Ride 'Em, Cowboy!

I've had some amazing experiences in Beijing taxis--I've been ripped off, lied to, treated with the greatest of courtesy and respect, had lunches shared, directions given, advice sought: I've been serenaded, and once was almost driven off a freeway by a driver who was too busy showing me pictures of his Chihuahua on his cell phone to bother to steer. (The screams of terror from the four white guys in the back of the taxi make me chuckle to this day.) Oh, yes, I was abducted once, but since I didn't report it (long story why, including a dead cell phone and a TV show) I won't go into details here. After almost 20 years of taking taxis, I had a first: all I can say to sum it up is "Cowboy."

It's almost impossible to get a taxi from the front of Job Number One: taxis barrel by frequently but they are driven by off-duty drivers on their way home for lunch. I was trying frantically to get a taxi and had been flagging them down and begging them to Take Me To The City for a good twenty minutes while a group of san lun che men sat on their bikes and chuckled at my efforts. San Lun Che are those three-wheeled taxi cabs which are a combination of bike and godawful motor: think of a rickshaw peddled by a bike with the additional va-voom of a coal-burning engine (ok, maybe not coal, but you get the idea). These guys are usually pretty tough customers--some are chatty, most are cheerful, and all would love nothing better than to see some overprivileged fat cat--ie, me--fall flat on their face. So, after providing them with fodder for chatter and gossip, I was starting to get a little testy. I understand Chinese pretty well, including the local dialect, and their comments were not always kind. Finally one came forward and explained to Little Missy here that no one was going to stop but he could drive me down the street to a place near the subway station where I was sure to find a cab. I said the hell with it and jumped in the back of his san lu che, one whose cardboard floor actually boasted a Hello Kitty floor mat.  Off we went: we had gone a few hundred meters when the real experience began.

 We were on the extreme right hand side of the road: the inside lane had faster-moving traffic. A taxi shot past us on the left:  my driver's head snapped up and he gave a shout not unlike the Master riding to hounds: tally-ho! And he was off: he tripled his speed and tried to get the attention of the taxi which was now up ahead of us and to our left about ten meters. His feet pedaled furiously as his hands gripped the controls and fed more diesel or kerosene or fuel to the smoking straining engine. We gained on the taxi slightly: then our driver took out what appeared to be a small rope and started lashing out at the taxi with it, exactly like a cowboy roping a doggie.  I had interned in Cowboy Country and had seen students mutton busting, roping steers, and riding the broncs. This was far more exciting, especially as I was the recipient of my cowboy's skill in separating the taxi from the other cars, shouting it into the lane in front of us, and persuading the driver to pull over to the right side of the road so I could mount, so to speak.

I was laughing too hard to discuss the fee: I handed the driver about 20 kuai (generous) and thanked him for his courtesy and kind help. The taxi driver grunted as I got in: I asked him if he was often accosted in that manner and he shrugged. "Who cares," he said, "As long as I get the fare."

World Peace and Other Anomalies

Some day I will be able to write freely about That Other Jobs I Have which involves listening to non-native English speakers speaking at great length about a variety of topics--few of their responses actually matching any of the prompts I give them. Well, when that day comes, I will share freely the joys the sitting with a serious expression  while someone informs me solemnly that they have "a god heart, "  the image of Jesus of the Sacred Heart leaping into my mind. As I've written before, I'm not supposed to admit I judge these contests, even though I appear annually on TV on one of the bigger events, but there you are: I spend an inordinate amount of time listening to people engage in  English-language debates while looking grave and interested in every utterance. I am a Phonic Whore, paid to look pleased and impressed while my mind is miles and miles away. David Moser--probably the most famous American in China right now--said it best when he said, "I sat with a straight face while a contestant spoke about his only desire--World Piss--for a full three minutes."  It was, no doubt, the hardest money he ever earned.

Books, Friends, Lack of Library

I have started to purge my library: I have waa---aaa-ay too many books for someone who moves as frequently as I do, and worse, they do no one any good if they just sit on a shelf. Books are like people, they need to move around and strut their stuff and work their magic across a community rather than sit at home unloved. The Ladies' Detective Agency series I'll bring to school and put on the book shelf for my students--no sex, good morals, lovely simple language--and there are others that can join them. However, there are some series I can't bear to break up or give away. For example, even if you took all the "fuck wits" out of any Jennifer Lancaster books, there's no way my students would comprehend ANY of it. A lot of the people I work with don't get it either, however excellent their English. I am deeply attached to the books for a variety of reasons--Bright Lights, Big Ass was my first Jen and I still remember buying it at a large chain book store, just tossing it into my basket at the last minute as part of a buy two, get one-half off deal. I don't even remember what the other two books were: I do remember giving a yelp of surprise and delight when I read the first paragraph: I felt like I was coming home. As divergent as my background, beliefs, and values are from the author's, I still had a connection with that marvelous sarcastic voice. I scooped up the other books as soon as I had access---hell, I WON a copy of "Pretty in Plaid" in a contest on Betty Confidential--and I am waiting for the next to hit my hot little hands. Give them up? You'll have to pry them out of my cold dead hands first.

My liberal, hippy, DINK vegetarian sister expressed it best: Jennifer Lancaster is the only Republican she'd ever have over for dinner. Considering what an exquisite chef my sister is--What, you homemade chapatis with fresh fig chutney from figs picked an hour ago from a tree in the garden? No problem!---this is high praise indeed. (To be fair, she usually just serves me Nachos.)

Then there's my Cheryl Peck: I have in my possession right now only one of her books. Revenge of The Paste Eatersis currently in possession of my mother. If you haven't read any of her books, you are missing out. Her explanation on where bad explanations comes from should have been read at my grandfather's funeral--it would have expressed so clearly why we all suffered the trauma of his god-awful responses. As adults, we realized the stress and strain he must have undergone living with my grandmother Totsy, but as kids, all we knew was NOT to ask his opinion on anything. If you haven't read Fat Girls and Lawn Chairs, you are missing out, that's all I'm saying. No one I know deserves this book, so it stays here.

