Utter Destruction of Cake Dreams

First, a sadness. My digital camera has finally given up the ghost. New batteries do not revive it. This is particularly sad today, as I had brilliant images to share. The images of my cake.

In an effort to be economical, expand my repertoire of talents, and generally impress myself and others, I’ve decided to engage in more home cookery. I’ve been reading my cookbooks for inspiration (except for the Anthony Bourdain one. Oh I read that, but mainly for the snarky little comments and not because I’ll actually cook anything in it. I especially like to read that one after watching his show on tv. He’s my dream date. Except he’d probably find me a terribly unadventurous eater and mock me mercilously. Perhaps that’s also part of the appeal…) and had found a leek and potato soup recipe and a coconut cake recipe that looked heavenly. The draw of the coconut cake was probably partially to do with watching Gilligan’s Island far too many times as a child as much as the illustration of the gloriously fluffy pinkly tinted cake in my Amy Sedaris book. The recipe looked complicated but what are holidays from work for than for attempting complicated cakes?

First the soup. Easy as anything. Just leeks, shallots and potatoes simmered together then a bit of salt, pepper, and rosemary and into the blender. Easy, yummy, and enough to freeze three helpings for lunch this week. Economy is fun!

Then the cake. Which, by the way, is not at all economical and took about a million eggs in various forms. The batter for the cake was just a load of eggs and sugar whipped together, then cake flour (sifted. and that is not a suggestion as I found out to my detriment later, but a necessity. Who knew?) and melted butter and vanilla. It is very satisfying to whip eggs and sugar to such a frenzy that they threaten to escape over the edge of the bowl to wreak cholesterol mayhem throughout the kitchen. Following the directions, I carefully sprinkled the cake flour into the batter and gently folded it in. Then I poured in the melted butter and gently fooooooooolded it in, careful not to overmix. I was a bit too careful because as I was pouring the batter into the well-greased pans, rivers of melted butter and vanilla swirled and created canyons through the pale yellow fluff. So I tried to fold it in but may have managed to just hide it at the bottom. Into the oven went the pans. I didn’t have two round cake pans, but i had a glass round casserole dish and a square glass casserole dish. So I figured those would work well enough and then the cake would look architectural and arty.

As the cake was baking, I started on the coconut pastry cream. I KNOW! Pastry cream! Big time, baby! So I put the coconut milk, regular milk, heavy cream and 100 grams of sugar to boil. By the way, this may be the only recipe in the book that is on weights and not cups, tbsps, whatever. So I went online to find the conversions for each ingredient. Pain. In. The. Ass. While the liquids get started on their boiling, I measure cornstarch (a great crapload of cornstarch. 125 grams of cornstarch is 18.75 tablespoons.) sugar, four eggs, and four egg yolks into the bowl and start whipping that all together.  Whip those, and the timer goes off for the cakes.

The cakes are a bit lopsided because they are so much air and I may have banged a few doors while searching for things and so. But they are golden brown and smell heavenly, if a bit eggy for my taste. (It is a genoise cake. And you might think that when I read the ingredients and saw six eggs on the list i’d think, hunh that might taste kind of eggy. I didn’t but it does.) So I set them on the table to rest for a minute because as I’m pulling them out, the milk on the stove starts to boil over and the smell of burned milk and coconut fills the kitchen. Race over, then pour a bit of the milk into the egg mixture to temper it so that the eggs don’t scramble when I add them to the milk. Thinking that I have achieved this, I then pour the eggs into the hot milk. I’m not sure at first if it is the eggs or the cornstarch, but things get really lumpy really quickly. The recipe says to stir until the mixture is like custard, then pour it into the bowl with butter and vanilla and whip til all incorporated.

Amy Sedaris must have fabulous arms. As did our foremothers. Christ on a leash, whipping a ridiculous amount of hot eggs and cornstarch is no easy feat! I’m stirring and stirruing the mixture on the stove and realize that I have no idea what custard is supposed to look like. I never make custard. I never eat custard. Is it supposed to be shiny? Matte? lumpy? So after the eggs and milk look incorporated, I pour it into the mixing bowl to whip with the butter. Thank god for my motorized hand mixer is all I have to say. My arms are still sore from stick fighting class and I’m not sure I could have gotten everything mixed correctly otherwise.

As I’m whipping I’m thinking back to the photo of the pretty fluffy pink cake. So I decide to add red food coloring to make it delicately pink. Except of course the yolks have made the base orangey so any red I add will not have that delicate pink look. And I also don’t realize until I have the food coloring upended over the cake that this isn’t a dropper bottle, but a bottle big ole open end bottle. A fair amount of red comes splashing out so now the custard looks vaguely raspberry colored but really gross raspberries. Then I saranwrap the custard and set it in the fridge to cool.

