Vegatables

life, and a drink

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It’s been almost 16 months since the moment I sat my lame ass down before a computer, and pessimistically inserted a few doubtful letters down at the domain-registry… “ladyandpups.com… hmph, yeah right.”  Well, turned out I sort of was.  Disregarding any form of success measured by any numeral digits (it’ll come it’ll com…), this place has been an unexpected release for my moderate creativity and infinite opinions, to vent itself in the form of a blog.  As unconvincing and self-indulgent as I formerly thought it would be, much healthier than a reckless Ebay spree as it turned out… (I confess nothing).

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summer and couscous in istanbul

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I’m never much of a person of faith and spirituality.  Evidently since Jason and I started slowly leaving our footprints around the world, we left an obvious trail seeking gastronomic truth instead of spiritual babble, pinning destinations on the map not for the yearning to hear the echoes bouncing off the cold marbles of St. Peter’s, but to sink our teeth into the godliness of a cool, fresh Roman burrata.  Not to hear the chanting of monks on ancient scriptures, but for the serene noise coming from the skin of a Balinese roasted pig cracking in between teeth.  The antiquated pagoda from a time bygone can wait, my Vietnamese bún chả in the now is getting cold.

We go with our guts.

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chicken in the swamp

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No lattice-top?  No pretty dashing colors of summer berries?  Not even the scarce possibility of a scoop of ice-cream on top (people will eat anything with an ice-cream on top these days)(how’s that heatwave going)?  Just when my latest favorite creation was traffic-vetoed because of its less-than-fashionable appearance (A’ight, it may look Susan Boyle but that rice can fucking sing!), I can’t believe I’m preparing to feature this visual question-mark…  If you have the urge to gush out, Oh Lord this poor woman dropped that labour of a pie in the kitchen sink!…  I assure I have not.  It’s this stubborn nerve of mine, you see.  I want to cook for traffic I really do.  I’m not playing cool.  But it’s this nerve for curiosity… this damn nerve…

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pork belly shiso yaki

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Before I met Beijing, there was another affair I had a brief, bitter-ending engagement with and his name was I believe, Hong Kong.  We spent an abusive 18 months together right after New York… ah New York.  It was such a transcendent love, great love, Mr. BIG-GREAT that anyone else who followed was predetermined to never live up.  Without the enlightenment of other perspectives, I couldn’t love a city with EVEN SMALLER living-square footage than New York… EVEN MORE CROWDED streets than ant-hills, EVEN UGLIER buildings than Taipei and many many EVEN-MORE-NESS to feel sorry for myself about.  Like I said, I had no perspective.  I had no idea that Hong Kong was already Aidan.

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lard and shallots

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Perhaps you have heard of this.  Perhaps amidst that journey you’ve always wanted to take, physically or culinarily, you’ve left a little trail of footprints through this Southeast island distancing itself from China, sensed the disturbance in its waking yearnings to voice out.  Chances are you weren’t charmed by its political ambiguity or perhaps even curious but that’s all right, because that’s not what we truthfully know of either.  What we know of is this, our last fair stance on independent nationality, what even brought you to take an impression on our not-much-ness, the last pride.  This, Taiwanese street foods.

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tummy yumyum tomato soup

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Who here shares a rooted enthusiasm for heads raise their hands (… what?).  To an undiscriminating extend on varieties, I love all types of heads (… what did I say?…), duck, fish, chicken, whatever.  Not that there’d be a fight but I seize it from the table at every encounter, nose-up thinking I am the only person in the party who knows what.  I’m a head-snob.  And on behave of myself, I’m filing a complaint towards America where under-informed citizens don’t appreciate heads, or serve enough of them (I think I hear agreement of some sort…).  I go quietly fury especially when I see shrimps heads being discarded on their plates, thinking they must be CRAZY passing that intense creamy foie-gras of-the-sea that’s just one loud sucking away.  Tsk tsk tsk… unworthy of a good head.

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the infinite kitchen sink hand pie

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Sometimes I get a little personal when I take a stroll through the expansive, razzle-dazzling and star-crusted cosmic jungle that is food-blogosphere.  I really don’t mean to compare I really don’t.  Wise man once said that… “Go… just do your own things” or something… you know but put in a MUCH more profound and scholarly terms.  But the thing is (and it’s a big thing) that I can’t help but feeling like Gimli the dwarf when self-put besides the others, whom I’d like to call the blogger-elves of the Woodland Realm (birds chirping pls) because I mean really, just REALLY, do people SERIOUSLY live like that?  Prancing with in-season-only, tree-ripen fruits and vegetables galore by the farm-stands and POOF! an effortless display of fairy-salad and angel-tarts on a oh-my-granny-just-left-me-this antique table.  Or picking WILD FLOWERS in pastel tea-dresses surrounded by rainbow and songs and THAT’S what she EATS on weekends!?  For REALZ?  I bet their body parts self-shave, too…

Yeah.  I’m jealous.

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rock’n potato roll

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There were many aspects in life turned unexpectedly different after moving to Beijing.  I didn’t expect that in any foreseeable lifetime, I’d accessorize a biking trip to the grocery with an industrial-grade gas-mask instead of a summer straw-hat.  I didn’t expect neither that instead of battles on sample sale weekends, I’d be fighting other choking victims online in a gas-mask-shortage-frenzy when the days get worse.  Yah I know there’s a general wisdom to be applied here somewhere… positive psychology and affirmations do-kid-yourself kinda BS or whatnot… but then comes the unexpected irony.

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