The weekend: stewed tomatoes, crying baby, and five shrimp

I took part in a tomato buying group with three others last week, and each of us got 2.5 kilos of tomatoes for only P50. Sweet. Lugging the kilos home, I looked at them and wondered - salsa? tomato jelly? spaghetti sauce for the month? salsa???? I gave a good lot away to my mother who will be able to eat most of her share in salads and healthy foods that she needs to ingest. And the rest, I prettified them by arranging the unripened fruit in a nice white ceramic bowl for a day. A table display. Not salsa.
The next day, starting to worry that the tomatoes would turn into their own salsa without any help from me, I decided to lop off their stems and put them into the slow cooker. I initially thought I'd make pasta sauce, but as I looked at them sllllooooowly heating up (crockpots are the worst for those of us obsessed with watching the pot boil), I figured I'd just douse the tommies with olive oil, some salt and dried herbs. Then I went to see a friend and her baby. 6 hours later, I came home to the smell of Italy. Hahahaha, well, olive oil and herbs and stewed tomatoes. For lo! I had stewed a kilo of tomatoes! Have I eaten them yet? No. But I have plans for my stewed tomatoes and I will get to that later in the week.
My friend R now has two kids, the latest is close to 4 months old and looks a lot like his brother. Mini-Sam the baby is. And he didn't want to be held by anyone but his mama. We did get some photos of him in a kiddie pool, no diaper, dabbling in the water with his older brother. But when his mom needed to eat dinner, he was ferociously unwilling to sleep. According to R, he's less fussy than his bro, but she was sorry he wouldn't deign to let me carry him without bawling. I did manage to hold him for about ten minutes when he had drifted off a bit, but I also had to head home, since Alabang is way far and my bedtime was fast approaching.
As scheduled, friend A and J met me for our Sunday painting session. Rather, the three of us yakked away for a couple of hours about J's recent family trip to Tokyo (Disneyland! and a day in slushy snow!), and all the family turmoil we've had since our last painting session a few years back. Then J's hubby called up and said he was on his way, so it was not as productive a painting session as we had hoped. To salvage what time was left, I ground up some ink, and dabbled on some paper, practicing or at least attempting to figure out the strokes for the shape of what I thought were lobsters, only to find out the painting I was looking at was entitled 6 Shrimps. Oh well. So I ended up with five shrimp, since four is a no-no number in chinese culture. And A said to place my chop and it would be ready for display. Heck no. This was practice. And I need more time to get used to my brushes again. Poor A. After a couple of years of storage, he opened his brush mats to find most of his brushes eaten up by some brush eating insect. Freaky! At least he's heading to China with the family next week and can shop for stuff galore.

Eminent feeding

What do you feed a President, a King, an Emperor or the Pope? What don't you give them when they're dropping by? In online news today, it's been noted that the Pope doesn't really need any more veal sausages of Bavarian issue. I'm sure he doesn't get that homesick for it, and must be easy enough to call up his local deli for a taste when he's back at HQ.

Recently, I had a family dinner at a local restaurant that served the last Pope that visited the Philippines. They kept the silverware and platters and had it displayed near the front door. Photos of the meal adorned the sides, and a small plaque noting the date of the auspicious event. Off-hand, I wondered aloud with my sister why they washed the dishes and utensils after. Wouldn't it be even more interesting to see the fingerprint of the pope on the wine glass?

Potatoe, potatoh

Rice shortages, hoarding, cost of transporting to the market (due to the skyrocketing oil prices), and now increasing wheat prices are constantly in the news and make for sobering thoughts. People speak of how difficult it is in the provinces, lining up for rice that is barely edible, stretching out their budgets to feed the children on gruel.

For consideration then - how about the potato? Scourge of the anti-carbohydrate era, and linked to the image of hungry Irish potato farmers during the blight, it's relatively price steady, a good source of both carbs and protein, just add the fat. Don't forget that it's also got vitamins.

It can be boiled, broiled, baked, fried, sauteed, mashed, hashed, matted, stewed, and even makes for tasty bread. Get yourself a spud today.

MyPersonality.info Badge

Note: I took a couple of days before I read the INFP profile, and while it hits the mark on several levels I wondered about the ff: they list people who are historically in the mold of the INFP/Dreamer. They've got folks like Audrey Hepburn, John F. Kennedy Jr., Peter Jackson, etc. Perhaps these folks took the Myers Briggs at one time. But what about the inclusion of John the disciple and Virgil the poet? How can they add them to the list other than basing it on the little we have of their works??? My eyebrows raised in doubt. Or perhaps that's part of my personality trait. In the list of fictional characters who fit the INFP list, I particularly enjoyed seeing Calvin (of Calvin and Hobbes fame) and Fox Mulder in the list. No wonder I like those two series so much!

