AND IT SHOWS

Because Pat Robertson shuffled off the mortal coil yesterday, and gleet-Jayzus lizard Donald Trump got indicted, there will be both despondency and gibbering extremist rhetoric among the poisonous old troglodytes in the back room today. I myself will just dreamily float through it all enjoying their indignation and sputtering, because this will be rather nice.
I hope at least one of them is hospitalized with acid indigestion.
Possibly after soiling himself.

Just remember boys, I'm a good Christian, I'll forgive you all.
After you've died in agony.

I expect that they'll all be bubbling blobs of toxic sludge, like Mark Levin, pictured above, wandering around both constipated from clenching furiously, and dairrhea stained.
As, I hope, will be many other Republicans.


Their lives have just not been the same since Epstein died.
The kids are grown and can't be infected anymore.
Miserable bloodsucking reptiles.



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BURGERS TO CLOWNS

An article in SF Gate reminded me of where I learned a lot of useless Chinese. Several years ago, when I still lived in North Beach, my night time burger place was Sam's on Broadway, and during the day I often went to Clown Alley on Columbus where Eddy manned the cash register. Maybe a burger or dog with coffee, and a stack of flip cards for words from a lovely dictionary of Zhou Dynasty Chinese, often with the seal script version as well. Naturally there is considerable shift in a language over the centuries, in consequence of which much of that was archaic, with broader definitions in the modern language than before, or obscure and rarely used. Most terms were not necessary, and quite uncommon nowadays.
It was fun. And the burgers were very good.

Although the last two burgers I had there once they reopened after a hiatus of a few years were bloody awful. A burger does not benefit from being pregrilled at ten in the morning for the lunch rush, then badly finish-grilled at three in the afternoon.

It had all the taste and chewiness of the air over New York these days.

Rubbery. Scorched rubber. Chemicals.

Three years ago we had something similar in SF. Fortunately there was hardly any smoke smell, and the worst thing about it was that everybody took photos with their cell phones, and then discovered that instead of the lovely orange hues they were expecting, there had been componsation for yellows and glare, and their pictures showed dull reddish rust up there.


If you're going to take photos of disasters, threatening clouds, and cancerous smog, use the right equipement; a decent (expensive) camera and the appropriate filter lenses.

I never went back to clown alley after those horrid burgers.

Sad. They had once been stellar.

漢堡包。



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TIME FOR CHAMPAGNE!

He was an evil son-of-bitch who lived far too long, and the world is a better place now that he's dead. His heritage sould be expunged. In several ways he represented the evil side of Christianity. As do his followers.

He was a repulsive mean-spirited profoundly disgusting man.

And the Southern Baptists are stained by him.

They were loathsome already.

More than many other things, raw festering sewage like Pat Robertson are what make me despise Christianity and most Christians. My Calvinist ancestors fought the Catholics as well as other alleged Calvinist sects, but what they really should have done is drown the damned Puritans when they first took to the water. The world would have been a better place if their boat had sank. Extreme forms of Anglo Christianity have been inimical to progress for four centuries now, we could have stifled that in its infancy.


Anyhow, I'm glad he's dead.



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THE FLAW IN HIS CHARACTER

Perhaps it's the great hot sauce crisis that's turning some people batty. That, certainly, is one explanation, and given where they were conducting their screaming match with threats and name-calling of people's maternal relatives, it makes sense. Middle of Chinatown. Loud and long. That they were white made it all the more theatrical, though somewhat less remarkable, as by their appearances one would accurately characterize them as meth-tweaking trailer trash from the drug infested residential hotels in the Italian part of town.


"That white boy with the stick up his ass."


Sadly, that didn't refer to me. It's been ages since anyone described me as a boy.

Naturally I observed the events keenly. Partly because I enjoy being, if necessary, a reliable witness. Partly because my pipe was still going, so I had to delay going to Walgreens for a while, and usually dawdle when so engaged. One should give one's pipe time.
It would disrespect the tobacco otherwise.

And even though one of the nearby stores is proudly selling bottles of Huy Fong Sriracha for $12.99, there are perfectly adequate replacements. That, if one shops outside of Chinatown, can cost up to fifteen dollars, but really shouldn't be over four or five.

So unless the gentleman with the stick up his ass had stolen the stringy white trash's stash of methamphetamine in addition to possibly his last remaining bottle of precious, precious Huy Fong Sriracha, there was really no reason for the rabid freak or his skanky tweaked out girlfriend to threaten to stab and stab and stab.
Just buy a different bottle, dude.