Figuring the cakes must have cooled enough to be removd from their pans, I run a knife around the edges of the cakes and the edges aren’t even touching! Perfect! Should be easy to get out! I grab two plates, place one plate over the casserole dish, and upend the casserole dish over the plate. Nothing happens. I shake the cake a little. Nothing happens. So I flip the whole thing back over and see that the top has fallen off the cake, but not the bottom. I take my knife and poke at the underside of the bottom and find that is rather stuck. So I scrape the cake out the best I can and end up with bits and pieces of genoise cake on the cake plate. The square cake is still in the pan, because I’m not trying to see if I should have waited until a bit cooler to try and remove the cake.

So, to whit, rather than have a lovely round faintly pink coconut encrusted cake, I have a plate full of bits and pieces, a square pan that I’m afraid of, and vomitously pink custard cooling in the fridge.

I have decided not to attempt the swiss buttercream frosting at this time.

And I really wish my camera hadn’t died.

Throwing Tantrums, Making Friends

Ohhh I have no patience lately.

If I have plans to meet people and they are fifteen minutes late, I leave. Especially if they have a cell phone. Don’t try and make me believe that your time is more valuable than mine!

I was in a meeting and we ended up talking about technical concepts with specific vocabulary. I was told that it was all semantics. No, no it isn’t.

But recently my ultimate battles have been fought with language institutes and taxi cab drivers.

About five months ago, I finished a six month intensive Spanish course. Not wanting all that training and knowledge to spill out of my head, I’ve been on the hunt for classes to keep it up. Of course a language exchange partner would be better than classes, but I live in a non-Spanish speaking place and while I’ve heard rumors about native Spanish speakers found roaming in the wilds, I’ve yet to encounter any. For me, native Spanish speakers are like unicorns. They sound magical, but do they really exist?

In my search for a Spanish class, I found two institutions in the city with Spanish classes. I went to the non-profit institute first and found the customer service…wanting. So on to the second one. I arrange a placement exam, wander all over the place trying to find it, finally calling them all hot and angry and find out that it is in the large building that I passed about a million times. There was no sign for the institute on the outside. It was cleverly hidden by the elevators on the inside. Not that you’d know to go inside to check by the elevators unless you’d lived here for a long time and had come to realize that there are in fact many treasures hidden within the monoliths, they just don’t like signage.

Get to the institute, take the test and the tester is all yeah, your level is too high for any of our classes. So he leaves, tells the registration people who make him come back and give me more questions because they really want to sell some classes so maybe he just misjudged my level and there really IS an appropriate class for me. Nope. They DO tell me I can take private lessons. For roughly a thousand dollars.

Um, no. Thanks!

So I’m left with poor customer service institute. I put it off but eventually realize that losing my Spanish is stupid after all the effort I put into it and that persistance is what is called for. So I leave work a little early one day (they only offer the placement test at specific times and will not listen to you when you say that you work and are unable to meet those times. You will meet those times or not attend classes. It is that simple. Awesome.) and head down there, determined to bend them to my will, give them my money, and force them to help me maintain this language! I am fist pumping in the air determined!

Get there at 430pm, the professor isn’t in a session so is able to give me the test. And says I’m too advanced for their classes. SIGH. But then she talks to the secretary and the secretary is to email me after the classes for the term end (the next day) and let me know if there will be any advanced/special courses. If not, then I’m to email the professor and she’ll figure something out.

YAY! Finally getting somewhere! I’ll be practicing soon!

So a week goes by and no email from the secretary. Even after I send an email asking after what had happened. I also email the professor but receive no response. Hmmm… So having taken Friday afternoon off, I decide to go and see what is up. Then, realizing traffic is a horror show on Friday afternoons, I decide to call first. I call and try explaining the situation and the girl is all, what is your question? So I repeat everything I just said and ask if there will be an advanced class. She says yes. I ask what level. She starts listing off all of these numbers that hold absolutely no meaning for me at all. So I tell her to stop and ask if that is intermediate or advanced. She says they have both on Saturdays and the next advanced class starts on August 30th. Perfect. And I can come and enroll today. YAY!

So I grab a cab and head out. The drive out to that section of town is INTERMINABLE because there is some kind of protest going on. So I hop out of the cab about a kilometer or more from my destination and start to walk. I’m in my work jeans, a khaki blazer, it is blazing hot and sweaty and the air is a distinct shade of traffic grey.

I love protests, but sometimes I just wish they weren’t happening right where I was trying to go.

Arriving at the language institute, I confidently skip up the stairs, fling open the door and greet the receptionist, the same one I’d seen the week before, and tell her I want to enroll in class. She remembers me and says, oh well the only advanced class will be a special course but they haven’t decided the topic yet. So it is unclear. I have your number and I’ll call you when it has been determined.

I say, well you were supposed to email me and you didn’t and I’m also a bit confused because I called earlier and was told that there IS an advanced class for sure and … And she says, well I didn’t email you because it was uncertain so maybe I’ll email you this week. And I lose it. Keep in mind I was hot, sweaty, had taken time off work, and walked over a kilometer in horrific pollution. So I explain that it is very frustrating to take time off work to match their schedule and call in advance to see if they have a class and be told that yes they do but then be told, after walking through a traffic jam, that no, they do not have an advanced class.

