BISCUIT SHOP: CHINATOWN BAKERIES

Over the years several of the old-fashioned coffee shops and bakeries in Chinatown have disappeared. Largely they have given way to a different and more modern style of business, the key characteristics of which are fancier pastries, and a marked lack of seating. In those bakeries where people congregate for a bite and a beverage, the coffee is still pretty bad (but very cheap, that's why), the style of baked goods is an echo of the seventies and eighties, and the clientele often has silver hair.
Some modern places have cheesecake and no tables.

Old-school lunchcounter bakeries, with simple Chinese pastries, apple pie, strawberry cake, and a variety of hot savoury items, are a thing of the past. Along with banana cream pie, Boston cream, and daily specials: ox tail, patty over rice, chops, fried chicken, chicken fried steak.

That generation retired.


COUNTERS AND BOOTHS

Years ago I went to the Eastern Bakery, which had a lunch counter where you could read the newspaper while swilling endless refills. Alan Gin and Mr. Fong would often be there, Ted came by occasionally, and Auntie Jenny kept us wired to the eyebrows. The steamed chicken bun (雞包) was totally excellent, the dow sa bing ditto, and their pie and coffee crunch cake were famous. Many years ago they ripped out the lunch counter, I moved out of the neighborhood, and Auntie Jenny retired.
Their moon cakes are iconic.
They still exist.

At Ping Yuen on Jackson, the cream pies were extremely nice, the counter was very long, and the ladies who worked there often got me whacked to the gills by endlessly refilling my cup. I read three newspapers while sitting there, did all the puzzles, frequently studied Chinese poetry or Tang-Sung essays from books I had recently bought at Louie Bros or Jung Mei, and when they closed in the evening I would go to the Great Star Theater to watch Chow Yun-fat or Lau Tak Wah shoot em up in Hong Kong gangster flicks till midnight. Ping Yuen no longer exists, the cinema closed years ago.

Sun Wah Kue was a long-time fixture, with a main entrance on Washington and a door on 舊呂宋 alley. Fabulous oxtail and fried chicken, famous among old-timers for chops, steaks, and orange chiffon pie. The lighting was not good enough to read by, but if you sat in the right place you could observe the people passing by in the alleyway while enjoying some stellar apple pie a la mode. You had to signal for refills; they weren't quite as 'stimulating' as the other two places mentioned. But they had booths, yellowing walls, and their lunches were truly special.
Long gone, long long gone.


THE MODERN AGE

The other day I was at a well-known bakery on Stockton around tea-time, listening in on three conversations at once. The spry bird-like woman who is often there, talking animatedly with the silver-haired Burma uncle, a table behind me with a pretty middle-aged woman and three other people, and at the table directly across from me an old gentleman possessed of a lively wit and one of the most intelligent expressive faces I have ever seen.
I hope the woman with the very beautiful hair next to him is his wife.
Or mistress, girlfriend, inamorata, squeeze, or whatever.
But she's probably a daughter.
Shan't ask.

One cup of milk tea (奶茶 'naai cha'), a fresh warm meat floss bun (肉鬆飽 'yiuk sung baau'), and three lively talky-talks around me to hold my interest. One peculiarity of Cantonese folks in conversation is that there are numbers for everything, food will always be mentioned, and everybody has a term. Older siblings, younger maternal aunties, uncles who are father's younger brother, ah sang ("mister dude"), pretty miss ('leng neui'), young female cousin ('piu mui'), previously born person ('sin saang') .......
Lo sai (younger brother), taai lou (older brother).
Taai go taai, ah sou.
Heng jeung.


I had a blast.




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WINTER IS COMING!

That bright sunshine is deceptive. It's probably going to be beastly weather this weekend. If not actual precipitation of epic proportions, frigid and windy.
The rational man preparatorily fuels himself with chops.
Grilled, and served with sauce alongside rice.
Plus three to four broccoli.