Lunch had been excellent. I am extremely glad that, so far, I am the only Caucasian who goes to that particular restaurant, given what lives only a few blocks away. I do not mind tantrumic street theatre out on the street, but I would not want it in the same establishment as myself and my plate of baked garlic fish and rice. With plenty of hot sauce.
I'm a bit of a snob that way.



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DAWN OVER ARKHAM

The Eastern Seaboard is teistered by smoke from the Canadian wildfire, which is making the air in New York and other metropolises in that region thick and orange. Everything smells like barbecue. Or like the Tracy tirefire. Even Ctulhu is affected. He's fled the city for his home in the outer wastes (Long Island or The Hamptons, I think).

It puts the horrible smells generated by my pipe tobacco into perspective, doesn't it?
All of a sudden the old Dutchman and his horrid pipe don't smell that bad.

Which makes the Cantonese bakery lady trying to persuade me that smoking wasn't good for me totally baffling. Madam, is there ANY evidence that blandishments have an effect on me?

I don't think so.

And yes, the medical profession has already informed me that tobacco isn't good. Plus I've seen the disquieting disease pornography on much European packaging; tumurous lung explosions, gangrenous foot with dangling toe, outer space fungus eating the entire left side of the head, and all family dead from haemorrhagic fevers and eruptions because the damned Dutchman didn't stop smoking when they were still in grammar school.

Oh, the humanity! It done become burnt-y crisps, maw!

Two bowls, one after lunch, one following tea and a biscuit (一個大嘅老婆餅). Aged Virginias, mostly a mixture of flake tobaccos rubbed out, with a minor inclusion of firecured and other condimentals. Very subtle. At one point the very old fashioned fragrance of the smoldering leaves brought back memories of sunlit days in North Brabant, summer warmth, zephyrs, and open windows. Sweet heaven.

I had said to the lady at the bakery "yiu gwo ngo m sik yin, ngo jau m wui hoi sam" (如果我唔食煙，我就唔會開心). If I don't smoke, I won't be happy.

True that.

The more Americanized people become, the more they piss and moan about smoking. Wildfires, however, are green and natural. Holistic. Nature's spirituality.

Free the glutens.

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SMOKER'S HAVEN TIN OF TOBACCO

A reader posted in my "letterbox" field the following query: "Good evening, I'd like to know if you currently have and might consider selling a Smoker's Haven tin of tobacco? There are a few I can't find on the second hand market and thought I might inquire? Thank you very much for your time and consideration."

Well, none that I wish to sell. And I really must point out that if you do not provide an e-mail address in that comment field, there is no way I can respond privately, which will necessitate an essay like this one, which presumably means bupkes to any other readers.

Also, you might want to contact Pipestud. He specializes in rare tins.

There is always new stuff on his site.

STEVE FALLON aka PIPESTUD

Steve Fallon is a great guy, a resource for all of us, an honest and ethical person to deal with, and he has a wonderful very Texan sense of humour. He once forced everybody to smoke a bowl of Royal Yacht; the winner of that competition had to go out behind the barn to barf before taking receipt of his prize: a tin of ... Royal Yacht.

His local pipe club no longer allows him to organize the competition. They learned.

He's one of those rare individuals that suggest to me that despite my antipathy towards the rest of the country and very large parts of the south in particular, I might enjoy visiting Texas. I'd have to mostly keep silent while down there, though. Both my accent and the crap that comes out of my mouth would get me in trouble.



Note: The photograph above was modified slightly. Edited the hat a bit, increased the left highlights a fraction, and excised what appeared to be a warty thing on his right cheek.

TOBACCO INDEX


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PLEASE DON'T CROAK

White folks singing karaoke does not further the progress of civilization. Usually the opposite. It's only a matter of time before someone does "Sweet Caroline", and like Godwin's Rule, that signals the end of musical dialogue. But it starts with "Country Roads". It always starts with "Country Roads". Everything goes down hill from there.

Neither the book seller nor I do karaoke.

We did not become the men we are today by doing karaoke.

On the other hand, watching Any Lau (劉德華 'lau tak wa') doing his crazy shiznit on screen, and somebody courageously singing along to the aged Hong Kong ponce-meister, is grand entertainment. Though sadly, tonight there was none of that.

Also, Van Morrison is spinning in his grave.
He got slaughtered.


There was one music video shot for no discernible reason in Holland or Denmark, which reminded me that we can always tell who the American tourists are; they dress funny.