She says, but we do have an advanced class. We have two. We have the special course to be determined and we have the advanced normal class with grammar and conversation.

I stop and am deeply puzzled. I try to protest, but you said you only had one and it was yet to be determined. Eyeballing me as though I’m exhibiting fearful signs of insanity, she repeats slower and perhaps a bit louder that no, they have an advanced grammar and conversation class. Mentally replaying the conversation over and over, I wonder if I missed a paragraph or two. Or when the hulk-esque rage was overtaking me, did she whisper about the advanced class? Regardless, I say that I’ll enroll. Then I double check that my placement exam would allow me into the class. Yes, yes. Excellent. Then I ask if they take credit cards. Fearful that the hulk will return, she kind of scrunches into her seat and says no, only cash or check. On the off chance, I say I have a check drawn on an American bank. She skitters away from the hulk to ask her boss. As the clearing process for that would take a month, I say I’ll just go to the atm across the street.

A restorative donut across the street, cash in my hot little hand, I go back, sign up, get my library card and woo! Start next week! yay!

As my afternoon is not hardly over, I decide to go to see a movie. Yay!

But I’m still at a place in the middle of a traffic jam. So I walk over in the direction of the park that is popular with tourists to see if there are cabs there. Nope. I walk to the old part of town right outside of the park to see if there are cabs there. Nope. Well, there are cabs, but they all have people in them. I end up wandering all over that part of town for a good hour/hour and a half looking for a damn cab. I’m a fair girl, the sun is beating down on me, my face is becoming red, perfect strangers are offering me drinks of water, I accidentally wander into this bizarre sculpture garden in the park that frankly, has statues that look like torture porn, and I’m exhausted. Cursing those who’ve luckily found cabs and trying to avoid catching the glances of the road workers who are waving tissues at me, I finally decide to camp out on the side of the thoroughfare and wait. Cabs fly pass. Waiting waiting waiting. Eureka! A cab stops!

My life and pale skin have been saved!

I jump in the cab and shut the door, then tell him where I live. I live in an extremely busy part of town, a place whose traffic inspires fear in the hearts of most drivers. When I tell him where to go he says, no.

Oh fuck that.

I repeat it with a smile and lock the door. He says no, the traffic there is bad. Transfer to another cab.

I say no. There are no other cabs. Take me.

No, the traffic is bad. Find another cab.

No, you aren’t allowed to refuse me. Drive. (legally, they can’t refuse based on not wanting to go to a certain section of town)

No. Transfer.

I’ll make you a deal, either take me to (a) section of that area of town or (b) section of that area of town. But you have to take me to one.

He finally pulls away from the road and we start driving. I kind of feel like an enormous brat but at the same time, I could NOT start walking again, I could NOT stand out in the sun for much longer, and I’d end up having the same argument with every single cab driver I passed. NO ONE goes into my section of town during rush hour.

And of course, after all of his protestations, the traffic was quite honestly the best I’ve ever seen on a Friday afternoon.

I’m learning valuable lessons during my time here. But I’m not sure they are actually good for my personality or positive moves in general. Today I learned that if you throw a fit, you magically get a Spanish class that didn’t exist earlier (I dont’ care what she says, I’m POSITIVE that the firm set advanced class was not mentioned by her when I arrived on the scene) and you get a cab to go to your area of town during a time when no one will go to your area of town.

Throwing tantrums = happiness (?)

That can’t be right.

Side note: Saw Death Race today. Had no idea this movie even existed but it was either that or that Zohan movie, which I didn’t think I could take at that moment. Death Race has Jason Statham (mmmmmm) and fast cars and pointless violence. Really, I’m a 12 year old boy inside. Death Race is precisely as good as that description makes you think it is.

Side side note: I thought getting my cat neutered would make him less of a bitey asshole. It has not.

Food is just freaking me out lately

So last week I ate durian and chicken feet. Dare food.

I thought once I’d left behind my years of volunteering and the like, I’d be able to stop eating dare food. Clearly that wasn’t the case, as I’ve still been ‘tempted’ with half-formed duck embryos, fruit that smells like vomit and tastes like death, and roasted bugs. Even though these things turn my stomach, I’ve still never really thought of myself as a non-adventurous eater.

I’ve eaten horse penis for chrissakes. Horse PENIS. That should get me out of the consumption of most dare food. It certainly tends to win the dare food contests that people get into around these parts. Oh, what’s the strangest thing you’ve eaten?

A worm? yawn.

Goat’s eyes? borrrrring.

Natto? wake me up when you finish your fascinating story about fermented soybeans.

Horse sashimi? Please, I raise you

HORSE PENIS!

What’s up? Got nothin’?

I THOUGHT SO!

Anyway, even after eating horse penis (what the hell kind of people are going to find my blog NOW? There are some random searches that find their way to this site…), the cosmic energy of the universe still won’t let up on the dare food. So I’m in gag reflex training for balut. I know it is coming. Just gotta prepare.

