#13, home, sweet home

It’s guilt, I’m afraid, rather than anger, that urges me to reason my own justification.

Dear friends,

I never deny what sort of family I came from. My past retains so little part of my life that I don’t even feel deprived. Yet on some level, I guess it still defines who I am. Does that make me distanced? Does that make me vulnerable or the other way around? Or does that make me brave? After a certain age, life, becomes contradictory. But when you’re a child, you don’t look at the world, or yourself through comparison. In fact, you don’t look at yourself at all. Sometimes, I wonder, could it be better to stay that way?

            But I suppose it’s also true that I always knew I wasn’t like the other kids. The trace of blood streamed down the forehead of my mother’s face when my father held a hiking knife against her and beat her, somehow made me different. And when the beating got me, it made me unique, proud in a bad way. 

We move a lot. I went to several different elementary schools before I reached fifth grade. My father was a cop. He’s in a way conventional. He gambled. He invested his money in clubs. And he took bribes. He was also in a way innovative. He also worked as a loan shark. He once took me to a house of a guy who owned him money. I didn’t care what it was about. What made me feel bad was that the two little brothers wouldn’t play with me. And their mom soon sent them back to their room. A cop who worked for both sides and served as a loan shark by night, I guess it’s no surprise then that he couldn’t balance work and family the way he squeezed himself between abused identities.

One day, we were packing to move to another house. I asked my mother why we didn’t just move and not tell my father. It’s right after a serious beating which I witnessed with my own eyes, so I was pretty confident that she’d take the idea I don’t know where I got it from. But she laughed it off. And later, to my surprise, when I was pretty sure I wouldn’t see my father again, he showed up and took us out. She told him what I said in a manner that’s intended to be sarcastic. My father listened when my mother went on and on. He was silent. But I was pretty sure it was a bad idea, and was distressed by it.

I first saw the woman at a dinner party. My father asked me to call her mother. I complied. Later, when they were pretty much drunk, he asked me to drink beer in front of his friends, partly curious, I took a sip, but then spat it out, they all laughed. My father drove me off the house, he told me to tell my mom that I was with them, and he told me to tell her I saw the woman. My mom wouldn’t let me in. Naturally enough, I was the traitor. 

After the divorce, I moved in with my grandfather and grandmother from my father’s side. I was the only grandson they had out of their seven offspring. Common, although maybe not so fair, I was their favorite. We had a dog I called Slut. Grandma use to feed me ketchup fried rice wrapped inside an omelet until I was sick of it. She kept a bowl of pig fat in her kitchen. It smelt great when she fried things with it. But it tasted gross. My grandfather offered to teach me Japanese in exchange of a pen I won in a quiz game. There was no reason at all for me to even consider that option. Why should I give up two things, my prize and my liberty, at the same time for something I didn’t care about? But I lost the pen somewhere, and my grandpa taught me anyway, although soon, realizing I was not gifted nor listening, gave up.

I didn’t know why my father wanted me back. I was not happy to leave my grandparents. And my grandparents were very concerned. But I remember what my father was like. And they must feel the same way: if I resisted, more of it would come. He always had his way.

The beating and outburst became more often than I remembered and prepared myself for. Perhaps, that’s because I was starting to remember things from my own perspective. One night, my father cuffed me to an abandoned signpost in a garbage pit outside the house because I threw his lighter and missed his hand. At the beginning, I tried to fight off the mosquitoes, but soon I stopped crying and got too tired to even feel the discomfort. I remember I was drifting, and enchanted by a strange calmness. Then I saw the moon, round and big, hanging above the sea next to the cliff from the far end, shedding everything with a layer of irresistible silver dust, claiming me as her own.

One day, we both went too far. I spent days at the hospital, made the local news paper. And my custody was ruled back to my mother, who didn’t actually welcome the idea, but had to take it because that proved her right. All the relative from my father’s side, including my grandparents, were temporally, although soon to be completely, out of my life.

