it's the chocolate stupid

i had mixed feelings as a child when my mother used to return from the chinese grocery store. she always returned with goodies: pickled cucumbers, fried gluten, sticky rice, pork buns, egg custards, and sweet rice cakes.

but soy milk too.

invariably, when i saw her unload groceries, she'd pull a half gallon of soy milk out of those pink plastic bags and place it in the refrigerator. once in a while she'd tell me to drink some or without asking just bring me a glass of it. i'd anticipate a glass of fresh squeezed oj (out of the carton, but still good) then look down and find the translucent white liquid and realize how wrong i had been.

the dreaded beverage even made an appearance in a recurring nightmare of mine. now it wasn't on the level of my earthquake nightmare -- at least until high school, but probably till i moved to california, i thought people died in earthquakes by a crevasse opening up in the earth and them falling into the bottomless hole (i was never sure whether they plummeted all the way to the magma) . hey, that's how it happened in my dreams (i woke up before reaching the magma). no, the soymilk dream was more of a mild night terror. my mom would tell me to drink the soymilk and i'd refuse. she'd insist politely and i'd start pouting. then she'd get angry and start yelling. to my credit, i don't recall ever criying despite the verbal abuse. yes, i remained strong until waking in a cold sweat.

but this past week, having fallen sick and with my car in the shop, my only access to non-delivery food came from one of the local markets. and because i'd always thought it looked charming from the outside, i elected to try the natural food store, aptly named the natural food store. as i wandered through its narrow isles, i came upon the shelf displaying all varieties of soymilk. and as fate would have it, the vitasoy brand was discounted to just $1.99 for a quart.

the idea of giving soymilk another try began to rattle around inside my skull. well, i did like tofu quite a bit now, which i wasn't fond of as a child. and like soymilk, tofu also comes from the soybean. perhaps my soy tastebuds had changed from a hatred to a love during my transition from child to adult. so i pulled one of the rectangular cartons off the shelf and placed it in my blue shopping basket.

when i returned home, i was excited by my purchase. i let it chill in the refrigerator, then popped the plastic tab and poured myself half a mug. i took a sip and was shocked, not because it tasted terrible, not becuase it tasted good: because it tasted great. as i swished the liquid around my mouth and then swallowed, the beverage leaving behind a smooth memory of sweet cream, i wondered, could this really be the same thing that had disturbed my nights as a child?

but of course it wasn't the same. the box i had pulled off the shelf was chocolate soymilk. and when i returned the next evening to purchase another basketfull of groceries, the carton i pulled off was vanilla soymilk.

three days later, i ventured out again to fetch a carton of the delicous and healthy treat known as soymilk. but this time i elected for another market, one that did not carry the vitasoy brand. so instead i took home a carton of silk vanilla soymilk, this time in the half-gallon variety. as soon as i reached my home i pulled off the plastic tab and poured myself a hearty glass. i raised the cup to my lips, my mind already anticpating its delicious reward. with my mouth wrapped around the brim of the glass, i took a full gulp and then another. come sugary richness.

but it never arrived. i looked down into the glass for answers. i couldn't understand what had happened. i turned to the counter where the carton rested. i reread the copy on the box. it still said vanila. then i turned to the nutritional ingredients. there the answer lied. only 3.5g of sugar per serving in silk instead of the 7g in vitasoy. i could barely taste the vanilla and i didn't like it. and if i couldn't taste the chocolate i wouldn't like that either.

oh soymilk, i thought you a friend for life. but no, my old friends, chocolate, vanilla and sugar simply made you beautiful for those two blissful nights. at least i'll have them forever.

my car's hobson choice

i've always loved this term. apparently it refers to a stable owner thomas hobson who lived in the 16th century that made the following offer to his patrons. take the horse in the stall closest to the door or take no horse at all.

it's all about the illusion of free choice. technically, hobson gave his customers a choice. but if you're in a rush to deliver fresh ahi tuna to the trendy, new sushi joint and 100 miles from the closest town, not taking a horse isn't much of an option. over time, the meaning has expanded somewhat and now often refers to the choice of two bad options.

which brings us to my car, or as i like to call it, my retarded stepson (not related, but only a father could still love it). those who call themselves friends of mine know the laundry list of problems that i've had over our seven years together, the most notable being the subframe of the car detaching.

now i have a different problem: the headlights blink, but stop when the turn signal's on. so should i be an asshole and annoy the hell out of anyone with the misfortune of driving in front of me by continuing to flash them with my xenons or have them think i'm an idiot who always thinks his turn is coming up?

well it sounded cool at first

once in a while, i'll let someone in on my pseudo-secret. i've played cards as my job. then i show'em my rolex. that gets the maximum reaction. shows how baller i am.

just kidding of course -- not about playing cards for a living or having the rolex, just showing it off.

on those occasions i do tell, i always get a favorable reaction. simply put, playing cards seems cooler than what most people do. you can only have the following conversation so many times (1) before it grows tiresome:

me: what do you do?
boring person: i'm a lawyer/banker/trader/equity analyst.
me: you like it?
boring person: not really.
me: cool.