The evening started off, as always, with a pipe full of tobacco while wandering through the alleyways. In Hang Ah Alley (香雅巷) a streetperson was watching a bright little fire in front of him while a basketball game was going on in adjacent the playground, Spofford (新呂宋巷) had more refuse than it normally does on garbage night, because a disorganized person is dossing down there, and in Ross Alley (舊呂宋巷) the Christian Mission was devoid of the evening staff doing paperwork who are often still there. The doors were closed, which indicates that the resident cat had not asked to go out. But the lights were still on.

Years ago there had been many rats in Spofford. Tonight there weren't any. I miss them. Inquisitive goal-oriented critters, spunky and determined. The prospect of a bubonic plague outbreak may have penetrated to the high minds at city hall, who normally ignore Chinatown till it's time for re-election. "Well hello there, little people, I care about you, vote for me!"

Basically, since Rose Pak (白蘭) passed away, there's no one to force politicians to actually do things for the community. It took the threat of stuff hitting the proverbial fan to get the city to re-examine their berserk mass fining of shopkeepers a few months ago for awnings that had been up for several years (in several cases more than a decade), and to make damned sure the neighborhood has a police presence at all times. Neccesary after a crime wave against the Chinese by whites, blacks, and Latinos during the pandemic.


I've always felt safer in Chinatown than elsewhere. I distrust many majority-population teenagers, and dislike their tendency to be totally unique individuals, as expressed by clothing choices, meaningful tattoos, piercings, and Bart Simpson-like skateboards.
And very obvious ignorance. Most twenty-somethings aren't much better.



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HARD AT WORK IN THE SPLORK MINES

In part it's because of the news that Doctor Octopus is reincarnating in one of the fictional universes as a mega-cute meganeko high-school girl. Which, for a fictional villain, is as good as it gets. I can just imagine the zaniness. In other part, it's because of a Calvin & Hobbes episode. In which, for show & tell, he channels for Blor-Utar from Zimtok-5, come to subjugate the human race (and do not resist).

Why? Because in addition to their value as slave labor, they are also delicious and nutricious!


"Snekk blog u-lar mekhh! Gahghh! Rk!"
------Blor-Utar, quoting a sloka in Sanskrit.


What if I were actually a space alien scout sent to scope out this horrid planet and assess the potential of its inhabitants? Would I find them useful? Perhaps they could be set to work long gruelling hours in our Splork mines, with a few harvested for compost, and parasitic hosting of our pupea. I doubt that they'd be very nutritious. That greasy junkfood diet.
A species with much plastic in its veins.

SPLORK! SPLORK! SPLORK! SPLORK! SPLORK!

The idea of an arch-baddy coming back as a neatly dressed short bespectacled high-school girl is both appropriate and quite charming. Does she get good marks? How is she at the subjects of English, algebra, and Japanese literature? Phys ed, swimming, the school cultural fest, and the geeky boy in an upper form who thinks she's the bees knees.
Are they both headed to Tokyo University in a few years?
Will they shyly share some takoyaki?

PANIC? EVIL? GLEE? ADORBS!

It is extremely unlikely, impossible in fact, that I would be one of those feel-good new age space aliens. "People of Earth, we come in peace! Galactic greetings." Yeah, um, no.
More like: "Ha ha, a rich source of soylent green, gourmet crispy protein!"

Harvest the nibbly bits, discard the rest.
It's like upscale chicharrones.



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A DROUGHT, YOU SAY?

First smoke of the day at around seven o'clock. Umbrella. Drizzle. Presently it's still gloomy outside. Phone call to Chinese Hospital Pharmacy for refills, will probably pick them up after visiting my bank but before lunch. The temperature is around sixty degrees, and it is to be expected that people will be grumpy and "under the weather", so to speak.

For some strange reason there is herring salad in the refrigerator.
Several years ago my apartment mate and I went to Holland.
Ever since then she's been in love with herring.

Women need passion in their lives.
She, fortunately, has fish.


In lieu of "passion", I have food (though a thinnish man), as well as pipes and tobacco (and the occasional cough because of them). Plus pottery and procelain objets d'art, and far too many books.

I am not a passionate man. I wouldn't describe myself as a calmly rational sort either -- I am not a dried-up stick insect -- but there has been a drought in the passion department for over a decade, and I am not actively searching for rain storms there.
It's more a passive-aggressive thing.