It's a day off, three work-days coming up, and the droning of old fossils off to the side at work is a guaranteed constant.
Because they are overwhelmingly Trumpites, it is most unfair that I have not been provided with a cattle-prod.

Plus a ball gag for the Irishman.


SENILE DELINQUENTS

I am getting much better at recognizing what kind of elderly git will take the conversation where you do not want it to go. My coworkers, consequently, yesterday had to deal with two rambling wrecks with bugs up their asses, and a good friend who dropped by to smoke a pipe, quietly at the end of his day, ended up listening to a long rant about the Russians and the Clinton Foundation fracking Marin County, the recent California wild-fires being a Bilderberg plot OR crowd control, how the government tracks people through the chips in their cellphones, and lizard aliens.

While that was going on I was "occupied".

Sorry, things to do.

Indeed, I sympathize with my friend and my colleagues, but heeding the warning signs is a survival mechanism. Have you noticed it's never sweetly brilliant young things that wish to bend your ear, but always the ones who are crazier than bedbugs?


One person I avoid always includes the datum that he's a University of Berkeley graduate in every conversation, as well as a proud mention that he voted for Trump. There is not much else to his discourse other than a repetition of that, irrespective of the subject.

Unfortunately he's roughly my age.
Bad PR for my generation.


I need those chops today.
They're therapeutic.





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LET'S NOT MENTION SOCKS

My ex, who is still my apartment mate after all this time, sleeps with a large penguin. He showed up one day, and other than occasionally radiating gloom because he cannot fly, he's a splendid fellow albeit innocent.
The innocent and unreservedly nice critters are on her side.
The unstable faction (total anarchists!) lives on mine.
Her room is neat in consequence, mine is not.
Naturally I blame my fuzzy roomies.
Because I am exemplary.

Well, okay, I'm actually a slob. I see no reason to clean house when it's so unlikely anyone will visit. Both she and I are not what you would call social butterflies, and the creatures on my side might throw dirty socks at any visitors of whom they disapprove. And I would have to apologize.


I am somewhat jealous, though. He and I could talk about herring together, and not being able to fly. As a Dutchman, I know from herring, and I do not fly. The assorted fuzzies are no help in either regard, as they neither grasp the twin heartaches of herring-lack and flightlessness, nor show much sympathy for these afflictions.

Sometimes, late at night, I hear a soft murmuring from that room.
It's probably a large flightless aquatic bird discussing fish.


Herring is a wonderful thing.
Take it from me, I know.




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WHAT'S ON YOUR NASTY MIND TODAY?

At four in the morning I am pleased to see stability in the world, but that may be merely my own echo-chamber. Seeing as I have largely insulated myself from the complete idiot crowd over the years by banning, blocking, or unfriending myself from Trumpites, Bernieites, and religious nuts on social media. Along with restrictive diet-types and Amway sellers.
And several of them have done the same.

Think of it as a co-operative venture.

That leaves mostly sane folks.


The readers of this blogspot, however, are a different story. Most of them do not leave comments, but the articles which they read here are in some ways illustrative. One constant over the years has been the essay about the naming-differences in women's underpants, which seems to have been read pretty much every day since I wrote it on a whim eight years ago.

Perhaps all of them live in parts of the world where women's underpants are unavailable. Eastern Europe and Pakistan, most likely.

[There's a lingerie shop on Polk Street one or two blocks north of Broadway which I have not passed in years. I expect women still wear underwear, and one day when the weather is nice perhaps I might have a cup of coffee at a place in the same block. On Clay Street between Grant and Kearny facing Portsmouth Square in Chinatown is a boutique with similar items; I believe there were some pale purple things in their window recently. And of course there is Victoria's Secret, in the Union Square area. No idea where. They've moved several times.]

I myself have little interest in women's underpants, and have not been involved with anyone who might wear such things for several years. Which is regrettable. But on their own, such garments cannot excite much interest. And really, they follow a predictable pattern. There are, usually, three holes. Not four, because that is too many. Not two, assuredly not five.
Insert a Monty Python reference here.