you don't meet a poker player every day and their interest becomes obvious when they say "really?", showing their shock that someone uncorporate might still cavort with the yuppies. this interest is a manifestation of their optimism: they might actually have a conversation that interests them.

i need 10 seconds to kill it.

invariably the second or third question in their line of inquiry goes "what makes you so good?". and if i had even a little stomach for pretentiousness, i'd say something like "i don't know. i guess i can just look into people's souls and find their fear." that would probably go over really well -- if i could keep from puking on myself after expelling that load of shit.

i've actually spent time trying to figure a good answer. i came up with this:

"you know, cards is no different than any other battle between two men. and no matter how strong someone is, if you keep pounding them over and over, sooner or later they break. they see you coming and they wince. (pause for effect) then they're yours."

now unless the woman (you know it's a woman becuase you wouldn't spend this much time chatting with someone of the same sex) is hiding a membership to gamblers anonymous, she'll have no idea what you are talking about. but who cares, that sounds hot and alpha. but again, puke. or at least some uncontrolled laughing about how ridiculous i sound.

so instead i say the truth. i'm not actually great. i have no special skill. unless you count not having an emotional breakdown at the table after taking a bad beat a special skill. it is unbelievable often people will give away their next three months of rent money while trying go kill bill on someone who caught a lucky card on them.

that's it. i've never been great at cards, and never will be. but i never suck either. and my good is usually just good enough.

farmer brown

it's 3 a.m. and i feel like writing a blog entry. what i don't feel like is trying to come up with a catchy title for the entry to describe my visit to farmer brown.

i heard about the restaurant a few months ago, but it never made it close to the top of my restaurant list. it's a nice concept though. they buy all their produce from local black farmers. that sounds socially responsible, but when i mull over the concept, it leaves me with a couple of questions. do other restaurants discrminate against black farmers? because if they're not, i'm not sure this policy accomplishes anything. and secondly, is there any sacrfice in quality by only buying from black farmers. i'm sure there are black farmers who are doing great things, but what happens if there are no black farmers who specialize in certain strains of mushrooms? do they use inferior mushrooms, or not use mushrooms at all?

i don't have any answers and these thoughts would never have arisen if everything had been perfect. alas, it was not. we started with the handcut kennebeck fries and oysters fried in cornbread. the cornbread crust gave the oysters a hearty crunch, and its slight sweetness played well with the brininess of the mollusk. on the other hand, the fries disappointed. the dish had two varieties -- regular and sweet -- and about half of each were served lukewarm, as if they'd been sitting out for a few minutes.

overall, the entrees were a step up. the catfish and shrimp jambalaya had a nice spice to it, but was a bit of a one-note song. once the spiciness subsided, there weren't any other flavors to savor. on the other hand, the crisp, light batter of the fried chicken kept the meat moist while infusing it with a rich flavor. served with a side of dirty rice, the dish probably could have benefited from a slight reduction of sodium, but was strong overall. we only sampled one dessert -- lemon layer cake -- which should be avoided unless one finds dryness and density desirable in their final course. prices for all dishes are reasonable -- starters under $10, mains generally under $20.

what i was happy to see was a mixed crowd. this probably sounds racist, but it's pretty rare in san francisco to see a high percentage of black and filipino diners. but that certainly makes up a large part of the clientele at farmer brown. i hope that trend spreads to other restaurants, including those that don't have a soul food bent to them.

try, try again

just about one year ago, i posted the following as my new year's resolutions:

i will update this daily.
i will update this daily.
i will update this daily.

oh yeah, and i'm going back to the gym.

well that failed miserably.

thanks to the handy counter on the side of my blog, i see that i posted a grand total of 38 entries in 2006. that falls a bit short of my goal of 365. i did go back to the gym but then i went back to not going to the gym for most of the year.

but what would life be if one gave up every time they failed (answer: short). so for 2007, here goes.

• stop biting my nails (several weeks of success to report already)
• dinner party once a month (starting february)
• cook one real meal per week (multiple pots and courses)
• one month cycle
  
• stay with the gym (add ten pounds of muscle and lose five pounds of fat)
• 20k invested
  
• 2 trips
  
• remember how much i like my friends (keeping in touch, visiting, gifts)
  
• keep chin high (six days so far)

that's all for now -- or should i say all for 2007

a slight modification to the theory of humor

as proponents of democracy know, ideas great in theory can turn to disaster when confronted by the test that is the real world. so as thomas jefferson asserted in the federalist papers, i could not say with certainty that my theory on women not being funny held up until subjected to the rigor of outside examination by women.

and after some drunken debate over new year's dinner, i am happy to report that my theory held up beautifully to its first test. however, the contribution of others' ideas has showed me that even the finest theories can use several iterations of revisionism, the way of reasonable men. so without further due, i unveil the new, improved version of my theory.

men can make men laugh and women can make women laugh -- but men alone make both sexes laugh.

and to be honest, i'm not sure the things that women say to make other women laugh really qualifies as humor. rather it may just be idle chatter, which because of some unexplainable natural phenomenon causes giggling to ensue in half the world's inhabitants.