In some ways, a woman should be like a cat. One who likes to read, purrs occasionally, and does not object to the aromas of pipe tobacco. And truly likes a bit of food.
No mad dance parties, nightclubs and noise, or shopping malls.
Fierce, and independent-minded.



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BETEL, FOR SOME REASON

Last night I remembered betel quids. A slice of areca nut (buah pinang), enfolded in betel leaf (daun sirih) with a small dab of slaked lime (kapor; too much and your mouth hurts, trust me). The effect is an euphoria with a heightened sense of alertness, that maintains for a good two or three hours followed by a gradual mild torporific after glow. Basically a feeling of wellbeing coupled with increased mental vagueness.
Contra-indicated, I would say, for anything requiring mathematics.
This is based on personal experience.

There's also gobs of bright red spit.
And staining of the teeth.
Plus oral cancer.

Nowadays it's consider a bit gauche and country bumpkin to chew betel quids, but up till the nineteen hundreds it was very common in certain cultures, and offering betel to a visitor was considered the height of hospitable behaviour.

Spittoons were more common then.

POHON PINANG

It surprises me that young Americans, always keen to find something new to get them high, haven't started chewing betel en masse. They've already discovered qat, medwakh, yerba maté, kratom, and toad-licking. Or maybe they have, and that accounts for why they're so horrendously bad at math.


It would probably be too weak and mild for older Americans, though. Those seem to prefer vodka, methamphetamine, crack cocaine, and fentanyl. These help them get through their work week at the high tech companies or the steel mills, in addition to being considerably cheaper and easier to find than medical insurance or therapy.

I myself indulge in caffeine, nicotine, and highly refined sugar.
In addition to bucket loads of chili paste.
I am a rank amateur.


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EXTREME WEATHER

The local news informs us that the weather in the Bay Area will be turning nasty. Rain and the possibility of thunderstorms. Plus cooler temperatures than normal. Which, if you are a tourist, is a horrible prospect; you only brought shorts, tee-shirts, and flip-flops. And naturally, as a Dutchman (though an American from birth), I myself am perfectly acclimatized to warm tropic weather such as we have in Java, the Costa Del Sol, and Groningen. Fer sure.

[Dutchman by ancestry and several years residence during my youth. Also by temperament, which may be a genetic defect or incurable disease. I'm traumatized, and I demand special consideration because of it. Cheese matters!]

Years ago when it hit eighty degrees Fahrenheit in North Brabant, my mother, who was used to the conditions of San Francisco and Berkeley when she went to college there, insisted that her children stay indoors to avoid sun-stroke. She deemed us rare temperate zone flowers or something. She'd be right at home in what we're being told to expect. Global warming would have upset her teacart.

[Having read about the ill-fated expedition to find a Northern passage (Willem Barents and Jacob Van Heemskerk, 1596-1597) my ideas about weather were a bit different. Climate-wise, we were in the centre of the tolerable universe.]

She would have been horified if to find out that I have been to the tropics and experienced typhoons. Which have never occured in civilized countries or the Netherlands.

The worst a reasonable person should expect is minor flooding.
Two or three inches on low-lying sidewalks at most.
And absolutely no massive mud-flows.
Or overflowing storm drains.

What I am expecting, given the tendency of the weather service here to mother-speak, is that precautionarily I should carry an umbrella if I go out in the middle of the night to smoke my pipe or look at the corpses of tourists caught in five minutes of steady drizzle while wandering about in their shorts, tee-shirts and flip-flops, oh the humanity.

Low to mid sixties throughout the week.
My mother would approve of this.
I shall need a sweater.



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SAY HELLOW TO MY HOPPING LITTLE FRIEND!

A few hours after I posted an essay with a helpful anatomical diagram, a reader who saw it posted what, upon mature early morning consideration, as that first cup of coffee wreaked havoc on the cerebellum, I believe to be quite the most helpful input I have ever received.
And I am always appreciative of feedback; it helps me become a better person, a more popular and relevant blog. Even, if you think about it, the centre-point of an internet personality cult. These are all worthwhile (albeit useless) things.

His or her input has guaranteed helpfulness in that regard.
It's cogent. To the point. And insightful.

Googlums said...
Dude, that "womb" looks like a space alien. Are you all right?

Pursuant snippy kvetching abut the conversational drang of someone whom I have to deal with at work I had made an illustration. Which I have now modified slightly for Googlums.

One advantageous difference about this edited version is that it no longer looks like a thanksgiving turkey. The previous version did. That was unintentional.

It's the eyes. Adding googly eyes is an improvement.
Notice how they follow you around the room.
It now has personality!