Ah, Laurie R. King! When my friend Diana tried to give me the first of her Mary Russell novels I sneered. I SNEERED! I wasted two years of my life by not reading this book. Once I got over my snobbery (I was dating someone who belonged to an Arthur Conan Doyle society at the time, more's the pity) I was thrilled and haven't put the series down since. I did give away the Kate Martinelli series--somehow, I didn't warm up to that one, although they are beautifully written and plotted and keep me guessing 'til the end--but I am waiting, waiting, waiting, for the other book in the Folly line, and hoping another Russell novel comes along. I have, sadly, given away The Beekeeper's Apprentice to an unworthy bitch, the crazy Valerina (her opening line with anyone is, "I was abused as a child and I HATE China!") who later told me "I didn't get it." Uh, what didn't you get? "Why someone with all that money wore glasses when she could have had Lasik!"  (Hello, Anachronism! Goodbye, Common Sense!) Also unworthy: the house guest who took my copy of Sahara Special and never brought it back. If she had at least acknowledged what a fantastic book it was and sped it on its way to a new reader, I'd understand. As it is, I am fearful she tossed it.

My books are pets, friends, companions, teachers: I'd hate to think of any of them leaving my hands and ending up in a trash heap somewhere. I can't break up my Sweet Potato Queenseries, or wonderful Celia Rivenbark: I have to know that at the end of the day I can come home and dip into one and reassure myself that someone else on the planet thinks you should "Stop Dressing Your Six Year Old Like a Skank." 

Clearly, there's a reason I've chosen to hold on to these books: the protagonists are women of great strength of character, and I am in search of the same: large-hearted, funny, kind people. The authors are largely female, the lovely Alexander McCall Smith the lone male voice--but then again, he's writing chiefly from a woman's perspective, and a "traditionally built" woman of size as well. Good for him. The sacks of books I have to give away are full of deep pieces, Big Ass Prize Winners, lots of translations of Latin American authors, all of which I have enjoyed, and even wept over (Kite Runner, anyone?) but those that stay on the shelf are my home girls, my chorus, my (forgive the reference) Pieces of Me.  A note: there is a lending library here, the Book Worm, but it's too damn far away for me to visit regularly and the books are most annoying arranged: you have to push past patrons eating at tables to access the shelves where the books are stacked up in some order the logic of which escapes me...I am grateful it's there, but it's not a practical option for someone like me with limited time and even less patience. My dream job? Sitting somewhere and reading and then telling everyone what I read...in theory, as I used to teach literature (and have better literary terms up my sleeve than "lovely", such as "verisimilitude") this would seem a perfect fit, but in truth, if you're teaching a bunch of snotty sophomores The Secret Diary of Adrian Mole for an entire term and come final exam time, they still haven't cracked upon the damn book and write their final paper on "A Drain and a Mole" it's not quite the same thing as reading, writing, discussing, and then moving on to the next paper delight.

I must be feeling rebellious: I didn't italicize or underline a single title. Naughty.

Thanksgivings

Another Thanksgiving spent here..this time, instead of ignoring the holiday (which I don't have off) or going to an all-you-can-eat buffet at a hotel with friends, or microwaving stuffing and boiling a chicken at home, I went to the home of friends. When I finished teaching at 3:30 I jumped into a taxi and had a snooze while on route to the opposite side of the city--from SE Beijing to NW. Ah--delightful, particularly as I was listening to Gleeful Podcast on my iPod. I am stuffed--so nice to see old friends, and especially those who set a traditional and bountiful table. Menu: roast turkey, stuffing, gravy, corn, a mixed vegetable cold salad (think Waldorf salad with crunchy steamed broccoli) mashed potatoes, mashed sweet potatoes with a pecan crust, salad, and two types of cranberry sauce, the whole jellied mess still in traditional can form, and the whole berry type. Don't ask about the desserts--nine variations of chocolate, cheesecake, and pumpkin goodness.  No worry about the vegetarian dish, no screwing around with "but we GOTTA have that overcooked stinky brussel sprouts!" It was a miracle--plenty of food, beautifully cooked and served, and no extraneous dishes like my grandmother's chutney salad (which she insisted on pronouncing "Choot-ny." If corrected, she'd sniff and snip back at you, "Sounds better that way!")

On the way out--as I went down the six flights of stairs trailing behind a young and nauseatingly nice, in love couple with three small children (I was the back-up in case anyone dropped a shoe or a rattle) I got all teary-eyed. They are truly nice people with a nice happy family and they're both spectacularly great parents. He is one of the most tender, in-tune, take-charge Daddies I have ever seen and I felt my heart swell and burst with gratitude that Daddies like this existed. I love my father but he made it very clear when we were small that he despised small children---especially those who made noise, made demands on Mom, or who crossed his line of vision. His outlook did not much improve as we got older, although as adults he doesn't despise us totally, and he is, without a doubt, the World's Best Grandpa, as loving and kind to his granddaughter as is humanly possible--but still---this is not the experience of fathering I had, and it is not the experience of fathering my daughter had. In that moment of heart-swelling, or heart-expansion, or raised consciousness, or whatever you can call it, sure, there was a twinge of grief for myself and my daughter, and also for my parents because THEY didn't experience fathering like that, but overall, a feeling of relief to see the love so patiently applied. Sometimes you don't have to be the recipient of love to be its beneficiary. I can read by a light which was flipped  for someone else, after all.

I am grateful for my friends: I am grateful for my enemies, of which I do have a few. (The bastards.) I am grateful for the challenges thrown at me--way more than most people born into my situation would have, but manageable. My daughter is healthy, smart, and being educated, and when I leave this world she'll have the resources of inner strength, intelligence, and kindness to carry her forward. I'm even grateful for that drunken text message from The Rose at 1:36 a.m Now let's see if this feeling of gratitude lasts the day through--I have to teach my toughest group this morning and it would serve them right if I lay down on the floor, pretended it was my grandmother's green and gold press-apply shag carpet, and took a long Thanksgiving nap, replete with turkey and gratitude quickly turning lukewarm and lumpy.

Error

Ever make a mistake at work that is so jaw-droppingly awful that you can't believe you did it? It's bad enough when YOU are the one who catches it: far worse when it's your boss's boss's boss...such a thing happened to me today, twice. Yes, twice: once for each job. I think the moon must be in feces or something. I will of course deal with the consequences but still---OUCH! Will not curl up on the sofa in fetal position and frantically stuff Tim Tams down my throat--will NOT curl up on the sofa in fetal position and frantically stuff Tim Tams down my throat--will take dogs for nice long walk and cook a healthy meal but still---OUCH!

