Belly Troubles, and the Tao of the Cure

May 24, 10:10 PM. Finally, finally settling down. And the belly is quiet. Finally.

If anyone had asked me to predict how the day would go based on how I felt upon awakening this morning, I would have told them it is going to be darkness and shadows all around. A semi-blind groping through half-lit corridors, looking for a half-open door leading into a room lit by a single weak bulb. I felt downright shabby and feeble. Poor sleep, anxiety, and obligations will do that to a man.

Having a belly that worships the Trickster is no help, either. My gut was expressing some grievance, and it put a certain dull sheen on the day. I had things to do, but no energy or motivation to do them. Some could wait, others could not. Through the fog I was determined to slog.

I think it is no secret, to those who have read this blog on a regular basis, that I struggle occasionally with anxiety and depression. Every now and then the "sheer hellishness of life" (to borrow a wonderful phrase from Jim Harrison) sneaks up on me and hijacks my better nature. I get wound around the axle of the truck that hit me and I find it hard to disentangle myself. Today was one of those days.

The month of May has been an emotional sine wave for me. I have been in hot pursuit of employment opportunities, working on a storyline for a book, and trying to make time for creative endeavors. I have traveled to see my lovely Wee Lass, and had a marvelous time in her company. I have lain awake at night with my breath just short of panting, overwhelmed by dreams and the fear of failure. When I awoke this morning, my belly walloped me with a low-grade murmur of discontent. Everything congealed in the clear light of day.

It wasn't enough to keep me off my feet. But it sure made walking a chore. It made being human being a chore. I was of no mind to spend time in my own company. So the carrying out of tasks for the day was nothing I looked forward to completing. There was no choice.

I ate a little breakfast, forcing it down with a cup of tea while I sat out on the front patio. I count it as a blessing that the weather was gorgeous and cool. The birds were making the right kind of noise, and actually kept my mind from wandering into some darker byways. Still, I was exhausted, sick and sleepy. No way to go through life.

I rested a bit before I left to take care of the major task for the day, a photography assignment that mercifully kept my mind focused (Ha! A photography pun!) and off my griping belly. I read somewhere long ago that it is impossible to be depressed when engaged in meaningful tasks, and in this case a truth. Hooray for that!

Some background, if I may. Many years ago, my physician told me that in my case, stress manifests itself in the gut. Unfortunately, his diagnosis was spot on. It has been a limitation on me for years. Feeling this way has in some fashion become the normal for me.

By the time I finished what I needed to do, it was early afternoon and my body, as wracked as it was, was still giving me indications that it needed calories. With resignation and no enthusiasm I ran a search on my phone for something close, cheap and hopefully easy on the stomach. The closest restaurant it found was a Chinese place I had heard of but never had the opportunity to try.

So it was I found myself standing in the parking lot of a slightly beat-up looking strip center, staring at a window full of picture cards of different dishes, the names written in that faux-Asian script that seems vaguely insulting to me, even though I can't say exactly why. The neon OPEN sign blinked off and on, and with my belly woes and lack of enthusiasm asserting themselves, I almost turned and left. Almost.

Something told me to go in. I was greeted by a sweet older Chinese woman and a low- to no-concept interior decor that had me wondering which kindergarten class had done the honors. I was the only customer in the joint, pondering again if I should leave. The hostess was very nice, though, and I did need to eat. She cheerfully handed me a menu, and I sat down to order.

A small bowl of hot-and-sour soup. A plate of chicken and broccoli on steamed rice, garnished with a single fried wonton. The food was served on a simple white plate. There were no frills.

The food smelled delicious. I sampled the vegetables and a bit of chicken. It tasted...wonderful. It avoided the typical trap of too much sauce, and too thick. The wonton was the ubiquitous crab Rangoon, but amazingly it was good. Crispy, non-greasy, light. I couldn't believe my tastebuds.

The portion was just right. I felt satisfied, not over full. My belly even relaxed, after a few initial protestations. Even though I wasn't prepared to admit it, the cloud hovering over me began to lift. I thanked the hostess, paid my bill and left.

Somewhere along the way home, I began to feel good. Tired, still, but good. The walls began to recede a bit, and the light seemed a little brighter. I finished my errands and went home, reveling in the luxury of a nap I wanted to take, instead of feeling I had to take. It was wonderful.

I don't know what triggered my ascent. Maybe it was the simple passage of time, maybe it was someone being nice to me, maybe it was just a simple plate of food done well and served with charm. Whatever it was, it sure felt good to take the cure. It felt good to find the Way, tricked out in Chinese food.

