Salty
Friday, February 28, 2003 | comments (0)
"This is crap, really."
"Well YOU made it, didn't you? Why don't you stop eating it, then?" James was not much help.
"Right." That was the problem with Mongolian barbecue. In the end you had nobody to blame for your bad meal but yourself. This was my second time at such a place, and both times the outcome was the same: shit. The feeling I had wasn't so much one of anger or disappointment as it was of embarrassment. How could something so promising go so horribly wrong?
"I'm not quite up to this bold task," I said, and took a furious drink from my water with lemon. Other happy, contented individuals, who were 'in the know,' were using their chopsticks to deliver what appeared to be perfectly well mixed ingrediants to their mouths. Damn these people. Brad, our server, had gone off somewhere to smoke a joint or something. I needed a fresh bowl of rice.
This was the state of things: my dish, the dish I had prepared, was salty. I don't mean salty as in, 'Oh you put a little too much salt on that, honey.' I mean the kind of salty that blinds your taste for anything else, that kind of acrid wholey unpleasant burning salty that leaves you wincing and smacking your tounge against the roof of your mouth. I needed rice because rice made it tolerable, you see. It brought the level of disgust down a notch from bad to tolerable.
"Perhaps the combination of calamari, crab, shrimp, and scallops, mixed with teriyaki, soy, and sesame sauces was not the best idea," I said, licking my lips. I had also thrown in a couple of spoonfuls of garlic and chili powders along with some fresh cracked black pepper, for good measure. Mmmm. . . this will be nice and spicy, I thought, and I like spicy.
"Which bold task is that? Eating Mongolian?" James munched contentedly on his chicken and noodles.
I drank more water. I would be thirsty all afternoon. Some stubborn impulse had made me eat most of my detestable dish, regardless of the briny, entirely indecent taste. "Eating. Preparing. The whole thing. They should put a warning label on this shit," I said. "Or instructions."
"They have instructions."
"Right."
Brad was still not back from his smoke break and I had no more water. This was lovely. Behind me more smiling people brought their bowls to the men who grilled and chopped. James laughed.
"Right," I said.
link to this | comments (0) | File: Ho_Hum
"Well YOU made it, didn't you? Why don't you stop eating it, then?" James was not much help.
"Right." That was the problem with Mongolian barbecue. In the end you had nobody to blame for your bad meal but yourself. This was my second time at such a place, and both times the outcome was the same: shit. The feeling I had wasn't so much one of anger or disappointment as it was of embarrassment. How could something so promising go so horribly wrong?
"I'm not quite up to this bold task," I said, and took a furious drink from my water with lemon. Other happy, contented individuals, who were 'in the know,' were using their chopsticks to deliver what appeared to be perfectly well mixed ingrediants to their mouths. Damn these people. Brad, our server, had gone off somewhere to smoke a joint or something. I needed a fresh bowl of rice.
This was the state of things: my dish, the dish I had prepared, was salty. I don't mean salty as in, 'Oh you put a little too much salt on that, honey.' I mean the kind of salty that blinds your taste for anything else, that kind of acrid wholey unpleasant burning salty that leaves you wincing and smacking your tounge against the roof of your mouth. I needed rice because rice made it tolerable, you see. It brought the level of disgust down a notch from bad to tolerable.
"Perhaps the combination of calamari, crab, shrimp, and scallops, mixed with teriyaki, soy, and sesame sauces was not the best idea," I said, licking my lips. I had also thrown in a couple of spoonfuls of garlic and chili powders along with some fresh cracked black pepper, for good measure. Mmmm. . . this will be nice and spicy, I thought, and I like spicy.
"Which bold task is that? Eating Mongolian?" James munched contentedly on his chicken and noodles.
I drank more water. I would be thirsty all afternoon. Some stubborn impulse had made me eat most of my detestable dish, regardless of the briny, entirely indecent taste. "Eating. Preparing. The whole thing. They should put a warning label on this shit," I said. "Or instructions."
"They have instructions."
"Right."
Brad was still not back from his smoke break and I had no more water. This was lovely. Behind me more smiling people brought their bowls to the men who grilled and chopped. James laughed.
"Right," I said.
link to this | comments (0) | File: Ho_Hum
Love is the small things
Thursday, February 27, 2003 | comments (0)
The sidewalks and streets were like glass. Even on the grass, there was none of the white powdery stuff. Just ice, as far as I could tell. You expect snow on grass to cave to your boots and leave deep, dramatic footprints behind you. There was no such drama going on here.
You walked in front of me, your black shoes trodding assuredly on the slick surface. "Come on. It's not pure ice. There's a little slush in it."
We were approaching an ice rink cleverly disguised as a parking lot. One had to step down from this grass where we were, off the curb, and onto the ice. You did it in one fluent, all to normal step.
"There's no slush," I said. "Just ice." I crouched so that my body was closer to the ground. I must have looked like somebody who had trekked miles and had finally found a few moments rest where I could kneel and breathe, assess my surroundings. I tried to look casual about it. "I'm going to fall on my ass," I stated. To me this was just a matter of fact. I rested my left hand on the ground and stuck out my right leg, touching toe to ice, trying to figure out the best way to tackle this seemingly easy task.