Bag It Yourself

The local Carrefour hit a new low, one I did not know was possible. To my surprise and delight, there was no one in line at the cash registers and there were even TWO cashiers there, one to ring up, and one, I reasoned, to bag. The local Carrefour is especially deficient in courtesy and common sense--for example, people form ONE queue for FOUR cash registers which are jammed together so tightly there's no room to bag the groceries-- but I thought hey, no line, TWO cashiers, this could go well. I placed my items on the tiny lap-top-computer size shelf to be rung up by Cashier Number One: she scanned each item and handed it to Cashier Number Two, who held the two grocery bags I had purchased. I thought--being a reasonable person accustomed to some form of customer service, no matter how cursory--that Cashier Number Two was placing my items in the bags. No. When I finished putting my items up on the tiny shelf (not even a conveyor belt, thank you very much) I discovered that Cashier Number Two had put a shopping basket INSIDE MY CART and had simply thrown my groceries into the shopping basket--and the cart--willy nilly, with the two shopping bags thoughtfully placed on the bottom underneath the bacon, eggs, sugar, toilet paper, eight plastic buckets, four dozen doughnuts (par-TAY!) and other assorted items. I squawked a bit--where the HELL was I supposed to repack this shit? After all, the end of the check-out line was the hall connecting the store to the rest of the mall. No tables or surfaces were provided. I was supposed to burrow down past all of those groceries, retrieve the bags, and reposition all the groceries into the bag from the bottom of the cart WHILE  STILL STANDING IN THE LINE. Uh, Chinese people? You know something? You're the people who stand in the middle of a doorway of a crowded store and check the time on your cell phone--or pause at the top of a moving escalator to send a text message--or block the entrance to an airplane with your sudden need to pull out a piece of toilet tissue from the far reaches of your wallet. Well, you frickin' geniuses of time and motion study need to know this: a person cannot BAG THEIR OWN GROCERIES AT ONE END OF THE LANE WHILE THEY ARE STILL PUTTING THEM ON THE SHELF FOR THE CASHIER TO RING UP, PARTICULARLY IF YOU WANT THAT PERSON TO PAY FOR THEM AS WELL. Cashier Number Two? You're full of shit. Would it have killed you to place the items IN the bag, instead of dropping the eggs on top of the loaves of bread and thoughtfully dropping the bags of sugar on top of them all? Frustration, thy name is bored worker from Hell.

True Confessions (Family Members, for God's Sake Don't Read This)

I've never gone commando on a glass-bottom boat, but I have done something just as bad. My friend Juju bumped into me today at Mysterious Job That I'm Not Allowed to Write About Number Two (so to speak) and whispered a tale of horror to me: evidently she went to a going-away party for a co-worker which inadvertently turned into a wake for another co-worker who had been buried the day before. There she was in a red sparkly top, ready to launch a colleague off into the wilds of China, when she was seated at a table full of dour-looking people who were, she quickly learned, the relatives of the deceased who had heard about the 'do and had assumed it was send-off for their dear departed--rather than a send-off for a colleague who was not headed Upstairs but down South, as in "Guangzhou,"  not as in "Hell."  (Same difference, if you ask me: I don't want to be anywhere hot enough to grow bananas, but I digress.) She fortuitously had brought along a black blazer and she grimly kept it on while people told soft sad stories about the deceased. She kept the bottle of Moet tucked away in her handbag and slipped it into the hand of the colleague just before she left.
"Worse thing ever!" she said. "I sat at this table and was saying, 'Hey, everybody, why the long faces, it's not like we'll never see him again' and then someone on my left kicked me and whispered, 'Shut up, you're sitting next to the wife of the colleague who was BURIED yesterday!' "

This reminded me mightily of something that happened to me years ago which truly outshone her experience in awfulness, and being a sweet person, I told her my story. Big Daddy, Sissy, Lulu, if you are reading, STOP NOW!!!!!

I'm from a small-ish city and I went to university in small towns, hence a few details will be changed. The long and the short of it: many years ago I had a brief and very sweet affair with an older man--not a colleague, and not a professor of mine. He was smart, sophisticated, very funny, and really supportive of me and my collection of neurosis. We had a very short fling and then as usual I finished what I was doing in the US and packed up my stuff and returned to China. I figured we may--or may not--see each other again. I didn't have email at the time--or even a computer that worked--and I moved a bit so I wasn't surprised by not hearing from him. I took the good from it and moved on and as time passed I dusted the memory off and felt happy to have known this nice, nice man. Well, after a few years I did get a computer and had email again and lo and behold, I received an email from him asking if this person was indeed me...it was. We corresponded a few times, progressively intimate and sweet emails, and agreed to meet when I came back for summer vacation. His last email was unmistakably flirtatious and we set up a lunch date with a promise of, shall we say, more to come...I flew home, took a nap, went to the beauty parlor, borrowed a car, and drove to his office.

There I was, clad in his favorite color (pink) with my hair freshly blonded looking like I just fell off the top of a Christmas tree...and there were all these people in and around his office, some openly weeping, some red-eyed, a few white-faced. I walked up to the receptionist's desk and said, "What the hell?" and was immediately cut off by a familiar voice saying, "Zanne? Zanne, is that you?" I turned around to see the guy I had a HUGE crush on in school. He had obviously been crying and was very confused to see me. I was equally stunned. I had not seen him since that summer night in the 80's when we graduated and I barely recognized him. Something in my head went bong-bong-bong--something was not right. People were leaving and I was staring at this man, and he was staring at me, and after a long time he pursed his lips and said, "Well, I see you must have known my father." Ah---so THAT'S why they had the same last name!

Ok, it gets worse. At the funeral--actually, just a memorial service--I noticed quite a few women staring daggers at one another. Many were dressed in the same shade of pink that I was wearing (although I guessed they hadn't just had a wax and were probably wearing panties) and all of us were of a type--short, snub-nosed, golden haired, with knockers. I was somewhat relieved to see I wasn't the eldest. One of the speakers at the funeral--excuse me, memorial service--mentioned The Deceased's dedication to the feminist movement and I thought for a moment I would laugh. Various jokes in extremely bad taste about stiffness etc ran through my head--but through it all, a profound feeling of gratitude for having known this lovely man. There was no way I could lean over and tell his son--the one I had SUCH a crush on in school-- that his dad had been the nicest lover I had ever had, the one by whom I set the bar, but it has occurred to me that really, this was the most comforting and kindest thing I could have said. I've never met anyone who appreciated me in quite the same way. I know that, had he been there, he would have been rolling in the aisles at the delightful inappropriateness of it all--my groomed and naughty self with her empty stomach and fierce jet lag, the clones I sat with, the sidelong looks and pursed lips among his groupies--in the wildly horrible setting of rampant grief.

In the midst of life we are in death and as he once said, sometimes in the midst of tragedy we stumble upon something so damned funny that we just have to laugh.