Perfect for a children's teevee series. The Saturday Morning Trauma Hour.
Or, Magic with a Spongy Uterine Lining.
Educational!



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GIVE HIM A BOX!

At this point I'm convinced that there are loose screws. R the Subcontinental knows very well that the old bastards in the back won't agree with him, ever, on this issue -- they often don't even see eye to eye with him about innocuous subjects like weather or that the sky is up, for instance -- but he keeps bringing up the gender issue. Precisely like them he confuses actual biological gender, gender identity, and sexuality. He brings it all up so often one would suspect that he wants to be called Loretta, and wishes he could have babies.

It's symbolic of his (epic) struggle against reality.

He needs somewhere to gestate them in.

What with not having a womb.

Christian and Sam went outside to get away from the conversation. They were trying to relax. Loretta going off on his tangent made that difficult.
One should not assume from this that many other Indians are so "dense", socially. Or even most Punjabis (guess where R is from), though I have met many whose conversational gambits are like a navy ship laying rhetorical mines in the harbour for the unwary to stumble upon and lose a finger or two.

I believe a whole host of them were marching down Market Street (it being the annual Sikh Day Parade & Remembrance Rally) today. Rambunctious cheerful music, dudes wearing tubans. One or two transgenders. With or without sarees. Ghee drenched laddoos and jalebis. Sarson da saag and makai di roti. Vegetarians stuff. And tandoori murgh.
As well as conversational stormsurges that defied belief.

Many of whom would have asked him "tusim kisa bakwasa raheho?"
What the heck are you ranting on about?
Chup rao!


I like R. He's a decent chap and a liberal, and his heart is in the right place.
But at times he's so far on the spectrum that no buses go there.



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IS THE ANSWER 42?

A commenter recently posted the following:

QUOTE:
"Hello,
I'm very happy that I was able to find your blog. For me it's a bit of a treasure, as I lived in S.F. for over a decade and have a fond love for pipe tobacco and local lore. I would like to know if I may ask some questions in regards to tobacco and Drucquers. I had spoke to Mr. Pulvers who owned a shop in S.F. about them but read that you had worked there? Thank you kindly for your time and I look forward to your reply. kind regards
W."
END QUOTE.

When I was in Berkeley I worked at Drucquers for a few years. That's quite a while back, of course, as they haven't been around in over a quarter of a century. Marty Pulvers, owner of Sherlock's Haven, retired in the early two thousands.

[FYI: Benaderets on Sutter Street closed in 1980, Dunhill in Union Square shut down in 1990 0r 91, and Grants went out of business in 2012. Jim Mate's disapeared sometime in the eighties, not sure when.]

There's an old photo of the ferry to San Francisco before the Bay Bridge was built. The entire deck is filled with businessmen going to work. Raincoats, fedoras or similar headgear, newspapers, and pipes. Nowadays that would trigger a huge number of people.
Society would shut down, and earthmothers would riot in the streets.

I'm not sure that as a society we've improved.

Go ahead; ask questions.



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FLOWN IN FROM CIVILIZATION

New figures show that the dumbest least educated states with the most illiterates and worst health care are all Trump states. Not suprisingly, many of them also are right up there in gun ownership and children dying by ammo.

And this, boys and girls, is why you stay out of the red states.
Unless you want to see the world's biggest ball of twine.
There's one in every garbage state in the union.

As a reminder, here are the no-gos: Alabama, Alaska, Arizona, Arkansas, Colorado, Florida, Georgia, Idaho, Indiana, Iowa, Kentucky, Louisiana, Massachusetts, Michigan, Mississippi, Missouri, Montana, Nebraska, Nevada, New Jersey, North Carolina, North Dakota, Ohio, Oklahoma, Oregon, Pennsylvania, South Carolina, South Dakota, Tennessee, Texas, Utah, Virginia, West Virginia, Wisconsin, and Wyoming.

Culinarily that part of the world is egg-o-waffles, American cheese, and grits. Mostly.

Decent edibles can be found in some of them with effort.

Bottom feeders.



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TASTES BETTER WITH SAMBAL ANYWAY

Sadly, the only time we can celebrate Dutch American contributions to American civilization is today. It's 'National Donut Day'. Donuts were invented by Dutch Americans. Sure, there were a number of presidents who were unapologetically Dutch American, plus we introduced the native Americans to scalping -- a pleasant and educational past-time which, under the right circumstances could yield rewards -- as well as numerous other great things, but we get one measly stinkin' day.


