International Cusines

I am not one to claim any superiority of Western culture. But there is one area in which I believe we do excel. Desserts.

Once our family was asked to a very traditional Chinese restaurant. Our kids were great. Along with the familiar dishes they tried out new foods like jellyfish and chicken feet. We were treated to some wonderful food.

At the end of the meal we were served small bowls of sweetened, mashed green beans. It was tasty, but our youngest son asked me, “Is this supposed to be dessert?”

I had to agree with his questioning. It was tasty, but I wouldn’t necessarily classify it as a dessert. Give me dark chocolate, ice cream or crème brulee.

(A side note here is in order. Chinese people who eat these traditional foods tend to be thin and healthy. Whereas, some of us Westerners who like our desserts, well…)

Another time I was given a Korean meal. It was fantastic. I could eat that food often. But for dessert we were given these round balls of bean paste. Most of the Westerners with me took a bite or two and quit. I politely finished mine. I think that I would have liked it much better if I didn’t have the idea of dessert in my mind. This was not chocolate.

(Again, Koreans who eat traditional foods tend to be thin and healthy – not big on dessert).

Perhaps it is just my upbringing. You learn to appreciate the foods you grow up with. I understand that people from other cultures might not appreciate some of the foods which I might consider delicacies, like grits.

I try to tell internationals, and by that term I mean anyone not from the South, that grits are like Italian polenta with a Southern twist. But sometimes I can tell that they have a hard time appreciating the nuances of well prepared grits – just as much as I have a hard time with sweetened bean desserts.

I’d be really happy eating Chinese, Korean, Indian, or Middle Eastern food every day. But can I have my chocolate (from South America) or some creme brulee or ice cream for dessert, please?

Gotham City Library: a true story

“Can I help the next person in line?”

I am at the circulation desk one morning as a nondescript young man approaches. His hair is a bit unkempt and he is slightly disheveled, but by no means offensive or out of the ordinary in appearance.

He would like a library card. As is always the procedure, I ask to see his id. He produces his correctional facility identification card. This is entirely acceptable. It is a state issued card including name, picture and date of birth. We see these from time to time. In fact, the library provides those who find themselves without money for computers, internet and books a place to be able to access information and communication.

With his library card in hand, he asks where he might find books on origami. The Dewey decimal system is a brilliant thing. I look up the subject and we write down 736.98. He heads off to the nonfiction area of the library. I am happy to have had a straightforward interaction which will hopefully end with his finding a helpful, interesting book.

But a few moments later, the young man returns. He says, “I’d also like information on……” And here he reaches his hand into his shirt. He gropes around in the general vicinity of his armpit and pulls forth a live bat. It wiggles a bit in his hand and I can actually see its little face.

The mind is an amazing thing. The number of thoughts that can race through the brain in mere seconds is astounding. Let me share my thoughts on this occasion.

“That’s a real bat.”

“Eww.”

“Where exactly was that thing hanging in his shirt?”

“We have specific policies about cats and dogs, but bats, can they be service animals?”

“Maybe I can just send this patron to the reference desk?” (I look across and see a reference librarian who is nearing retirement age). “Perhaps not. This might be a bit much.”

“Hold on. This guy just wants a reaction. He wants to stir things up.”

At this point I coolly look down at my computer and look up the number for bats – 599.4. I calmly write down the number. He puts the bat back into his shirt and returns to the nonfiction area.

My coworker and I look at one another trying to suppress some mixture of laughter and astonishment. Meanwhile, it has occurred to me that I should do something to make sure he does not want to enter the Children’s area with that animal. Kids are big fans of Batman, but I don’t think this is what they have in mind.

I go to the Children’s area and grab every bat book we have. As I start back to the circulation desk, I see the patron already checking out one origami book and one bat book. I can tell that my coworker is trying to keep her expression neutral and calm as she does her job.

The patron then leaves the library. We wonder if he will return those books. We wonder if we want him to return those books.

On Cars

There are car lovers. And then there are those of us who say, “I think it was a blue car.”