I finished telling this story to Juju and mentioned that I would post it later. She said, "I shouldn't admit this, but your story was WORSE than mine and I feel a LOT better!" Well, that's what I'm here for, babe: I live to serve.

Antici----SAY IT!!!! --- pation

I seldom write about my mother, not because she reads this blog (trust me, she doesn't) but rather from the fear that she'll hear about something I wrote about a woman, ANY woman, and think I mean her. I could write about the alcoholic neighbor we once had who named her children after the tipple she imbibed in during her pregancy (Meet the girls: Whisky, Brandy, Sherry, and oh, the little boy there in the corner's Drambuie) and somehow my mother would twist this into an attack on her. Mom is one of the most determinedly kind people on the planet, and it kills me not to write about her, but there you go. Today I'm breaking the rule and writing about one of her traits, one that drives me insane and which I have tried to rid myself of, the inability to answer a simple question simply.

An example: I will, on my rare trips home, ask my mother if the mail has arrived yet. Her head snaps back, and shakes from side to side. Words begin to form on her lips: her eyes dart back and forth. Finally she draws a deep breath, licks her lips, and begins her verbal assault. It usually goes like this: "WELL, I was in the back yard and The Fatties' dogs were barking and I thought, HELL, I should just tell Big Fatty that it was her OTHER daughter that called the cops on her for sanitary violations and not me, and did I tell you the one who lives with her is gay, but the friend she has living with them is NOT, which is interesting, they're just friends and there's nothing going on or Big Fatty would have noticed and trust me, she would have told me. So, I was in the back yard, and we have ants. Again. Why we pay an exterminator, I'll never know. This house was built on a giant ant hill." At this point I break into the tirade with a gentle, "The mail?" and she replies, "It's usually junk or sometimes packages for you come but usually UPS and the driver leaves them with the Kings." I then scream, "HAS THE MAIL ARRIVED?" and my mother gets offended and says, "I was telling you about that." I then lose it and stomp out to the mail box to see if anything's there and she follows at my heels saying, "I told you about it already." Nothing is in the mail box which means either it hasn't come, or else Mom got there first and put the mail "somewhere safe" in that happy place where she hides things which never re-emerge into the light of day.

"For fuck's sake, " I snap, "Did the mail COME or NOT?" She draws herself up to her full height of five foot two--still taller than I am, and positively towering over Lulu--and she says in  very hurt, dignified  pure-WASP tones, "I told you, I don't know, I was in the back yard."

The mail is a sensitive subject for me. My parents serve as my US or permanent address and things of importance--teaching license, for example--- are sent there. However, my parents worry about the safety of these articles, and Mom will get crafty and "hide" something so "thieves won't find it." Since they never leave the house and Dad doesn't sleep except in a recliner during the day in front of the TV, the chances of a break-in are minimal. What the hell a thief would want with a teacher's certificate is beyond me. Still, she protects me, and hides the mail. Sadly, she doesn't remember where she hides it,  exacting revenge on me for the time I was four and hid the key to the freezer, thus forcing the family to go vegetarian for a month until they figured out a way to spring the 60 pounds of ground beef in frozen exile at the back of the garage. When I do go back "home" I spend a lot of time on the phone with call centers in Bangalore, having a conversation that goes roughly like this:

Rajeesh: Hello, Ma'am, my name is Rajeesh and I am with Global Credit Financial Services. How may I help you?

Me: Hello, Rajeesh, it's Zanne.

Rajeesh: Oh, Miss Zanne, did your mother hide your new credit card again?

Me: Yes. (Sigh.) I gave her the tumeric-coated pickles like you told me but it's not helping. Hey, do you need my security code so you can issue me a new card?

Rajeesh: It's already on the way. Try to beat your mother to the mail box this time, will you?

Me: You're on. Thanks, doll baby.

Rajeesh: My pleasure. Try to relax, you're only there for a few days! Chill. Thank you for using Global Credit Financial Services, and have a good day.

A note: last week I received a call from a dear friend in India and after I got off the phone I started to laugh: it's probably the first time a credit-card holder/abuser has RECEIVED a call from Bangalore.

If you ask me if I love my mother, I can answer quite simply "Yes." But if you ask me how I am, you may well receive the rambling, "Well, after the dogs ate my brioche that I left on the table and got wired off the caffeine because it was dipped in coffee before I went to answer the phone..."     Genetic? Environmental? The desperate subconscious plea of someone who doesn't get to talk enough with rational human beings? You tell me. I am, after all, very much my mother's daughter.

The Cat's on the Roof and She Won't Come Down

It was Lulu's birthday last week and I dutifully called, hoping she was having a good time and yet hoping also for a chat. I got the best of motherhood thrown in my face when she hissed into the receiver, "I'm WITH people at a restaurant and I CAN'T TALK!" I tried to pin down a time to talk and she said something along the lines of "Later, whatEVER," and I rang off feeling old and sad. There are times when I feel my age and position most keenly--hello, rapid aging in a foreign country!--and times when it rests lightly. Trust me, it wasn't resting lightly on me. I called her back the next day--there was a quick conversation. There was no usual daily email from Sissy, and the usual silence from Dad. I felt odd, and wanted to call home, and yet I didn't, I didn't want to make some sad call home just because my precious baby girl was spending her first birthday ever away from me. (Folks, I know: she's 19.)

  Then, on Tuesday, I received an email from Dad stating he had had but yet another heart attack and had a procedure over the weekend--"Roto-Rootered" as he put it. My whole family, including Lulu, knew but decided not to upset me. Lulu's not able to keep anything from me, which explains her terse attitude and her decision to get off the phone as quickly as possible. My brother in law, the magnificent Miguel, argued in favor of telling me, but Dad convinced him not to say anything. (Considering the hot water he landed in when he told another family member about one of Dad's other trips to the ER, he wisely folded.)

I feel odd about the whole thing: Dad's ticker is largely dead tissue and he could go at any time--or he could live to be in his 90's like HIS father. Dad's only 76, one of those tall thin people with killer legs (which my sister inherited) who didn't have a weight problem until AFTER his first heart attack. But hear me out--I'm glad the thought of "sparing" me meant sparing them, but on the other hand, due to this Living-In-China thing I have missed the following: my sister's wedding, the death of my darling grandfather and the subsequent wake, the death of my less-than-darling-but-still-missed grandmother, the unexpected death of our dear friend Elaine, my mother's 75th birthday (although I sent her best friend a ticket to be there for the event when I could not be) the passing of my great-Aunts Bess and Mary, who were the kind loving people my grandmother was not...do you get the idea? I go home for vacation and the first day I ask, "Where's so-and-so?" and everybody starts crying and saying "She died the week after your last visit but we didn't want to tell you!" and they've moved past their grief and I'm just entering it. (Some v-kay, eh?)