Fan Chao In The Gumbo Kitchen

Thursday, February 23rd, 9:03 PM.  Spring-like winter night, windows open. It is good.

Fan chao, in so far as I can trust a free translation application, is the phonetic English for the Chinese phrase for 'stir fry'.  I sought this out because I wanted to know what it was in Chinese. Alas, I cannot read Chinese script (not yet, anyway), so phonetic will have to suffice. It pains me slightly that I do not know the dialect, so I will take it on faith that it is correct to say 'fan chow'.

I like how it sounds. Especially with emphasis. Fan chao!  It's like shouting "Rock on!" in English.

Not that I was shouting tonight.  No need or desire.  What I wanted, went looking for, was a little peace of mind.  Lately, there has been a lot of stormy weather on the ocean in my head.  Too many thoughts, too many perturbations and stresses.  I sought that peace in the solace of cooking, as I often do.

The exception to that has been recent history.  I haven't cooked as often as I used to, nor have I cooked truly good meals on a regular basis.  A lot of grab-and-go type behavior, and tonight I made myself stop. I stopped, took a deep breath of the cool air lazily coming in my windows, and decided that tonight I would stir fry something.

That I don't possess a wok, or even a basic range of typical Chinese pantry items beyond the ubiquitous bottle of soy sauce I keep in the fridge, was of little consequence.  Fan chao had seized my wearied imagination, ergo fan chao it must be.

I was in luck, to some extent.  I had a chicken breast, a bunch of celery, three green Hungarian wax peppers, an onion and some fresh garlic.  Along with some aleppo pepper and soy sauce, they would constitute the feast.  I retrieved my trusty cast iron Dutch oven from the cabinet, and set to.

The chicken was sliced thin and marinated in soy sauce and rice vinegar with a touch of garlic and cornstarch.  The vegetables sliced thin, celery on the bias, and garlic chopped fine with aleppo. Small amount of oil in the pot, heated to shimmering.

Slice. Chop. Heat. Scatter. Stir. Fill the kitchen air with fragrance, as the mind drains of tension.  The moment of truth, as the chicken and vegetables tilt into the bowl, on their way to the waiting mouth. It is good.

Sit. Breathe. Eat. Sip tea. For the space of an hour, that is all I was or needed to be: a hungry human, eating. That was peace.

Year Of The Tiger

According to Chinese astrology, 2010 is the Year of the Tiger. According to some information I have read, it is more specifically the Year of the Metal Tiger, or White Tiger. This is considered by some to be a jinx, or a sign of a bad year.

I think the folks in Haiti and Chile would agree.

Tiger years are supposed to be dynamic, full of change and constant happenings. So far, the theory is holding true, locally and globally. Tragedies great and small seem to be afflicting most people, some I know and most I do not. But I sympathize with them all.

According to astrology, I am a Snake. Snakes do not do well with chaos or rapid change. Ergo, Snakes and Tigers do not, as a rule, get along well.

Amen to that, brothers and sisters. Or should I say 兄弟姐妹 (Xiōngdì jiěmèi), in keeping with the Chinese inspirations for this post. I bring this all up because, on a lark, I bought a book on Chinese astrology for the year 2010. I was most intrigued by some of the descriptions in it, specifically about my Chinese astrological sign, but also about some of the people I know and love. And even some people I know and for whom I do not particularly care.

The thing that struck me right off the top was this little gem at the beginning of the chapter on the Snake:

"I think.

And think some more.

About what is,

About what can be,

About what may be.

And when I am ready,

Then I act."*

That pretty much sums it up. Me in a nutshell. And as I stated earlier, Snakes and Tigers do not get along well with one another. It has been and may continue to be a year of change, of opportunity, one in which I am advised to be careful, to not rely so heavily on myself but instead seek to maintain friendship with others.

Of that I have no doubts. I respect the Tiger, but I will not be intimidated into inaction. I will be careful. I will think. And then, when ready, I will act.

Come, then, friend Tiger, let us dance...but beware the Snake...

*Quoted from"Your Chinese Horoscope 2010" by Neil Somerville

Random Tuesday Thoughts: Eat Here Get Gas Edition

Holy bucket o’ chicken with three sides, Batpeople! It’s that time again, grab a button and go!

