LIFE IS A GREAT ADVENTURE… ACCEPT IT IN SUCH A SPIRIT
–Theodore Roosevelt
OK, so I’m bald.
Wait, right, fine. Technically, not yet.
I just buzzed my hair off. Why?
Before you say it, this is not a Britney-style meltdown. Okay?
This is Jarhead. It’s war, and the enemy must be eliminated. But the enemy in this case – is myself. If you’re still interested, read on.
But before I start, I just want to apologize for making such a fuss in the past two weeks, sounding alarmingly distressed and melodramatic. That was me then. That is not me right now, as we speak. Now, in hindsight, even the idea of making a public display of my buzz feels acutely self-absorbed if not stupid, but having said that, I still owe you an explanation. So please know that whatever you read off of this, that it is in the context about hair, the nerve-less fibers that grow in ways without or without our consent and sometimes utter rudely. So if I sound like I’m being superficial anywhere in the story, I may have been. Well, here we go.
…BUT IT DOESN’T STOP THERE. THE REAL MIND-BLOWING PART IS THE LAST DESCENDING SPRIGS OF THE UNIMAGINABLE… FRESH CILANTRO LEAVES
If you were those who like to travel to unfamiliar places, see unfamiliar pictures, eat unfamiliar things, chances are that for many times, you have been caught up in moments where I’d like to call – the encounters of food paradox. Foods that don’t make sense, shouldn’t make sense, but the moment we put one in our mouth, the argument between logics and instincts all quiets down, and the only sensation left with any capacity for thoughts, is how defiantly delicious it stood against our prejudice. It changes everything, on top of the very least, our palette henceforth, will never be the same. This post, I hope, is about exactly that.
I have been longing to find a way, an accessible angle, to tell you about a thing called, ice cream-spring roll. It’s a common street-food in Taiwan, not particularly flashy or groundbreaking. In fact, among the immensely competitive and ever evolving Taiwanese street-foodscape, one may even argue, standard stuff. But if you have no affiliation with the food-culture from this island proud for nothing but, the concept of this ice cream-spring roll, with its deceivingly predictable name, may just very well be your next big revelation. Up front, what is expected surely is that there’s ice creams, most likely local flavours like taro or mango but could also include strawberry and vanilla, which are rolled inside a chewy crepe made with simply flour, water and salt. No innovation there. But to make things more interesting, a tall pile of sweet nutty and salty ” sandystreusels” is being shaved directly from a ginormous brick of peanut and caramel brittle, matching its proportion to the ice creams to almost 1:2. The shaved/ground peanut caramel brittle alone, already completely push the texture and flavour of the spring roll to another dimension, but, it doesn’t stop there. The real mind-blowing part, is the last descending sprigs of the unimaginable, the last to belong in the dessert isle, the controversially pungent… fresh cilantro leaves. What?!
You know I would describe it to you if I could. I’d say it’s melty, creamy, sandy and crunchy all encased inside a film of chewiness. I’d say that it’s sweet with pops of saltiness, the permeation of powdered peanuts and caramel and a whiff of herbs in the back-note. But for the life of me, I cannot describe to you the immense confusion upon the impact of the first bite, then the gentle surrendering into the next, then a breeze of exhilaration on the last. So I won’t. You’ll have to try this one out yourself. Because, that’s the beauty of a food-paradox isn’t it? One that does and should be lived outside the limitation of words. Maybe you’ll hate it. Maybe you’ll love it. Whatever it is, we will celebrate the forever-forward exploration that is eating.
So, congratulations! Wow, new baby huh? I mean.. just.. WOW! Ayee-um… Mandy, by the way. Here, um, I sort of acted late on that race to the gift-registry and so I swear all I was left to choose with, was this leopard-print breasts-pump and a strange vampire binky… But seriously, I swear, I am not weird. Nor am I some random neighbour who’s trying to crash a party because she saw the sign “there will be cakes” on your lawn on her way to taking out the trash. Really, I was invited. But the truth is, you probably don’t know much about me. And I guess the fact that this being a baby-shower and all, probably one of the top three must-be-perv-free environment there is (among dressing-rooms, toilets and etc…) , I should re-introduce myself a little bit.
