[ezcol_1half] " the wonder of chicken is that, even though the meat lags behind pork and beef in intensity, its cracklings on the other hand, are incredibly potent and explosive.
[ezcol_1half] I’ve waited six years… wow, six… to say this son-of-a-bitch line. I’ve imagined saying it while beating its saggy ass with a whip rubbed with the most homicidal Mexican chilis as it wriggles in pain. I’ve imagined saying it while twisting its balls with electrically charged clamps as it howls in my upmost amusement. I’ve imagined saying it while watching, ever so pleasurably, as its ugliest face twisted angrily into an even uglier version of itself if that’s even grammatically possible. I’ve imagined, for six years… wow, six… to say this line with a fuck-you. And now, when the time has finally come, I can only feel it exhaling through the gaps of the keyboard, in a long heavy breath of bittersweet… We’re leaving Beijing. Can… can I say that again? We are. Leaving. Beijing. Yes, leave, move away, to Hong Kong if that’s important to mention, but more importantly the point is, out of Beijing. I mentioned last week that I have “eeeewge news” to break it to you, but truth is, this is more than news. It is a long-awaited, mental or physical, release. Why is it such a big deal? Well, I know, I know that the context of my predicament hasn’t been thoroughly
[ezcol_1third] After what seemed as long as forever, but now, feels as short as a blink of an eye, five weeks of traveling in and out of 6 different countries, I am now, finally, back home. It is difficult, if not impossible, to sum up a journey as long as this one in one post. It began in Hong Kong, then Taipei then back to Hong Kong, then it departed towards London, then Madrid, and Lisbon, then finally, passing by Germany, back to Hong Kong, then back to Beijing. It was a zig-zaging montage of cityscapes, sounds, smells, flavours, stimulations… but also disorientations, sense of aimless drifts, dubbed by a relentless seasonal flu somewhere at end. How do I tell such a story I have no clue. I suspect I would be inadequate but I shall try. I shall try, starting with Lisbon. Why Lisbon? I don’t know. I guess there are moments in life that didn’t feel particularly monumental at the times, but somehow, years and years later, they stay with you whenever you feel like looking back. Lisbon, in the best sense, felt as such. There are cities where we go to feel the future. New York, London, places that strut at
HOT DICKS SO BIG [ezcol_1half] [/ezcol_1half] [ezcol_1half_end] Today is the 4th day, the longest duration since 2002, the year I moved to New York, that I've ever gone without ingesting a drop of coffee. Not a drop. Because on September 6th 2015, an otherwise wonderfully uneventful morning, my coffee-stash abruptly ran out on me without a warning as if it was premeditated, leaving me in a cold-turkey caffeine withdrawal that I'm frankly too sleepy to wrestle. Right of course, I don't live in a no-man's land. There's a convenience store downstair just 3 minutes of walking from where my ass sits, ready to supply me lacking but coffee-like substances that will ease the cold sweats and wobbling mind. But more to my own surprise than anything else, I didn't go. In the passing 96 hours of brain-paralysis, waiting for my online coffee shipment which hasn't came yet, I just stayed inside my bunker chewing and spitting out green tea-leaves, mainly trying to open my eyes without much success. Shit, I can't even open them now. Did you know you can type with your eyes closed? Uh Whast was thsr? This episode told me something about myself. You know I would never sell my sloth short of its worth, God bless its noble
[ezcol_1fifth] [/ezcol_1fifth] [ezcol_3fifth] XI'AN-STYLE SMUSHED LAMB MEATBALLS BRAISED IN JOY-JUICE, STUFFED IN CH-ENGLISH MUFFINS
[ezcol_1half] SOMEWHERE ALONG THE LINE OF LOSING CHILDHOOD INNOCENCE AND MATURING FOOD-PHOBIAS, I'VE GROWN ESTRANGED TO THIS WONDERFUL THING THAT PRACTICALLY RAISED ME [/ezcol_1half] [ezcol_1half_end] I've been wanting to do a fried fish sandwich for some time now. In fact, it's strange even to myself that it has taken me so long, considering that battered fried fish, from both the perspective of nostalgia and deliciousness, holds a very special place in my heart. Myself, circa 1992, fresh off the boat in Vancouver and practically English-illiterate, this was one of the very first introduction I had into the then-completely-alien world of western food culture. Once in a while, friends and families would make a special night out of dinning at the New England-style seafood restaurants lining the river-port, for this was a scarce enjoyment where we came from, and for me, watching the seagulls pirating scraps off of the table, it served a foreign exhilaration of this new place to call home. Back then, with the inability to understand the menu, a dinner in a place like this would almost certainly meant having the same entree over and over again, and that was, yes, fish and chips. A funny dish that, I was told, the child I was should really appreciate. To be honest,
/* unvisited link */ a:link {color: blue !important;} /* visited link */ a:visited {color: purple !important;}/* mouse over link */ a:hover {color: blue !important;}/* selected link */ a:active {color: blue !important;} [ezcol_1half] MY grandfather was a mysterious man. Not much is known for facts but there are certainly many stories about him, speaking of a skinny, humble working-class man often seen in between two slices of bread trying to make a buck or two at food fairs back in the late 1800's. Who his ancestors were and where they came from, is still up to this day, my most intimate wonders. Were they even named a Burger? And whatever stories, legends even, being told about his tale of becoming the untoppled icon of a nation's food-identity, remain exactly that, just stories. But if there is one thing indisputable about those stories, the truth that inspired the myth, or at least so everyone says, it's that he was a fine and proud citizen of America. And that's fine enough by me. Truth is, I was never too held up on who my grandfather was. After all, I'm pretty sure, I am nothing like him. I am
"BOYS WILL BE BOYS?" What happens when you practice general lawlessness between a 6-pounds white prince who has, for his entire 14-years of life, consistently mistaken himself as a Magnificent Pit Bull, and a 26-pounds mutt boy who, constantly subjected to his ambiguous status in the house, has quietly developed some sort of combative inferiority-complex? Sibling rivalries? Boys will be boys? I don't think so