My mother had issues. No one could blame her. I know she saw my father’s reflection in me. Now I look back, I can understand her desperate need to break me. I understand her pain. I don’t need her to make it up to me. But I can’t feign affection. And no one can ignore the distance, the gaps, the indifference, and the twisted need for revenge in another violent way, not with physical attack, not with curse, not with words said out loud, but with hate, in the eyes, in her voice.

After I graduated from junior high, I joined the Air Force because no one would support me through high school. I didn’t go back that much when on leave, sometimes, I just stayed in the base, sometimes, I took little walks around town.

Graduating from the military school, I got my first apartment when I was eighteen. It’s actually a dark small studio room. But how great it is to have a place I can call my own! I started buying my own furniture, some useless trinket I eventually threw out, just to make the place look a little nicer and home-like. Who would have known that I, turned out to be a home, sweet home guy. I moved to bigger and bigger places as I obtained more and more stuff, furniture, kitchenware and whatnot.

Grandpa died. And then grandma died, too. I didn’t get to see them. And I couldn’t be sure the last time I did. But sometimes, say pushed inside a subway cart, or passing anonymous food stands, I recognize certain smells and feelings. And I remember fractions of those few years spent with them, inside the dark and small apartment on the ground floor.

Although most of my money was sent to my mother who was always in need of cash, I still managed to build a little life for myself. A cozy place to stay. A nice couch to lay back, a small life, not much great achievement but a lot of nameless moment of quiet happiness. I keep a simple diet. And I make sure every window of my house was lined with plants with different shade of greenery that makes me feel protected. I am so happy with all the little things in my life, like sleeping in my own bed, and waking to the morning sunlight swinging on the leaves and petals of the falling roses, the occasional passionate affair with a good book, a movie, a song, all those little things in life that don't need to be named, probably can’t be named even if I tried.

Sometime, I am happy, really happy to be alone this way. Sometime, I feel Streched.

Several months ago, a colleague of mine lost her father. I supposed I should say something, but I didn’t want to lie or say things too pointless to utter. So I told her that some pain would always be private, and there’s no comfort that I could offer. I now believe that I should have said nothing. I suppose what I was trying to say was that, grief, is couldn’t be demonstrated, so condolences, must at the same time, remain silent. But another truth is that, I just didn’t know what to say. And how can you apply sympathy to the kind of emotion you don’t know how to feel?

Last week, my grandfather from my mother’s side died. My mother called and  asked me to go back for the funeral. I sat down against the wall after I hanged up. I sat for a while. How can I face these people, who stood still when I struggled my way out? “I am through with it.” I said to myself. When I looked out the window, it was already dark, the buzzing store signs were turned on, and the green outside my window were all, turned to a color of shadowy black. Judge me if you care, but I will not go back, not to bury a man, not to bury a man. This is my home, sweet home, built on denial and leased freedom, overlooking streets I never capered on, with plants growing out of potted earth, not touching the ground.

           

#12, food illustrated

Dearest friends,

In Taiwan, when we want to command on something that’s absolutely delicious, we say “ce shun wei ge chan,” meaning the look, the smell and the taste of good food are all present. But I say there’s something not on the list of the definition of fine cuisine, but is just equally important to the experience of a delightful feast. That is the illustration of it all. Like in a sushi bar, if a chef knows what he’s doing, even the action of wiping the knife can be as fascinating as towering a five level wedding cake. And sliding black tuna bricks into paper-thin transparent juicy sashimi in just microseconds can surely make me gasp with near orgasm, which is the best thing, because, as we all know, there is no such thing as a real orgasm.
           I know in the U.S. and other European countries, seeing how your food is prepared is kind of like explaining to a three-year old where he came from, awkward and somehow degrading in a way. But in Asian countries, we share a certain degree for the liking of open space cookery. Thailand and other southeastern Asian countries have their crowded markets, famous just the same, for the pocket-pickers in them. China, outside its urban cities, that is, has vendors offering bizarre stuff, not exactly what I call food, you see, from grilled bird to sautéed roaches, yes, you heard me. Japan has its elegant carnivals with young girls dressed in kimono, and men wearing nothing but a piece of white fabric wrapped around their groin, climbing the tower to knock on that giant bell when the cool air breathes witnessing the celebration from all these ages. In Taiwan, we have our night markets filled with a variety of freshly made Taiwanese dishes, incredibly loud and rude people, and, unfortunately, garbage and hungry wild dogs after discarded leftover. Pocket-pickers are rare, not that you shouldn’t be careful, but lines are sometimes expected, and be prepared, don’t let the one or two beggars spoil you mood, not that you shouldn’t care about poverty issues, either.

