It’s like Chinese Day or something around here, and not just ’cause, um, I’m, well, yes. This morning the nice Chinese mailman dropped off a Chinese New Year biscuit delivery from my grandmother, six plastic boxes of butter- and sugar-tinged childhood memories. The goods all seem to have traveled fine, except for the love letters, which I imagine entered the bargain as a whole container of lovely love letters, and are exiting as a container with a hole cracked through it and love letter flakes spilling out all over the package. No matter, I will eat them with a spoon, that is how much we appreciate love letters around here. The other kinds are: those cashew biscuits with the lacy perimeter, eh; peanut biscuits, yeah, alright, Grams; pineapple hedgehog tarts, filled with sweet, dry pineapple; cherry cheese squares, oh my god I am going to go eat one right now, before dinner; kueh bangkit, mmmm, I loooove kueh bangkit like no ones loves kueh bangkit, so chalky and dubious and not tasting of anything identifiable and making your tongue stick to the roof of your mouth.
In the afternoon, Maud phoned and said, “Where are you, what are you doing?” “I’m at home,” I said, “I’m putting on a sock.” “We are too,” she said, “which means we’ll be late.”
We met at Kam Man in an hour, truly a golden door to wonderment and Cantonese women yelling in my ear, where today’s treasure product discovery was a box of Crab Spawn Biscuits. I will say it again, because I want to make sure we all understand. Crab. Spawn. Biscuits. Do you have a fuzzy-tongued sensation? But then, printed on the back of the box, the list of ingredients included, like, green bean powder and sugar and peanut oil and no crabs, so who knows. The other thing that was printed on the box was: Directions: Open package and eating.
Hanging a right then hanging a left meant we were at Great N.Y. Noodletown for lunch. Of course there was fish porridge, of course there was siew yoke, of course there was Mixed Seafood in a Taro Bird’s Nest. I had a lengthy conversation with the lao ban wherein, breaking it down Mandarin-style, I tried to order some kang kong, but he seemed to not know what it was. I even mumbled, “The ang mohs call it ‘hollow vegetables,’” but that didn’t help. We settled on dou miao, finally, and then he brought us a plate of kang kong. Wait, what? I just, I, well, whatever. Open package and eating.
Afterward, on the way to the train, on the side of Canal where it appears the white people don’t go, I came upon a hole-in-the-wall bah kwa place. Inside there was a woman turning over shiny slices of barbecued yum on the grill, and outside the sign (like, 100-pt Times New Roman) read: PORK JERKY BEEF JERKY CHICKEN JERKY. Okay! Eight dollars later (it is a lucky number, you know) I was holding a crinkly wax-paper bag of (classic pork) bah kwa, happy new year to me! I forgot to get some old-school cottonwool-consistency white bread to go with, but a preliminary taste has proved that the bah kwa straight up will be just fine.
And, P.S., you know I licked that sweet barbecued sweetness off my fingers.
In the afternoon, Maud phoned and said, “Where are you, what are you doing?” “I’m at home,” I said, “I’m putting on a sock.” “We are too,” she said, “which means we’ll be late.”
We met at Kam Man in an hour, truly a golden door to wonderment and Cantonese women yelling in my ear, where today’s treasure product discovery was a box of Crab Spawn Biscuits. I will say it again, because I want to make sure we all understand. Crab. Spawn. Biscuits. Do you have a fuzzy-tongued sensation? But then, printed on the back of the box, the list of ingredients included, like, green bean powder and sugar and peanut oil and no crabs, so who knows. The other thing that was printed on the box was: Directions: Open package and eating.
Hanging a right then hanging a left meant we were at Great N.Y. Noodletown for lunch. Of course there was fish porridge, of course there was siew yoke, of course there was Mixed Seafood in a Taro Bird’s Nest. I had a lengthy conversation with the lao ban wherein, breaking it down Mandarin-style, I tried to order some kang kong, but he seemed to not know what it was. I even mumbled, “The ang mohs call it ‘hollow vegetables,’” but that didn’t help. We settled on dou miao, finally, and then he brought us a plate of kang kong. Wait, what? I just, I, well, whatever. Open package and eating.
Afterward, on the way to the train, on the side of Canal where it appears the white people don’t go, I came upon a hole-in-the-wall bah kwa place. Inside there was a woman turning over shiny slices of barbecued yum on the grill, and outside the sign (like, 100-pt Times New Roman) read: PORK JERKY BEEF JERKY CHICKEN JERKY. Okay! Eight dollars later (it is a lucky number, you know) I was holding a crinkly wax-paper bag of (classic pork) bah kwa, happy new year to me! I forgot to get some old-school cottonwool-consistency white bread to go with, but a preliminary taste has proved that the bah kwa straight up will be just fine.
And, P.S., you know I licked that sweet barbecued sweetness off my fingers.
posted by stellou at 1:02 AM
3 Comments:
six!!!
six. two big containers and four small ones. the big containers were cherry cheese squares (ah buddeyn) and those peanut ones.
(i was going to abbreviate cherry cheese squares and first i wrote "ccc." then i write "ccq." i need helpch.)
(also, that reminds me of in "sleepless in seattle" when tom hanks's son has run off to the empire state building to meet meg ryan, and the parents of the girl who is friends with tom hank's son are asking the girl where he's gone, and she says, "n.y." and the father says, "'no way?' 'no way?' she's not gonna tell us!" and the mother says, "that's 'n.w.,' he's gone to new york.")
in conclusion, dong dong qiang!, the postage was $113.40.
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