[This post.]


The other essay which always shows up as being popular when I look at my blog stats is the one explaining the Cantonese term for a randy man (ham sap lo) which was penned during breakfast on April 27, 2011.
The term is colourful, evocative, and opprobrious.
I am hard put to find a favourable usage.

[This post.]


It is now shortly after five. I shall go to bed again for a few brief hours of sleep. With my luck, I'll probably dream of underwear.

I mostly think of cheese.




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THESE ARE THE LIMITATIONS

This blogger spent most of yesterday being peevish. This blogger is determined to be nice to people today, all sweetness and light.
Perhaps this blogger should not leave the house.
The strain might prematurely age him.
Or spark another world war.


Let's face it, I spend so much effort on being courteous and informative to people at work (and putting up with cigar-smoking Trumpites and their inane repetitive sports and politics related rantings) that I really have very few fudges left to give. I must conserve them. Those fudges.

I could list all the types of people with whom I have grown fed-up over the years, but that, too, would be repetitive ranting. And you, dear eccentric person reading this, might get bored, and certainly find it dreary.



I like animals. Provided that they are not too large. Unlike my apartment mate, who voices for the stuffed creatures we share, I get along well with live ones, of which there are probably many more in my life than in hers, although for all I know she may associate with whole flocks of riotously personable wild beasts now that she's split with her lover.
I seriously doubt that he liked animals.
Her teddy bear hated him.


The teddy bear and I have a relationship based on mutual respect. She's my apartment mate's oldest friend in the world, and frequently the voice of sanity and reason in this household. And she seems to think that I am, for the most part, a fairly decent chap.


Other than going over to Chinatown for some noodles later, I should spend most of the day with the fuzzy critters, in between going outside for walkies smoking my pipe.

And lots of tea; several of the fuzzies like tea.

They'll be wired when she returns home.

Not my problem. I treat them well.

Rambunctious caffeine freaks.



You know, I wasn't expecting to hit grumpy middle age so soon.
I was hoping to stay thirty for several more years!

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ANCIENT GEEZER STUMBLING AROUND IN THE DARKNESS

Yesterday evening while having a bite to eat at a joint in North Beach, three attractive young ladies were speaking Mandarin at the next table. And while I considered asking them where they were from (你們三個小姐從哪裡來？'ni men san ge hsiao-chieh tsong na-li lai'), I realized that firstly this could create false impressions, and secondly that whatever conversation might ensue would be quite pointless. The age, gender, and cultural differences were major barriers.

Because, after all, I am not an attractive Mandarin speaker.

As I am sure you've already guessed.


Honestly, I wouldn't have been likely to talk with them for any length of time beyond showing off my very minor linguistic skill.
Nor they with me.
I cannot conceive of any shared interests, and I am quite sure that a boring middle-aged white dude speaking worse than mediocre Mandarin is something they have already encountered.

So I listened in for a while.
Sort of, half interested.
Yeah, okay. Pretty.


Half my age. At most. If even that.


There is almost nothing that makes one feel like a creaky old relic than nice young people with whom one has absolutely nothing at all in common.
It's happening too often nowadays.




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FIFTH PLACE; I CAN LET MYSELF OUT

There is something delightful about having a local watering hole, especially after a long day at work. But this neighborhood is a wasteland. I stopped going to one place because of the behaviour of some of the regulars. I don't go to another for the same reason. Won't ever go a third because it's a zoo, and every time I walk by a fourth bar it looks like the lizard aliens are having a mating frenzy in there. Meat racks, pick-up joints, sports bars, or places where expensive techno-yuppies drink wine.

That leaves a fifth place.