However, I don’t think I’m doing a good job of preparing, frankly. Because I realized today that even with the horse penis on my resume, there are still relatively tame things that trip me up. Things that pretty much everyone who grew up where I did should be able to eat without qualms.

My housekeeper was all psyched earlier this week about making seafood curry. She makes amazing seafood dishes. I’ve had them at my friend’s house. So she went by the wet market early today to pick up the freshest seafood possible to make the seafood curry. All day at work through a very poor lunch at a meeting, pizza party to celebrate promotions, everything, I kept dreaming of the seafood curry. Mmmm, shrimp and fish and crab in a curry. What could be better?

Except.

I get home, change, and run to the kitchen to survey the delicious dinner. Lifting the top off the pot I spy

shells.

The only little animals that had been removed from their shells were the shrimp.

Mussels? Still in the shell. Also, incredibly ugly and bizarre meat bits make up the mussel. I peeked in the shells and thought, I have absolutely no idea what to do with that. There was this pink wavier thing with a dark beard or some ungodly bit on it and it was stuck to the shell and trying to remove it you could see the tissues stretch and then relax back to shape, stretch then relax back. I was unsuccessful in all attempts to remove the mussel from the shell as the stretching and relaxing just…got to me.

Crabs? Still in the shell. I have never had to crack crabshells before. The crabmeat has always been neatly removed and waiting for me, often in a quesadilla. They are some ugly fuckers aren’t they? Look remarkably like insects. Big crappin’ insects. The crabs were cut in half straight down the middle of the back. So eventually I was able to tease out some bits from the center, but I had no idea how to get the majority of meat. I’m pretty sure that you’re supposed to get more than a forkful of crabmeat from a crab. There were the legs, but do you eat what is in the legs? How do you get to it? I seemed to recall having seen crab cracker thingamabobs somewhere before and figured that there must be something in there you could eat, but after I twisted the crab leg a few times and then became kind of fascinated with how easily the joints moved, then realized I was playing with the carcass of a crab that had been happily skittering and clicking its way across the ocean floor before being scooped up to eventually land on my plate, I put myself off crabs in about five minutes.

There was something else confusing in the pot as well that I can’t remember now. And there was squid, which doesn’t have a shell, but is back to freaking me out after the successful consumption of squid cooked in its own ink last week. Just the sections and the way the legs still kind of wave around in the curry liquid reminded me of the movie Aliens and then I thought, if I eat this will it eventually burst through a hole in my belly with a baby?

The cat was whining up a storm so I took some bits and put them in his bowl. Then after I was done playing with the crab leg/crab half I put that in his bowl as well. I scooped up a fair amount of the broth and then all the shrimps I could find in the bowl and ate that with some pita bread. It was quite tasty.

Then I called my downstairs neighbor and asked if she and her husband wanted the rest. She asked if I wanted to eat with them but I said I was full. I couldn’t very well admit that I actually had no idea how you were supposed to eat the majority of the animals in the pot, and that I had thought about it to the point where I was no longer able to eat the little animals in the pot.

Her husband came up for the soup and was quite excited by all the mussels and crabs in there.

Good luck.

Let’s Chemistry It Up!

I may in fact be the second most naive person ever.

Second, because I’m pretty sure no one could ever top my friend O.

She was on a work trip and staying overnight in a hotel. She called the spa in the hotel to request a massage. She loves massages and gets them constantly. Where we live, it is completely normal to have a masseuse come to your house or hotel room or whatever. There is nothing inherently seedy in getting a massage outside of a spa.

There was a knock at the door. The masseuse had arrived! It was a woman, younger. Dressed in thigh high white boots, a short skirt, a loose-fitting strappy shirt and straight hair down to her waist. O thought her outfit didn’t look incredibly comfortable (the shirt looked like it could fall off any moment) but maybe it was more comfortable for a masseuse than the typical tshirt and soft pants.

So O climbs onto the bed and proceeds to get a full body massage. Everything is normal and fine. She is told to turn over onto her stomach. The masseuse then moves to straddle her body. O thinks this is strange, as they usually stand to one side or the other. But she’s had Thai massage before and there is more body-to-body contact in Thai massage so maybe this masseuse is using a Thai technique. So she’s enjoying her massage, temples rubbed, shoulders pummeled. Then the pressure stops for a moment. O then feels the woman grip her shoulders and then swoop her breasts the full length of O’s back. O kind of stops and thinks, that isn’t right. Then the masseuse does it again. At which point O says, thank you!

She then pays the masseuse, who leaves.

When O was telling us this story, she was saying, I don’t understand what she was trying to do. It was the weirdest thing. I’ve never had anyone do THAT during a massage before. I didn’t really like it. So strange. And she’s laughing at this very bizarre massage.

And we all kind of look at each other and a few people say things to her in a language I don’t understand. Then O says, was she trying to seduce me?

I hesitate then put forth the idea that maybe the masseuse was a prostitute.

O is all No! She can’t have been a prostitute! I’m not a man.

To which I reply, she probably thought you were into it as you had ordered her up and didn’t ask her to leave once you saw her outfit. Her very revealing, tight outfit. She was a prostitute.