Plus, I kind of hate to mention this, what with the holiday season coming up, but my family ALWAYS die or have heart attacks or trips to the ER on major holidays. One year at Easter, and I am not kidding when I say this, my grandfather had a trip to the hospital for Congestive Heart Failure. He was out just in time for my father to have a major heart attack on Father's Day. A few days after HE got out of the hospital, he capped off the Fourth of July with a truly spectacular second heart attack to be followed by a quadruple by-pass.  Hearts were popping like champagne corks that year...Labor Day saw Dad back in the hospital, Grandma's birthday saw her in the ER, my birthday saw Grandpa back in the ER for CHF, and then Dad topped it all off by slicing off part of his thumb for Halloween. (Quite a trick for the neighborhood kiddies.)  I could go on: Grandpa died on Halloween (it's also the birthday of my lesbian niece, as well as my great-grandparent's wedding anniversary, two other stories entirely) and of course, when did Daddy have his heart attack? Lulu's birthday. Because that's what every girl wants, calling her grandfather on her birthday and hoping to God that this man who has been the only father figure she has pulls through but yet another surgery. The fact it was Veteran's Day also puts paid to that. (Daddy was a Navy man and served in two "conflicts.")

It's Thanksgiving next week: usually one of us is in the ER for something on that day, like a wad of toilet paper stuck against an eardrum (it was me and no, don't ask) or a slip of the carving knife or rather spectacularly one year, a broken toe from kicking a soccer ball barefoot through a plate glass window---and I'm hoping if I don't celebrate, if I don't bring a pie to work, if I just hunker down and do my job and if my students aren't crying from my bitch tongue by five, perhaps this means Daddy will be all right, and I'll only have to hold my breath through Hanukkah and Christmas and New Year's and...

If he's sick, tell me. You know the old joke about "The cat's on the roof?" So true. Right now my six-year-old friend is recovering from leukemia, my friend Gill is back in chemo, another two friends are pregnant.  Life goes on. Shit happens. Dad, I want to spare you worry and grief, but I'd rather know and hope and grieve in real time  than to be told after the fact. Who else is waiting to tell me something?

  

Post Script: When I fell through my sliding glass door onto my balcony, it was on Saint Patrick's Day, three years after I first wrote this post...

Quick Note: How To End The Date You Didn't Want as a Date

This is a tip from my gorgeous sister's swinging bachelorette days. She's happily married now to the Magnificent Miguel, so I think it's safe to divulge this one (which, incidentally, she never used on him. We know a keeper when we see one.)

Say there's a guy. You like him, but he's not boyfriend material (for whatever reason.) You enjoy his company, you just don't want him to stay over. You don't want any scenes, and you're hoping he DOESN'T make a move. (I've never had this problem, but then again, I never dated like my sister did.)

Here's what you do: instead of a big fancy date that almost promises a struggle along the line somehow (if not a struggle, then Frank Talk) invite him over to dinner instead. Then feed him  gas-enducing food. Since Sissy is a vegetarian, that means pretty much anything in her normal repertoire would do. A meal of Lentil Loaf, whole wheat bread, curried black bean pate, homemade beer, followed by home made ice cream, is enough to make most men run to the hills, if not further. They seldom make it through the last spoonful of ice cream before grabbing their coats and running out the door to vent in the truck (or in Portland Oregon, a racing bike.) Sissy sits in a romantic pool of candlelight, a seraphic smile on her Mona Lisa lips, serene in the knowledge that by bolting out the door the man has pretty much sealed the lid on the Just Friends pact, and she never had to say a word.

As for me--well, I've never tried this myself but I must say I understand that it could work very well.

Killer Curried Cauliflower

I think I've posted this recipe before, but I am re-posting. First of all, this is delicious. Second of all, it is incredibly good for you, fighting cancer and inflammation and being practically the lowest-calorie delicious food on the planet.

Break up a head of cauliflower into florets and boil with several tablespoons of curry powder until it's done crisp-tender (slightly mushy if you want to make it into dip.)  Drain thoroughly, then marinate in a homemade French dressing for several hours in the fridge. Overnight is better. Toss occasionally to ensure the dressing saturates each piece. Serve cold.

My French dressing consists of olive oil, red wine vinegar, garlic, salt, mustard, a good pinch of sugar, and whatever herbs I feel like using. Some like a 1:2 vinegar to olive oil ratio. It's different for me every time, depending on what type of curry I used and the age of the cauliflower. If you cooked the cauliflower to the well-done or semi-mushy stage, whirl it in your blender for a moment or two after draining off the marinade and you have a delicious low-fat dip which is also a good sandwich spread. (No kidding.) Otherwise, drain and serve. You may have to stand back as even people who don't like cauliflower or curry will dive for these bright yellow gobs of goodness.

The tumeric fights arthritis and inflammation and evidently is pretty potent in knocking the onset of Alzheimer's to the curb. Olive oil may help to reduce cholesterol. Cauliflower is a cruciferous vegetable that fights cancer. Garlic is good for everything. I sometimes add small chunks of carrots to the marinade as well as currants as I think it looks pretty and they taste delicious, but some object. Oh, yes: red pepper flakes. Those are good too, especially if you make this dish to be served with ice-cold beer.

Epiphany: Sight, Taste, Sound

I've had moments of clarity, moments of perfection, where my senses perceived the rightness of something and were overwhelmed by sheer beauty and balance of the thing itself that I was momentarily lost--and yet, somehow, more myself than other. You can call it a Zen experience, I suppose, but that doesn't quite cover it.

The first was a visual experience. I was at a friend's house for a bachelorette party: about 16 years ago something kept drawing me out of the room where we were blowing up naughty balloons into a quiet study. I was directed, as it were, while something in my chest went boing-boing-boing. On the wall, a simple print by Dali, a musician blowing a horn, sweet notes dangling mid-air. It was perfect: the notes seemed to swim and dance (as real as anything you'd see on TV, as I thought) and I was stunned. My friend mentioned casually they had bought it at auction and it was purported to be "real"---ie, a print made by Dali himself and not of the goon printing companies that mass produced his work.