A food post

In the two week visit of R, we ate at some new places, and revisited other places along the way, plus he cooked for an estimated 130 people. He wanted as much pinoy food as possible, with a quest for beef tapa and fishballs and halohalo. We were waylaid by a stomach bug the last week (it hit me first, then he picked it up a couple of days later), but it didn't stop us from making inroads into our food list.

The day he arrived, I dragged him to the Lung Center Market along Quezon Avenue on Sunday for a breakfast of bibingka and puto bumbong, with a side of pork bbq. We walked around the market looking for lunch options and fruit, picking up super spicy bicol express, a fresh lumpiang ubod, pancit lucban and mangoes. A sprig of camellia blossoms for luck. The market is a much larger spectacle than its Makati cousins (Salcedo and Legaspi Village markets), but parking is difficult after 8 am, and it gets searingly hot and humid after the first blush of the morning. I prefer getting there early, buying gulay or fruits, and stopping by some of the prepared food vendors for regional pinoy cuisine. He nearly picked up a large wooden cutting board and a musical wooden frog :)

We also went out to Angel's Kitchen in Greenhills (along Connecticut) for Sunday dinner. The place has become increasingly popular, and not knowing how packed it gets on a Sunday night, we were lucky to snag a table for two next to the dessert display. They are famous for the lechon kawali and pinakbet rice combination plate and naturally we had to have it along with a salad and fish dish. That night, there wasn't as much punch in the pinakbet, but the dish was still homey and comfortable, with a thick slab of porky lechon kawali to offset the vegetables of the pinakbet. I ordered the dory with asparagus and nori, which had a heavy dousing of black pepper, and redolent with sesame oil. We gave up dessert in lieu of a soothing pot of genmaicha pop - the green tea mixed with popped rice. It's light on the tongue, fragrant, and clears the palate.

Monday, the day we visited Ocean Park, I brought R to Chinatown, looking for a small noodle house on Benavidez. Lamien, or handpulled noodles, are a basic comfort food, propagated by the Uighur minorities in Northwest China. Where you find the Uighur you find darn good lamien noodles all over China. I have good memories of the two little noodle diners near the university where I studied mandarin and when I read of a lamien place in Binondo, my heart leaped! So R had no choice but to give into my need for hot noodle soup. We ordered one lamien soup, with beef, and one dao shao mien or knife cut noodle soup, plus a plate of steamed dumplings. For P200 we were stuffed, and I was happy. The owner makes the noodles herself, thumping the dough on the prep table in front, thump thump THUMP, and from a lump of flour and water, it stretches, ever so violently, into noodles. It's magic. Her cheeks are rosy from the daily exertion, but she has a twinkle in her eye when she sees you smiling at her aerobic cooking. She is also in charge of cutting the noodles for the dao shao mien, her knife skills dangerously fast against the mound of dough she prepares against the boiling stock. Each of the tables is laden with a big bowl of freshly chopped green onions and coriander, plus individual containers of soy sauce, black pepper and hot chilli oil. When you get your orders, add to season as you wish. I like mine extra spicy.

The next three days we spent in the province was lazy with provincial calm. We arrived early morning on Tuesday, toddled off to the market to buy some chicken and other bits, and spent the rest of the day cooking for the visitors attending the first night's procession. Since the Tuesday before Easter isn't a major holiday, the procession is relatively smaller, and the hordes less in number too. R cooked chicken wings with a garlic soy sauce glaze. Along with the meals prepared by the other members of the household, they fed over 30 folks that night, not much leftovers to worry about! Feedback from the garden where people were digging in for the meal was that the chicken was a hit, and R will have to do it again next year. On Maundy Thursday, we got to the market too late to buy beef, so we ended with 10 kilos of pork to grill that night. The procession was going to be much larger than Tuesdays, and we were warned that at least 100 people would show up after they marched through back to church. The miki had been prepared in advance, and calderos of vegetable stew had been simmering, not to mention a really large pot of rice. R was also thinking of a way to provide something sweet for the attendees and after some price haggling, collared an ice cream vendor to give us full use of his ice cream cart for the day. We had two hundred cones, two 10-gallon tubs of ice cream, and the cart! After marinating the pork for several hours in a garlicky dunk, R grilled the meat, then we chopped them into easy bite size slices, enough to fill two bandehados. R's aunt, ie Sorbetera, took up the post of scooping the ice cream for the little ones lining up for a treat, and we had great shots of happy kids eating as much ice cream as they wanted.