A friend wrote "lighten up, people are just trying to unwind and have an enjoyable evening". Which is why I shall not be going there for a while.
I have ditched that dive three times over the years, and I think I should do so once more, for much longer this time. Because, after all, I am a frightful cheapskate, besides being old, arthritic, and white. As well as keenly desirous of having an enjoyable evening, while unwinding.
Which can easily be done by myself.

And, if you think about it, there is something quite insane about going to a karaoke bar when I don't sing, hate karaoke, and dislike noise, and then leaving the drink I bought untended while I spend most of the time alone outside smoking my pipe.

However, the bar is upstairs, and the downstairs portico is convenient because it puts distance between me and caterwauling egomaniacs.

Wandering around Nob Hill with a pipe on my own makes more sense.
It will be quieter, especially when it rains.
And it's also more 'social', too.
Better company.


"People are just trying to unwind and have an enjoyable evening"


Clearly that's not my reason for going there.

I'm rather an idiot at times. I started frequenting the place again, after a long hiatus, several months ago. I like three people who work there, and a few regulars. But most of the customers are too arrogant and pissy to even say 'hi', and some evenings there is a stand-offish crowd at one end of the bar who actively dislike me, so I've avoided the place on those days.

[Mostly Sundays; sports fishermen night.]

I think those people are now dominant. The last few times I went were exercises in solitude. Very loud unpleasant solitude. Perhaps because someone like me should not unwind and have an enjoyable evening.

[That seems to be a consensus.]




As a social experience the place is a disaster.

Too much Frank Sinatra, not enough Bing Crosby.


I'll miss some of those people. But they probably won't miss me.
I'm not social, and I don't sing.





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IN TOUCH WITH MY INNER SALT OF THE EARTH

For over a year now, the city has been digging up a major thoroughfare in a massive beautification project that will improve all our lives, vastly upgrade public transit, and speed the coming of the messiah. As well as give us all good karma, wean us off gluten and meat, and clear up our complexions.

They've torn up Van Ness Avenue, and chopped down most of the lovely trees which used to line the street. And, as is to be expected, costs are spiralling, deadlines are being pushed back.
And transit is a disaster.

The stop where I wait for the bus that takes me north to "entitled snothead central" (Marin County) is there. And there is a gym with a whole bunch of buff-looking urban professionals there. They are very serious folks.
Who, evidently, do not like the horrid odour of cigars.
One of which I enjoy while awaiting transport.
More so because it triggers people.
Poor wussies in sweats.


Mmmm, this Nicaraguan robusto is fine!
Such aroma and sabor!
Jeez!


Working men lay pipes, shift large machinery, and dig.

For them, I raise my voice in cheerful song!


First stanza:
On Monday morning John gets up, what's he doing today?
He's digging a hole and digging a hole,
And filling a hole and filling a hole;
He's digging a hole and digging a hole,
And filling a hole and filling a hole;
All the life-long day!

Second stanza:
On Tuesday morning John gets up, what's he doing today?
He's digging a hole and digging a hole,
And filling a hole and filling a hole;
He's digging a hole and digging a hole,
And filling a hole and filling a hole;
All the life-long day!

Third stanza:
On Wednesday morning John gets up, what's he doing today?
He's digging a hole and digging a hole,
And filling a hole and filling a hole;
He's digging a hole and digging a hole,
And filling a hole and filling a hole;
All the life-long day!

Fourth stanza:
On Thursday morning John gets up, what's he doing today?
He's digging a hole and digging a hole,
And filling a hole and filling a hole;
He's digging a hole and digging a hole,
And filling a hole and filling a hole;
All the life-long day!

Fifth stanza:
On Friday morning John gets up, what's he doing today?
He's digging a hole and digging a hole,
And filling a hole and filling a hole;
He's digging a hole and digging a hole,
And filling a hole and filling a hole;
All the life-long day!


Men who wear safety vests (bright orange and yellow) assuredly like music. It encourages them in their labour, and puts a smile on their faces.

I am a joy to have around.