Our friend M was nodding her head and agreeing with me. It took us about fifteen minutes to convince O that she had infact accidentally ordered up the wrong kind of masseuse. I asked her if it hadn’t crossed her mind at ALL that the woman might not be a masseuse per se once she saw the outfit. Nope. Not at all.

Made me laugh til I cried. O getting all felt up by the masseuse and just thinking, wow this is the weirdest massage ever.

Anyway, she’s the most naive person I know. I am the second. Because I stupidly thought that the missed connection section of craigslist was actually for missed connections. I thought it was where you were all, well last ditch effort to find that interesting person I talked to/saw/what have you and somehow didn’t get their number.

This is mistaken thinking.

It is apparently really about finding sex partners without saying explicitly you are looking for sex partners. It is missed connections *WINK*

I never realized the wink portion of the missed connections. I always loved the missed connections portion of the paper the best. Now, that section is forever tainted.

Tainted.

I’ve received my fourth email now that is clearly NOT from my missed connection but rather from someone who, upon reading my random ass ad that tells nothing about me (except, unknowingly, that I like sex with strangers that I’ve not met and don’t even need to know their names), decided that they would like to get to know me, have coffee with me, be friends forever (I’m not even kidding. Someone wants to be besties. Awesome), or just have me be part of their Eyes Wide Shut club.

Missed connections is just another name for casual encounters. But less seedy on the surface.

Sad.

But now I’ve learned.

Preparing to solidly dominate the middle

I’ve recently suffered humiliating defeats at the hands of other young folks who make the city their home. Paintball and dodgeball … Paintball I never seemed to actually shoot my gun. Weird how you never see the targets when you’re simultaneously hiding from them. Odd. Dodgeball.. Ducking and yelling oh god when faced with twin fire power… Again. Weird how that doesn’t work in assisting the win.

Anyhow, after two times being arguably the worst person out on the field, I noted the upcoming gokarting activity with equal parts excitement and apprehension. My main thought was, I can’t suck AGAIN. I can’t. Even if no one else notices that I suck, even if no one else cares. I can’t suck again. My pride won’t let me suck again.

So I decided to practice in advance. Two of my friends and I went to the gokarting track today to have a few practice rounds. On the way to the gokarting track, my one friend M told me that he had some experience in gokarting. As in, he had driven in a league. A league. I had no idea they even HAD gokarting leagues. He asked me if I would like pointers as we drove, or perhaps for me to follow him around the track to get an idea of the technique.

Ummm… Technique? There’s a technique? You don’t just slam your foot on the pedal and go hell bent for leather? Hmmm. Interesting.

Then we get to the track and are waiting for our other friend T. While waiting, M asks if I want to walk the track. Ok. Sure. So we’re walking around the track and he’s giving me all these hints about how around this corner I should slow down but around this next corner I should go at half-throttle. Not enough people go at half-throttle. They always go at full throttle. Sometimes you should just go at half throttle. At which point I have to ask what throttle means.

T arrives and we go pay. Then we head into the briefing room for our safety briefing. They have a huge rack of different colored racing outfits. Unfortunately, the boys were reluctant to put on racing outfits, even for a photo op. I tried but was unable to convince them to put on the outfits even for a brief second. We get our helmets and balaclavas and head out to the track.

My initial plan before actually starting to drive was to put my foot to the floor and go as fast as possible. Nothing to lose! However, in reality, I was a bit… conservative in my driving. We ended up driving three ten minute rounds. My first ten minute round I was trying to go fast but at the same time, the faster I went, the more the car vibrated over the numerous bumps and the more I saw my car flying out over the ramp or plowing through the fence onto the highway. So as I’m trying to go around the curves without flying off into oblivion, M comes up behind me, bumping my car and laughing maniacally. He gets the blue flag (the stop doing that flag). Both boys pass me multiple times. The stats of our first round show that I circled the track 4 times and my best time was around 94 seconds.

Second round, got up to 7 times! Yee haw!!!

Third round? Why I went around 8 times and the best time was 77 seconds! Woohoo!!! I was taking the corners like a speed demon. All my fears were gone! I was lifting up in my seat every now and then trying to keep going faster and keep from being passed far too many times by M. He only passed me once, which was awesome!

So I still completely sucked as compared to the boys. I was ten seconds behind M’s time and 6 seconds behind T’s time.

However, this means I didn’t end up having to post these humiliating times in front of a large group of people who’ve already seen my rockin’ abilities at dodgeball and paintball.

Hopefully this will pay off next week at the real tournament. I need my skills to match my bravado. I plan on wearing driving gloves (legitimately! I got blisters today!), sweet sunglasses, and an attitude the size of the Grand Canyon.

I will come in the middle of the pack!

I will (fist shaking furiously at the sky)!

Smells like hell, tastes like… creamy hell

Every country has its dare food. You know, the food that the citizens ask you immediately upon arrival if you’ve tried and if you haven’t they spend ungodly amounts of time trying to get you to eat it, saying such encouraging things like, “It is an acquired taste” and “It is supposed to be an aphrodisiac” and “After you get past the smell, the taste isn’t bad at all”.

