ne(one)piphany

In chilly Chicago, visiting the parents, just as an autumnal weather renaissance seems to be occurring in Seattle. Yesterday was brilliant, blue, sunny, warm — no jackets required. I hear similar things about today, but only from a distance; here, it’s cold and miserable.

Dad’s a doctor, so each new trip home carries with it a treasure hunt in the pile of new promotional product from various pharmaceutical companies. Pfizer seems to have been very generous so far this year, so without further ado, I present to you an abridged tour of the weird, wonderful world of Viagra merchandise:

1. A Viagra watch. Okay, next.
2. Stylish Viagra neckties. Note the little blue pills, subtle but obvious. I’m going to take these and create a decorative wall ornaments, or maybe stylish belts.
3. Yes, Virginia, that is a Viagra racing car mouse. It comes with a snazzy matching mouse pad, too.
4. Viagra. Pump. Viagra. Pump. Is this hand soap, or something… else?

Probably most distressing of all, and not from Pfizer, is this:

That’s right, a squeezy stress toy in the shape of… a cutaway prostate gland. Talk about your conversation starters.

Mission accomplished! 10 yuppie markets, 3 drug stores, 1 book store and 1 Safeway later…

When all else fails, thank heaven… for 7-11, of all places — and just across from work, too! The inventory was untouched, of course, and the clerk looked at me as if I had grown three heads (“Ginger,” she said, shaking her head. “I think I like that in teriyaki.”). So I rescued the entire stock from the philistines, display box included; some for myself, and some as “thank you” gifts for my diligent operatives. Let those who appreciate the joy of ginger be the ones to hoard it!

Anyways, I feel like I just snapped a picture of Bigfoot. Yay!

And to continue the joyfest a bit: if it wasn’t obvious above, apparently my camera has decided to work for me, for this once at least.

(Ah, see? Dead again!)

Jet came up with the idea of the Fat Kreme Combo back when the Fatburger opened its doors in the strip mall down the hill, across from Krispy Kreme. It was a lot more innocuous then, and only involved hitting the donuts directly after the burgers. We should have just done it, because that might have squelched the whole concept before it was allowed to morph into what it did.

That was a year ago. I was convinced it was a joke (seriously, yuck!), but others apparently thought the concept was “great,” and came up with variations on the theme. Freesia invented Krispy Shots, which were surprisingly okay. Jen reported an outing involving Krispy Kremes and In-n-Out burgers. Okay, gross!

Through all this, the Fat Kreme remained blissfully unexplored. Jet, the instigator, kept finding excuses not to do it, still insisting that it would be “awesome” when it did happen. I, of course, knew that it never would.

…until tonight, that is. Behold the Frankenstein creation in all its terrible glory:

You couldn’t have paid me enough to go near the thing, but I have to hand it to him: it wasn’t a joke. He ate the whole thing and, apparently, loved it.

 
Ruby sunset | July 2000

Patti’s beach pictures reminded me! As far as I’m concerned, it really is the most beautiful place on earth.

Flashback: for no reason other than to fan the flames of infamy, the Fat Kreme photo essay, starring Jet:

Bon appétit!

 
As threatened, the Fat Kreme a la mode photo essay.

Jet calls it the "Fat Kreme a la Stone Cold." I call it gross.

One Fatburger, two Krispy Kreme glazed original doughnuts, and one small cup of Cold Stone strawberry ice cream with white chocolate chips. I didn't have the heart to tell him that they've since opened a Jamba Juice next door.

On the other hand, perhaps that's best for everyone involved.

 
The raw ingredients.

 
Our old friend, the Fat Kreme.

 
I was imagining a spoonful or two, but apparently Jet has other ideas.

 
Clearly a fork-and-knife affair. Personally I don't think he wants to touch it.

 
Nothing complements the taste of a Fat Kreme a la mode like the smooth taste of the Macallan.

 
Clearly delirious from the aftereffects, Jet gives the thumbs-up.

 
Proof of a kind and loving god at last! It's over.

Is ne(one)piphany turning into a photolog? No, I’ve just been busy. Also killed my poor router during firmware update shenanigans and no internet access for awhile. I promise to get back on track soon, but in the meantime, enjoy the cute bunny, or seek drama elsewhere.

In other news: Ronald Reagan died, which made me feel a little sad as his election in 1980 was pretty much my first political memory. But Peter, of course, says it better. Ray Charles died, which made me feel a lot sad. Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban was fabby — little Danny Radcliffe is turning into Tobey Maguire (and yes, K. D. Lang). Jet brought a suitcase of Italian Beef from Chicago. Genie immigrated from St. Louis, while Kurt is moving back. Six Apart made things all better. This game is unexpected goodness, and I seem, after all, to have no natural talent for poker.