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THE CONTEMPLATIVE TYPES

The problem with the pipe club, as everyone will acknowledge, is that the members are mostly middle-aged men with a certain gravitas, instead of bright sprightly young things at college, who are female. Or attractive post-graduates fighting male dominance in their field.
There are hardly any of those.
None, actually.

The image of a slim tweedy girl with an elegant briar disquisitioning brightly over sherry and a bowl of mellow Virginia leaf is a chimera.
If you expected to find her and her kin at the monthly meeting of the pipe club, sadly you will be disappointed.

There was something that looked like sherry, which I did not sample, so it may have been a distillate from Islay or Speyside. And most members are clean-shaven. So from a distance they might have fooled you.

Two kinds of salami.
And hummus.


One member was in Austin, Texas, and another was in Boston, in the attic.
The first only temporarily, the second near-permanently.

One of the members bought a tin of something ancient.
It smelled rather wonderful. Well-aged.
I hope he brings it by.


On Tuesday and Wednesday I shall be smoking by myself.
Recovering from the whirling and tumult.

TOBACCO INDEX


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A CREATURE OF DAYLIGHT

At an hour when decent people are asleep, I stood before the bathroom mirror posing. Eh, the old dude still got it! Of course it helped that I had spent the while before in a place with people who were intoxicated.
Young. Hormonal. Over-stimulated. And just ... so. Precisely.
My arthritis would kick in, and I was hesitant.
I did not wish to leap into the dark.


It is, always, better to demur.


Three lovely young ladies had, in that badly lit environment, introduced themselves. And according to the bartender, two other fine female persons wished to buy me a drink, both of which I turned down.


I'm sorry, I am not what the doctor ordered.
I'm antique, and quite unsuitable!


Years ago, Savage Kitten was 'hesitant'. And I, in a sudden fit of wisdom, had applied myself to pursuit. It was the wisest thing that I could do, and even though we are no longer a couple I have no reason for regret.


That, more than anything else, determines the future.
You should act according to your standards.
And those of the people you respect.


It must be my recent haircut.
It makes me look good.

Well dang.




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CANTONESE PECULIARITY

There are times when the Chinese are entirely daft, damned well baffling. Well, actually, that would be the Toishanese, from near Canton. Cantonese people. I don't know about Mandarin-speakers, as I seldom associate with them, and the Shanghainese think in blithering neutralities.
Shan't even mention the Hokiens and the Hakka.
Cantonese people have a gift for grand operatic behaviours, all round weirdness, and a tendency toward complexity.

For example, an outraged rhetorical question from the apartment mate: "what kind of idiot brings a zither to a hunting party?"

This was not pursuant anything we had previously discussed, nor did I have a clue what she was on about. It was how she greeted me upon my return from Marin today. The question came out of the middle of nothing.


"What kind of idiot brings a zither to a hunting party?"


Umm, I should know the explanation for such a thing? Does it concern me?

Apparently she had been watching a movie during the afternoon.
Which featured an entirely Caucasian cast.
I am a white person.


In my defense, I must mention that I am not German, and seldom think in that language. So I have no idea what kind of idiot brings a zither to a hunting party. Evenso it was an enjoyable movie.
Despite the ridiculous singing.
She says.

That's all the information I have. It took patience and guile to gather this much. And the conversation was fractured. I am Caucasian, ergo I know about zithers, and something about that is my fault.
The German word for 'zither' is 'zither'.
In case you were wondering.



你問我? 我點知啦吓?

The same berserk "logic" shaped the discussion of a party of Toishanese gentlemen at the table near me yesterday afternoon. Which was peppered with "lo mo" and "ma ge haai", as well as "hiu", that being the Toishanese pronunciation of the copulative verb. I knew something was up when the waitress was abstracted, so much so that she brought me the wrong dish.
I had asked for 涼瓜排骨飯 ('leung gwaa paai gwat faan'), but what ended up being served to me was 茄子班球飯 ('ke ji paan kau faan').
No matter. I was too intent on listening to object.
As indeed so was she.

