn't appeal to out-of-towners. Followed by another pipe after walking uphill. Visitors are scared of hills.
A good afternoon for GLP Embarcadero.

The tobacco product (Embarcadero) in question is a mellow and complex red Virginia with a decent percentage of Smyrna leaf, soft-pressed and partially broken. Sweet, haunting, rich. On a whim I bought a few tins recently, because I needed a change of pace and really didn't want to open anything in my stockpile. Which is neurotic, because if I never smoke that stuff I won't get to enjoy it, which was the whole purpose of rainy-day-stashing in the first place.
Although gloating over my hoard is fun too.


Since March of 2020 when this thing hit, I have relied on four things to maintain my sanity: drawing using paint on the computer, my apartment mate, Chinatown, and pipe smoking.

The drawings above were fun to do, as I got hypnotized by the splashes of light and the areas of colour. Drew the pipe over a year ago, the cappucino this evening. Such things take between three and six hours, during which the head is elsewhere.

My apartment mate, being severely Asperger, expresses herself best and most riotously when she gives voice to the stuffed animals ("I only channel what's there"), and what with being antisocial has thrived in some ways during the pandemic. In any case, she has shown that underneath the softness, there is tough resilient steel. She's Cantonese American.

Cantonese is also the majority of Chinatown. Sober realists carrying on as best they can in hard times, and not given to weird rioting, mask or vaccine rejection, nor flights of paranoid conspiracy theorizing. The Cantonese are not likely to believe in most conspiracy theories, because they themselves have historically been serious engineers of conspiracy.
They can spot flaws in the ointment by instinct.

And pipe smoking, aside from being a comfortable vice, is in a way me thumbing my nose at the world. Plus a memory tool, and a reflection of my personality.
And a matter of aesthetics.



The reason why I mentioned Zhengzhou is because Miss Wang, unable to leave her date's apartment there (the lockdown happened while they were having dinner), has been in the news recently, and was mentioned by my fellow pipe smokers on the internet. It's a serious situation; while he has dutifully cooked all meals during confinement, his cooking is not exactly stellar.
It's not bad, mind you, but not exciting. And conversationally he is less than gifted.



芝士餅 ('ji si beng')

As an afterthought, the three popular packaged snack flavours in Chinatown at present are salted egg, cheese, and durian. Upvote on the first two, negative on the last.
Cheese flavoured biscuits, salted egg "cookies", and durian hopia.
The influences: Japan, Hong Kong, and Malaysia.
The 'cheesy beng' are especially good.
芝士餅、鹹蛋黃餅、榴蓮餅。




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DO NOT TURN OFF MY THINGUS!

It is not what you think. She was referring to the pot of tea leaves and Chinese dates I had on the stove. The dried dates were there to add sweetness and mouthfeel. There was also some sliced ginger in there. This is the basis for many nice cups of milk tea throughout the day.
As well as providing a covering aroma that de-tobaccofies the apartment.

It's a mighty good thing, as you must understand.
Very low flame, several hours a day.


Chinese women are opposed to tobacco use. Chinese American women are more vocal (and pushy) about that). My apartment mate is a Chinese American woman.

Dutch men are, mostly, smokers. Dutch American men are pig-ass stubborn in two languages, not just one. And I am a Dutch American man.


I am, as you would surely expect, always aware of what might diminish the smoke smell. In the afternoon, that's four or five hours plus plenty of ventilation before she returns. At night there is no hope. Necessarily, then, the first and last smoke of the day must be outdoors facing the howling gale like my whale-hunting ancestors striding manfully over the soggy moors.


For some reason, my mind tends to wander off when I'm out there with my pipe. This morning's walk in the darkness before dawn had a passage from the Rig Veda drifting into the forefront of my hazy consciousness. "Hvayami Agnim prathamam svastaye hvayami Mitra Varunav ihavase; hvayami ratrim jagato niveshanim hvayami devam Savitaram utaye" (I firstly invoke Agni for wholeness, I invoke Mitra and Varuna to come to our aid ; I invoke night who renders the world at peace, I invoke divine Savitri to benefit us). It is not connected to anything, it was just something I read a while back.

I've only had one cup of hot liquid so far. Once she leaves for the day, I'll put the pot on the stove, and drink another cup before I start my usual routines. Agni (fire) makes the beverages possible, both coffee and tea are covenantal and companionable (Mitra and Varuna). That which is right and good cannot function without these (Mitra and Varuna again, through what they enable and vouchsafe). Knowledge, reading, reason, and art, are the boons of Savitri, again not possible for some people without caffeine. Night has ended for the time being.

Obviously I need that coffee. I'm gibbering.

Caffeine is sacramental.



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ALWAYS SMILE AND SAY "OKAY"

Another day, and another slew of batshit craziness from the dank elements. That being primarily residents of the shithole states ( Alabama, Alaska, Arkansas, Colorado, Florida, Georgia, Idaho, Indiana, Louisiana, Massachusetts, Mississippi, Missouri, Montana, North Carolina, North Dakota, Ohio, Oklahoma, Pennsylvania, South Carolina, South Dakota, Tennessee, Texas, Virginia, West Virginia, and Wyoming), and Fox News.