By the time we flew to Dumaguete, both of us had been hit by stomach flu bugs. Needless to say, food was downgraded to safe edibles like crackers, soup, noodles, and gatorade. But we hadn't found R's must-eats yet, so once he felt better, we tried a couple of places in the city for beef tapa, tapsilog to be exact. One restaurant had tender beef but the sauce was sooooo salty. It was like a beef salt lick. The other place had somewhat chewy beef with a decent flavor. The last beef tapa he tried was at Antulang, where it was a decent plate but didn't stand out. The quest continues.

The Dumaguete boardwalk has a spot dedicated to vendors of squid balls and "tempura" - mashed up shrimp and flour thinly molded into skewers and deep fried. Returning from a day trip, we walked from the ferry to the sidewalk vendors and chose a spot that was relatively busy, assuming that the higher turnover of customers would relieve us from worrying about hepatitis. Or not. But risks have to be taken in life. And for less than P100 we had ten sticks of squid balls and tempura, two softdrinks and a view of the sea at dusk. One can contemplate on a lot of philosophical issues with a tummy full of floury fishy stuff and a coke while basking in the cooler night air.

For the last quest, halohalo was one of the first meals we had, stopping by Via Mare on a sultry afternoon for a tall glass. Sadly, I remember the VM halohalo being much chunkier before. Lately, it's lost some of the stuffing and added more chunky ice. We had a strawberry ice cream and cereal halo halo in Dumaguete, which contradicted R's convictions of ube ice cream and pinipig. Progress? It was still a decent halo halo in flavor if not in ingredients. I know there was another halo halo stop before we got back, but I can't recall where and whether it was any good. During a dinner with my family, R's tummy had already been hit by the bug, and he was forced to watch my dad gobble up a tall glass of halo halo; sheer torture!

The last dinner on his trip was homemade. We tossed together a sausage ragu and pasta dish, alongside the chickpea salad I posted before; R made garlic bread, while I waited for the other garlic bulbs in the roasting pan to caramelize. Were there any vampires in my neighborhood, they'd have shrivelled up into dust by all the garlic we were consuming that night. To kill a bit of the hearty savory taste, we took a short walk to the Magnolia ice cream parlor around the block for sundaes and parfaits. Childhood memories reminiscing ice cream and summer, what a great combination. And thus was his two week trip completed.

A touchy subject

Mary Roach wrote a book about death, cadavers to be specific and how different historical and scientific er activities revolve around the use of our bodies after we die. Read it, it's a hoot! Or maybe I'm really just a morbid person. But honestly, I haven't read something that interesting in awhile.

Now, I hear that she's tackling another subject. To avoid being filtered by the web-nannies, let's just say that Bonk is all about a basic need. From the review I read and Ms. Roach's interview, I am looking forward to reading all about her research and some of the historical approaches to learning the physiognomy of this aspect of life. She writes in a very accessible manner, sometimes approaching overly facetious, but never disrespectful of the topic.

Moses laid to rest

How many times have you seen The Ten Commandments? I can't count the number of times it was shown in the movie houses or on tv when I was younger. During Easter, there were very few options available, so it was either The Ten Commandments, the Robe, another movie about Moses, and a couple of biblical movies. I don't remember Ben Hur being shown that often, but my mother let us watch it once since she figured Charleston Heston was Moses in the other film so BH must be good viewing. Or so I thought.

Then she started introducing his other movies - El Cid (Sophia Loren vavavoom!), Planet of the Apes, Agony and the Ecstasy, and then probably the movie that made me turn from CH - Soylent Green. What cheese. Or maybe in this world of GMO, what amazing foresight!

Step back - travels in two weeks

Last year, R and I took our first trips around the Philippines together. On his recent return, we retraced a couple of trips, spending a bit more time in two spots; taken several mediums of travel (plane, bus, ferry, car, train, and motorbike under our belts); plus a few more sights to look forward to. We also changed the route around this time, starting with the northernmost, heading a bit south before going further south to Central Visayas.

As we had a couple of days before our holiday trek up north, we spent a day in Manila and Chinatown, going to the newly opened Ocean Park, and seeking out a "lamien" - northern noodle soup restaurant. I'll have more about some of the meals we had in another post, otherwise I'll muddle myself up, and go round and round the topics. Wouldn't want that, I tell you. I had some reservations about the Ocean Park, but figured who best to see a big aquarium with than with R, who is in the business of marine creatures? I had been warned that the lines at the entrance were LONG, but maybe everyone was flaking off that morning as we got in with minimal fuss. The first few tanks were a bit puzzling. River fish, Amazonian fish, fish and plants that don't really have anything to do with "oceans" but I guess we have to show diversity and accessibility. We moved onwards to the small tanks holding ocean creatures. Reef fish, a few samples of corals, shrimp, a large alaskan crab that looked a bit awkward in its cubby. However, we both thought it was sad that the exhibit had to resort to fake coral, and very plasticky looking fakes at that. Stuff you'd find in Bioresearch! By the time we entered the larger tunnel walk and shark tanks we were in need of something awe-inspiring (although the mandarin fish were very cool, so look out for them).

