an open cupboard

(Not winning any beauty contests, but pleasing to the palate.)

Warning: this recipe is neither authentically Chinese in any way, nor is it pretty. It does, however, taste good. Feeling peckish and rather surly on a cold, grey Saturday morning, I threw this together using whatever fresh vegetables I had on hand.

The idea here is to create a dish with a pleasing array of textures—soft, crunchy, crisp, chewy—and flavors—the usual hot, sour, salty, sweet, umami. I served the dish rather heretically on a bed of steamed jasmine rice and macaroni. (In Chinese cuisine, rice is typically eaten on its own, as Westerners might nibble on some bread while enjoying the main course. Of course, macaroni does not belong in a pot of steamed rice. Don’t ask me why I put it there, I suppose I wanted to see what it would taste like.) I think this dish is actually best served as a sort of dry ho fun, that is, combined with the wide rice noodles known as ho fun. You could also add in another source of protein, such as seitan (HAIL SEITAN!) or tempeh for texture and variety.

Alternatively, you could add in some egg ribbons for a vegetarian version of this dish (which I did for the husband, but not for myself). These are easily prepared by beating a couple of eggs and cooking them in a well oiled wok, taking care to turn the wok in order to better distribute the egg mixture into a sort of flat pancake. Slice into ribbons as the egg hardens, sprinkle these on top of your stir fry. C’est tout.

vegan tea-smoked tofu and almond stir fry

If you have fresh ginger and green onions on hand, do use them in this recipe. I did not, so I made due with powdered ginger and just the shallot. I used the wonderful tea-smoked tofu made by Hodo Soy Beanery as my tofu base for this dish. You can use any other smoked, baked or savory flavored tofu, or just plain tofu if you prefer. You may need to adjust the seasoning if using plain tofu. As with any stir fry, prepare all ingredients before cooking, arrange them in order of use and then cook everything very quickly so as to retain the freshness and crunch of the vegetables.

1-2 tsp Jamaican or other yellow curry powder
coconut oil
1 Japanese eggplant, cubed
vermouth
1 shallot, peeled, halved and thinly sliced
6oz./170gr tea-smoked tofu, or other savory cooked tofu
2 cups snap peas, trimmed and sliced in half on the diagonal
1 carrot, chopped into bite-size pieces
1 stalk celery, chopped into bite-size pieces
1-2 cloves garlic, thinly sliced
2 handfuls almonds
soy sauce
1/2 fresh lime or lime juice
powdered ginger
Sriracha or other hot sauce
Toasted sesame oil

1. In a wok on high heat, melt some coconut oil taking care not to let it smoke.
2. Fry the eggplant until the wok is almost dry, then splash in just a little vermouth. The eggplant absorbs the wine, keeping it from sticking to the wok and filling it with flavor.
3. When the eggplant cubes have softened and colored a bit, remove and set aside.
4. Melt some more coconut oil in the wok, about 1 tablespoon.
5. Add the shallot slices and stir. When the shallots begin to color, add the curry powder and tofu. Stir.
6. When the tofu has browned, add in the snap peas and stir. When these are bright green, add in the carrots, celery and garlic. Stir.
7. Throw in the almonds, then season with one or two splashes of soy sauce, the juice of half a lime, a little ginger powder and hot sauce. Stir to combine the flavors and turn off the heat. Plate immediately.
8. Season to taste with toasted sesame seed oil.

If serving with wide rice noodles, prepare the noodles as instructed on the package (they’re usually soaked in hot or warm water). Combine the noodles with the stir fry in the wok during the last minute of cooking. Add more soy sauce and sesame oil if necessary.

Tonight, I encountered a young homeless man in the tunnels of the Metro. He was sitting cross-legged on the ground, a newspaper in front of him on top of which sat what I immediately recognized as a small velvet tefillin bag and a Hebrew holy book. To his left, I noticed a small hand-drawn Israeli flag.

Having a religious background, I was curious as to why he placed these sacred items on the floor, as in Jewish tradition, this is considered a sign of disrespect. I made the usual pleasantries and tried to ask him, in my broken French.