The second experience was one of taste: ten years ago I was mid-relationship (or mid-break up) with an Old Friend Turned New Flame and it wasn't going well. I left him in the US and flew home to China to start a new job. My daughter was appearing in a TV show that week and I camped out at the hotel with her at night and went to the new job during the day. One morning at breakfast I was served a dish of green beans cooked Chinese style with soy sauce and strips of fatty bacon. The dish was perfectly cooked, perfectly seasoned: my mouth recognized immediately that I was in the presence of something without fault. Each bite was a revelation of perfect balance, and a wave of misery washed over me. This dish was without flaw, the real deal, simple but right, and my relationship--tortured, made-over, largely a thing of conversation and long-distance longing, was a sham. It was shite: it was false. This dish was what it should be, and that relationship could never hope to be anything but tawdry and shopworn at best. I knew then that it was over, and the misery was compounded by the thought that I had lost my friend in the process: a foodie like me, I knew I couldn't share the green beans, that moment of stillness and perfection, with him. He wouldn't want to hear it, all he wanted to hear was my declaration that he was nothing to me when indeed he was far too much...I have not eaten green beans since: even to look at them brings that wave of misery and sadness.

The third experience was auditory, and not as strong as the first two. In fact, I hesitate to put it into this category, except that it was a moment of delight if not perhaps perfection. Several weeks ago I went to a concert at the Forbidden City Concert Hall for a concert by the International Chorus Festival (or is it the International Festival Choir? I forget.) All I can say is this: I expected something very good, but I was blown away by the sweetness and perfection of the first piece. I was sitting next to a drunk who had been spitting over the edge of the balcony and shouting rude things about the conductor's sexuality, and even that asshole shut up. The first piece passed in what seemed like seconds. I detected no flaws (and wouldn't be able to anyway, except for the most obvious). But it's the first 30 or so bars that I remember clearly--so balanced, so in tune, so sweet. It was a lovely moment. 

Ironically, I bumped into the conductor last week at Jenny Lou's. I was wearing scruffy clothes and had wet hair and no make-up: he was shopping with his buttoned-down "don't approach me" look. (Ah, that look, appropriated by many a celebrity: for all his faults, The Rose does not have it.) I was tempted to walk up and say, "Nick, that concert was tremendous," but I hesitated. For one thing, turning down an aisle, I literally bumped into the man, and the look of shock and horror on his face was enough to keep me silent. We are acquainted, I sang under him for two years some time ago, and we were neighbors in the same compound--having spoken to one another using first names for quite some time, you'd think I felt comfortable giving this man honest praise. I was: but I was also aware that he did not want to hear anything from me (lipstick or no.) How sad is it when an artist doesn't want praise from anyone they consider unworthy. Worse, the more I attempted to avoid him in the shop, the more often I ran into him. I finally headed for the check out line and guess who was in front of me...I put my stuff on the check stand, stone-faced, and looked away.

So there they are: perfect visual, perfect taste (and smell, really, which is the largest part of taste) and perfect sound experience. If I'm lucky enough I suppose the next will be a perfect sense of touch:  silk? Cashmere? The touch of my godson's apple-like cheek? Have I ever created anything that was perfect, or gave anyone the sensation of perfection? Has anyone ever breathed in me and found something that resonated in their own soul? Has anyone else felt this--they must have, we must all have that experience, that Zen of recognizing rightness and feeling it call to your spirit.

Rock of Love

China is a place full of contradictions: for example, Facebook is blocked, but you can watch free porn on R#$ Tube (name slightly scrambled so no one googling it will be directed here.) In fact, if you are, like me, a parent concerned with exactly what sort of crap your child can expose herself to through the internet, you may well be horrified to learn that you can access ALL of R#$ Tube through the local internet even though your computer is turned on to "safe search." Even in China.

Not being that familiar with porn in this progressive age, I decided to look at the content of "amateur" porn, figuring it would be badly-shot home camera images of faintly unattractive people humping on sad-looking bedspreads. Oh, sadly, that was right to a tiny percentage, but what I found was far, far worse.

First of all, the sort of porn on R^& Tube is often violent and very abusive. The majority of the titles of the flicks were of the "Stupid Whore Gets Damaged Severely in Highly Sensitive Area" genre, eg, Bitch Gets Wrecked in Three Holes. That's a mild example: most followed the pattern of  (Bad name for Women or for Women's Genitalia) Gets (Receives the Abusive Action of Some Thing or Some Other Person) in  (Name of Body Part). Categories include Asian, Big Titted, Lesbian, Gay, MILF, Granny, Japanese (isn't that a subgenre of Asian?) Hentai (ugh, Japanese animated) and Barely 18 and Wrecked. I kid you not. Note: in not one of the categories save Gay were the MEN referred to--and even then it had the honorific of "Gay" as opposed to, say, "Fudge Packing Faggots."

Second, production values varied. Some of the German porn, for example, was indeed the grainy hand-held camera with bad lighting and might I add extremely unattractive lumpy-looking people, usually two chubby men and a woman who looked less than happy to be there. Some of the videos on offer featured very lovely people, beautifully made up and with exquisite lighting and camera work. Most were fairly standard, an ok set, ok lighting.  As for the people--the American porn tended to use male actors who were clearly recruits off a freshly docked Naval ship ready to earn some cash while on shore leave (and definitely not of the officer class.) Most had tattoos, were pierced, and had enormous members made preternaturally stiff with the use of pharmaceutical  enhancements--trust me, no lover that bad lasts that long (although it may seem like it at the time.) As for the women---the lower the quality of the video overall, the less attractive the woman. As the Rose put it, "The longer the nails, the bigger the skank." Fake nails of the talon variety seemed to be the lower-middle class version of "classy" and I watched in horror as skanks sank their  Lee Press-On Nails into one another's most tender bits. Ouch. Plus--and this is the former nurse in me--the HYGIENE, people! Many of the women were in real pain, which is no turn on. In fact, most of the "grunts of pleasure" I recognized as signs of extreme discomfort and real anguish, particularly in the younger women. The louder they yelled, the more bruises on their bodies, an indication perhaps of what was really going on behind the scenes. I will comment on couple of girl-on-girl sequences which featured tasteful French manicures and overall excellent hygiene, but they were few and far between.

I won't comment on the "sex slave" stuff--I was horrified beyond belief to see one of the sweetest-looking young girls I have ever seen dressed in chain performing miserably on her "boyfriend" in what was clearly their house, one that was painfully clean and tidy, furnished with the most basic of cheap goods. What was she running from, I thought, that made THIS a viable alternative? Many of the "slave" scenarios were carefully scripted and clearly part of a larger pay-per-view but a few seemed to be homemade by stupid jerks who had no idea of normalcy.