Finally, I’ve spent entirely too much time paper shopping, and not enough crafting. This will change soon enough, oh yes.

Decided that today was high time to visit Teavana, the new tea store I’ve had my eye on at the local mall. Why aren’t there more places to shop for loose teas? Still, this one turned out to be just what the doctor ordered! Sampled several sips of aromatic goodness, before getting what has to be the most divine tea blend I’ve ever had — a 50-50 blend of Jasmine Dragon Phoenix Pearl (a green tea variety for when one mythical creature just isn’t enough) and vanilla-infused rooibos. Have constantly had a hot mug of it in hand ever since I got home, the sipping of which has left me v. calm and contented.

Have been on a rooibos kick lately, ever since Rav turned me on to a lovely strawberry infusion at a dinner party. Sadly it seems this variety isn’t readily available anymore (the closest thing at Teavana was a blend of strawberry-kiwi juice and vanilla rooibos, which was nothing like), but the plain South African red rooibos is a treat in and of itself when it’s available (and naturally caffeine-free and loaded with antioxidants!).

Also sampled: macadamia and “tropical” infusions, as well as “monkey-picked” oolong, an unfamiliar but wonderful flavor…

I love finding new and wonderful places to shop! So today is officially a success.

[But when, oh when will we finally see a LUSH in the Seattle area?]

On the health front, am feeling better but getting little sleep of late, as certain creative pursuits are occupying my time. Massive productivity is always satisfying, but at what cost..?

 
Photoset: St. James Cathedral
 
Seat of the Catholic Archdiocese of Seattle.
[Completed 1907, Architects: Heins & LaFarge]

I’ll probably add more over the next few days — a beautiful building with lots worth capturing!

Valerie and matter eater lad, being sweet, wonderful people, sent me a tin of Chimes Peanut Butter Ginger Chews. The note attached said:

She doesn’t like ginger & I don’t like peanut butter, so we thought of you. (p.s. Ginger Altoids are now widely available in NYC!)

Well, I certainly love ginger (no surprise to anyone), and enjoy peanut butter for the most part, but I’m afraid to say that these are pretty awful. Don’t know if it’s the natural outcome of the pairing or just my mutant sense of taste*, but my mouth got confused and everything ended up tasting like sickly sweet cucumber. The texture is nice (nice amount of chewiness, and not as sticky as chews from The Ginger People, which still make my favorite ginger candy), but the flavor — scary! And it lingers, too.

Which is not meant as a slam on Chimes as a brand — their other two flavors (ooh, peppermint!) look like they’d be plenty yummy and their tins are really, really pretty — but anyone who sees me in Seattle over the next week can probably get a free peanut butter ginger chew, no questions asked.

And thanks for the lovely thought, you two! I still enjoyed them — just not for the taste!

More photos in each of the St. James Cathedral and Egypt photosets. I’ve been uploading images more frequently than blog entries lately (boxes, you know), so if you’ve been wondering if I ever update anything, you can take a peek.

I should find out how to integrate my photostream into my site feed. Someday! First, I need to get some writing in there…

Found at Candyland in Richmond:

Emily, of course, was first to let me know they existed, but I never expected to see them in the flesh. Should have known that Canada would be just the place to go — another example of how snack-deprived we are in the States!

My flickr friend hexion said this, in comments:

Children in Japan do not like green tea taste. However, the adult like green tea taste. I think that it is a thing like the bitter chocolate.
 
By the way, There is a custom of presenting “Kit kat” to the examinee in Japan. Because the pronunciation of “Kit kat” is near Japanese “Kitto katsu” that means “Win without fail”.

Kitto katsu!

They’re good; maybe a little too sweet, but not overwhelmingly so — about what you’d expect from a good green tea ice cream, but swirled with crispy KitKatty goodness. Since they’re imported from Japan, a little pricey, and then there’s that commute…

I know it seems tea’s been on my mind a lot lately, and you’d be right! Shaula over at tsuredzuregusa 徒然草 has a lovely entry on tea, for whose inspiration I can take some little, indirect credit (via Watermark & my Adagio Teas entry), which spurred a small tea shopping expedition: genmaicha is an old friend (this from Republic of Tea), wonderful and mellow, while lapsang souchong is a new acquaintance, smoky and nostalgic. I know a few of you vehemently dislike it — I wonder if it comes from not having often experienced warm winter fires on frozen nights, crackling & aromatic of charcoal, memories of which come flooding back to me as I sip. How could you not love?

