June 13, 2011 § Leave a comment
‘… in the late 1800s five states passed laws requiring that all butter imitations be dyed pink so no one would be fooled.’
– Michael Pollan, In Defense Of Food
What the hell happened to that?!?
Not that a visual distinction is needed to pick the black sheep from the herd, but it would have made Margarine look less evil.
June 12, 2011 § Leave a comment
Sitting down on one of the 300 empty seats at the stadium on deck 6 over looking the rushing waves, I felt a sudden desire to listen to Paul Cardall… or similar variations of those piano-y stuff they play in clubhouse swimming pool bathrooms.
Then I saw people running at the jogging track below, and suddenly felt an overpowering urge to throw bits of my oversweet ‘nutty nougart donut’ at them.
On the 7th day, after finishing my pile of pancakes with cream cheese and syrup (the latest obsession), i was suddenly so overcome by a severe case of boredom that all i could bare doing was to wait for the arrival of the next meal. Really, there is a limit to sitting there and doing nothing. It gets boring after a while.
I looked up from my phone. I blinked twice. I thought I for a second there was a chestnut puree dome cake with a meringue cookie on the table adjacent to ours – turned out it was a straw hat with half a bagel on top.
What a great hallucination though.
Who the hell puts bagels on top of their hats. Really.
I walked out on to deck 16, the deck of infinite tanning chairs – and was slammed by a gush of powerful wind. With my hair and my calf length black cardigan whipping like torn flags around me, I felt a bit like a nomad making her way across the sahara in front of a row of tanned limbs and curious eyes. My Ann Dem flatforms somewhat acted like sails against the wind, so I kept cross legging and half tripping like a newly born baby deer. After three steps, someone shouted ‘I love your hair!’
I tried to push that Willow Smith song out of my head before it could autoplay itself.
I gave up and flopped down on the nearest empty tanning chair.
Lunch could wait.
Half an hour. Two hours. Two and a half hours. I was still waiting for the wind to stop.
Or me to get sick of the songs on my ipod.
Or people to leave.
Starving. I just wanted someone, something to run out before I do.
June 10, 2011 § Leave a comment
Fresh fruits, enveloped with a golden parchment of crepe, glowing with passion under a cold, hard fist of cappuccino ice-cream, sprinkled with a ridiculous variety of technicolored sprinkle-able sweet flecks and drizzled with chocolate and strawberry syrup with an avant-garde flair because we have been doing it this way since we were a meter tall when we were made to believe that we were born artists — classic clubhouse favorite.
Hand me a cheesecake made from the milk of the great-great-great-great-grand-daughter of the lamb that witnessed the birth of Baby Jesus…. and I’ll still go back to this at the end of the day.
The Paddock, Jockey Club, Happy Valley, HK
June 8, 2011 § Leave a comment
It’s funny how life laughs at us. The two thing I love most – food and clothes – absolute sworn enemies.
And I actually love them. Both. Equally so. It’s not like I feel the need to be fifty-fifty about them, there would not be a favored child. See, they are gifts that appeal to completely different senses. I’ll try make this simpler: I remember once proclaiming the feel of cashmere ‘orgasmic’, but I would not, my friend, find myself one day licking a cashmere sweater with eyes shut and saying ‘Mmm!’. Same applies to a slice of cake, or likes of. I do not grope and feel up cakes. I am just really glad that at this point of my life, I am able to find frequent emotional journeys in my various sensory in-trays – enough for me write about.
But why a food blog? How about clothes, how about fashion? As I had written before in my other blog, the more bits-of-everything blog, … Baby Where’s My Light?, nothing could pull out so many paragraphs of exaggerated imagery and metaphors from me as food could. Only, they are not exaggerated. It is true that I do get highs from food. And if not highs – thrills, excitements, gasps, embarrassing moments of eye-closings, split second fevers, also disgust, disappointments, oh – three-day-long diarrhea sessions, let downs (as in ‘Mmmmmm.. it’s …. so uh, good!’ in that, you know, really polite way of mine), and in general, rather melodramatic trips.
Plus, it’s not like I don’t hear enough about shoe trends at school.
I am not writing as a professional. I do not aspire to be a chef. I am not a food critic (I will not pretend I swallowed a foodpedia – though I do know how to point and order, as opposed to embarrassing myself by mispronouncing something obviously not sounding the way I would have pronounced it). I write for papers. I sew clothes and build shoes at school. I aspire to be a fashion designer.
I also eat – and boy do I love doing that.