While I’m all for cultural sensitivity and blah de blah, sometimes I get tired of dare food. If it was sooooo nice to eat, would you have to talk people into it?

No.

Do you have to talk people into eating chocolate?

I rest my case.

I was recently in a town that is famous for durian. I’ve heard of durian before, famously stinky fruit that is banned from hotels, planes, the like. But I’ve never eaten it nor smelled it before.

Nothing like being in a town famous for its durian during a festival for getting a right-on introduction.

We had just finished a feast of seafood. I’m being more adventurous in general in my eating. I’ve never thought of myself as overly picky, but some things… Squid and octopus have always icked me out for reasons I can’t explain. The shape or that they are described as chewy or that we used to dissect squid in science class or the weird globular balloon that is the head of the octopus but they have a beak… I don’t know why, but squid and octopus have always equalled don’t eat in my book. Also, don’t eat heads of things. It is impolite.

So the table had a spread of shellfish soup, fried tail of tuna, boiled head of tuna, kinilaw (the tuna belly in cubes with a sauce of vinegar, calamansi, and salt and some cut up cucumber and some random white vegetable), squid cooked in its own ink and noodles with squid and prawns. I’ve always said that I don’t like seafood. And really, in the main, I don’t. However, you aren’t getting away with not eating seafood here.

Side note: one of my dining companions, as I was eating a bit of plain rice, asked me if I’d become accustomed to eating rice. I kind of blinked at her and said, ummm, we have rice in the States. Yes, but you eat bread. Yes, but we also eat rice. The funny part about this is that bread is readily available here and there has been a strong American presence for ages. I’m sure she’s seen Americans eat rice before.

Anyway, so I take a bit of everything. Fried tail? Good. Noodles? Good. Kinilaw? Quickly becoming my favorite. Squid in ink? Totally yummy. A smoky flavor was added to the squid making the chewiness kind of nice. The head of the tuna?

Well, I didnt’ take the eyeball.

But, when asked if I wanted some I did say, “Is there any cheek left?”

Which for most of the world may not sound weird. But for someone who grew up wondering where the ‘meat’ part of the animal was on the anatomy charts (you can see the muscle and bone clearly, but where is the meat?), that was a leap into adventure, my friends!

Anyway, after dinner everyone is all, DURIAN PARTY!!!

yay!(?)

And luckily for us, the restaurant we ate at was right in front of Durian Park. It was a tent set up with tables underneath and mountains of durian. You could smell the durian when you were still relatively far from the tent. For those who haven’t smelled it….  It is a very sharp smell. Kind of ammonia-ny. Kind of garlic-y. Kind of rotten. The fruit itself is the size of a honeydew, with wicked spikes coming out from all directions. This is a warning from the durian. Don’t touch me! I’ll hurt you!

No one listens to the wise warning of the durian.

But everyone in my party is all, oh it smells terrible but the taste! The taste is heaven! The head of our party goes to get what ends up being four durian for our table of seven. That’s a lot of durian. Two people don’t eat it at all (the two most eager to watch me eat it, by the way. horrible) and the others just start tucking in. Durian pods have an outer skin and the inside meat is rather soft and creamy. They tell me not to smell it, to just eat it. So I try to put it in my mouth without smelling it. Try that with food sometime. Just put it in your mouth but don’t smell it. Nigh on impossible. Unless you do as I do and tilt your head back and drop it in. This may then cause raucous laughter at the table but ignore them. They are just jealous.

So I tried two different varieties of durian.

I don’t get it.

Apparently, had I tried it a third time, then I would have gotten the bug and been all, durian rocks!

As it is, the texture is similar to eating a very well toasted marshmallow, with the tougher outer skin and the very creamy center. The taste is rather bitter/garlic/blech. If it were sweet, with that texture, it would be quite something I think. But the taste…

Also, all the tables had bottles of coke on them. I was asking about that. Apparently, you need to have a coke chaser with durian to fully appreciate the flavor. Durian is better with coke.

Yeah, right.

They are just killing the taste.

So after the durian party, people were all, you should eat balut! I made the reasoned argument that one dare food per day is quite enough.

Balut, for the unintitiated, are duck eggs that have been allowed to slightly form into little ducks then buried. One of my friends, who quite enjoys them, told me it is like eating creamy meat. As long as you don’t get the ones that were removed too late because then they have little beaks and feathers and that doesn’t taste nice.

Creamy meat certainly doesn’t sound good.

However, I was spared from finding out because we had to get home.

Next day at dinner, one girl (who distinctly did NOT eat the durian) was making fun of my lack of balut and timidity with the durian. She then pointed to a bowl of chicken feet and was all, try some! They are delicious. but with a look that is all, you won’t eat chicken feet! What choice did I have???  I popped the scaly leathery looking suckers in my mouth and sucked the flesh from the bones, delicately spitting the bones out. The look is far far worse than the taste and the taste is mainly of the sauce they were cooked in and the fat. Not a whole lot of meat. I’ve eaten worse tasting things. But I’d certainly not make a point of eating chicken feet again. Why when there are so many nice things out there?