The walk under the tunnel was fun, and watching the diver mobbed during feeding is always a blast - partly because you don't see that kind of interaction in dives in the wild. The rays and the one leopard shark give the kids a thrill, not to mention the larger shark holding tank full of black and white tip reef sharks. I loved the large tank with the three or four large puffers, the zebra puffer had lovely patterns. Then you face a rather confusing exit link back down, through construction as the hotel and the rest of the edifice has a lot left before completion. There are a few more restaurants they plan to add and a small hotel (fish beddings? a goldfish by the bedside?) on the upper stories. I say give the place a few more months before deciding whether it's worth the ticket price (P400 for adults). But for days or weeks when you can't get out to the ocean, this is one option for families over the summer.

Up north, we spent time at R's family ancestral home to attend and take part in the religious ceremonies and processions through the first few days of Holy Week. This is the same house that his relatives had told me was haunted, and even R told me about the footsteps heard around the kitchen late at night. Still no ghostly sightings, even after three nights and days. I am so not sensitive to uncorporeal revelations. Oh well.

We watched two processions, the Tuesday and Maundy Thursday marches. We spent the time before the processions watching and photographing the preparation of the 'santos', the large religious statues and dioramas; R's family has had the Mary Magdalene santa in their family for generations. She was dressed differently for each procession - a gold and silver dress on Tuesday, a dark green cape on Thursday. We were told she'd be in black on Friday or Saturday, then in full color on Sunday. The Tuesday procession only had about 8 santos, while the Thursday procession had at least 13. A lot more people too, which meant feeding a lot more too! But it's that kind of purpose that whips people into attending the gatherings. The kids, the babies, their parents and grandparents, all support the march through the streets. They build the rest stops, called abong-abong, imagine if you will, large scale diaromas depicting religious themes, decorated with local fruits and vegies or just plain vegetation. On Thursday night we walked around to view as many of the abong abongs as we could, everyone else was jammed into cars cruising around the stops taking photos. We may have been the only ones using our own ambulatory power.

After spending Easter in Anilao, Batangas, we headed south to Dumaguete, city of smiles (did you know that was the tag line? I want to go to the city of grumpy people next!). There was work to get done, but we fit in a day trip to Siquijor. I'm thrilled that I can add one new province to my list. And Siquijor has such an interesting reputation, a mystical land full of faith healers, mystics, witches, warlocks. Magical! We rented a motorbike and toured the western part of the island from Siquijor City to Lazi where the old cathedral and convent host a small religious museum. Massive stone pillars keep the building stable, and the floor planks hark back to the days when we had narra trees and molave trees. Forests, people!

Trying to find our way back through the central road, we ended up lost in the middle of the island, high enough to see that we had to head towards one side of the island. Twas a good thing we found our tracks back to Lazi and rushed back to Siquijor city in time to catch the 4:30 ferry. We lost a cap along the main road, and our arms and faces were tanned by the sun.

The last few days in Negros Oriental, we followed the recommendation to try out Antulang, which is supposedly at the very tip of the island. Go look at a map of Negros island (yup, go now and find one), see how it looks like a boot? Now look at the tip where the toes would be and that tip that sticks out into the sea is where Antulang resides. With some luck, you could actually wake up to a sunrise and gaze at a sunset, except our rooms didn't have much luck in the latter. We did have a gorgeous view of the vast waters with a shadow of Mindanao peeping above the horizon. Every hour a pair of fishing bangkas would troll the waters for fish, their nets cast between the two, which must mean there's a vast horde of fishies in those waters offshore. We strolled along the limestone and coral fossil cliffs, along walkways that spoke Gothic novel to me, trying to find any large schools of fish in the strong waves below. Except for some surgeon fish that fought for the bits of bread we threw in, we didn't see much of marine life.

I would definitely cast my vote for another trip to Siquijor, but I dearly want to bring R to Mindanao next. Hopefully his plans pan out and we can do so soon.

Next up - cooking and tasting!

Faces of death

Reading up on blog posts on backlog, I came across this link through Dooce. The reaction that made her open up the comments section made me shake my head, but I can understand why people have such a visceral reaction to the dead, so before checking the link, be prepared to be faced with photos of the dead. The photographers have created a beautiful portrait series, I didn't find myself dismayed that the photos were taken or are on display. There's nothing gratuitous about it.