LET’S HOPE NOT AT THE SAME TIME: So I’m watching some fine video tranquilizers, er, kids’ programming on the ol’ idiot box, Wee Lass at my side, and a new show has come on. New for me, anyway. The storyline involves two adorable pigs, best friends with big imaginations who just love traveling the world and seeing things and learning stuff. All good, right? Well, the name of the pigs and the show? “TOOT and PUDDLE”. Are those words you really want associated with small children who are still learning the finer points of sphincter control?

GOOD THING THESE WEREN’T ON THE FOOD NETWORK: Okay, sometimes I am easily amused. Scrolling through the channel guide (see previous item), I came across this:

Hooray! Muy bueno!

And just a few channels over:

Beginnings and ends, weddings and funerals, the Alpha and the Omega…


MANDARIN FOR “I DARE YOU TO EAT THAT”: For some reason I’m on another thought loop involving Chinese food. Last week I ginned up a Chinese-inspired bok choy and mushroom stir-fry, sauced up with toban djan and soy sauce (light and dark), garlic and ginger. Pretty tasty stuff. Curiosity being what it is, I have been leafing through some of what passes for my reference library on Chinese food, once again turning to my favorite Western interpreter of the cuisine, Fuchsia Dunlop. Reading her Shark’s Fin and Sichuan Pepper memoir, something caught my eye and brought my stomach up short. She was in Beijing and wanted to sample “street food”, and was directed to find something called lu zhu huo shao. She said that loosely translated it meant “flatbread in broth”. What she got was nowhere near flatbread. Think “offal” and how it rhymes with “awful”. Probably should have said “parts of animals not for the faint of heart or stomach in broth”. Whuff. Suffice to say, I was happy to munch away on my greens and ‘shrooms, that’ll do for me…

MINE IS PROBABLY OVERDONE: Of the many things that can be done with codfish, turning it into dried salt cod (or bacalao) is probably one of the best known. Seems that the Norwegians and the Spaniards in particular had a hankering for the stuff. The Norwegians are also the best known producers of stockfish, which is air-dried cod (other fish can be used), and which ends up making the fish hard as rocks. Seriously, these things get like baseball bats. Probably why Norway is the world leader in fish related beatings per capita*. So what do you do with the other parts of the fish? Well, in his book Cod: A Biography of the Fish that Changed the World (a neat read, by the way), Mark Kurlansky offers us a clue. At the end of one the chapters, there is a short end piece titled ‘The Well-Cooked Head’. Apparently, roasting a cod’s head is a vanishing art. Dammit, and I was just learning how to roast squash, now this?

TRULY THE ART OF EATING: In keeping with my mild obsession on Chinese food, let us now consider the wonton. I love wonton. I could eat them by the pound. Come to think of it, I have eaten them by the pound. There are, however, two difficulties for me with wonton. One, I don’t know if I am patient enough to make them myself, or at least patient enough to make them well. Two, I am not sure if I have ever had truly excellent wonton (or chao shou, to get all Sichuanese on you)**, but I don’t have enough experience with them to know what separates an average wonton from a stellar won. Er, one. Not to worry, I’ll continue to be on the lookout for more test subjects, to increase my store of knowledge. On that note, consider this little tidbit: in his delightful book Swallowing Clouds, A. Zee posits that one of the common ways to write ‘wonton’ in Chinese*** is translated as…’swallowing clouds’. Isn’t that wonderful?

Happy Tuesday, dear readers, I’m stuffed! Although I could swallow some more clouds…

*I totally made that up.
**Please indulge my nerdiness.
***Forgive the simplification; it’s just that I can’t reproduce the characters here.

Of Napkins, Noodles and Kung Fu (Potty Style)

ITEM the 1st*: A Glut Of Napkins

“This is absurd” I tell myself for the millionth time, “I can’t even get my cell phone out of my freakin’ coat pocket because its full of NAPKINS!”

Picture if will, an ordinary-looking white sort of male-type person sitting in his car. It is a rather ordinary black four-door ‘sedan’ of the less expensive imported lineage type car. From the mirror hangs a sun-faded soccer pennant emblazoned with the logo of the United States National Soccer Teams. Nothing terribly unusual about this scene. Except for the flailing.

The ordinary white male (henceforth known as OWM) is thrashing about in the driver’s seat of the car, one hand on the lapel of his jacket and the other is jammed deep into the inside coat pocket. Muffled invective could be heard by passersby, assuming close enough to the car. The OWM is currently engaged in a struggle for dominance over his cell phone; the phone has apparently decided to hide from the OWM by turning sideways and getting lodged under a thick wad of napkins. Napkins of the sort found in affordable eatery type establishments, the purveyors of large burritos or poultry fried golden-brown-and-delicious to be “nuggeted” or stuffed between buttered buns (with pickles, yum.) The OWM has an almost pathological inability to eat in said establishments without grabbing a stack of napkins sufficient to wipe the hands of a school full of 7-year olds. Thenceforth, they end up in pockets and other places.