Singapore’s Craigslist Makes Me Sad

Singapore was a land of untold delights.

Apparently, I didn’t sample nearly enough of them whilst there.

Innocently enough, I saw a cute man on the subway. Being dumb and slow, I didn’t talk to him. Sad, but an opportunity for posting something on the ‘missed connections’ portion of craigslist. This is always my favorite part of the newspaper to read and I always secretly hope that there will be something in there that could possibly be recognizable as me. However, having the opportunity to post something in missed connections is almost as good as reading one about me. So I posted.

And have not heard back from that guy of course. Who remembers craigslist when you live abroad? And who checks the missed connections portion of it?

But I did hear from one guy who was all, im not the guy you’re looking for, but i’m keen to get to know you. Coffee?

No. Also, if you aren’t the person I’m looking for, why would you respond? And how would you even know you’re keen to meet me? I thought that was a weird fluke.

Until I got this:

————————————————————————————

Heya,

Am writing this email with intention to invite you to be our ic gal.

IC is short for intimate companions. We are a bunch of guys and gals age ranging 20’s & 30’s. We are multi-racial most being malays and chinese. We are very discreet as some of them do have bf’s, gf’s, husbands, wifes. We enjoy each other’s company and yes there will be some intimacy involved. Thus the reason why we are intimate companions (ic). Our key focus is to protect the each others welfare as we have to respect their wishes and comfort level. The gals will decide what level of intimacy they want. Watch, roleplay, masturbate, 2some, 3some and we do have bi-gals also. What is key is to enjoy each others company and have fun with each other intimately.

So hope it might interest. if u have any other questions..do ask ya and I will oblige. And would be nice to intro yourself to.If u r open to it…add me up in YM or msn and lets have a chat…i’ll show u pix of some of our ics.

————————————————————————————

WHAT IS GOING ON?!?!?!?!?!?!?

In what way does a missed connection turn into Eyes Wide Shut?

I’m now boycotting missed connections. Nothing good has come of it.

Ladies who lunch

Singapore was magical for reasons other than pretty men. It was an opportunity to wear pretty clothes and try on pretty makeup.

My friend J-dawg traipsed about town in a delightful cream colored knit skirt that was lacy and swingy and twirly. She coupled this with a green top. Her shoes were these wicked wedge-ish brown sandals. Which she then of course later traded for pink and purple flip flops from nike as her lovely sandals ceased being comfortable about three hours into our traipse about town.

I wore the same denim shorts (wow, those two words together do not make a delightful attractive picture do they? i just picture acid wash shorts that either sneak peeks at the edge of my ass or baggy shorts that could be pants on a shorter person) for three days which was awesome. When we went to Raffles for high tea, J-dawg was informed that there was a dress code. No shorts or sandals for the men. Nothing said about the dress of the women, but better safe than sorry is my motto for always. So having just bought a super cute dress earlier that day in Chinatown (super cute. black strapless with white stripes running down it. It was stretchy and had flexible boning so it kept its shape and most importantly, kept magically afloat without any necessary tugging from me. If you have to tug at your strapless, you shouldn’t wear your strapless. No tugging so it was perfect.) I needed super cute shoes to wear with it. My brown Guatemalan sandals weren’t going to cut it. But we only had 30 minutes. Could we make it? Could we?

Were we in some mall in the States the answer would be, likely. However, my feet seem to have taken on gargantuan proportions in Asia. Plus they were all swollen and puffy from the walking around in no-support Guatemalan sandals. We visited an impressive (to me) five stores within twenty minutes. I tried on all kinds of strappy black and white shoes to no avail. Nothing was working. Then we went to Aldo, found some strappy matte black sandals that fit and so purchased them, ran to the bathroom to change, and then headed off for the hotel.

Now, changing in the bathroom at the mall carries with it a certain brand of dignity that one simply cannot deny. The sharp smell of urine permeating the air. The lack of places to put your feet where you won’t instantly get ringworm, hepatitis Z, or herpes. However, there is also something to be said for going in a caterpillar and emerging a beautiful butterfly.

Especially when, as you emerge into the brilliant fluorescent light, a butterfly with wicked black and white wings, you notice that your wings are a tad… translucent? transparent? non-opaque.

and you’ve realized this five minutes before the reservation for high tea.

I also realized that my heels that I’d just purchased were a good four inches tall. So i’m tottering around the mall in a transparent-ish dress (only when the light hits it just right, J-dawg promised.) in four inch heels when I typically wear clogs to work. I’m dressed like a clumsy slut trying to make good in the middle of the movie, before the hero’s sister takes her under her wing and shows her how a REAL girl works the elegant slut angle. and takes the heels down a notch.

Also, in this dress, all my tats are flashing.