Likewise, an article in the New Yorker about how long one lives or the eventual end of one's life based on winning the game of life ("my life is longer than yours") grates on me. I see my dad, many of his friends have died, he's survived most of them, and he reflects how sad that is to be the last man standing. He's had to attend funerals more than birthdays or anniversaries. He doesn't have his mates to play mahjong or walk around chinatown or eat a bowl of lugaw down by the estero or smoke ciggies with or plan a trip together. My mom's friends have survived more or less, but they're all in their late 70's or early 80's now and we can't stop fate.

Summer Sundays

Some years ago, I took up chinese watercolor painting at the Ayala Museum, met friends there, and with one other classmate, continued to paint on and off for another two years which led to making even more friends, but primarily for the lunches and meals we'd have and not for painting. Complicated? Sort of, but really, what it's come down to is that I haven't held a paintbrush in two years, although I've bought new paintbrushes and even perused art books in consideration of painting again.

Chinese or oriental brush painting is primarily watercolor based, painted with goat/rabbit/horse/wolf/animal hair brushes, using black ink or watercolor ink, and on rice paper. Watercolor painting is not easy. There's little room for mistakes. When you've put the ink to the paper, it's there. Hard to redo, smudge over, repaint, erase with another color. Good thing rice paper is relatively cheap, but unfortunately, not so easy to find in Manila.

After years of hibernation, my painting friends are interested in reviving the Sunday painting sessions. And I'm all for it. I have my brushes, my inks, my paper, my books, my water holders, and all the stuff I bought years ago. Now I have reason to dust them off and open up my artistic pores.

Chickpea!

In this list of cookbook titles, the one that spoke to me was the one about the garbanzo/s (is it singular or plural?). Last night I tossed a cup garbanzos (canned, drained), thinly sliced shallots, a crushed garlic clove, some parsley, a twist of lime juice and olive oil. I had a small head of radicchio broiling in the turbo oven for 30 minutes and when it was ready, added some slices from it to the salad. A liberal shaving of parmesan cheese. Salt and pepper to taste. Great on toasted french bread, as a side to any dinner main dish, or for leftovers add to chilled noodles. Holy cow batman! 3 in one! And it took no more than 10 minutes to prepare the base salad.

ribbit

My sister who lives in a new-ish subdivision in Northern California complained that she's aggravated by the chorus of frogs in her backyard. She comes home from work and she's got to hear them ribbit all night long. She says they can be so loud that they keep them awake at 2 am.

I am not a froggy fan. I like their legs fried with garlic, but otherwise my associations with all things frog are unpleasant. I skinned my stomach as a child trying to escape a ledge where I saw these large toadlike things at the end, blocking my way down. I took vengeance on them in bio class, but handled them with at least a couple of gloves. And a very unpleasant memory is seeing the backend of a toad/frog stuck at the end of a sewer pipe. Ugh, they wriggle, they slime, they look at you askance. Yes, they are nature's canaries in the pollution wars, and are in some cases endangered. They are not cute though.

My sister was giving away old handbags she accumulates, and one of them, a Fendi, looked like a frog. Dark brown, squat, leathery patches. Took a dislike to it immediately and sold it as soon as I could. I saw a newer cousin of the bag at the Fendi store in Vegas; it may cost the moon but to me it's still a squaty froggy fendi.

rip here and there

My stomach flu may be the cause, but I seem to be picking up only on morbid news these days. Recent deaths internationally include Arthur C. Clarke and Anthony Minghella (I'm a proud English Patient fan, sue me); then today a friend told me one of the old society dames, Chito Madrigal Collantes died last night and that our former President Cory Aquino has been diagnosed with colon cancer (she's not dead yet so there's a positive spin on it).

To offset that, M sent me a list of the cheesiest love songs on a site she found. When I couldn't remember the lyrics, I'd send out a ym to her for help and she'd send me a few clues. Nothing like hearing the shriek from Loving You to clear the mental cobwebs.

Straight from the Pope

The Vatican has added 7 new deadly sins! It's not just about lust, gluttony, and avarice, etc anymore. Now you can sin by dealing in genetic experiments, taking and dealing in illegal drugs, and by creating social injustice through amassing personal wealth (isn't that just plain greed in a nice new title?), among other human things the church doesn't agree with. The church also manages to tiptoe around its representatives sins by saying that paedophilia which created so much damage to the church is a sin, but the media blew it out of proportion. Hypocrites. I'd add that to the list too, but then you'd have to memorize 15 sins.

Connections

Over brunch yesterday, discussion ranged from recent travels and travel plans, movies, weird emails and youtube videos, and food wastage (we could still see the immense mounds of shellfish that wasn't consumed after the buffet was closed). Having members of an embassy among the group also meant some talk ended up revolving around matters of security, visa applications, visa fees, and secondary screening.