“Excusez moi, monsieur, mais pourquoi est-ce que vous mettez ces choses la a la terre?”

“Vous êtes Israélienne? Vous êtes juive?”
(“Are you Israeli? Are you Jewish?”)

“Oui.”

“Il n’y a pas des tefillin ici, juste les boîtes.”
(“There are no scrolls in there, just the boxes.”) ”

“Mais cette livre, c’est le Tanya. Moi, je ne suis pas traditionnelle, mais dans la tradition si on mette ces choses sur la terre, c’est pas une marque du respect.”
(“But this book is the Tanya [a book of hassidic philosophy]. I am not traditional, but according to tradition, placing such things on the ground is not a sign of respect.”)

“Parce qu’il y a le nom de Hashem?”
(“Because it contains the name of Hashem [God]?”)

“Oui.”

“Moi, je suis homeless. J’habite ici. J’ai pas un maison. Vous comprenez?”
(“I am homeless. I live here. I don’t have a house. Do you understand?”)

“Oui.”

“Je suis fier d’être juif, et je suis fâché. I am angry. Pas de personnes a m’aider! Ils prennent les photo avec le mobile! En Paris, si vous n’avez pas un maison, c’est comme ‘ptui!’ Et c’est dangereux d’être un juif ici.”
(“I am proud to be a Jew, and I am angry. No one has helped me! They take photos of me with their mobile! In Paris, if you have no home, it’s like you are ‘ptooi’ [he cocked his head to the left and made a spitting noise]. And it is dangerous to be a Jew here.”)

He drew his finger across his neck in a sign of mock decapitation.

“I think I am very brave,” he said, eyes blazing with fierce indignation and pride.

“I think you are too.”

“Je refuse de mourir anonyme au rue. Donc je mettes ces choses la. J’ai pas un maison, pas de SDF, j’ai pas du tout, et c’est pas juste!”
(“I refuse to die anonymous in the street. That’s why I place these things here. I have no home, no SDF [government assistance?] and it isn’t right!”)

“I think you are correct,” I answered quietly. “Vous avez de la raison. Je suis désolé pour vous.”
(What I meant to say is “I am so sorry.”)

He looked down and his fierce eyes teared up. I fumbled in my pocket to try and find a Euro coin or two. Naturally, I had spent my last couple of Euro coins on a bottle of water, and was left with a few 20, 10 and 5 cent coins. I reached into my bag and found a ten Euro bill and handed it to him.

“S’il vous plaît,” I said. “Please.”

He glanced down and shook his head.

He was crying now.

“S’il vous plaît, vous êtes juif, je suis juive, nous sommes des personnes. Comment dit-on en français? Si je peux vous aider, ça serait un honneur pour moi.”
(“Please. You’re a Jew, I’m a Jew, we’re both people [I meant to say 'human beings'.] How does one say this in French? If I can help you, it will be an honor for me.”)

I crouched down and held out the ten Euro note to him. He shook his head.

He looked at me unabashed and said “Juste un Euro, si vous avez.”
(“Only one Euro if you have it.”)

I reached into my pocket, pulled out all the change I had and held it out to him. He began to pick out the smallest coins. I shook my head and turned the contents of my palm into his hand.

“Merci beaucoup,” he said.

“Je m’appelle Shelly,” I said, and held out my hand to shake his.

“Je suis Yonah,” he answered, and shook my hand.

“Un nom spécial,” I said, remembering the existential angst of the biblical character.

“Yonah, ani me’akhelet lekha rak tov, I wish you only well, juste le meilleur.”

“Merci,” he said. “Shavua tov. A good week.”

As I walked towards my train line, I heard Yonah begin to sing “Yerushalayim Shel Zahav” (“Jerusalem of Gold“) in his broken Hebrew. I climbed down the stairs towards ligne 4, and his voice carried over into the tunnel.

“Veshel nekhoshet veshel ohr,” and of copper and light, he sang in a loud, desperate cry. I boarded the train looking down at the ground. A lump formed in my throat.