My husband and I will be driving somewhere and he will say something like, “Have you noticed how many Subarus are in this town?”

What?

Of course, I haven’t noticed how many Subarus are in this town. I’ve noticed a general flow of the traffic, but the cars themselves are only vague moving objects.

I’ve been looking at the houses and the flowers and the people. One’s mind can only handle so much input – and for me, cars are the first thing to go.

People not only notice cars, but we all make assumptions about people based on what they drive, much like we do with what people wear. Only cars are much more expensive garments.

There is the successful businessman or woman in a newer model BMW or Mercedes. There is the person having a mid-life crisis in the sporty convertible. There is the laid-back, nature loving person in the jeep or pickup. And we all know the minivan holds a soccer mom, right?

Me, I’m in “a black car.” Or I’m on my scooter. The car is not a recent model. Not old enough to be cool, just old-ish.

I am somewhat blissfully unaware that I might be judged according to my car. What does an older model “black car” say about me? I’m afraid it might actually be true. It probably says I’m a middle-aged woman of middle income.

My husband gives me a hard time because the only cars I do notice are classic Jaguars.

So perhaps I am a confused person. The real inner me is somewhere between the classy Jaguar driver and the hipster scooter person. And these two are hard to pull off at the same time.

If you see me driving down the road in “the black car,” remember that inside is not just a middle-aged, middle income woman, but a laid-back, classy, hipster wannabe.

 

Life with an Alpha Dog – It’s Not a Walk in the Park

I have heard that owning a dog lowers one’s blood pressure.

I like our dog. She is good company, good protection and good entertainment. She likes to be around people. Often she sits next to me and rests her head on my feet, occasionally looking up at me with her big eyes expressing some sort of dog communication and wisdom. This usually earns her a pat on the head or a tummy rub.

Since she is named for the county where I was born, I sometimes refer to her as the countess. Most of the time I find her quite enjoyable to have around and I think she is a calming influence and a help with the aforementioned blood pressure.

All this until the time comes to walk the countess. She is an alpha female animal and a walk in the park becomes a battle of the wills and a test of strength.

Often the walk starts out in a deceitfully calm and peaceful manner – a beautiful day, a clear sky, a woman and her dog out strolling in the park. I enjoy looking at the trees and flowers, while the countess has her nose down enjoying the scents which inform her of the news from the dog world.

Then another dog is spotted. First comes the whining and straining at the leash. She is very undignified, as is her owner. I hold on with the very developed muscles of my left arm trying to steer her away from oncoming disaster.

If I can get her off the path and command her to sit, the situation can be under control until the other dog passes by. There are two instances, however, when this method does not work. The first is a curious one. I have had the other dog owner command his dog to sit just before I am able to take this action with my dog. In this case we have reached an impasse. Surely someone must carry on or we will have a standoff. If he has beaten me to the command, then I must bribe my dog along with a treat as I drag her along the path.

The second, and much worse, situation happens when a cheerful dog owner starts to approach me and my sitting dog and asks the dreaded question, “Is your dog friendly?” Then we have trouble. My usual response is, “She’s unpredictable.” A longer version of this answer would be, “She is friendly towards male dogs or very submissive female dogs. How would you categorize yours?” But this is a bit too much of a discussion for passing in the park, so I sit to the side defensively holding on to the unpredictable countess. The other dog owner usually looks on with either some sort of pity or silent reproach – meaning that people like me should probably not have dogs.

After we have been thus humiliated, we can carry on in peace until the next encounter. There are many days I am so frustrated by the time we return home, that I decide to take another small walk by myself, leaving the countess at home.

I return from my second walk of the day to be greeted by the happy and innocent countess. She follows me around the house and stretches out and sits at my feet. Often she plays with a ball or leaps around the room for no apparent reason. She barks if someone approaches the house.

After getting plenty of exercise with my two walks and having an animal for such companionship and entertainment, I think that, yes, owning a dog is probably very good for the heart and for the blood pressure.