Beginnings?

I was thinking something else and then I thought to myself, people are always telling me I should blog, okay, fine, let's do it then! Let's do it in my old blog, which I have locked and left untouched. Now I ramble on on Instagram. Short rambles, because people have no patience nor/or brains these days to digest anything that can't be seen in one scroll of the screen. Let's do it here even though I cringe when I think of all that I have laid bare in this space (plus I could never stand to read my own writing the way I would read others). Let's do it here because this reminds me of the pleasure of ruminating a stranger's thoughts, and every greedy but careful scroll of the mouse ( those days ...) led to more.

Frankly, I'm stoned right now. That led to me thinking, okay, I have not tried reading while buzzed. Which led to, okay, I have not tried writing while buzzed. So let's do it. See if those drug-fueled accounts of being more focused, more creative and yet freer have any truth in them.

How I got to deciding to roll a joint was because of yet another intense discussion of "our relationship", and I was sick of thinking about it. "You know what?" I said in my head, "I don't have time to constantly be thinking about this relationship. I have so many other life failures to think about."

I entered this relationship with another man on my mind and in my heart. But I did it, because the fastest way to get over someone is to use someone else. But I was very fond of him. I needed his innocence and eager, childlike ways. I needed the way he could be a pig and yet, also take the time to look into my eyes and thank me for putting up with his shit. I needed his body, his insatiability, the strength that ripples through his arms when he holds me, and the way he would take his time to kiss me.

Does that make me a monster? I have told him I love him, and I meant it. But I have also heard my voice wobble trying to utter those three words without seeming like a fraud. He is a boy who needs to hear me speak of my love. I figured that I could learn to do that, even though I used to and sometimes still do sniff at those who say it so often because if it were true you wouldn't need to, because it is true that you should take every chance to say it when you mean it. So I started practising.

I am both a really good and really bad liar. Some things I toss out with no concern. But when it comes to things like feelings and what I like, I can feel my facial muscles twitch and my brain cells whir when I try to lie.

I love you. Who knew it would be so hard to love a person 24/7, without any breaks during the day?

He is home. So I guess I'll need to continue processing this another time.

An epiphany

epiphany (noun):  
a sudden, intuitive perception of or insight into the reality or essential meaning of something, usually initiated by some simple, homely, or commonplace occurrence or experience.

It happened this morning, when I was vigorously cleaning the b&b apartment in preparation for today's two groups of guests. But I suppose I could trace it back to the chunk of pecorino Romano and gorgonzola I bought from the supermarket yesterday and to the parmigiano reggiano purchased from the lady at the nearby grocery store, to Lucky Peach magazine and to Tampopo, the 1985 Japanese movie classic about ramen. There was also the fantastic Vogue profile on Michelle Obama, in which it was mentioned that she had arranged for the country's National Park Service to care for her White House garden after the Obamas leave, and secured US$2.5 million in private funding to cover the costs, as well as my disgust at Trump getting elected and all that noise, all those opinions.

I don't want to earn money through writing shit I don't believe in anymore. I want to make a honest living. Walk away from each day feeling tired but gratified. I want to cook for people. 

I have never cooked so much in my life, and I find myself enjoying it, truly enjoying it. The Artist is a good gauge of what I do well. He's Italian, which means he's fussy as fuck about what he eats, but he is willing to eat whatever I make, probably partly out of love and likely also because me cooking = him not having to. Still, there is a marked difference at which the dish is polished off and the enthusiasm at asking for seconds or thirds. I find myself gunning for that telltale lurking hint of a smile and the "ohhh, yes" when I ask if he wants another helping. I also cook for the two dogs, and I'm telling you, even watching them gobble up their mushy chicken pasta and licking their bowls spanking clean deliver immense satisfaction because they definitely do not have the same level of eagerness for dry food and, dare I say it? for the Artist's cooking. 

Last night, I watched Tampopo while slurping up a ramyun-army stew hack (chicken broth, cabbage, potato, hot dogs, cheese slices, wobbly egg). It was food porn, as in, there was a scene that truly qualified as porn with food, and it was fantastic. Plus, no one makes obsessive one-dish food movies like the Japanese.

After that, I went on a reading spree on the Lucky Peach site. There are many reasons why it's my favourite magazine, but it boils down to this: It's that satisfied smile as you rub your stomach and stretch back on the chair after eating something really good that cuts through all that fancy bullshit. But I digress. There was a piece in particular that struck a deeper chord than the rest, about teaching food and gender studies at Yale, and how cooking is enjoyable ultimately because it is about connections. 

When I hesitated between the pre-grated industrial grana padano and parmigiano reggiano before looking lost at the cheese counter and finally going up to the lady at the grocery store to ask if she has the cheese in fresh blocks (I loathe pre-grated cheese), she told me the grana is cheaper and the parmigiano has a stronger taste, which would I like? That night, I finally did something I should have done a long time ago, considering how much time I've spent in Italy. I googled Italian cheeses and made a list of those in the Veneto region, where I am, so I may pick them up the next time I hit the stores. 

Food is the answer. Those were the exact words that came to me while I was vacuuming. What good are words these days, when people only read what validates their views and opinions? More crucially, what can I write that can be of value in this world saturated with travel experience pieces? Writing about my travels, what do I have to say that is not masturbatory? I have been thinking about that for so long. Every single time someone tells me I should blog about my travels, I think, but what do I have to say?

Food, though. Everyone needs to eat. From those who voted to retain their privileged existence to those who are struggling to make ends meet. Eating bridges cultural divides and differences between, or at least that is what I naively choose to think.  