There’s a theory which states that everyone has a double, an identical twin living somewhere. That’s not entirely true. Actually, it’s not at all true. The genetic possibilities for human DNA are endless, and the universe tends toward entropy, not order. There’s no rational reason for two unrelated people to look exactly alike, and certainly no way that three billion humans could inexplicably resemble three billion more. The idea is absurd, and yet, sometimes, it can happen. How odd it would be to wake up one morning, go outside to get the paper and stare yourself directly in the face.

It had been a year since my father’s death. I saw him only in my dreams. Sometimes he was a disembodied, smiling presence. Other times he was there, right there, eating, talking, joking, but always just out of reach. There was always something keeping him away. I would awake each morning with the strange sensation of having misplaced something—when you know that something is missing but you can’t remember what or where you put it (“And I can’t forget, but I don’t remember what”). And then there it is. Your stomach falls to your knees with the weight of so much leaden grief and you know, again, that he’s gone. Every morning, the same routine: forgetful slumber, gossamer dreams and the yawning, gaping chasm of loss. Then off to face the day, the black precipice just behind, the rest of existence just ahead. Where others saw dappled golden sunshine I saw only the bleached out whiteness of the harsh mid-day sun. If beauty’s in the details—the shadows and lines that comprise form itself—grief is being blinded by the sun, it’s the burning white nothing you see when the light is just too much.

My sense of taste was gone, too. Food tasted like cotton balls in my mouth. Chewing was a chore, a physical requirement for existence, like using the toilet. Drudgery. Life goes on. What the hell did that mean? I had been looking for a job when he died, and had re-scheduled an interview due to the funeral. I went to the interview a week later, in a feeble attempt to crawl back into the real world. The cheerful blond woman who interviewed me smiled her condolences and said “Life goes on, right?” They just wrapped my father’s wizened remains in a tallis and buried him in the ground, you nitwit. I couldn’t manage a smile, but I tried my best to remain cordial, despite my obviously somber demeanor. I didn’t get the job.

A year later, “life goes on” meant as little as it had from the grinning lips of that middle-aged ninny. If life was an endless series of meaningless tasks, I suppose it did go on. And on. And on. Obladi, obla-fucking-da.

I had found work tutoring English, and had just stepped off the bus that took me back to campus. The sun was beating down with its fierce Middle Eastern mid-day heat and its relentless white brightness. I raised my hand to my face to shield my eyes, and glanced across the road before crossing. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a black beret, the kind usually accompanied by a turtleneck and a baguette. I blinked and turned my head. I saw a grey-bearded man in a black beret wearing a grey sport jacket with suede at the elbows and dark trousers, the same exact uniform my father wore to work every day. Daddy. Oh my god, it was Daddy. I had never been more certain of anything in my life. I wanted to call out to him. And then I remembered. The man turned his head, and his features weren’t quite right. I remembered.

Thud.
Gulp.

I remembered.

The man in the black beret disappeared into a crowd of students like a specter. The world went white and formless.

I remembered.

A corpse in a copse decomposing
Stares blankly at canopied sky.
A corpse in a copse decomposing
Has worms crawling into its thigh.

A corpse in a copse decomposing
Has no need for cunning or fear.
A corpse in a copse decomposing
Wonders “God, why the hell am I here?”

death metal song

Imperfect. Flawed.
Shoot me in the head.
Demented. Slack-jawed.
Shoot me in the head.
Lopsided. Deranged.
Shoot me in the head.

All wrong. Sub-par.
Shoot me in the head.
Seen better by far.
Shoot me in the head.
Redo it. Start clean.
Shoot me in the head.

Rank garbage. Vile shit.
Shoot me in the head.
Get packing, fuckwit.
Shoot me in the head.

Shoot me in the head.
Shoot me in the head.
Shoot you in the head.
Shoot you in the head.

Shoot you
Shoot you
Shoot you
Shoot you all in the head.