You stood there on the ice, black shoes firmly planted, smiling at me, your lips just above your purple scarf, your cheeks rosey.
"What's wrong with your boots? Don't they have any tread?"
"Yes." I looked at the bottom of one of my boots. "Plenty of tread. But this is ICE! Tread makes no difference on ice, you see?"
"Look!!" You jumped up and down. You walked right, then left. "It's fine! Don't be a baby."
I stepped out onto the ice. It was slick but I didn't fall.
"Don't slide your feet, just walk."
"Yes, right. Okay." We walked to the bookstore and talked about the miracle of snow in Dallas. We told each other stories. You told me about how your mom made you and your brother play outside in the winter when you were kids so that you would get out of the house and exercise. And she would advise you to stay out until your cheeks got rosey. And you would come ask her, 'Are my cheeks rosey?' I could imagine you as a little girl saying that to your mom and it made me smile.
I concentrated on not falling.
At the book store, we took our time. I browsed through photography magazines and you looked at career books. Then we went to the grocery store, thought about getting salmon, then decided on pizza for dinner, instead. We fueled up on vitamins and cold medicine. I hadn't slept well in 4 days due to the constant pseudoephedrine high I was on. The pharmacist told us that there really wasn't a cold formula that didn't make you a little jittery. On our way to the checkout, we contemplated getting olive oil and decided to leave it for another day.
Then we walked back in the fading light of the early evening, the wet, gray air, fantastic. Cold mist touched our jackets. Near our apartment, we stopped to pet a dog, who was excited to have his paws touching this cold, white stuff on the ground.
We climbed the steps to our apartment together. Inside it was warm and it made us feel sweaty, so we raced to get our coats off.
"That was fun," you said.
"That was fun," I said. "You're right."
link to this | comments (0) | File: Ho_Hum Cath
You walked in front of me, your black shoes trodding assuredly on the slick surface. "Come on. It's not pure ice. There's a little slush in it."
We were approaching an ice rink cleverly disguised as a parking lot. One had to step down from this grass where we were, off the curb, and onto the ice. You did it in one fluent, all to normal step.
"There's no slush," I said. "Just ice." I crouched so that my body was closer to the ground. I must have looked like somebody who had trekked miles and had finally found a few moments rest where I could kneel and breathe, assess my surroundings. I tried to look casual about it. "I'm going to fall on my ass," I stated. To me this was just a matter of fact. I rested my left hand on the ground and stuck out my right leg, touching toe to ice, trying to figure out the best way to tackle this seemingly easy task.
You stood there on the ice, black shoes firmly planted, smiling at me, your lips just above your purple scarf, your cheeks rosey.
"What's wrong with your boots? Don't they have any tread?"
"Yes." I looked at the bottom of one of my boots. "Plenty of tread. But this is ICE! Tread makes no difference on ice, you see?"
"Look!!" You jumped up and down. You walked right, then left. "It's fine! Don't be a baby."
I stepped out onto the ice. It was slick but I didn't fall.
"Don't slide your feet, just walk."
"Yes, right. Okay." We walked to the bookstore and talked about the miracle of snow in Dallas. We told each other stories. You told me about how your mom made you and your brother play outside in the winter when you were kids so that you would get out of the house and exercise. And she would advise you to stay out until your cheeks got rosey. And you would come ask her, 'Are my cheeks rosey?' I could imagine you as a little girl saying that to your mom and it made me smile.
I concentrated on not falling.
At the book store, we took our time. I browsed through photography magazines and you looked at career books. Then we went to the grocery store, thought about getting salmon, then decided on pizza for dinner, instead. We fueled up on vitamins and cold medicine. I hadn't slept well in 4 days due to the constant pseudoephedrine high I was on. The pharmacist told us that there really wasn't a cold formula that didn't make you a little jittery. On our way to the checkout, we contemplated getting olive oil and decided to leave it for another day.
Then we walked back in the fading light of the early evening, the wet, gray air, fantastic. Cold mist touched our jackets. Near our apartment, we stopped to pet a dog, who was excited to have his paws touching this cold, white stuff on the ground.
We climbed the steps to our apartment together. Inside it was warm and it made us feel sweaty, so we raced to get our coats off.
"That was fun," you said.
"That was fun," I said. "You're right."
link to this | comments (0) | File: Ho_Hum Cath
Coffee Cups
Tuesday, February 18, 2003 | comments (0)
This coffee cup, with its dark brown residue from my waking . . . when? Last week perhaps? Caked on espresso roast, Starbucks blend, of course. Thank you. Oh, there are several of them here on the desk. Little cups. Empty except for the dried-on coffee. Reminders of fresh starts and abrupt finishes. Goals I've had, still have, left to sit and dry. Like that neat shot of espresso, they were indulged in one singular morning, imbibed with abandon, then left, not so as to forget them, but to perhaps remember them again. And put them away some other time.
link to this | comments (0) | File: Ho_Hum Writing
link to this | comments (0) | File: Ho_Hum Writing