I want to cook for the everyman. I want to figure out how I can afford to use decent ingredients to cook good, healthy meals on the cheap for people who think eating better is beyond their means. I want to learn to make one Singapore dish really, really well, and I want that to go around the world with that. I want to cook a whole chicken or an entire fish for people who are used to eating only breast slabs or skinless filets, so people recognise the animal they are eating, recognise that a being died for their pleasure, so that they may appreciate it and not take it for granted, be less wasteful. I want people to sit around a table eating something strange and foreign to them and all of us can then talk and laugh about and discuss differences and diversity.

I am an improvisational cook. I like to use whatever is at hand and to tweak existing recipes and methods to suit those ingredients. What this means is that I need to learn to cook, properly. I need to expand my basic culinary skill set so I may get creative around them and still respect the proper traditions.

This is going to be a long and hard journey. Already Artist has expressed much cautiousness amidst his vague, general support for my epiphany. He thinks it's an impulse and a fleeting idea I haven't thought through. 

Now that I have told him, I will have to do it.

Haven't eaten the whole day and not a growl from the stomach. 

The body knows it has bigger concerns.

To hold itself together. To cradle my heart. 

Do you like scary movies?

Thirteen days ago, I set up an OKC account.

My knowledge of OKC boils down to two sources. This Wired feature I read ages ago about a mathematician who hacked the website to improve his odds of finding love, and a friend who has been entertaining me with all kinds of wild, hilarious tales about the messages and dates she and her other girlfriends have been enduring.

My absolute favourite remains the lengthy message she received from a supposedly Egyptian man, detailing how he would like to get to know her better over a romantic dinner while playing with each other's toes under the table. That story resulted in one of the top five laughing fits of my life. My stomach hurt, tears were welling up and I was breathless and choke-coughing but still I couldn't stop.

I digress.

Come to think of it, my cousin might have found her shitty husband through the site. Unverified. I shall ask her the next time there is a family gathering. She doesn't know I think her husband shitty though. I won't tell her that.

Digress again.

So. I was aimless after returning from a nine-week trip in Europe, and decided that an OKC account would be easier to accomplish than putting together a CV which, in the first place, I wasn't sure I was ready to send out.

That OKC was founded by Harvard math majors, and that matchmaking was carried out through algorithms and data analysis, pleased and intrigued me.

I googled a little – friend who got propositioned by Egyptian with feet fetish: "I cannot believe you're researching even this. Cannot believe." – and this Guardian article came up.

... very workaday questions like: “Do you like scary movies?” and: “Have you ever travelled alone to another country?” have amazing predictive power. If you’re ever stumped on what to ask someone on a first date, try those. In about three-quarters of the long-term couples OkCupid has brought together, both people have answered them the same way, either both “yes” or both “no”. That’s much, much higher than the expected rate, since both questions evenly split our user base. In fact, successful couples agree on scary movies – either they both like them or they both hate them – about as often as they agree on the existence of God.

I wanted to know if there was someone who was into travelling alone and scary movies that I could get along with.

What I have (re)discovered thus far is my talent for rolling my eyes.  (Haven't rolled my eyes much ever since dealing with silly clients ceased to be a part of my daily life.)

I won't bore you with those who think that "hi" or "hey" automatically become interesting conversation starters once they add a row of !!!!!!.

Did you know that "Hihi, care to chat?" is a phrase that did not die with IRC? (I added the comma and question mark. Not many of the men who message me think that punctuation has a place in the world. Maybe it's something in my profile that's attracting this type. Like, I don't know, all the books and authors I listed as a sampling of my reading preferences.)

But I'm not actually that much of a grammar bitch. If the message is interesting, I let a few things go.

I also tend to be more amused than offended by indecent proposals.

However, when the power of bad grammar and spelling is combined with lewd propositions, I get really pissed off. A mini explosion goes off in my head. Throw in an ugly profile photo along with an obscene username and I start sailor-swearing.

Like I told a friend (not the one targetted by the Egyptian dude with the toe fetish, but another who has encountered her fair share of filthy weirdos), a person can be decent or intelligent or really good-looking. Be accomplished in at least one of those. If you fail in all three aspects, maybe you should just cease to exist.

In truth, I am bored. Have been bored since around day three. But I tell myself something good might come out of this social experiment. I get to be mean when I write/talk about these absurdities, I get some great stories and insights into human nature and I have gotten some interesting conversations out of this.

Propositioned-by-Egyptian-toe-guy friend told me that her friend found her "amazeballs" partner after going on 100 dates. I doubt I have that kind of tenacity but damn, that's one hell of a lot of stories.

I leave you with this gem. For now.

Sexygigolo? Gee. What is the source of all that confidence?

 

I was reminded of the night you left the room because you were thirsty and wanted a juice or something, you said. I was afraid you would be gone a long time, or longer. I stopped worrying when I saw that you had left your belongings in the room. ID, tobacco and rolling paper, a handful of coins, all haphazardly strewn on the dressing table next to my things. It was comforting, and frightening to note that I had panicked for a moment.

You didn't take long to come back. You had with you a plastic shot glass filled with a deep ruby liquid.

"Drink it. It's good for you." I was nursing a bad cough.

"Do you know what it is?"

I nodded. I wrinkled my nose. "It's bitter."

"Aw. Finish it anyway. Pomegranate is good for you," you repeated. "I carried it a long way in the rain for you. It was difficult."

I finished it.

"Good girl." You looked pleased. You always looked pleased when I finished eating or drinking something you made because you thought it would be good for me.

"Thank you." Thank you.