So doing my best elegant-in-high-heels-whilst-trying-not-to-break-my-neck-crossing-the-street walk, head high, shoulders back, bag strategically placed in front of me, we saunter to the tea room. My friend J-dawg, being the awesome that she is, volunteers to go and procure finger sandwich sustenance for me. The waiters bring a tower of treats and coffee. Everything is cream and pastry based, with chocolate or fruit thrown in occassionally for good measure. All of the tables fill up, either with women in their mid-20′-early 30’s pretending that they are elegant or older couples with their adult child who works in singapore. Then I spy them. Several women rocking denim overalls.

What

The

Fuck

!?!

I about kill myself trying to be dressed moderately to dress code (notice I didn’t say appropriate, just to dress code) and they are wearing not just denim, but DENIM OVERALLS?!?

bah.

I eat another cream cake to take away the pain.

J-dawg laughs. She looks adorable of course. And she is comfortable. And she is distinctly NOT showing off her goods to passers-by.

You’d think we’d have gotten better service though.

Singapore is a Magical Wonderland, especially Clarke Quay MRT Stop at Night

Wassagoinon, Singapore?

Singapore, who knew?

Singapore, why has no one told me about this???

These were all the sentences running through my head during my recent jaunt to Singapore with my friend. Just two days to see something new and pull my brain out of the negative rut into which it had stalled.

Singapore was very calm and lovely and green. Nice people, excellent food, orderly traffic.

There may have also been an attractive man convention going on. It was seriously ridiculous how many attractive men we saw there. Like a little parade. And everyone was well-dressed and had hair that wasn’t overly styled yet had style. The other striking aspect to the handsome man parade was that, where I live, I’m invisible. I’ve been here a short amount of time but I kind of forget I exist as anything other than background to the women who are from here. But there, I received glances and complimentary looks! It was a bit … frankly weird after my months of invisibility, to the point where I’d forgotten how one behaves. Case in point: there was an attractive man waiting for the subway when we were. Obviously had just gotten off work, suit jacket off, nice shoes (polished even). Kept exchanging glances but I kept looking at the wrong times apparently because his face looked rather intense and not smiley. My friend later told me he’d been smiling (quite handsomely. because we were in singapore and that may be the only way people are allowed to smile there) but I never seemed to catch it. Unfortunately we got to the next stop which was our transfer far too quickly. And being an idiot, I got off the train.

We had nowhere to be, really. Could have easily gone one or two stops past the transfer, walked over, had a little conversation, etc etc etc. Instead, I got off the train looking over my shoulder feeling all, aw he’s so cute. Of course by that time, he wasn’t looking anymore because I wasn’t being as encouraging as I should have been.

From this, several decisions were made. One, social cards (like business cards but with personal number and personal email on them) should be crafted. Two, my friend and I came to an understanding that if one of us is being dumb, the other is to subtly smack her and point her toward the cute man giving her the eye. We both live in countries where we are invisible. Some people are able to keep their heads on, others are not. Three, missing stops is okay.

Unfortunately, these rules/decisions came too late for me. However, they will be kept in mind for the future.

Singapore was also the land of fabulous food. We had dim sum, high tea, sandwiches, good breakfasts. Though the timing was always a bit off. We both live in countries where you can eat pretty much all the time. There is ALWAYS food to be had and relatively easy to find. Now, it could be because we were in an unfamiliar place, but we always seemed to be hungry earlier or later than was acceptable to eat by Singapore standards.

The shopkeepers were universally nice. Small boutiques, overly pricey designer stores, all of them gave impeccable service. It was the kind of shopping where you feel the person working there is on your side and while they want you to buy, they also want you to look good. So it was more like shopping with new friends at each store. I was also super impressed because they would just look at me and go grab the size from the back. No one asked my size, no one told me I was too big for things (except for the shoe store. But there the shopkeeper was so sad about it and quickly reassured me that they cut their shoes small and they’ve had many comments from customers), they just brought out my size of the garment and it always fit perfectly. Then they’d be all, let’s try these shorts, let’s try these shoes, oh you should wear your hair up with this.

And yes, I know, commission, they want to make the sale, yada yada yada. However. Not everywhere has service like that. I’m just saying.

We went to the Night Safari on our last evening. It was amazing. A mazing. You got so close to the animals on the little tram. Then on the walks, you could walk into enclosures with bats, flying squirrels, and maybe something else. The flying squirrels were the meanest, largest squirrels I have ever seen. I was actively afraid of these squirrels, especially the one that looked poised to fly into my head at any minute. In the bat enclosure they also had flying foxes.  Big. Cute and ugly and demonic all at the same time. There were a fair number of them having a snooze on the tree and every once in a while they’d spread their arms so you could see their wing span to full effect. I wouldn’t want one of them to nest in my hair.

Such a big fan of Singapore right now. I haven’t felt so relaxed in a while.

Ken in Singapore

Ken decided to enjoy an elegant tea at Raffles

Nice to see non-traditional standards of beauty

Ken enjoying the beautiful temple

Hello Lion

Ken likes massages

Ken in Chinatown