First I was relieved to hear from a friend that the renewal of passports over at the Department of Foreign Affairs is not as onerous as I had heard. I've had my last three passports renewed by simply sending it off through the travel agency. Now, I will have to go to the DFA and have my fingerprints taken. But she assured me that she wasn't there for more than an hour, plus everything else went by quickly.

Secondly, the new US visa fee rates in January of this year (an increase from $100 to $135 for non-immigrant applications) caused a few folks to grumble, but as explained by those in the know, most of the embassies are suffering a deficit due to the US dollar weakening against several currencies - including the peso. Most of the embassies don't get consul salaries from congressional funds, so that extra $35 goes towards paying off salaries and services. If the US was not such a high traffic destination, the fees would probably be higher. Luckily, more people are getting multiple year visas again (I'm only referring to tourists here, not any other category), so that extra $35 is spread out again over 5 to 10 years. I still shudder thinking about reapplying for the visa in 2 years however. The stress and the worry are enough to go through once in a lifetime, not every year or few years.

Then a friend told us of his recent experience with secondary security clearance crossing back into the US from Canada. He drove from Toronto into Detroit and was asked to step aside at the border crossing. After being interrogated about his trip, he was given the clearance to re-enter, but was curious about why he had been stopped. He travels to the US so often and this was the first time he'd ever been reviewed so strictly. And the answer he got? His hair had changed from the picture on his passport, it was no longer slicked back, but a bit shorter and spikier. Hmm. I've heard of silly, but that seems a bit myopic. Of course, one person in the table then rejoined about the overly meticulous requirements at a Northern European country's embassy that specifies how much space one needs to allocate between the frame of the photo and the top of the head and sides of the face. To the millimeter! Ok, they make great cars, but who is going to have an aneurism if the margin is off by .05mm?

Finally, the last bit on this thread of talk yesterday ended when I learned of the popularity of blogging about US visa applications in China; the typical discussion is which consul to look for when in line, hoping to get the kind hearted, generous one who never rejects applicants. Here in the Pinas, a long-standing urban visa application myth has been the cruel and heartless Korean lady consul who rejects everyone. In China, they have their own share of cruel, heartless consuls of specific traits (the red headed one, the Asian lady, etc). Unfortunately for anyone trying to line up for the sweet lolo who gives everyone a visa, those stories are never true, there isn't a quota, and it's more like a bank line, when they press the button and your number comes up, you don't get to choose which consul to adjudicate.

(we also discussed the many g/i ailments one gets living the diplomatic life; it is definitely the opposite of glamor!)

Tale of the tuko

Once upon a time, two girls and a boy were sitting on a beach, watching the water wash over the stones, while boats out on the horizon bobbed up and down. They had been walking for a long time and they were tired. They soon grew sleepy and decided to sleep under the coconut trees, they bade each other a good rest and slept.

In the morning, they woke up.

- AAAA! The girl with hair screamed.

- EEEWWWW! the girl with no hair stuck her tongue out in disgust.

- Get it off me!!!! shrieked the boy. For there on his arm was a large, ugly, bumpy, scaley lizard. It made a noise. - Tu, ko, tu, ko. - it stared at all three humans, swivelling its eyes to take in their horror.

- It's a tuko!!! AAAAAAAAA - this was the girl with hair again.

- Oh no, we won't be able to get it off! - the boy shook his arm, hoping it would take the hint and leave him be. But the tuko is known for sticky feet, once it lands on a human, it's stuck!

- Wait! I remember what my mom told me when I was young, said the girl with no hair. Look for a mirror, if the tuko sees its reflection in the mirror, it'll jump off by itself!

The ran around to look for a mirror. The boy found a shard of reflective glass, shouted to the girls to help him. He kept shaking his arm vigorously hoping the tuko would jump off, but the tuko was not going to oblige. It had found a perch and it was sticking to it.

The girl with no hair took the glass and pushed it as close to the tuko's face as close as she could. She twisted it near it's right eye, she turned it to the left. Nothing. The tuko was not afraid of its reflection and it simply stuck its tongue out the girl. -tu, ko!" it said.

- It's not working, bawled the girl with hair. -He's going to be stuck with it forever!!!

- No!!! I can't live with a noisy lizard on my arm! We have to get it off. Wait, what about one of you take a match, light it and try to scare it with fire? The boy asked his companions.

- That sounds really mean! But let's try! The girls ran to look for a match and a flint. They lit the match and poked it as close to the tuko without burning the boy. The tuko twisted to look at the flame, but didn't budge. It flicked it's tongue twice, then looked away from his tormentors. -tu, ko!" it seemed to be a brave lizard.

- Nothing is working! You're going to be stuck with it forever. The girl with no hair faced the boy with a sigh. She felt sorry for him, but was thankful she didn't have to be the one with the tuko.