Finally, after much spasticity and cursing, the OWM triumphantly holds the errant cell phone aloft with a hearty “AHA!”. A light dawns in the OWM’s head: transfer the pocket napkins to the glove compartment! Brilliant! The OWM gleefully opens the compartment, paper goods in hand. The door flops own, and pile of napkins springs out like a jack-in-the-box, spilling onto the floor. The OWM curses, stuffs all the napkins back into the compartment, hurriedly shutting the door.
Fortunately, no one saw him. He thinks.

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ITEM the 2nd: Noodles On My Noodle

Noodles, man, what is it with the noodles**. I gots noodles on muh brain. First, I’m reading some Chinese cookbooks, and they've lots of noodles in them. Long noodles, slurpy noodles, noodles of many flavors. Noodles in bowls and stuff. Noodles with lots of Chinese food type goodness on them. It is making me hungry.

So we get a great deal on a new DVD, “Kung Fu Panda”, courtesy of a gift card and an online coupon. Total price 99 cents. Awesomeness! It arrived Wednesday in the mail. Of course, Wee Lass*** wants to watch it right away. I’m in the mood for a little animated kung fu action, so I says “Right on, my girl!”. DVD in, ass on couch, eyes on screen. And guess what? NOODLES! Po the Panda is the son of a duck**** who runs a noodle restaurant. Noodles famous far and wide. Dammit, man, I’m trying to dig the cool kung fu action (and the action sequences are AWESOME!) but all I can think about is some dan-dan noodles, or ‘Mr. Xie’s Sea-Flavor Noodles’. But then Wee Lass gets scared by the bad guy and I have to lay on some calming, protective daddy-like stuff. Movie over, it’s time to review the ‘Special Features’.

Wouldn’t you know it, there is a feature called ‘Mr. Ping’s Noodle Shop’, a short bit about…noodle-making! It’s hosted by Alton Brown (of ‘Good Eats’ fame) and takes place in a L.A. restaurant called ‘Mr. Chow’s’*****. They bring out a master ‘pastry’ chef to demonstrate the fine art of turning a blob of dough into a gazillion strands of noodles. All by hand, this master (and master he really is!) takes a volleyball sized ball of the dough and basically turns it into what looks like angel hair pasta. The Chinese name of the noodle type escapes me. It was amazing, just by swinging and folding and hitting it on the table, that he could end up with a set of noodles that was about 4 feet long, without tearing or breaking. Truly amazing, and it made me even hungrier. And of course, Alton Brown gets to sit down to a big plate of those noodles cooked in broth and slathered with some delicious looking sauce. Bastard.
I also realized that could be my next career: noodle maker. Yeah, I could get into that. I think it would be cool to be known as a master noodle maker.

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ITEM the 3rd: Kung Fu Toilet Dance

Setting: bagel shop, Friday morning a week ago. Wee Lass and I are tucking into muffin and bagel per standard operating procedure. Then she starts doing the tell-tale potty dance and grabbing her crotch. I choke down a bite of lox-spread-on-supreme and we skip off to La Toilette. Wee Lass parks her Wee Buns on the throne. I stand in the corner, arms folded, staring at the ceiling. She yells.

WL: “AAAAHHH!”
Me: “What, what’s wrong?”
WL: “There’s a bug! Aiiiee, aiiie, there’s a bug trying to get me!”
Me: “Where?” She points to a spot about 30 inches in front of her, mid air.
WL: “There! There!” I don’t see anything, and tell her so. “Daddeeee, it’s right there! Aiiiee!”

Finally, I see this…gnat…flying slooowly in circles near the toilet. Oh, for god’s sake. A GNAT?

Me: “You mean the gnat?”
WL: “Yes, get it before it gets meeeeee!”

So I start flailing at the gnat, karate chopping at it to no avail. Wee Lass starts to snicker. I crouch and do my best imitation of The Crane from ‘Karate Kid’. I swat at the gnat and go ‘HAAIIII!” Wee Lass bursts into laughter, and that’s all I need to hear. I start chasing the gnat around the toilet room, chopping and kicking with all the kung fu moves I can think of, plus a few I’m pretty sure aren’t actual kung fu styles (Flying Architect Style? Silly Daddy Style, anyone?). Wee Lass was really enjoying the show. I was too, as I pondered the absurdities of a 43 year old man crane hopping around a toilet, while his daughter sits on it and laughs, laughs, laughs. Man, I would do just about anything to hear it.