And from janjan, word of her own Adagio reward, which sounds amazing — but I need to watch myself. Finish the tea you’ve got first, yukino.

There were times, late at night, when she knew in the depths of her soul that she was a broken person. Sometimes she would emerge from the shower, throw herself onto the mattress, and as the air cooled the water on her skin and in her hair, the chill would seem to numb her sense of self. In these moments of disconnectedness, her thoughts took on a cold, computer-like pattern, and she would feel trapped, as if she were just a prisoner of her body and of her life. Surely she was meant to have been someone else; anyone, anything except herself, or maybe even nobody at all. These feelings of wrongness and illogic were so strong that it was impossible to believe otherwise, but then, slowly, the warmth would return to her body and she would be back, anchored firmly in the reality of her own existence once more. That was possibly the worst feeling of all.
 
She had lived with this all her life. As a young girl, she’d prayed often to the full moon to take her somewhere else: someplace where she belonged, where she could feel correct. She’d studied meditation and other techniques designed to free her from her shell, and into a more perfect form; all without success, leaving only growing disaffection with her existence…

Losing one’s rationality is a terrifying feeling. There have been moments, recently — walking through the sunny city streets, or gazing at dew-spotted flowers fighting the breeze — where I can feel reality beginning to slip. The world changes, and it becomes easy to believe that with one lapse of concentration, just the tiniest of nudges, that the waking dream would take over, with no past, no future, no consequences…

And sometimes, there are moments of clarity, where things burst into brilliant focus and I know exactly who I am and I am who I want to be, and the sun is brilliant against the glass and metal of Seattle without blinding, and the wind blows coolly through my hair, bringing flying petals which paint the world in color: streets, cars, trees, people, buildings, life — everything! — beautiful, beautiful, and beautiful.

But these are just two faces of the same coin, and for just an instant before the beauty fades, the old fears return: is this the biggest lie of all? And it’s gone, gone, a thousand years gone, leaving just a memory of one barely remembered, perfect moment of… sanity? madness?

But see? I’m back again.

Whirlwind day in Manhattan, browsing the sample sale at Triple Five Soul, shopping at Lush, H&M, and tons of cute little kitsch shops, ooh-ing at Origins’ fab new Modern Friction dermabrasion rub but backing away a little at the price. Also: nibbles at Jaya Malaysian, Woorijip and Le Pain Quotidien with Miranda and Lia (rockstar!), and finally meeting Jarvis and Samson, adorable fuzzballs — all while fighting off jet-lag.

Lots of fun, but tired tired tired.

Okay, breathe, Yuki, get some sleep. You’ve a train to catch in the morning.

 
…dreaming of being a bride | New Haven, CT

Much, much too hot here to write. Not heat, specifically, but awful humidity, thick, wet, like childhood summers back home, thankfully forgotten (though I dearly miss: thunderstorms, fireflies).

Back home tomorrow night, anyone in NYC up for an early lunch in Chinatown? But — who am I kidding? Still jet-lagged and will probably sleep until it’s time to leave…

Good-bye, high shoulders, metal earth dwellers, palaces of glass. heart.

A wall of rain and fire to the west means I’m still stuck in New York for now — well, not stuck in New York, exactly, which would be just fine, but in the limbo that is the airport. Airports are places you’re either going-to or coming-from. There’s no such thing as being at an airport. The air is muggy and oppressive.

Sitting in a wet-hot plane for three hours on the runway, or in the wet-hot terminal, neither much of a choice — nor is spending the night at La Guardia or O’Hare. At this point I just want to feel Seattle’s cool embrace and the warmth of home. Leftovers and reruns and chores and sleep. I’d even like to be at work again.

I. Want. Destination.

In the meantime I’ve plenty of reading to chew through. Just finished A. S. Byatt’s Little Black Book of Stories, some of which left me cold but “A Stone Woman” and “The Pink Ribbon” were both affecting. The weaker stories suffer from truncation, or too much cleverness; all beautifully-written, of course. I’d forgotten how she dances in description, her joy in lists and catalogues. Also, have started A Wild Sheep Chase, which will hopefully last me until I’ve no more need of words.

I might have read three books in the whole of 2004, and twice that just in the past month. It’s like slipping into a favorite pair of shoes, familiar and well-worn.