Medications for Republicans: Ivermectin, hydroxychloroquine, zinc supplements, urine therapy, prozac, spironolactone, fitness milkshakes, and a lightbulb on a wire inserted anally or orally. LED is good. And if you're a rightwing activist, be aware that the black helicopters will attack you with anthrax spores, and send UN troops to get you.

Ermahgerd, FEMA camps!


The election wasn't stolen, by the way. Y'all left it out on the kitchen counter where the rats could get at it: Christians, patriots, snake oil salesmen, and television preachers.

The only criminals in Congress are all Republicans.

Just shut up and eat your 'hamberders'.

You stable geniuses.




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RICH AND CRUNCHY LIVING; CUT DOWN ON THE COOKIES!

The early afternoon snack included something representing a taste which was always good, but has become staggeringly common in the last two years: 鹹蛋黃 ('haam daan wong'; salted egg yolk). Because I have one open bag and a closed one in the computer room. As with many things I eat, it's a guilty pleasure, because the appointment I had at the hospital nutritionist over two years ago ended with her looking green, and our agreement that my improved and more heart-healthy diet would start with baby steps: cut down on the cookies.

Since then I have cut down on the cookies. I no longer eat a dozen of them pensively late at night. Salted egg yolk biscuits (鹹蛋黃餅 'haam daan wong beng') are not cookies.

The reason why she looked green after our conversation was that it was nearly lunch time for her, and I described in great detail all the horribly fattening bad for your heart and gut delicious things available within two or three blocks of the hospital. Everything you certainly don't want to hear about on an empty stomach. The hospital is in Chinatown. Just think of duck and pork and salt fish, and egg dishes and baked chops on top of rice with a gooey layer of melted cheese.
And cakes, sweet rolls, little chicken pies, egg tarts, and old wife biscuit.
And runny custard pineapple buns.


The guilt lies in talking about rich tempting food when she was hungry.

It was evil of me, I am a bad man.

Of course when my doctor brought up smoking, I'd switch the subject to food also. So it was within the tradition that was being established during my visits to the clinic. There will be a new doctor there for my next visit (my erstwhile regular care physician is back at school), and I'm feeling somewhat anxious about that; I do not know what this new person eats.
The website does not tell me.

What is certain is that the disapproval of smoking, and a severe lecture about how by doing so I'm ruining my body, wasting my grandkids inheritance (don't have any), and making myself unlikable to the opposite sex (and risking pneumonia because I go outside a lot for a puff) are going to come up. It's inevitable. Years ago many physicians were chainsmokers since medical school or early childhood, our family doctor would happily load a bowl with my tobacco, and in the hospital ward where my mother spent her last months, there were sometimes more medical professionals having a puff in the teevee room than patients.
Doctors have changed.


'More doctors smoke Camels than any other cigarette. Yes, in a repeated national survey, doctors in ALL branches of medicine, in ALL parts of the country, were asked "what cigarette do YOU smoke, doctor?"
Not surprisingly, more doctors preferred the taste of Camels. Why don't you try Camels for a month, to see what a smooth, rich tasting cigarette can mean for your tobacco enjoyment?'


The first thing you do, after several hours of surgery, is light up.
Far better than a cold beer in the 'Mortuary Arms Pub'.

A doctor should not smoke cigarettes. They should smoke a pipe, because it makes them look serious and avuncular. You can trust him (or her), because they have gravitas, and abstain from ciggies, as all sensible people should.

My next round of medical appointments (regular care physician, praescription refills, eye doctor, cardiologist) starts in another two weeks. Should be interesting.
I always have a smoke and go eat something afterwards.

A reward for cutting back on the cookies.



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INEVITABLY A PARSEE

One of my friends referenced Kowloon. So naturally I remembered that the company I worked for (over a decade ago) had an office in Kowloon (on Mody Road), and contracts with factories in Kwuntong and Shenzhen. Which, of course, brings up words.

Let's start with Mody Road (麼地道 'mo tei tou'), named after a famous Parsee (Hormusjee Naorojee Mody), which starts at Nathan Road (Tsimshatsui's main street, 彌敦道), and runs roughly north, north west. Kwuntong (觀塘 'gwun tong') is where the HK plastic flower industry started, and is mixed industrial and residential. Shenzhen is "deep ditch" (深圳 'sam jan'), across the border in China. Kwuntong used to be 官塘 ('gwun tong'), "mandarin ponds".

And, logically, the memory will now jump to gajjar mewa nu achar (carrot and fruit pickle, also called "wedding pickle' -- lagan nu achar), a famous Parsee pickle. Mangoes, dates (khajur), raisins (kismis), carrots, all combined with jaggery, brown vinegar, plus red chili powder, garlic, ginger, minor quantities of cinnamon, cloves, and star anise. There are recipes on the internet, but keep in mind that such pickles will keep better, and the flavour will be more intense when some dehydration is in play; if you let the thin matchsticked carrots dry a bit (two to five days)
in a sunny spot before you begin, the results will be better.