Dear Pork, who art in heaven,
Briny be thy Ham.
Thy porchetta come.
Thy chops be done
On grills with a side of pappardelle.
Give us this day our daily prosciutto,
And forgive us our tofu,
As we forgive those who don’t dig on swine,
And feed us not overcooked, tasteless flesh,
But deliver us from factory farm agribusiness.

Awomen.

Does life swallow you whole? Or do you make it what you want it to be?

Sometimes it does swallow you whole.

When shit happens, it’s not like someone is out to get you, to make you suffer. It just happens. It simply is. To say that life is sad is to say that time itself is sad.

How can that be? A life is the distance from the time you are born to the time you die. To pin it down to one emotion seems awfully small and limiting.

But if you are sad, then yes, life is sad, because that is your view of the world.

Anthony Bourdain asked “why cook well?” Here’s my answer, on the Medium Raw Challenge site. (Argh, I’m not sure where my paragraph marks went. Do vote!)

Sometimes the smallest interaction seems a chore. The very thought of making a phone call is exhausting. Pick up the phone, listen to the monotony of the dial tone, think of all the things I need to say to the person on the other side. The words drone on in my head, like the dial tone. The train of imaginary conversation makes me vaguely ill.

I put down the phone and glance at my inbox. So many unanswered missives, so many people awaiting a response. I open one e-mail and read the friendly salutation, the banter, the questions, questions, questions, like so many hooks pulling and poking at my skin. I think of what I should say. “Yes, that sounds great.” “Certainly, that could work.” “Would you be amenable to… ?” It all sounds disjointed, false. One paragraph segways into another like a loping stitch that’s gone awry. The words melt away and I think of what I want to say. “No, fuck off.” “I suppose I could do that if I could drag myself out of doors.” “I’d much rather not have to deal with you or anyone else at the moment. Please go away.” My hands freeze above the keyboard. I can’t type a damn thing.

I’m hungry. I can’t be bothered to prepare anything, so I’ll need to buy something to eat. This means putting on clothes, brushing my hair, walking out the front door and going outside. I dread the myriad of meaningless interactions I am sure to have. The hallway is empty, but the elevator carries a passenger who smiles and says “Good morning!” The rules of etiquette require a response, so I raise my eyes briefly and gingerly pull the corners of my mouth upward. “Morning,” I respond. I hope he doesn’t notice that my hair needs a wash. I hope he doesn’t ask me how my morning’s been, or where I’m off to or any other pointless attempts at small talk. I stop holding my breath when the elevator hits the lobby. He nods and exits happily, a spring in his step and a doltish grin plastered on his face. My relief is short-lived, as now the office manager smiles her hello, and the maintenance man greets me with a genuine smile and an earnest “Good morning!” I half-smile and mumble “hi” and “‘morning” as I try not to flee to the front door.

The cold air hits my face with a sting and a slap, the sun so dazzling bright the world looks white. I squint and try to look down as I walk. The corner store seems miles away, a treacherous journey with people everywhere nodding, smiling, talking.

I reach the shop, pick a sandwich and get in line. Here comes the next charade, a puppet show in which I must perform, time and again.

She’ll say
“Hi! How’re you?”

I’ll say
“Fine, how’re you?”

She’ll respond
“Very well, thanks!” or “Good, thanks!” depending on her knowledge of grammar.

I’ll say
“So, um, just this,” and place my sandwich on the counter.

She’ll say
“Will that be all?” as if she cared what I buy or don’t buy (she doesn’t, I know she’s just following her manager’s script.)

“Yes, thanks,” I’ll say, and with some effort, turn up the corners of my mouth, as if to say “I’m a good customer, I know that’s a stupid question, but I know you have to ask it, and I know I’m not supposed to be annoyed by it, so here’s a smile to show you that I understand and empathize with your plight even though I wonder what sort of hell it must be like to have the same conversation with 300 customers every… single… fucking… day.”

She’ll say
“Great. That’ll be $4.95. Would you like a bag?”