Update, Tuesday a.m. — in Chicago. They say we can leave within the hour. Fingers crossed.

So tired.

Update, Tuesday p.m. — home!!

She is here, my doppelgänger, and already more of a person than I am. And I? I am fading, fraying, graying, not yet gone but leaving quickly. To where? I can’t tell. That would require definition.

“You shouldn’t be afraid,” she says, pulling a cigarette from a gold case in her purse. She offers me the smoke and waits for the briefest of moments before placing it between her own lips.

“Your loss,” she shrugs, before taking a deep, long drag. Unfiltered. I turn away, feeling a phantom twinge of nostalgia in my undefined lungs, and I sense her eyes on me. She’s playing — she knows I’ve no taste for it anymore.

We exhale simultaneously, and the smoke hangs between us. Did some of that come from me?

“I was saying, you shouldn’t be afraid. Letting go is not the end. It’s becoming.”

You don’t understand, I want to say. I don’t want to be you again, or never, or before. You’re what I wanted to be, once, but now I want to be me. But it’s too late. I haven’t the strength, nor have I been able to speak for a very long time, now. I can only stare at this, my past, my future.

She looks back through golden coils, like the signets scattered before Carthage — a harbinger of doom.

I think, would it really be so bad?

And I know: one snip, one slip, and I unravel. The end.

I turn away once more, trying to ignore the weight of years of want. The sky is dark through the glass, deep and wet. A lost day, a day between days.

What do you do when you want to stop wanting?

She is planning for me a death by inches, this shadow-me, and each day I flit between engineering her own, and entertaining the idea of just letting it happen. We are all too aware that there is no road on which the two of us, in traveling together, can join and become whole. Our roots will either choke for lack of space, or one will wither and the other flourish.

So we sit and plot, and smile stiffly at each other, frozen by fear of motion.

But on the other hand, Miranda, my skin is smooth and smells faintly of citrus and bergamot and white tea leaves — after all, if nothing else, we can live for these small pleasures.

I just realized that for about three months now, I’ve stuck to a pretty good average of one post every two days. Not being a very inspired writer — or rather, being the kind of person who frets nervously for hours at the keyboard for every single sentence produced — that comes as a total surprise to me. I never realized how much work that kind of output requires! I have no idea how all of you superstars do it!

At any rate, I’m in a full-on fret right now, so please, please let me know if you think the quality’s gone down over that time. Because, you know, I still want to be interesting.

But I guess I’m in self-evaluation mode anyway, since it’s annual review time at work — the absolutely worst time of year for the insecure.

On the bright side, I shook Hélène Grimaud’s hand yesterday. I wonder if she saw colors? Because I know I did!

There’s a certain perversity (or is it defeatism?) to walking up to a checkout counter holding a fancy new electronic bathroom scale — complete with body fat monitor — in one hand, and a large bag of Almond Roca candies in the other.

So, a dilemma: which do I open first? Because, so help me, only one is going to see action tonight. This is still irony, not tragedy, after all.

By the way, I’ve had trains on my mind lately:

 
Making Tracks, a flickr photoset

Secret project — for now!

 
Alone time | New Haven, CT

Have taken a turn for the better, somehow — health crisis averted for now. Still, no sense taking chances, so I spent today mostly sedentary, reading about cherries and felting wool and echidnas, also known as spiny anteaters, the only surviving relatives of the platypus (warning: hatching baby echidna photo). Also started The Diary of Lady Murasaki.

I know it’s a horribly romanticized notion with little connection to reality, but I’ve always thought that if I’d had the chance to choose what era I could live in, that the life of a lady-in-waiting at the Heian court would be very appealing. But then, I’ve always felt (and have mentioned here before) a special affinity with Sei Shōnagon, planted at an early age. Oh, to have lived in an age of aesthetics! That’s the kind of decadence I can get behind. Being able to dress like Queen Amidala would be pure frosting.

I think the charm of tooth-black would wear thin very quickly, though.

Oh, this night air!

There is familiarity here, at this uneasy border between today and tomorrow, like a lost love returned from abroad — in how it transforms sound, enhancing the unfamiliar but muffling everything else, or the way it hangs heavy but high, as if unable to decide whether to descend and become morning.

There is power here — or is it fear? This lonely emptiness breeds one or the other, and there’s no telling them apart. Not here. We are all mad in our solitude.

There is temptation here, too, hours to spend in this moment, if only it had any to give. But daylight is held by the thinnest of threads, and is late, too late now. I know I should not be out, and remember: there are sirens in these waters.