- No wait, there's still one more thing we could do. The girl with hair looked out at the waves. How about you jump into the water, and keep your arm stuck way down deep into the water? I don't think the lizard can breathe under water right?

The boy cried - I can't swim! What if I drown? I'd rather be stuck with the tuko than die from drowning. Oh, why did we have to sleep under the coconuts?? Why me? Why?

- Let's go to the village. Maybe someone will know what to do. The girl with no hair pulled him on his other arm, as far from the lizard as she could, and dragged him towards the village.

When they got to the village, they asked everyone what to do about the tuko. One man said to cut it off with his machete! One woman thought it was a snail and said to pour salt over it. A child suggested beating the tuko with a paddle. But the boy with the tuko balked at all the choices. He didn't want to get his arm cut off, or be beaten, or salted. He started to cry, and was feeling sick from looking at the scaley lizard flicking its tongue at everything.

The village chief was asked for his help. He thought carefully, trying to avoid looking at the tuko on the boy's arm. He thought for many minutes, thinking how to help the poor boy. He finally stood up. He walked out to the beach; everyone in the village, and the two girls and the boy with the tuko followed him. He pointed to a small island, shaped like a hat and spoke - That is your only hope. You must go to that island with the tuko. - He said to the boy.

The boy was given a boat, and he climbed into the boat. He took the oars and started rowing out to the island. He rowed for hours, rowing over small waves, rowing over bouncy waves, he rowed and rowed towards the hat island. He grew tired, but the tuko didn't care. It stayed on his arm, it flicked its tongue. It looked at the waves, it stayed on his arm. "Tu, ko, tu, ko."

Finally, the boy grew closer and closer to the island. It had a sandy beach, and a steep slope on both sides with a flat top, like a boxy hat. No trees grew on the island, nobody lived on the island. It looked very quiet, very empty. They boy grew scared, but he had to try getting the tuko off his arm.

He landed the boat on the beach, and stepped on the rocky sand. The sun was very hot, and there were no clouds in the sky. The boy felt tired, and sweaty, and hot, and scared. He walked on the sand for a few minutes, looking around and up at the big hat rock. Suddenly, he heard a soft sound behind him. He whipped around and nearly fainted when he saw what was crawling towards him. A swarm of tukos, tens, hundreds of them, No, thousands!!!! They crawled over the sand, the pebbles, the stones, the rocks, towards the boy, towards the tuko on his arm. He ran to the boat, but he wasn't fast enough. They caught up with him and crawled up his leg and his shorts and his shirt. They crawled up to his face, flickering their tongues. They crawled up to the tuko on his arm. And then, just as the boy was about to collapse with fear, they all jumped down. Including the tuko on his arm!

He was free! His arm no longer had a tuko stuck to it! He watched as the tukos, the thousands of them all crawled away, around the hat rock. He didn't want to find out where they were going or what they were doing. He was free! No more tuko, his arm was free!

He jumped back into the boat, and rowed home.

The end.

So you think you can dance... or at least dress

On Saturday early evenings, I find myself channel surfing over to Ch 53 to catch So You Think You Can Dance. This show reminds me Dance Fever!!! I remember watching the latter show as a child with my brother (who styled himself as his generations John Travolta in Grease - he's so going to kill me for saying that heehee), and sometimes my mom. We'd watch the dances, cringe when it was gawdawful, but enjoyed all the twisty dancing and the imagination of the stylings. SYTYCD is my older self's Dance Fever, with way better dancing for the most part. I've been watching for a few weeks now, and while I could easily find out online who won the competition (2nd season I believe), it's far more fun spending an hour or so watching the show, mentally critiquing the dances that fail to speak to me, while the dances that are full of vivo and life are a joy to watch.

Since catching up with who is who, I look forward to seeing a few of the dancers, and try to avoid watching a few of the others. From the first set, Daniella and Natalie are cute, bubbly, smoking, and sympatico; Benjie and Ivan don't turn me off with their weird hairdos or bad dressing and they're getting better each week like any kind of progressive development should prove. On the latter side, please get rid of Dimitri who is a ham actor and barely manages to keep his shirt on. Travis's hair continues to be freakier each time I see the show. He is looking more like the funny looking troll dolls with scary neon hair. The others (10 dancers are still in the show) all sort of blend into one.

Tears

There's a child bawling outside my office. He is in a terrible state, and at his age of no more than two, one can only imagine what terrors are causing him to cry like that. I find it interesting that he's crying for his nanny, I suppose the role of the mother has been superseded in many families so he reaches for the person who cares for him the most.

I feel for the child. He cries for those of us who are losing something or someone. And while I can't really bawl like him, I can empathize. I hope his pain goes away soon, a lot faster than the stuff adults like me have to deal with.