Technically it's a chutney, so it does not rely on salt for preservation.
The dried fruits are there for sweetness and texture.
Many people also add dried apricots.
Jardalu; very Parsee.

Not too sweet, not too spicy.


I'm also reminded of jardalu boti; a Parsee lamb and dried apricot curry with a big handful of fried matchstick potatoes strewn generously over. Videos and recipes on the internet.


The question "can one get Parsee food in Hong Kong", or "is Parsee food available in San Francisco" is, ab initio, wrong. Anything a Parsee eats is, by definition, Parsee food. They are picky, but extremely broadminded about food, and will happily explore other people's cuisines. One Parsee on FB does chocolate cakes which are staggering works of art and unbelievably gorgeous, another improves on English food (a noble enterprise, there is much room for developments there).

If one could generallize about their cuisine, it would be that they love sweet-sour-spicy, eggs in any form, apricots, textural effects, and dishes which would shock your cardiologist.
Plus tea with snackies in mid-afternoon.

One can get Parsee food in Hong Kong. And San Francisco.
You would just have to make it yourself.

Add a fried egg.



POST SCRIPT

Sorry, I got distracted by food for a moment there. Inevitable, that. I actually intended to write an essay in which I could use a recent academic colour exercise as an illustration.

Even if I had remained on the subject of language, it would have been a hard slog.
The painting above looks somewhat apricottish, doesn't it?
Doesn't it remind you of fruit leather?
Jardalu landscape.



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THE UPSIDE DOWN GIN BOTTLE

For some reason the apartment mate and myself were discussing buildings which are recognizable, the high rises and constructions that are the signature parts of every urban landscape. Like the Notre Dame cathedral, the well known monuments of Washington which have been turned into a set of lovely and detailed cigar humidors, stuff in London, and Amsterdam Central Station, the Rijksmuseum, and the Stedelijk.

Or, in San Francisco, the piramid and the old Folgers building on the waterfront.

So I mentioned the Upside Down Gin Bottle.
Prince of Wales Barracks.
In Hong Kong.

When Adrian was still in Hong Kong, he would smoke outside the highrise where his company was located, NOT outside what is now the People's Army Headquarters, but he could probably see it from there. Or, in any case, he knew of it, and would instantly recognize it.
As would everyone else; it's distinctive.


The proper pipe tobacco to smoke while observing this building, or enjoying a lazy break outside one of the imposing structures in Central, would, quite naturally, be Dunhill's Elizabethan Mixture. As Adrian did when away from his office.


AFTER WORD

What I smoked tonight while waiting for the bookseller at the usual spot in Chinatown was Greg Pease's Embarcadero. Mostly red Virginia, goodly wallop of Smyrna, in a loose broken flake form that scarce needs any rubbing out. Which is very nice. Deep.

Goes very well with hot milk tea, and Cantonese food.
Not refined cuisine, but working class goodness.
Had some after pastries and a cuppa earlier.


It has been a three-pipe day.
Very pleasant.



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YOU CAN EAT AND SLEEP THERE

Imagine a place filled with backpackers, Indians, and curry. It isn't Nepal. Or anywhere near the Taj Mahal. The dulcet sounds of Urdu and Punjabi (well, can't really describe them as "dulcet", but I'm so used to those sounds that "ugly guttural, hairballs" doesn't seem right -- that's Russian) everywhere, turmeric and ginger, faint whisps of strawberry incense .....

A very multinational place. Where everything is sold, and people live their entire lives without going outside. Densely alive at all hours. Lodgings, bistros, masala chai stalls.

Sort of the residential hotel of a feverish imagination.
With far fewer SFPD busting down doors.
Chungking Mansions.

36–44 Nathan Road, Tsim Sha Tsui, Kowloon, Hong Kong

Years ago I was the cashier/factotum/rational adult on the premises at an Indian Restaurant, and also the man people went to for answers. Not some of the staff, because Punjabis know everything there is to know, but Caucasians. Several of whom liked "curry", but often felt that the food was too spicy. Even the rice pilaf. They were curious.

"There is too much chili in all this (there wasn't), the bread is too spicy (it isn't), the rice has too much pepper (none), the tea (masala chai) is undrinkably strong (a mild beverage toned-down for the gaura-log), and why on earth did you put garlic and chilis in the mango juice?!?!"

Okay ... I think your nose is overruling your brain.

Some people really shouldn't travel anywhere outside of the Midwest or perhaps the East Coast. Not even to a local foreign edibles restaurant. It shortcircuits their senses, they experience too much stimuli, and become slightly onthutst and lose their moorings.


Chungking Mansions is filled with Indians, Pakistanis, Malays, East Africans.
As well as their shops, eateries, hair salons, tailors.
There is no daylight there.
17 floors.

It's worth a visit.
There's pizza.




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