My last name is Lee, with my birth-Chinese-name, Huei Lin. When I was 11, in the month before my family immigrated from Taiwan to Canada, I picked out my own English first name, Mandy, from an English Names Guidebook that some idiot gave me. It was probably one of the most regrettable mistake of my life, one that I now have to live with until I die. I’m one of those whom you would call a “dog person” much more than a “people person”. I don’t care who or how many people die in a movie as long as the dog lives, and which-ever movie violates that rule, sucks. I Am Legend, sucks. But having said that, if you actually knew me, I’m a good friend. An overbearingly judgemental friend you might add, but that’s only because I think I care. My favourite things in life are puppies’ tummies, eating, travelling for eating, eating with friends, last but not least, good conversations over eating. I think whoever asks the question “what’s your favourite food?”, hates eating. I don’t have a favourite food, because there’s too many that it can only be defined by categories. Categories such as, carbohydrates, and proteins. Vegetables… I don’t wanna talk about it.
But perhaps, the most important food-category of all that defines my entire existence, that trumps all other subordinate pleasures in life except for maybe rubbing a puppy’s tummy, so much so that I may not be able to friend you if you disagree… is anything and everything that could be described with the word – chewy. Chewy is my Holy Grail on my culinary treasure-hunt, my kitchen baby unicorn, my ambassador of quan. Chewy, completes me (and no, Jerry Maguire, doesn’t suck). I want it in my bread, my brownies, my donuts, my cookies, I want it in places that it doesn’t even belong, and yes yes yes, even in my ice creams. So I guess it’s only appropriate, since we’re on a roll of getting to know each other and all, that I introduce you to this closeted kink of mine – my black sesame mochi ice cream.
It’s not entirely mochi. It’s not really ice cream, either. This black sesame-blended mixture is thickened with just enough sticky rice flour, in order to land on that sweet spot where it’s too loose to be called mochi at room-temperature, but hardens just right when it is frozen. It has an incredible resistance to melting, an unusually sturdiness and bounciness to each bite, and a deep and rich nuttiness that fills the palette with each melting chews. It is almost unlikely to find a peer for comparison… Think of the densest, zero-air/ice-molecule ice cream you’ve ever had – this is way beyond that. Think of Turkish ice cream – well now you’re getting close. It’s the same kind of stretchy and springy texture that make this recipe impossible for a typical ice cream-churner, and hence, must be done by working your post-baby biceps. I mean is it too considerate on my part that I even calculated in a terrific solution for that last pound of baby-weight you’re physically but not emotionally attached to? I told you, I’m a good friend.
So hello Emily. Congratulations again. You won’t be able to return that leopard-print breasts-pump because my dog ate the receipt, but this black sesame mochi ice cream, will more than making up for it.
THIS, may come as a surprise to hear. Or not… judging from how you rationalize things. Well, let’s just say based on the look of things on this blog, this will come either as a gasping surprise, or, as the most obvious conclusion to any. But what I’m trying to tell you, and this is a true story, is that every night before I go to sleep, the ever-last thought that I’m either saying or thinking before drifting into oblivion is alway this…
#$#$^@#!! I swear I’m gonna go on a fucking diet.
It’s true. You see the thing is, I’m a side-sleeper. And side-sleepers feel things. Things that, with all due respect, back-sleepers wouldn’t necessarily feel so bluntly and graphically and that is, the horror upon realizing that my gut can move freely in 180 degree angle, and rest soundly on the mattress like a soft pouch of cottage cheese. Did you know this about my gut? Why am I always the last to know…
I’m telling you this because I want you to know that I am not beyond reasons. I’m aware of the normal shape of things for a humanoid, and I have acknowledgement of the ancient nutritional pyramid built by aliens to assist mankind, I swear. There was a lemon-olive-oil-pasta-thingy that was supposed to be here today to demonstrate that I’m well-balanced and eat vegetables. I don’t know what happened to that.. maybe because, purely guessing, that it didn’t taste as good as this donut.
Right, this is a baaad donut. A very gooood, bad donut. I had a sun-dress that just arrived in mail and I got very angry at it, if you know what I mean. And you would believe me when I say that I would not surrender my prospect into a spaghetti-strap sun-dress this summer, just over any donut, wouldn’t you?
No, no I won’t, because this is not just any donut.
I chose this to be one of the away-from-home-super-short-post collection for a reason – I don’t feel like explaining it. You either know and share a great passion, or even obsession in some cases for what this “mochi” is, or you don’t. No words I can say will convert you from one side to the other.