"Is that the hair and blood-dripping head skin of one of "those" people? Why yes it is! How very splendid! Here is a shiny gold ducat for you!"


Other ethnicities get an entire month. We get a day. Which we have to share with corporate interests as well the Salvation Army. Naturally this blogger, who counts the Roosevelts AND Van Buren as relatives (and I can actually trace the connections multiple ways) intends to celebrate. In proper Dutch style. By acting superior and sneering all day.

Actually I'm rather glad that the focus is on artery clogging and morbid obesity instead of Dutch American culture, because, truth be told, I've seen what you all do for the Irish, poor bastards, and I would rather not have moronic teenagers clog-dancing down Market Street to sprightly tunes from Overysel and Groningen, waving tulips and tossing crap at the crowd.
Or frat boys getting drunk on Damrak vodka and genever.

Besides, musically we're no great shakes.
Far worse than the Irish.


Dinner this evening will probably be mihun goreng with little bits of meat and yauchoi, dash of ketjap manis, and a fried egg on top, plus plenty of sambal. Followed by coffee and a pipe.
While happily reading about our many bloody achievements.
Rapine, slaughter, and great paintings.
Vondel and Brederode.



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FROM AMERICA'S TEST LABS

From an advertisement in a ladies magazine circa mid-fifties: "Blend one can of Campbell's Cream of Mushroom Soup with ⅓ cup milk, 1 cup drained flaked tuna (7-oz can), and ¼ cup sliced stuffed olives. Heat thoroughly. Pour over four crisp waffles. Presto, a quick and easy dinner for 4." Presumably they meant garlic and blue cheese stuffed olives.
And instead of crisp waffles, a slab of toasty garlic bread.
Garnish with sliced green Jalapeños.
And chopped cilantro.

On second thought, I don't know what they were thinking.
The recipe is baffling in the extreme.

Keep the garlic bread, Jalapeños, and stuffed olives. Have some wine while you think. Open that jar of South Indian lime pickle, and consider ordering from the Chinese place nearby.

And while you nibble, you read.
The Betty Crocker Cookbook.


Back in the fifties, canned tuna was America's answer to Spam™. Instead of wartime canned meat, canned fish! A miracle food that suburban moms used for everything; sandwich filling, salad ingredient, cat food, and spackle on the dented walls in their suburban tract houses underneath the primer. Went with the pink, pale green, yellow, and blue paint scheme.

Everything good came out of a can in those days.



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RABBIT RABBIT

As per Anglo North American tradition, the first thing one says on the morning of the day that begins a new month is 'rabbit rabbit'. I do not know why. Probably good luck or something. Hence the title of this essay, which is actually about something entirely different.


My carefully maintained reputation as a fierce heartless cruel Dutchman has taken a hit. Reason being that I gave my front downstairs neighbor a bag of fresh kangkong (water spinach, ipomea aquatica, 蕹菜 or 通菜 'ung choi' or 'tong choi') and some yauchoi (油菜) yesterday. She is still recovering from a broken pelvis from slipping and falling at the end of last year, and doesn't move very well yet; can't really get out of the house and down to the market on her own. And the Chinese vegetable shops are across the hill.
The old lady has to eat. Get her strength back.

She's Fujianese from Jakarta, and of the generation that knows, just knows, that we Orang Belanda are heartless beasts. And she's been worried in the past that if my wife displeases me I will beat her. Never mind that the female person she mistakes for my wife is simply my apartment mate, and let's forget for the moment that she's Toishanese, has been doing kung fu for many years, is tough and stubborn, strong minded, and would beat me right back.
Yep. Orang Belanda yang kejam itu, gonna whup his isteri.

"KUTJING BELANDA"

In actual fact, we Dutch are fluffy and loveable.


Kang kong is quite delicious stir-fried with shrimp paste, chilies, garlic, and a goodly splash of sherry or rice wine to flame it. Can also be cooked with rehydrated dry shrimp, or even nice fatty pork and a bit of fish sauce. Like many leaf vegetables it reduces enormously. Yauchoi can be treated the same way. My former doctor down at Chinese hospital and I discussed this, and like many conversations involving my horrible habits (id est: tobacco use and diet), it briefly ghosted his face with a pained expression, before he happily started talking about cooking. He was Chinese from Medan. Where food is king.


The next time I buy fresh ginger I should get her some.
I wonder if she eats sambal? Or ketjap manis?
She's Christian. They're weird.



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