I've caused pain, and I feel the pain directed towards me. It's complicated. At best, I can only accept responsibility for my actions, apologize, and move on. I won't regret that I experienced life. I just wish the pain were as easy to fix as a child's.

Frittering away on a dream

One of my favorite day dreams is to imagine my own bookstore, one that I would own after winning the lottery (segue note - did anyone else see the laconic winners who won the lottery in Atlanta, Georgia? $270 million in prize money, and the winners look like they lost their truck. I don't think I could be so downtrodden if I had just won that amount of money). It would be in a gentrified part of some city, where I wouldn't be in competition with other bookstores, but near enough to nice bakeries and bistros and art galleries. It would have that early 20th century look, brownstone exterior perhaps, with high ceilings, a second floor and lots of shelves on all walls. There would be a small office in the back, near the hallway leading to an external coffee/tea room, semi-alfresco with lots of plants. A couple of sofas, some reading lounges, and stools to sit on or to reach for a book. I'd work there with a couple of support staff, nice friendly folks who love books too. It would be near a college campus or university because we'd want to be a part of that community.

However, book dealing is not all that idealistic. It's hard work, there are lots of permits, insurance concerns, and theft. Independent bookstores rarely make any money, ergo I better win the lottery to open the store and to keep it going. A recent article about book thieves sure chips away at the dream; I may have to test the running skills of my co-workers, make sure they can sprint faster than any thief.

Since synergy always happens, I am in the middle of reading The Book Thief, a recommendation by a couple of teachers here at school. Set in Nazi Germany, it's a far more mature book than I would expect to be written for teens/young adult readers. This touches on similar topics as Schindler's List and Stones from the River (Ursula Hegi's series). Perhaps having an anthromorphized Death narrate allows for some distance to the reality of the sequence of events.

Day and night Isan

One thing that I learned about eating Thai in Thailand is that there is a strong regional belief in the amount of heat that goes into cooking the food. And other than the mountainous North, the other regions vie for the hottest, the spiciest, the tastiest. It's not all one level of spice, and many great Thai cookbooks discuss the importance of a balanced meal with sour, sweet, salt, heat, umami, and probably bitter thrown in.

A personal favorite of mine is the homeyness and sweat inducing food of Isan, a northeastern Thai province. When I visited Khon Kaen in 2004, I was warned that they do spice and heat beyond what was found in Bangkok. That was proved to be true, but it wasn't all about tongue-numbing heat. There were northern sausages, fermented for its sour yeasty flavor; the best roasted chicken for dipping into their version of the Thai salsa; a som tam (papaya salad) with river crab; frog's legs that were so crispy and tasty, you tentatively nibble one and end up finishing the entire plate.

Since it's been a little over 3 years since my last Thailand adventure, I knew that I wanted to eat as local as possible and my friends were kind enough to oblige. My first lunch was at one of the many Isan style al fresco eateries, one that long time friend E habituates for its location near his office. We treated another visitor from Australia to a sampling of the basic cuisine - the savory grilled chicken, a pork larb, slices of roast pork, a tom yum with fresh and sweet shrimp, two kinds of som tam, northeastern sausages - fermented to contrast with the sweet and the hot, and sticky rice to roll up in balls and dip into the sauces. Our fingers grew sticky, our palates held up to the heat, and our stomachs were happily full.

With two Thai friends and M, one of Switzerland's sons who chose the tropics over the Alps, we went out for another night of Isan dining. Beyond the staples, we also had crispy and nibbly frog's legs, a red curry snakehead fish, a chicken larb that reminded me of a ceviche for it's tenderness, and two seafood and vegetable dishes to offset all the heat. Ying ordered a pork intestine dish with herbs and chillis that I liked for its chewiness. Bring along a bottle of inexpensive cabernet sauvignon to cleanse the palate and you will likely feel as full as we were walking back to the apartment. I think the two bags of sweet roasted chestnuts were above and beyond what we could eat at the end, but we couldn't resist the lady seller's charming sales pitch.

Our only sad moment during dinner came when we saw the approach of a mahout and a young elephant. It's illegal for them to be walking the streets, but everytime I've been to Bangkok, I've seen at least one pair. This time was even more sad since the elephant was so young. His handler sold bananas to the customers in restaurants so they could see the elephant eat. Child labor on a different level.

Dining in these Isan eateries is not posh, and sometimes the only way to find them is to depend on friends who live in town and know where to go. I am sure I can find the lunch diner due to its location right down the alley from the Four Seasons while the dinner setting is a few blocks from E's apartment in Sathorn. If I had time enough to take in more soi based dining options, I'd be as well versed in Bangkok eateries as any long term resident could be, but I return to the not-so-spicy Manila food environment later tonight. Best get my needed intake of heat before my flight!