As conversations go, it was a trainwreck. Or a traffic accident involving clown cars. Rabid clowns. Loud. Lyrical. The waitress undoubtedly understood every word, as Toishanese is her native language.
I barely got the gist of it, but my meal was excellent.
Dinner plus a floor show.
Can't beat that.


I do rather wish I had gotten the right food, though, because I was looking forward to bitter melon and spare ribs over rice.
Instead of eggplant and fish.



AFTER WORD

As I mentioned, I am not German. Nor am I Cantonese, and most definitely not Toishanese. I am Dutch (Dutch American), and I look like I should have all the answers. That is all.




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THEIR EASILY BRUISED EGOS

An acquaintance asserted that seeing certain interracial couples made him angry. Not all such, just Asian women with Caucasian men. Upon hearing that I gleefully told him that it amused me immensely. Others have already argued that he has a double standard, as he admits that Asian men with beautiful white women are quite fine by him, the more the merrier!
He gets a kick out of big black men dating white chicks too.

He is an ethnic Chinese dude from the Philippines.
And he may have a chip on his shoulder.
Besides being single and geeky.
Kinda froggish.


Gross generalization: many people (especially men) from the Philippines seem to have similar chips. Their national diversity is exemplified by the peculiarities of said chips. Flip chippity takes varied forms.
But his particular ire is more narrowly Chinese.
An 'Angry Asian Man' thing.
Poor bugger.


As a single man, I suppose I should feel similar anger whenever I see couples, of any age range, ethnic derivation, and gender break-down.
Especially happy couples who are well-matched and likable.
But I don't, that isn't my character flaw.
And life is too short for that.


The key difference is that I am not a geeky froggish Asian man, angry that society does not appreciate me like my mom and my aunties do, nor poorly socialized due to being the precious only son of a family where the older generation all speak something other than English.

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STINKY OLD GUYS AND DUBIOUS MUSICAL TASTES

Because this is San Francisco, the question "what are you smoking in that pipe?" should not be answered in any great detail. If, for instance, I were to respond "a variegated mixture of aged Virginias with a touch of Perique, manufactured by Orlik for Kohlhase & Kopp under the brand name of a fine old English company now sadly zombified by British American Tobacco, and soon to be no longer available", you would respond "oh that's nice" and later remark to your companion that you had no clue what the old fart was pissing on about, you were hoping for a hit of marijuana.
And you might never even speak to me again.
By itself that's no very great loss.
But I'm not an old fart.


"What are you smoking?"

"Tobacco, kid, tobacco."


On a rainy night like to tonight you would see me downstairs from a fine establishment enjoying the last smoke of the day, while younger people avail themselves of the karaoke to belt out the classics.
Or white-boy rap.

Soon, baby. I just had dinner. When I finish my coffee I'm heading out.

I am rather old-school. Instead of ruining my life and rotting my brain with weed and popular music, I shall lurk quietly in the portico with my pipe, watching the weather. Peaceful post working day relaxation.

Sporadic other smokers will pass by, enjoying a last puff before bed.


As well as the odd potsmoking twenty-something dingo.



WEEPING NEAR KARAOKE JOINTS

Please just pretend that I am a wild animal, endangered and dangerous.
If you find tobacco oppressive, and offensive to you and your enlightened world view, don't bother telling me, precious. Should I react at all, it will be only to take joy in your pain, and see if I can make it worse.

Don't irritate the vicious brute, sweetie.
He's rabid, and he'll bite you.

Go ahead and sing.
And shut up.

TOBACCO INDEX


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THE PROSPECT OF PORK

Some evil bastard, probably employed by the city, has littered Spofford Alley with rat traps. Last night when I passed by there were already many victims, several furry corpses, with their little necks broken. I fear that the small colony of lovable white rodents that was living there, near the now empty ghost paper and incense shop, may have been extinguished.

