Right this very second, I'm trying mighty hard to fight off sleep.
I've been in travel mode again. Arrived around lunchtime from an incredibly long and exhausting hike. Don't ask me about it now. Too tired. Will blog about it later.
Still carrying my heavy backpack and muddy hiking shoes, dropped by my workplace to freshen up after lunch. My staff are happy to see me. They have questions and problems to bring up. I'm happy to see them too. But I just need a blank mind today.
Had to spend entire afternoon in problem-solving sessions. Half of my mind is somewhere else, mentally composing urgent messages and errand lists. Quick checks on email, cell, pocket calendar.
That's ok, I'm used to that mode of work. But not when I'm this dead tired.
I beg off from attending the last meeting of the day. Staff say they understand, tell me to go home and rest.
Drag myself to pass by night market. Pleasant surprise: there's fresh river clam from my favorite vendor. I buy a bucket. And young sponge gourd. Perfect. I'm expecting the kids to arrive tonight. I know exactly the dish I can quickly cook for this occasion. They love it.
Meet a neighbor in the market. He offers me a ride home. I'm thankful. I don't have to elbow my way through the crowded public transport system. Starts to rain.
Arrive home. Still fighting off exhaustion. Cook rice for four. Chop garlic, onion, ginger. (Text messages coming in. My staff won't let me off easily.) Peel and chop the gourds. Oops, forgot apron. Must wear it. Play Beethoven's Pastorale on mp3.
Heat corn oil in wok. Sautee garlic, onion, ginger. Hmmm. Just the aroma of it chases away the tempting nymphs of sleep. Hey you. Yes you miserable clams. Have you said your last words yet? Nope? Too bad. In ya go. I watch them pop open one by one with a distant curiosity. Hmm, I wonder if they cry as they die. Do their tears of terror add to the distinct aroma?
Add stock broth. Dogs bark outside. My neighbor drops by, returns my umbrella. I rush back in. Ahh, what magic doth my Kikkoman sauce conjure. The aroma is heavenly now. Beethoven's Sixth provides perfect aural accompaniment to culinary heaven. Call the kids. No answer.
Gourd is next. Soft whitish green. Lovely counterpoint to clam's pearly white on coral pink. Now the final touch: two braids of fine-quality misua on the steaming clam broth. Unfamiliar with the term? Ok, egg noodles. A type of Chinese vermicelli. For fighting off exhaustion and sleep, and for feeding two wolfishly hungry kids, nothing beats this dish.
Check email. Nothing incoming. See? Told ya. Yup.
Check rice. Steaming hot and fluffy-soft. Not mushy or gritty. Perfect. I can do it with my eyes closed. Good for four? I can wolf it all down with my favorite dish.
Text message beep. I check. Nice. Turns out I shouldn't have expected anything. Promises are meant not to be kept. I'm going to eat all this delicious rice and gourd-clam-misua soup. All by myself. Until my ears and eyes and nose burst and bleed with misua and sponge gourd and river clam. With a Kweichow accent. Sweet.
I feel like striking my head with the ladle, still dripping with broth. One, two, three. Ouch. But it's ok. No problem. It's good to be alone. Sometimes. I'm used to it. One last cell phone check. One last email check. Nothing. Good. I'm gonna blank myself now, to instant, endless sleep.
Let the mud dry on my shoes. Tomorrow will just be more mud. Sun or rain. Whatever. Beethoven can scream himself deaf for all I care.
Blog you later. If and when.
/sbin/shutdown now