Once, this was my element, but no more. I am worn, weak, too easily steered off-course. But still—

Can you hear? They are calling.

Surprised and delighted to discover in my mailbox more lovely freebies from Adagio Teas:

Inside, another box of four 1 oz. samplers to match the first, with infusions of lime, cream, chocolate and “valentines” (mmm, chocolate-dipped strawberries, heaven!).

The gift that keeps on giving!

Am sipping a freshly-brewed cup of the lime as I type — subtle, refreshing, would probably make an excellent iced too. Will likely have to order a real-sized tin v. soon.

In other news, I’ve begun to foster an intense hatred for this new bathroom scale. Just what everyone needs, a new daily source of despair.

You must check out Utata.org right now for all sorts of fabulous goodness, not least of which is: trains!

(But this is Catherine Jamieson’s brainchild, so this should be no surprise at all)

Dug this one out of the archives, where that expanse of white shirt-back kept getting in the way of any appreciation I could muster. I’m still not sure it works, but there’s just something — in her glance, or the dance reflected in hazy shadow on the spatter shield…

This was taken at Pommes Frites in Manhattan, the best place ever.

I said this in comments, but I watched the rest of the BBC Jane Eyre last night. Still so good, but St. John Rivers? Total freak!

Piling up for an Austen marathon: should I rent the BBC Northanger Abbey? Anyone seen it?

Currently in the pile:

• Clueless
• Pride & Prejudice (1995, BBC)
• Persuasion (1995, BBC)
• Sense & Sensibility (1995, Sony)
• Emma (1996, BBC/ITV)
• Mansfield Park (1999, Miramax)
• Bridget Jones’ Diary
• Bride & Prejudice

Finally, I just discovered AustenBlog today and have spent far too much time reading it — and through it found the trailer for Focus Features’ new Pride & Prejudice. Matthew McFadyen? Keira Knightley? Sign me up, please!

And, back to Brontë: SB says I must see the 1944 Jane Eyre with Orson Welles, but it doesn’t seem to be available on disc. Sigh…

Spent twenty painful minutes today digging a subcutaneous splinter out of my index finger — ow ow ow. I’ve a hole in my hand to match the one in my arm, now.

Still hurts to do anything, including type* or draw, which is bad, because this is the third night in a row I’ll be at work past two in the morning. In a way, getting that splinter out is like my entire life right now, which means I haven’t had any spare time to spend writing here or posting photos — nothing in the way of creative thinking at all — but I think that things have finally turned a corner for the better.

I mean, I did manage to dig it out, in the end.

I’m just waiting to heal.

All right, so I’m easily dragged into these things.

Well, if you’ve been paying attention to my flickr photostream at all, you’ve probably sussed out my big secret. I finally have a real camera!

I know some of you lovely folk just want naked facts, so:

• Canon Digital Rebel XT
• Canon EF-S 17-85mm f/4-5.6 IS USM
• Canon EF 50mm f/1.4 USM
• Canon EF 100mm f/2.8 USM Macro

I’ve forgotten how nice it was to hold an SLR and feel the perfect fit of grip-in-hand*, the soft whirr of focus lock & satisfying click-clack of the mirror swinging out of shutter’s way. This whole USM thing is new to me, and wow is it fast — now if I could only get anything to come out correctly focused, I’d be as pumped up as Violet Beauregarde. You’d think that would be the least of my problems.

Oh, and I love this macro lens. I could shoot with it forever, even though it’s just enormous. Thank goodness for neoprene straps.

Seattle’s been in a weeks-long dry freeze, and for the first time since I’ve lived here I’ve been feeling as colorless and cold as the weather. Goodness knows I’ve my share of depression triggers, but I’ve never really thought myself susceptible to seasonal affective disorder. Still, frosted-over grass day after day is uncharacteristic for wintertime here, and maybe there are shadows of my past at play. It’s easy to forget sometimes, but all told, I’ve been very happy in my years in Seattle, while before that… maybe not so much.

But? Now that all is wet and mild and gray again, I’m finding myself really missing the frost.

Life’s funny that way.

Whatever you may celebrate during this holiday season, have a happy that… again!

Chicago’s nothing if not a meat town, and lia insists I meatblog while I’m here. Not sure if I have the constitution for it, but here’s a taste:

Portillo’s Italian Beef — so bad for you, but so good! Yummm.

