What is hunger?

A bed, a life, a purpose? Of course, and more...

To be in love with a cook is to be a cook yourself.  Explanation might take too long, so I'll do my quickest and best. To actually be able to accept that you will not see nor touch your love/husband for at least a fucking week/decade is a hard road to be on. You may be lucky to get a hot minute of conversing or or hearing how the shift went, but then it's on to straight up solitude again. It is in comparison to living with a jet fueled zombie, and I signed up, with love, gladly. If there is ever a moment when you feel tired or worn down consider the men and women that are burning their fingers, minds and also sweating their lives away to make you feel good, to feed you, to make you happy. Consider also that there are also people valiantly waiting at home for when these soldiers of nourishment come home. Those meaningful and fleeting moments when that man comes through the door and puts his knives down in the living room, takes his coat off and slightly settles in, are like Goddamned Christmas day. It's fucking glorious thing to witness the simple moment when HE comes home. He is the person cooking your dinner.

The Other Purple Food

Ube.

That yam.

Not mentioned often or at all.

It's loudly bright.

Do you hear her yet?

Perhaps that may be incorporated.

We'll see how ice creams go.

I admit...

I haven't eaten everywhere in the city, and I bet few people have. I cannot afford it. Yet. I can't even pay for dinner at the restaurant where my boyfriend works. But, I do find some awesome little places where the food is prepared honestly and inexpensively. There a a few locations that I simply just adore, Snack Planet in Chinatown instantly comes to mind, as do a few other locations in that area that I just can't get enough of. The clams in black bean sauce from Emperors Choice are lovely, and I am yet to dine at Lao Human, where their sign and interior both proclaim that they are 'serving people'. If I could eat in Chinatown once a week, I would be a satisfied woman. I have tried recreating those wonderful little clams, but I swear it's flavor must come from a pan that has been used so many times, much like trying to recapture food my Grandmother made. I have the ingredients, but it's that historical pan that I am lacking. Anyway, getting back on some sort of track, hopefully someday I'll blow some illusive and large paycheck on dinner, but I am not holding my breath. These little places where I go suit me just fine...for now.

Nugget

I cook. I eat. I love. I mess it up and fix it. I work. I read. I love food and all that surrounds it. I love being in a kitchen.  My heart breaks at least once or twice a second. I love humanity and all that it brings. If you come to me with 100% I will respond correctly, I love levels and tipping. I want to kiss everyone just befucking cause.

The depressing 1st day of 2012...

 Don't fret. I am not going always being with a negative view, but this rarely happens. By 'this' I mean it is rare 1st of all that my Boyfriend would be blessed with a day off and rare that I would stick around for one in a handful of the worst dining experiences. What I mean by that is I paid for it. $44.99 for two people to cook their own potentially poisonous meat on pile of coals. I lived to tell the tale.

 The sign read "Live Bbq". I had been here before. Gone were any sort of proper care for what food was being put out, to sit, in metal bins...without the use of proper cold food holding methods. What I saw was uncovered, poorly held raw meat. I ate it anyway, taking full blame while I watched my partner eat this "Live Bbq" as if he had just gotten out of the 'Hole' in Shawshank Redemption. Like on of those people that takes responsibility for a poorly chosen movie, I knew this was on my shoulders. I felt repulsed that I had brought him here, only because the place I tried to take him was closed, but none the less, this, I felt was my FAULT. I wanted to cry. I didn't tip, even though I have been working in restaurants since I was a teen. I tried to make jokes, nothing helped. 

 How many times has it happened to you, where you feel obligated to eat and pay just because the place is so pathetic? It's like paying a toothless whore in hopes she'll go to a dentist instead of buy more crack with the money you just gave her. The money you gave her for some of your life wasted. What does this say about me, about people in the city? Should I have been ultimately rude and just ran for it? I have never dined and ditched, but the thought crossed my mind. I am all for authentic, sometimes scarey places where Eels lay in bus tubs and rabbits are out back in a few cages. Something about this certain place just turned me plain off.
 
 I won't name the place, I'm not sure it has a name. It is just saddening that places like that are allowed stay open. Don't get me wrong, I am all for dirty, grimy, diners and the like, but this place had an air of death. Or maybe that was just the half pan of sliced beef sitting by the cash register, thawing out while a commercial for socks blared through the joint.