The first thing to try, or at least to smell, is what we call stinky tofu, and FYI, it’s not a metaphor. Vendors use fermented tofu and serve it with pickled kimchi. They usually deep-fry the tofu, so the outside is crumpling while the inside is bursting with juice. The Taiwanese version of kimchi should taste sourly sweet (not spicy, unlike its Korean cousin). It’s not the thing to like at the first sight, so make sure you ask people where you can find a good vendor for it’s not easy to make this dish right, too. The oil should be kept in a high, I mean, ultra hot temperature, and the kimchi should be crisp and perfectly iced. When you place your order, the vendor will throw the tofu into the gigantic wok with scalping oil, the tofu will cry out in full blast, that way you know the oil is hot enough, otherwise, it’ll taste like gum, but don’t feel sorry for their pain, though, it’s their destiny. When the tofu cubes finally give up, you will see that they start to bob up and down and turn to a brown color. When they finally float up and turn to a color we call glowing gold, you know your order is ready. You should find a seat and eat it immediately. Ask the vendor to put the sauce on the side. You should eat the fired tofu with the kimchi together at the same time, and then decide if you want to dip it with the soy bean paste yourself.
           Like I said, it’s not that kind of thing to like easily. The smell can be overwhelming sometimes, but people do say the worse it smells, the better it tastes. It’s kind of like sex in a way. Remember we used to think it’s gross when we are still little? But then we started to get curious, and then found out it’s the only thing worth living for? Well, it’s kind of like the same thing, but without the consequence and the judgment day, and it only costs you a dollar or two.

Then there’s a dish called oyster omelet. This also, is not recommend for take-outs. For it’s kind of awkward to consume the gluey material as you walk. The vendors first sauté the oyster, this should be brief, or the oysters will taste like boiled egg yolk. Then they will break an egg and pour a sticky paste over it, it’s not exactly an omelet omelet, as you can imagine. It’s an omelet with the fillings inside the wrapping layer. And they serve only the wrapping layer. When the omelet starts to take shape, the vendor will quickly add in some bok choy. This shouldn’t take long, the vendor will serve the dish with a likewise gluey sauce that looks pink and reminds you of the fragrance of plum.

Then there is a variety of fried scallion pancake… well, I honestly don’t know how I should term it, it’s a little like pita, but its’ not. It’s a little like pasta, but again, it’s not. And it’s also like tortilla, and of course, it’s not. But combine the three and nachos, then you’ll get the idea.
           First, the big one, the big one has its origin in northern China, I believe, its body is thick and chewy, and it’s generally bigger, thus its name. The vendor first takes out the dough, and rolls it into a big, round shape. He will then fry the bread with medium heat, for the dough is thick and he doesn’t want to burn it.
           The small one is sometimes rolled and pressed already. It’s thinner. They also fry the pancake, but with what I assume a higher heat. And you can choose if you want an egg with it. They will break the egg first and put the pancake on top of it.
           People call these two the same name, tzho yo bin, you need to ask the vendor if it’s the big one or the small one. Sometimes, they don’t even know the difference.
           Then there is one variety called the bomb scallion pancake. The vendors use big frying wok you see at a stinky tofu’s. First, they break an egg into the wok. Then they rolled the dough into a thin layer and throw it in to catch the egg, a little acrobatic in my opinion. A skillful vendor will time it right, so the outer layer is slightly crisp, like the skin of a baked potato, but the egg won’t be fully cooked. So when you take a bite, the egg yolk will then ooze out, burning your lips.
           Scratch pancake is a little like the small one, But before it’s done, the vendor quickly turns the pancake around and breaks it’s surface. So it has a rather fluffy appearance, but tastes crispy and soft at the same time.