I’ll hand her a credit card, decline the bag.
“No, thanks.” (Meaning: “I know you’re supposed to ask if I want a bag, but you’re really waiting for me to say I don’t, because I’m supposed to care about the environment, and it costs your boss money to give out bags willy-nilly, so if I actually take the bag you’ll look at me disapprovingly ever so subtly. You’ll glance at me, frown, and cast your eyes down furtively. Then the tone of your voice will sour just a little. And you’ll wonder what sort of asshole would want to clutter landfills and strangle seagulls with a plastic bag, and all for a fucking sandwich.”)

She’ll smile and say
“Great! Just sign here.”

I’ll dutifully sign.

She’ll ask
“Would you like your receipt?” (Meaning: “There’s a line and I really need to deal with the other customers. Just deal with the $4.95, will you? It’s not like we’ll accept returns on a sandwich.”)

I’ll say
“No thanks,” and raise the corners of my mouth again.

“Greaaaaat,” she’ll say, elongating the word as though it were one enormous melismatic syllable.

The show ends when she says “Have a nice day!” her pitch rising like a happy ending to a saccharine film.

I’ll dutifully respond “You too!” and match her tone almost exactly (though perhaps just an octave lower).

I’m next in line. Thinking of the upcoming performance, I sigh. Audibly. Glancing at the refrigerator case, a can of coconut juice tempts me.

I’m up. The juice isn’t worth disrupting the scene.

I must play my part and return to my cave.

And I have known the eyes already, known them all—
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
Then how should I begin
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?
And how should I presume?

– T.S. Eliot, “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock”

The cold, white gaze of the virtual page can be crippling. The rattling chaos of thoughts and ideas make a racket in your head, clamoring to come out. Your fingers are their conduit, and your eyes are the witness for the prosecution. The same brain that thought up all this stuff to begin with is your judge, jury and prison warden. How should I begin? What is it you’re even trying to say? If you’re writing in the English language, god knows it’s been written before, and better, too. And how should I presume?

You can’t move forward, you can’t go back. Ideas cannot be un-thought. They must be nurtured, or left to rot. But there’s a tiny little marble of a being inside you that says “Look. There’s something I need to say.” Anyone who has ever knitted a sweater, written a poem, penned a song, painted a painting, snapped a photo, has felt that stubborn little marble in their gut. It won’t go away. It persists. If you push it down too much, it comes back up, sometimes all the way up to your throat. It says “Look. There’s something I need to say and I’m going to say it.” And you brace yourself, because that little marble means business. You can push it down with callousness, fear, laziness, self-deprecation, alcohol, but it will emerge, in serenity or violence.

And when it does, there it is–a hairball, an alien, a strange mutant child with no mouth, no arms nor legs. You must mold it into something sensible, something useful, something that justifies its own existence.

Do I dare
Disturb the universe?

Do you have the arrogance, the cojones to presume your progeny deserves to live? Whatever this thing is that you need to say, to whom are you saying it? Do they care to hear it? Should they? Or are you talking to yourself?

In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.

You write a sentence and erase it. You write another and erase that. Paragraphs appear and disappear. But for the cacophony in your head, they might never have existed. The words slow to a trickle–a thin, polluted stream. You stop and start, hesitate, begin again, turn away, come back, walk the dog, write a bit, read a bit, rot your brain a bit, turn away in disgust, come back again. Create and murder, murder create.

And then the judgment begins.

You are, in fact, Prince Hamlet. To be, not to be, you dither about debating yourself, uselessly fretting and agonizing. Hamlet did little more than procrastinate.

Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous—
Almost, at times, the Fool.

What is this stuff you’ve written? Is it true to what you’re trying to say? Do the words fit the sentiment, or are they full of bombast and pretense? Has your little mutant child become a porcelain doll? Politic, cautious, and meticulous. Are you dressing her up for the public?

Ridiculous.

You know that purse is just a sow’s ear.

Fool.

.

.

.

There are no muses.

I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.
I do not think that they will sing to me.

There is no supernatural voice whispering in your ear, no inspiration for which you thank god you’ve been blessed. You are not in thrall to a siren call.

The universe is far too vast to roll into a ball.

There is always an overwhelming question.

What can you do but ask?

How can you help but write your own answer?