Over many months I had come to know them.
I felt that a bond existed.
It is very sad.

They've also been laying concrete, and the boondoggle beautification project which turned that passage way into a little slice of third world hell may finally be drawing to a close, with typical municipal efficiency.
A miracle in grey concrete! Several months beyond the planned completion date, and after driving many neighborhood enterprises into bankruptcy.
It will be fabulous, and all the tourists will love it.
And, in the end, that's what matters.



The bookseller and I ended up at the usual place, where the owner was much more drunk and belligerent than usual. It's a tradition of many years, which is now far less fun than it was before management of that bar discovered tequila. A birthday celebration was in progress.

There was an enormous roast pig there, plus some kind of noodle dish.

We did not have any. The bookseller abstained because of growing regrets over a donut he had eaten earlier -- lets call that a digestive angst damned well bordering on existential despair -- and I because I have doubts about the healthgiving properties of pork left out at room temperature for half a day, and pawed over by random people.

Pork is a very great good. Under the right circumstances.

In the New Guinea highlands it is often the cause of significant gastric distress, due to handling issues, all the ritual obligations of a big feed involving several dozen people, and haphazard culinary practices.
Plus a lack of clean running water, and flies.



豬肉

In all honesty, while I like roast pork (燒肉 'siu yiuk'), I am much more fond of fatty slabs of pork belly stewed with salted brassica (which I have described in great detail here: mui choi kau yiuk).

It is much less tribal, more civilized.

If I don't have it for lunch today -- at one of my favourite cheap lunch counters where it's on the steamtable as part of the "three dishes and soup" deal (三餸一湯 'saam song yat tong'; rice is naturally included), I may end up having roast pork and fuzzy melon over rice (燒肉節瓜飯 'siu yiuk jit gwaa faan') at another joint. Which I had last week also.

But pork must be part of the programme.
I eat suburban tomorrow.
Ick poo.




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SUCH VERY GOOD NEWS

In an article about Amsterdam one thing stood out like a sore thumb; the gross similarity between China, Saudi Arabia, and the United States.

Explanation: The highest rates of obesity are shown in red, followed by orange and yellow. Green and blue means fewer than 5% of the young population is obese.

[Source: NCD risk factor collaboration: rates of obesity, via BBC.]


There are, in fact, TWO take-away conclusions that jump out immediately when examining these maps.


CONCLUSION ONE
These three countries are awash in delicious snacks, and eating bacon-cheddar flavoured nibbly bits (or shrimpy crispy doodles) is almost a national sport. With or without chocolate and pickled Jalapeño.
Crispity-crunchity, munchity, burp. Oh jayz.


CONCLUSION TWO
You should date a Dutchman.



I am Dutch.




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WHERE IS THE BLOOD?

Someone -- an optimist -- tried posting unsolicited medical advice in the comment field set aside for personal messages (helpfully designated here-under as "letterbox"). Naturally I did not approve the comment for publication. Despite the large number of my readers who may be diseased, or mentally and physically embarrassing, I judged it not in the general interest.

Still. Rhetorical question. I have to ask.


Are you bleeding from an orifice?


Because if you are, you may have Marburg. Or Hanta Fever. Or something else which renders you problematic in public, a right mess, and may contribute to your anger issues.

Personally, I do not know anyone who bleeds from their orifices.
What with not being a dentist or an orificialist.


Are YOU bleeding from any orifices?!?


There are several people of various types that I know.
I have not asked them this question.
Probably won't do so.

Safety first.

Years ago an acquaintance was insanely worried that Obama would get us all killed by letting in travellers from West-Africa. At that time I told him that orificial bleeding might be a sign. I forgot to mention oral surgery.

I hope you are not bleeding.
Please let me know.




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LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
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THE FRENCH ONIONS

Quite likely the prize for most ridiculous military march goes to the French, a nation with a quirky sense of humour. Herewith the famous 'Song Of The Onion', with a traduction.

