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The Perfect O

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My tormenting yet bittersweet affair with eggs has been nothing short of a Hollywood love story.  It began as mutual loath in early years, but turned into a passionate obsession overnight  in adulthood.  Then six month ago at the height of our oblivious happiness, we were torn apart and forbidden by authorities without warning or mercy… cold turkey style.  If I’m sounding overly dramatic, I’m not.  I believe it’s fair to say that I consumed on average, 3 eggs per day for the past decade.  Some days 4 to 5 if we were feeling naughty.  A disgusted horror by any cardiologists’ standard.

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A Confused Chicken Rice

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I assume people meant my ethnicity, not the city I currently live in, but even that has no easy answer.  Three decades of my life so far are sort of evenly spent in three different locations.  The country I was born in but haven’t lived in for more than 2 decades.  The country I spent all my teens therefore granted me a citizenship of.  Then there’s the city I feel most at home, where it shaped me into an individual and till this day, still defines me.  So which one are they talking about?  Oh, and of course this shithole place where I’m currently residing in for the past 3 years, where I don’t even want my name to go anywhere near the close proximity of.  I think it’s safe to say that I’m a product of the environment of a shrinking globe.

 That I’m suffering from identity crisis.

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To Roll, or Not To Roll

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Like standing in the DMV queue and being asked (judged simultaneously too) if I wanted to be an organ donor.  Or whether to leave my BJ apartment on a PM2.5 hazardous day for groceries or starve with cheese crackers.  Or whether to spend the last scrap of my monthly budget on the air purifier we really do NEED versus the new iPhone I really do WANT.  Nobody said being an adult is easy.

So years of life-defining choices as such have boiled down to this moment – I find myself standing in the kitchen in BJ (how the hell did I end up here…?), deciding which is the better way to form an Asian meat pie.

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Duck Ragu Spinoff

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Like maybe how it brings me back to a perfect bistro setting on a perfect corner in Paris, or maybe how I found a rustic-charm, free-range chicken farm in outskirt BJ where we took our dogs to spend a leisurely weekend.  But, NO.  I’ve never had such a dish that’s remotely close in Paris.  And these eggs were bought from Taobao because I was too lazy to do grocery, and delivered by a postman who left it in front of my door step because I was too lazy to open the door.  What brings me to share this recipe which I’ve already made several times before, is that this time… it’s gonna be served in this beeeautiful, over hundreds RMB black iron skillet that I found on Taobao for 35RMB!!!!

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You.. Dirty Dirty Pasta

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Then came the effort the correct it.  And then, TOTAL insomnia.  As I tried pushing through the day without submitting to the brain-paralyzing exhaustion, the nights remained sleepless where I go in-and-out of consciousness and wake up feeling even more tired than the day before.  The cherry on my cake was, on top of this build up of 14 days without proper sleep,  that my oldest son, 11-year-old Maltese, Dumpling had to go through a completely unexpected surgery yesterday.  If I haven’t properly introduced myself, this IS the top three on my worst-things-that-could-happen list.  So all in all, the past week has been… really shitty.

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A Bite of Le Marais

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It’s impossible to shake, like it’s wired into my every nerves, and rejecting whatever highly-caffeinated substance I have been shooting up my veins.  It has made it its personal quest to destroy my complexion, and put my blog, my kitchen and my dear dear camera on life-threatening danger.  Just know that I’m writing this while floating in a distorted, murky, brain-scrambling derangement.  Thoughts are bouncing off the surface of my consciousness like dimming fireflies, twirling and giggling, so close but out of my grasp.  “Wait, don’t go.  Why so shy?… let’s play…”

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Paris, Where Have You Been All My Life?

Just the fact that they didn’t compromise the integrity of the city for real estate, makes me kind of believe in (sorry…) socialism. Apparently all buildings except for one (ewww… Trump, is that you?) in central Paris cannot exceed 6 stories tall. So what? It unveils the vastest, most beautiful sky I have ever seen in an urban setting. New York, I love you, but you ain’t got a ceiling this nice. It could possible be one of the best hotels in central paris but who knows. My pitiful collection of vocabularies fails miserably. Just look at it! Carefree clouds floating in a mesmerizing, SOUL-SUCKING blue. Tell me that doesn’t look like a Pixar’s movie!, in which I’d be the ghost of an old lady happily traveling in a balloon-lifted house…

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Confit on Fire

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*UPDATES IN INGREDIENTS.

But the world wants this.  A Chili Pepper Confit.

This is not a chili paste, or a chili oil, or a hot sauce.  Difference?  All of the above are wingmen who deliver heat to the main attractions and are otherwise just condiments on their own.  They are the Keanu Reeves.  This is Al Pacino.  Pepper confit is fresh peppers slowly stewed in fat until they lose all their moisture and concentrate down to a pungent, fragrant, fiery explosion on the senses.  It may not look much, I know, but neighbors would know that this is stewing on my stove and attempt to eat a bowl of rice with it.

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