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RED HOT OYSTER+KIMCHI DRESSING

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I thought I was going to forfeit the ticket to this year’s Thanksgiving recipe frenzy.  I thought, for some strange reason, that this year’s Thanksgiving is sitting (impossibly…) on November 18th, and that by the time around November 12th when I start to entertain the idea of a Thanksgiving recipe, that it would already be too late…  After all, I heard this is a holiday meal that people plan ahead for.  I heard that even before the first leaf turned brown, the happy Californian designer-turkeys still obliviously eating their organic feeds, have no idea that someone in New York has already claimed the right to carve them apart and break their wishbones in two months-time.  Better not tell them is what I think.

So the point is, a few days ago I suddenly realized I do have time this year, that it wasn’t too late.  I could still do this!  I could still… well, here’s where I ran into another problem.

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HOW TO KILL AN OYSTER

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Behold, the months marked with the letter “R” are already upon us, and as you may have been once told in stories, that this is the time a particular… defiant kind of sea monsters roam wild and await the braves who dare to challenge.  Enlightened by ancient (probably also desperately hungry) wisdoms who discovered that there are briny, delicious glories hidden inside these ugly and unseemly creatures with tough shells, courageous heroes have charged fearlessly to claim the price (literally charged for it), while the most and rest of us timidly standing on the sideline, too daunted by their impossible presence (and being charged for it).  But this year, this year the fear stops.  This year, this year we stop feeling belittled.  Grab the swords (sort of), and with the help of a mighty hammer (non-lightening charged), we are going to defeat these monsters once and for all, and feast on their flesh.  Because you know what, the difficulty is all but myth, and the deliciousness is not.

You don’t need a professional or a demi-god for that matter.  Because this, this is how mortals kill a sea monsters.

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THE WEST LAKE HYBRID

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You know… as someone who’s been gutting dead animals… chopping things… hacking and hammering in the kitchen for the past 15 years, I pride myself for the fact that I seldom, and I mean rarely burn or hurt myself inside my ruling domain.  No, it isn’t because I’m more masterful at wielding heavy machineries, but because I have a deeply-rooted, intolerated fear for pain which led to a full spectrum of obsessive precautions before any hazardous conducts in the kitchen.  But… just before I sat down for a chat with you, I though, hey, maybe it was a good idea to first finish slicing those mathafuckin’ fibrous and tough galangals for easy freezing… just to check it off my list…

Well, just like that, there goes my left middle-finger now looking tragically like a tissue paper and tape-wrapped lollipop, summer strawberry flavour.  You see?  You see me waving my middle finger in 360º just so you can see clearly?  Especially at you, galangals.

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HOLY CRAPPED HOLLANDAISE

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I’m sure it happens to everybody.  I know, self-assuringly, that I’m not alone on this…  I’m sure that once in a while, we all come across a recipe, a “trick” really, that gets us so excited we forget to reasonably doubt and then it fails on such an epic proportion that we quiver at the sight of the kitchen doorway for a week.  Say it is so.

Well… even so, two days ago, when my cold lingered on and my eyes were so dry from the medication that they were about to crack open, it just wasn’t… really wasn’t the best time for this to happen.

And yet it so did.  Three times it did.

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PERFECT… WINTER SCONES

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As a reluctant and often times struggling home-baker, I have an unfounded, persistent, borderline sickening obsession with making biscuits and scones.  Nobody in the family eats them but me really (it isn’t saying much when you scan through all members in the family).  I have to endure the look of lostness and concealed disappointment in Jason’s eyes every time he comes home to the smell of butter and sugar, and yet I put myself through it often (yes everything is about me).  They aren’t the most foolproof things to bake either, evidently from the ghost of dead doughs past that still lingers in the apartment.  So I don’t know, I guess they just feel so much more earnest than cookies and cakes, a warmer and friendlier thing to break over a conversation or a cup of tea… well, with my imaginary friends at least.

But the truth is until a few days ago, I had not been able to tell them apart in the kitchen.

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APPLE PERSIMMON PIES

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Season-transitioning flu… they just love me so.  A tender… suffocating love.  So listen here’s what I can do. With my energy level slightly above a wheezing squirrel, I’m gonna save any effort on an elaborate sales pitch with delicious stories for you to try this.  This being – fry your damn pies and do it this way.  I’m not gonna go there…  Instead, I’m just gonna give it to you straight, as in bullet point-style.  As in STONE-COLD FACTS.  Yeah.  Because we all believe in science.  Right?  So eat this because:

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CHICKEN WINGS ON THE MISSION

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Sometime I amaze even myself on how I get inspirations for a post while being locked on top of this self-confined tower.  Well, not to deter you from visiting (especially you who owns a white horse) but it’s a tower sitting atop an oppressed world hidden inside a choking cloud of toxic smoke as far as the eyes can see, and guarded by, well not a dragon HA! I wish, but an army of creatures that to say mildly… nobody from your world is going to find it pleasurable to meet.   So I mostly sit inside this emotionally distraught and physically demolished little tower of mine, with my greasy hair, rattled temper and… my magic mirror.  Yeah, just like Beast’s who got it with me on Groupon.  You see, it’s hooked to this fantastical plate-looking thing just outside the window, oh and how marvellous that it even comes with a remote.  Like magic I tell you.

My life is but a little fairy tale.

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THE INCONVENIENT RAGU-TH

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I almost couldn’t wait to tell you all about this hysterically inconvenient ragu.  I started curating its debut so many weeks ago, impatiently waited for the temperature to drop and the first damn leaf to fall, until everything… every single elements in the atmosphere ready your hearts for the most glorious, madly delicious ragu you have yet to try.  I even prepared a number of high-impact vocabularies to describe its entire four hours of making, two of which involves you standing by the stove remorselessly scraping the bottom of the pot in the name of culinary commitment, because I was gonna tell you that there’s no compromise when it comes to what I call the art of harvesting caramel, and you’re going to eat it all up.

The recipe has been sitting in my cue for a week now and I haven’t been able to lift a finger.  Well… you know what happened.

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