Also, walking into a Penzeys Spices store is simply heavenly. I had thought LUSH was the best shop-by-nose experience ever, but this has it beaten many times over (plus you don’t get sick of being alive after fifteen minutes inside). Escaped with only some whole cumin & coriander, tellicherry black peppercorns, double-strength vanilla extract and Italian sausage seasoning. Heaven help me if I have time to go back again before flying back to Seattle!

Whenever I come home, I have an overriding urge to try and photograph my mother’s lovely old canvases which hang around the house, but lighting problems and the near-impossibility of shooting glass frames without getting reflections and glare all over everything have always gotten in my way. This year, with a few acrobatic maneuvers (namely, balancing on a chair while trying to shoot from a tripod on top of a table) and a little Photoshop magic, I managed to snap a few acceptable images of some of my favorites, which I’ve assembled into a flickr photoset:

There are a few more I’d like to tackle before I go, and some beautiful pieces which I think are simply too big to capture without a ladder, so this is hardly a complete collection. But I do hope you enjoy them — I’ve never thought there was anything more beautiful I’d want to have hanging on my walls.

Oh! I forgot to mention the bottle of sweet Hungarian paprika I also got during last week’s trip to Penzeys, which I used in goulash today:

Just beef, onions, potatoes, bay leaves, paprika and salt in this. Oh, and egg dumplings, which were sorry & misshapen, but looks aside everything turned out pretty yummy. Am determined to use the whole cumin next — maybe chili…

In other news, New Mexico red chile (or at least whatever’s used at the Santa Fe Café in Phinney Ridge) seems to taste almost exactly like 고추가루. Who knew?

More snackblogging, because you know you love it. Seriously.

Found at Candyland in Richmond, which once upon a time had the goodness that is green tea KitKats:

These seem to be one in a series of flavors designed by famous confectioners — at least that’s what little I can guess from the packaging. This one’s by Takagi Yasumasa of Le Patissier Takagi, a man I saw on television once, creating amazing-looking desserts en route to getting schooled by Iron Chef Kobe in “Battle Strawberry.”

Inside the box, fifteen or so individually-wrapped packages, each holding a miniature pink bar. The coating is a white chocolate base imbued with wine, a muscat-like flavor that’s subtler but juicier than my previous favorite, strawberry. We’ve gone through half the box already and I wish I’d bought more than the one. *sigh*

They also had white chocolate KitKats, but no sign of green tea or other flavors, a shame since I’d wanted to stock up.

And since I’m all about the green tea, I picked up these McVitie’s miniature green tea digestive biscuits:

They’re good, but very leafy in taste — would go beautifully with a hot cup of genmaicha or barley tea, I think, but not so much for dry snacking.

Also, I meant to mention that in Chicago we found those Lay’s dill pickle potato chips which I’d previously only seen in Canada. No word on nationwide availability, but that’s hope, keep trying!

Oh,

and

Happy new year!

Media vita in morte sumus
Quem quærimus adjutorem nisi te, Domine?
Qui pro peccatis nostris juste irasceris

As promised, photos from the Skagit Valley Tulip Festival:

Tulip Festival, a flickr photoset

This weekend was a bit early for tulip-watching. The show displays at Roozengaarde were pretty and full of color, but the growing fields were sparse at best. In the distance were still-brilliant yellow swaths of daffodils, which might have made for a more typical set of flower-festival photos. Still, I’ve never been one to seek out “typical,” and there were plenty of neat things to photograph after a little searching.

More to come, but for now, I hope you enjoy the photoset!

xoxo

Back in New York, with a seriously flaky internet connection (but yay for a phone that doubles as a bluetooth modem, despite the constant drops), and — a now-slightly-less-flaky stomach!

Had dinner at the Fatty Crab, a Malaysian-inspired eatery in the West Village. Small and uncrowded on a Tuesday night, both the dining room and the dishes were colorful, quirky, and beautiful. Everything was really tasty, but I found myself seduced by the salty-sweet-sour fireworks of the watermelon pickle & crispy pork salad. The fatty duck was nicely seasoned and sat on a bed of surprisingly spicy white rice (only later did I notice thinly-sliced red peppers mixed in). The chili crab was… big, and v. messy. But also good!

Ahem. I’m not really feeling eloquent tonight, so I will just pepper your imaginations with photos:

 

 

(…can’t say I’m an expert, but I strongly suspect these dishes sit firmly on the “new wave” end of the authenticity scale!)

Hsiao-Ching Chou’s “You gotta try this” piece in the P-I is mostly old hat, but good lord, does this sound good. And frites! Is there any reason to ever leave Capitol Hill again?