As for the plots---people, I have said it time and time again. For women, Sperm is The Enemy. Bukkake is a male fantasy. Shooting your wad on your partner is yucky and not sexy. Women do NOT like to use it as face cream. I have never sat by a pool playing with three dildos and wishing I had a REAL man. I have never had a friend over and confessed that I've never had a Lesbian Love Fest and could she help me out. As for the anal stuff--I can't believe how standard this seems to be. In fact, the money guru I read on MSN once wrote casually about how she had a boyfriend who wanted to try it and "so she added anal to her repertoire." Oh God--talk about your dirty money. I cannot read her financial advice now without thinking, "Yeah, but you take it up the a##." This is hardly empowering all the women struggling to get ahead in business now, is it?

Maybe truth is the ultimate weapon to empower ourselves. Maybe these people who are setting up their home cameras and recording themselves are just trying to capture a moment for posterity. Well, let them. Screw it. I don't have to watch. As for the professional film makers, they're out to made a buck. So what' s the harm?

Well, as a woman, there was little there I found uplifting, gratifying, or educational. I felt dirty, disliking to see my gender as a whole reduced to--well, a hole. (Or even three.) Second, the basic biological facts were ignored--women do not continue to have orgasms once the stimulus is taken away. You stop, they stop: they don't continue  to writhe shouting "MMMMM, yeah, baby" for half a minute while being flipped into but yet another silly but camera-friendly position. Third, I have never fantasized about ANY of the content I found there. I've never, ever used a dildo, much less pulled it out and licked one. A gay friend of mine confided that what turned her off about lesbian porn the most was the emphasis placed on two women licking a dildo at the same time. "As if!" she huffed, and couldn't understand why I laughed in agreement.

The real harm in pornography, I think is two fold: first of all, a lot of teenagers or sexually inexperienced people access porn for information, and they're shown an unrealistic and graphic depiction of something far more akin to rape than lovemaking. It's not exactly conveying the mystery and beauty of intercourse as communication, as love, or even as a biological function. It's violent image of women as holes, whores, hos, and bitches is as unacceptable to me as referring to our current political leader as a --well, you know, the N word.  Second, it's far too easy to access, and yet  impossible to control. Part of the advertising on this particular site has some of the most disturbing visuals I have ever seen, pornographic images of cartoon characters (Family Guy, Shrek, the Flintstones) actively engaged in intercourse complete with monster-sized genitalia. One of the first things I learned in Psych is that a child being groomed by a pedophile is often shown this type of material in an effort to convince the child that this is normal--if Shrek does it, so can s/he. Here's my thought: by looking at the site which advertises this link, do I somehow encourage the site to keep this link up? (Under no circumstances would I ever click on it.)

However, did I learn anything? Yes; there are a few "pornographic" videos which I found interesting and educational and not offensive. They may have been explicit in content but they focused on communication, love, trust, technique. I'm not particularly offended by anyone's genitalia on the screen but I prefer not to have terms thrown around like the C-word unless I'm using it to describe my sister-in-law. A video of a man performing a Tantric Yoni Massage with Oil on his partner, while extremely explicit, does not offend me. God knows I wish some of the men I've known had bothered to model themselves on this, rather than the "Give it to me you stupid bitch" school of love. I adore my godson and I hope he never has to turn to the internet for information or stimulation but given the prevalence of the Net in our lives, if he DOES look there, I hope he finds something natural, kind, and loving: yoni massage, rather than GlassA#$ dot com.

Beijing Calzone

Do yourself a favor: run down to  Carrefour or Wu Mei or whatever big-ass store is in your area, and get one of their slow-cookers, or what Yanks call "Crock Pots." Get the local version--about 200 kuai--that features a terra-cotta bowl and cover that can be lifted out for washing.

You now have a clay oven for baking cake, bread, tandoori chicken, and killer calzone.

If you turn that little thing up to the maximum temperature and let it heat for an hour, you produce a clay oven of about 450 degrees F, perfect for calzone. Preheated, a slow cooker can cook a calzone in about 15 minutes. If you start out cold, it's going to take at least an hour.

Calzone is dead easy to make: if you don't feel like messing around with making a simple yeast dough, you can sometimes buy pre-made pate brise at Carrefour or Jenny Lou's. Fill with whatever you like--we like chopped fresh tomatoes, feta cheese, and olives, but will settle for pizza sauce (tomato paste, herbs, and a bit of wine vinegar) and fresh mozarella, plus whatever cooked veggies we have on hand. Pie dough will do in a pinch. Throw on a piece of baking parchment if you like, or rub a bit of olive oil on it and place in the Crock Pot. Cover, and do not peek, for at least 12 minutes, or until it smells delicious and the scent of baking bread fills your home. Remove cautiously. I once dropped a finished calzone on the floor and we ate it anyway, scooping up the top and the filling with spoons. Sadly, with two doggies in the house, I doubt I'd have time to squat down before they pounced on it and polished it off.

If you don't feel like doing Calzone, throw some herbs and olive oil into the Crock Pot. throw on one of those pizza bases (thick, white, flabby) available at Jenny Lou's, toss on the toppings, then close the lid. Open when it smells delicious. The oil will brown the bottom of the crust and make the whole thing taste ten times better than if you simple nuked it until the cheese melted. If you can't wait for the Crock Pot to heat up then throw your pizza base into a skillet with good olive oil and some herbs and fry crispy-golden on both sides--slide onto a microwaveable plate, put your toppings on, and nuke until the cheese bubbles. It takes the curse off, but it's just not quite as tasty as the Calzone.

I actually had curry for dinner tonight but I am dreaming of Calzone. My other ayi--not the one who looks like Oprah--broke the lid to my Crock Pot and other lids just aren't quite the same. I may break down and buy a whole new Crock Pot but my heart objects (as does my wallet.) I'm also messing around with a good recipe for Poutine, one with local ingredients, but using mozzarella instead of curds just isn't quite the same. Haloumi? And what about the gravy? Plus, how many of you wanna mess around with home-make French fries? Perhaps my recipe will begin with, "Get one big bag of fries at McDonalds..."

One-bowl Microwave Cake: Totally Do-able in Beijing

Well, here is it, one of the famous cake recipes. This is not THE four-ingredient cake I've been talking about--I'm still messing about with the proportions--but this is simple enough, and no, you don't need anything special like an egg beater, or Pam cooking spray, or much of anything to make this simple and satisfying cake. It's moist, it's tasty, it tends to be solid but not dry and horrible. I don't care much for frosting on cakes, so I like to make this up in any of the flavors listed below, and eat it hot out of the oven, or toast slices for tea.