Another fry stand you see at a night market is called salt crispy chicken. They deep-fry not only chicken but almost everything. There are plastic baskets hanging on the stand, you can pick whatever you want and put them in the basket, if you want the chicken chop, you tell the vendor you want one portion of meat, then the vendor will scale it for you. Or you can ask for one calamari, likewise, the vendor will put a cup of calamari in your basket. Or you can ask for one “together”, meaning you want a cup of chicken and calamari. But can you choose other kinds of meat instead? No, don’t even ask the question.
           Some other items are tasty, too. My favorites are pig’s blood cake, rice pudding soaked in pig’s blood. But don’t worry, it won’t get bloody, so don’t get bloody crazy, it’s cooked and dried already. Also taro cakes, now there are two varieties, go for the square shape one. Rice sausage tastes great. You can also try chicken hearts, it’s unbelievably small. The next one might sound disgusting, but chicken skin is a popular item, and it tastes goooood.
           After taking your basket, the salt crispy chicken vendor will prepare your chosen materials and separate them into different baskets. This is because they will put in the basil when everything is thoroughly cooked at the end, and then everything will be hauled out of the wok at the same time, so they keep the ones that’s easily cooked for latter installments.
           A good vendor will also fry your vegetable differently and put it in different bags. Because that way the moist won’t affect other items you pick. Imagine you pour vinaigrette over fried chicken. Don’t you just immediately throw it out? They all know why. But not everyone does that. So it’s safer if you request it in the first place.

Steaks in a night market, I personally think, are one of the perfect examples of mockery in the history of international communication, other than the origin of kangaroo. You may think it’s steak, but it’s actually fried cutlet. Or you may think it’s spaghetti, but it’s actually fried noodles we call iron plate noodles. It’s like a little girl sees a dress on TV. And then tries to make one out of paper.
           I don’t actually like night market steaks. But my grandfather used to think that’s a good place to celebrate special occasions. I think I burnt myself from the heated plate once or twice, each time accompanied by additional scolding. And my grandpa used to scramble the eggs on the plate for me because I didn’t like raw eggs, and if I did it myself, I would just end up turning the egg I didn’t like to eat into an egg I could no longer eat. So I mention this scenery of Taiwanese night market here simply for my dear grandpa. Sometimes when I smell it in the night market, I still remember when I was small, how I liked it every Saturday night when my grandfather would take me to the night market. Twenty or so years have passed, they still smell the same, although grandpa was gone, and I am seldom that curiously content anymore.

Taiwanese night market is a fun place to visit. There is not only food, but other stuff as well, you can buy cloths there, although I strongly suggest that you don’t. You can try the different games there, but don’t expect to win any prizes, they are crap anyway. When it’s hot, you can buy a cup of pearl milk tea or sit down for a bowl of love jade, a jelly like stuff with honeyed lemonade. When it’s cold, you can go for a heated fairy grass, no, it’s not drug, or a pot of ginger duck. It’s a local scene unchanged even in the foreign eyes. Friends get-together, or family outing, they laugh, they joke, mothers scold rebellious children, all the same. What always fascinates me is the vibe in the air, and how everyone is busy, rushing, or pushing this way and that. I like to see the vendors work, even if it’s just pouring brewed tea into a shaker. It always makes me feel that we are actually the same people. By seeing how they work, I suppose I get to glimpse at a corner of their lives, and maybe a part of themselves. And seeing a part of a person exposed, I suppose, makes me feel honest, instead of enchanted, before the illustration, of food, of mankind.