I never did get that gnat. I guess I need more practice. HAAIIII!


*Many thanks to That Baldy Fella at Tales of Squire Kirk the Elder for the tagline format. Please check it out, and his other blog, NickNackBlogAttack. The footnote sense of David Foster Wallace, the silliness of Monty Python: a heady combo indeed.
** Even Captain Dumbass is in on the noodles! Check out the sign in the pic.
***Apropos of nothing, she decided that her favorite member of ‘The Furious Five’ is Tigress. That’s my girrrrl!
****Panda is the offspring of a duck? Huh? Don’t think about, just watch.

***** Chow’s? Chow – a slang term for food. Good, recursive, very post-modern. Chinese civilization may be ancient, but still manages to be ahead of the times. I dig it.

Smack My Cucumber Bitch Up

As often happens, when I get the idea of something in my head, whether it be a word, an idea, a song, they stay there for days or weeks. Circling around and around until I DO something with them. In this case, I couldn’t take it any longer. The only way to get rid of the ideas was to write about it. So I present to you, for your edification and delight, this following amuse bouche for the mind. Enjoy!

On the road back home, from Virginia to Maryland:
It’s Daddy’s turn to pick the satellite radio station, so we are listening to Lithium XM54, all the greatest of ‘90’s alternative and such. There was a lot of good stuff playing, Wee Lass was quiet, and I was starting to drift off. The volume was up, because Wee Lass frequently asks us to ‘turn a’up louder!’. There had been some U2, some Nirvana. Then a song comes on that I hadn’t heard in a long time. I smiled at the opening chords, couldn’t quite remember the name. I said, sleepily, ‘Haven’t heard this in forever!’

From the back seat: “Daddy, what’s this song?”

I opened my left eye to look at the console. The Spouse was looking at it too. She looked at me, I looked at her. (Dim recollection that Wee Lass is starting to know words) Our hands were a blur trying to reach the channel button. Fortunately, XM Kids is on preset.

“I don’t know, sweet pea. Hey, Imagination Movers!”

Wee Lass smiles, and looks content.

That was close. The song? “Smack My Bitch Up” by Prodigy*:


Lying in bed, at home, a few nights later. In a rare moment of quiet repose, I am reading, really reading a genuine BOOK. This is one of the things that I treasure, I love to read and have ever since I learned how. In recent years, I have developed an obsession with food and cooking. Not just the pretty pictures of things I want other people to make for me, but information and recipes that I want to learn and make for myself. A recent thread I have been following is Chinese cooking. Not American Chinese, but authentic Chinese. The stuff that Chinese people living in China make for themselves. One of the best Western interpreters of the vast array of Chinese food that exists is Fuschia Dunlop, a Londoner who lived in, reported from, and trained in China for many years. She has a number of books published, one a memoir and one called Land of Plenty, which is on Sichuanese cooking. ‘Land of Plenty’ is excellent, I was cooking stuff out of it soon after I finished it. The one I am reading on this particular night is on Hunanese cooking, called The Revolutionary Chinese Cookbook. It is off to a good start, I’m diggin’ it:

Me: ….HA!
The Spouse: (politely ignoring me)
Me: ….HA!
The Spouse: (sighs) What?
Me: This recipe. It’s for something called ‘Smacked Cucumbers’. That sounds cool!
The Spouse: Smacked cucumbers? Ouch.
Me: Yeah, they call it that because before you marinate the cukes, you ‘smack’ them hard with the side of a cleaver, until they split and get all jagged. That way, they absorb the flavors better before you cook them! Awesome!
The Spouse: I ain’t eating any smacked cucumbers. Weirdo.

A day or so later, I had a really bizarre dream. I was standing in a kitchen, chopping up stuff. There was some music playing, and someone turned it up really loud. Guess what song it was? I looked down to find myself smacking the hell out of a big pile of cucumbers, and shouting “Smack my bitch up!” along with the song. The other people in the kitchen just stared at me.

Happy eating, comrades!

*I linked to the ‘nicer’ video clip for this song, because the ‘banned’ version was just scary. And nasty. I don’t rattle that easy, but still…I have enough trouble sleeping as it is. You may want to compare for the sake of curiosity, but you have been warned. ;)