LA CHANSON DE L'OIGNON

J'aime l'oignon frit à l'huile,
J'aime l'oignon car il est bon!
J'aime l'oignon frit à l'huile,
J'aime l'oignon, j'aime l'oignon!

Au pas, camarades! Au pas, camarades!
Au pas, au pas, au pas!
Au pas, camarades! Au pas, camarades!
Au pas, au pas, au pas!

Translation:

I like onion fried in oil,
I like onion because it is good!
I like onion fried in oil,
I like onion, I like onion!

In step, comrades! In step, comrades!
In step, in step, in step!
In step, comrades! In step, comrades!
In step, in step, in step!


It continues, if one wishes to sing further about onions, as follows:

Un seul oignon frit à l'huile,
Un seul oignon nous change en lion;
Un seul oignon frit à l'huile,
Un seul oignon un seul oignon.

[Refrain]

Mais pas d'oignons aux Autrichiens,
Non pas d'oignons à tous ces chiens;
Mais pas d'oignons aux Autrichiens,
Non pas d'oignons, non pas d'oignons.

[Refrain]

Aimons l'oignon frit à l'huile,
Aimons l'oignon car il est bon;
Aimons l'oignon frit à l'huile,
Aimons l'oignon, aimons l'oignon.

Translation:

A single onion fried in oil,
A single onion changes us into lions;
A single onion fried in oil,
One onion, one onion.

[Refrain]

But no onions to the Austrians,
No onions to all these dogs;
But no onions to the Austrians,
None of the onions, none of the onions.

[Refrain]

Let us love onions fried in oil,
Let's love the onion because it is good;
Let us love onion fried in oil,
Love the onion, love the onion.


And naturally one does wish to sing further about onions.

If one is French.



The French language has a rich poetic tradition.





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All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
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A DIET RICH IN ANIMAL PROTEIN

His psychoanalyst once said that he was a bit of an idiot. Unprofessional, of course, but a fairly accurate assessment. As others would have agreed. Until well into his adult years he had believed that his mother was a virgin. In his defense, she had been unmarried at the time, and somehow he hadn't connected any of the dots. But she was, after all, a rabbit.
Rabbits usually ignore social niceties like matrimony, divorce, and the whole dating or adultery scene.

He couldn't explain the egg thing either. Doctor Schmidt theorized that the compulsion to hide eggs was tied to his peculiar sexuality, and that painting them in startling colours was subconsciously an attempt to be found out.
But for two thousand years he hid the eggs.
And remained totally celibate.

Which, for rabbits, is unnatural. Of course, painting eggs is too. But he loved eggs. So elegant, so perfectly shaped, so ... ovoid. Say it slowly: "ooh void". Derived from 'ova', 'ovum'. Oh-voooooom! It even made the mouth egg-shaped when you voiced it.

During more than twenty centuries he had been on a crusade to convince the world of egg-perfection. Nature's most perfect food. Not only aesthetically pleasing, also delicious.

For most of that time no one had known about cholesterol. A minor matter, he was sure, but the medical profession had blown it all out of proportion.


Doctor Schmidt said that the eggs symbolized penises, but how very like a psychoanalyst to see reproductive organs in everything!
Schmidt clearly had problems himself.



For over fifty years he and Schmidt had fought twice a week, in the office and elsewhere. They were almost like an old married couple.
Perhaps some of the immortality had rubbed of.
But he looked ancient and leathery.



Schmidt's mother had, ages ago, angrily demanded that her son should stop seeing that boring neurotic rabbit. But she was dead now, and every week her son still had dinner with his bunny. Eggs. Omelets. Deviled. Scrambled. Curried. Snippets over a plate of asparagus.
Gehakte eier salat. Fried. Egg-bacon sandwich.
Sliced with herring and beets. Plain with a dab of mayonnaise.
Gently poached. Quiche. Shakshouka.




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NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================