  Recipe: Take that microwave rice cooker that came with your microwave and use the bowl. If you don't have one, any good-sized microwaveable plastic bowl will do. Melt 1/2 cup butter in the microwave under low power.  After it has melted, let it cool FOR AT LEAST THREE MINUTES before dumping in other ingredients. If you don't wait for it to cook, your cake will be heavy and dry. Ugh. When it's fairly cool, slosh it around the inside of the bowl. Voila, you have just eliminated the need to grease and flour a pan. Stir in one cup of sugar, a teaspoon of vanilla (or brandy, or Kirsch, or what have you) and beat for a minute or two by hand. Stir in two raw eggs (white and yolks) and mix well. Now add 1/2 cup milk, mixing in very well. Add about 1/4 teaspoon salt, 1 1/2 cups flour, and 1 1/2 teaspoons baking powder. Mix gently. If you want to add flaked coconut, or chocolate chips, or nuts, stir them in very gently. Don't over mix. Once you stop sampling the batter, shove into the microwave, reset the power for "high" and nuke for five minutes. The top will be not-quite-done in one or two small places (about the size of a nickel) if you're using the usual cheap Chinese microwave. That's ok. It finishes cooking for a few minutes after coming out of the microwave, and if there are any gummy spots on the top, you can wipe them off with a knife. Try to let it cool a bit before tucking in. I can mix this up in five minutes flat--including the mandatory three-minute cooling period--and when the scent of the cooking cake wafts through the house, the dogs come running and wait expectantly by the kitchen floor, desperate for their share.

You can add so many things to this to change the flavor: for example, use the locally produced Red Sugar with Ginger (brown sugar with ginger to us) to make a simple Gingerbread (I'd add some cinnamon and cloves, too, and maybe some of those Cointreau-soaked raisins I keep in the fridge, but that's just me.)

Melt two squares of chocolate with the butter for a lovely chocolate cake, or replace three tablespoons of the flour with cocoa. You can make this a Coca-Cola cake by using the cocoa as directed above and also replacing the milk with an equal amount (1/2 cup) of Coke. I'm not fond of Coca-Cola Cake, which usually has marshmallows strewn across the top before baking, but I have a friend who likes it and who so far hasn't noticed that I spike the batter with a bit of cold coffee and Kahlua to give it a bit of oomph. Yesterday's cake (I make only one a month, thank you) featured genuine Angel Flake coconut from US. It was lovely, moist, dense, flavorful, and not a bit stale or "off" 36 hours after it was made. It  makes a great little cake for someone's birthday and if you keep it in the microwaveable bowl, it's easy to transport too.

If you're one of those people that can only "make" canned frosting, quit reading now. Send me your recipes, and let me see if I can come up with a Beijing solution.

Funny Sign

I was walking past a classroom where a Canadian teacher was giving her students a midterm and almost passed out when I saw this instruction written on the black board in big clear letters:

Put nothing on desk

(penis okay)

Um, did she mean, "A pen is okay"?

I asked in passing if there was a bias against female genitalia in general or if ANY penis would do and she glanced at me, at the sign, and then said, "Huh?" After a moment or two she laughed, and added a bit more space between the "pen" and "is." 

I probably wouldn't have corrected it, but she's a far nicer women than I am.

New Man In My Life

Sadly, it's a dog. It's a delightful little Pekinese, a breed I heartily disliked prior to owning one. The problem with being an expat--one of many problems--is the issue of dog ownership. Some countries have quarantine periods of up to six months for pets, such as dogs, which is just too long for the pooch from my point of view. (Speaking emotionally--not in terms of epidemiology, of course.) The Little Emperor's owners had to repatriate, The Little Emperor needed a home, my  doggie  Princess needed a companion, and that was that.

He is a chubby happy little soul, fiercely protective, appreciative of my cooking, and demanding little but some cuddling and three good walks a day. He is content to sleep under the bed, at the foot of the bed, or doing a stretch of time when my apartment building was being burgled A LOT, sleeping literally on the doorstep. Sure, he snores, and he has attacks of flatulence which, though comparatively mild, are still damned unpleasant: sure, he barks SO LOUDLY at the sound of approaching footsteps that he once caused my drunken neighbor to wet his pants in fear (shouldn't have been fumbling at the wrong door, Idiot) and sure, he likes my ayi (the one that looks like Oprah) far more than he likes me, but he's here, he's mine, and I can rest my feet on him when I sit on the sofa and he'll still pretend to like it.

He'll never "forget" my birthday and then send me a text message ten days later asking for favors of the darkest sexual nature: those who do so--and you know who you are--don't deserve to be called "dogs." I have so many other names for you,  none of them having to do with canines.

Cajun Meatloaf Deux

Basically, folks, take your favorite frickin' meat loaf recipe, but instead of the usual spices or whatever (my mother adds nothing, claiming she doesn't like to "spoil the taste of good meat") add a whapping dollop of  Cajun seasoning (recipe to follow) and top with barbecue sauce, ketchup, or brown sugar and cider vinegar. A good splash of Tabasco in the 'loaf and on top also help. If you're microwaving it, add extra liquid until it's mildly soupy, so that it doesn't dry out.

This is based on Robert St. John's recipe for Creole seasoning, found in his delightful tome Deep South Parties, but I have adapted it slightly by taking out the paprika, which for some reason doesn't enjoy the microwave process very much, as well as the Lawry's seasoned salt, which is hell to find over here. Perhaps the paprika I find here is at fault: it's fine dusted over the tops of eggs, or in goulash, but not so good in this dish. I also have changed the proportions slightly on Chef St. John's recipe.  If you love me, send me his OTHER delightful tome, Deep South Staples, as I need to know how to survive in a southern kitchen over here.

My Cajun Seasoning: 1/3 cup garlic salt, 2 T onion powder, 1 T  each cayenne pepper,  black pepper, AND white pepper, and 1 tsp each dry mustard, oregano, and thyme (dried, not fresh.)  I always add a few shots of Tabasco when I use this seasoning.

Since my daughter is violently allergic to garlic, I have a garlic-free version I use for her, which replaces the garlic salt with sea salt.

Also delightful: top the meatloaf with a bit of brown sugar, apple cider vinegar, and bacon. Yum Yum. Especially good if you can manage to bake it in an oven, as opposed to largely steaming it in a microwave.