cooking experiment

You know you are an adult when on a Saturday evening after browsing through the McDonalds and KFC online delivery menu you settle for left overs in the kitchen.

I made a concoction which I am not certain what to name; it is soggy thanks to my inability to judge how much of water should be poured. But the comfort I take from this culinary adventure is that it tastes fucking awesome. Considering I made it using scrap.

I had some left over baked fish and chicken (curry) in the fridge. I took potatoes, boiled them, then mashed them with copious amount of cottage cheese. I fried some garlic and onion in the pan, mixed the chicken and fish scraps, and topped it off with the mashed cheese/potato. I used Dill and Parsley for garnish - despite the odd combination of recipe, I swear it tastes good. It would have tasted better if I did not have persistent ulcer in my mouth which refuses to leave; stubborn ulcers.

With three weeks left before the finals, I should really get down to revising my Macroeconomic Analysis and Econometrics! I will, as soon as I am done with my dinner (yep still not fond of the sogginess).

The Idea of Ancestry

I chanced upon this poem by Etheridge Knight today. This, in my belief, needs to be shared - it is too beautiful, too majestic to be left behind, or scrolled past.

by Etheridge Knight

1

Taped to the wall of my cell are 47 pictures: 47 black
faces: my father, mother, grandmothers (1 dead), grand-
fathers (both dead), brothers, sisters, uncles, aunts,
cousins (1st and 2nd), nieces, and nephews. They stare
across the space at me sprawling on my bunk. I know
their dark eyes, they know mine. I know their style,
they know mine. I am all of them, they are all of me;
they are farmers, I am a thief, I am me, they are thee.

I have at one time or another been in love with my mother,
1 grandmother, 2 sisters, 2 aunts (1 went to the asylum),
and 5 cousins. I am now in love with a 7-yr-old niece
(she sends me letters in large block print, and
her picture is the only one that smiles at me).

I have the same name as 1 grandfather, 3 cousins, 3 nephews,
and 1 uncle. The uncle disappeared when he was 15, just took
off and caught a freight (they say). He’s discussed each year
when the family has a reunion, he causes uneasiness in
the clan, he is an empty space. My father’s mother, who is 93
and who keeps the Family Bible with everbody’s birth dates
(and death dates) in it, always mentions him. There is no
place in her Bible for “whereabouts unknown.”


2

Each fall the graves of my grandfathers call me, the brown
hills and red gullies of mississippi send out their electric
messages, galvanizing my genes. Last yr/like a salmon quitting
the cold ocean-leaping and bucking up his birth stream/I
hitchhiked my way from LA with 16 caps in my pocket and a
monkey on my back. And I almost kicked it with the kinfolks.
I walked barefooted in my grandmother’s backyard/I smelled the old
land and the woods/I sipped cornwhiskey from fruit jars with the men/
I flirted with the women/I had a ball till the caps ran out
and my habit came down. That night I looked at my grandmother
and split/my guts were screaming for junk/but I was almost
contented/I had almost caught up with me.
(The next day in Memphis I cracked a croaker’s crib for a fix.)

This yr there is a gray stone wall damming my stream, and when
the falling leaves stir my genes, I pace my cell or flop on my bunk
and stare at 47 black faces across the space. I am all of them,
they are all of me, I am me, they are thee, and I have no children
to float in the space between.

(I have a proper update in the works, but tonight exhaustion overwhelms me with brutal force. I must collapse into my slumber or risk disintegrating into tiny atomic particles, left in the aftermath of a nuclear explosion. I have also contracted an ulcer on my tongue which makes speaking a challenge - painful one, if I may add)

It must take an extra ordinarily brave soul (which, I am not) to decide that snacking on wasabi coated dried peas helps to accelerate the process of understanding 200 pages worth of material talking about the economic history of the country. For me it was a bad, on a scale of 1 to 10 rated 15.5, decision. Right now I cannot concentrate on which particular bit of my upper body hurts most – my throat? My tongue? My nasal passages? My jaws? Everything aches. Terribly; alarmingly resembling someone prodding my delicate flesh with a molten hot iron rod straight out of your best gore fantasy.

That aside, I’m still trying to come to terms with how my meticulous schedule planning at the beginning of the semester left me with a six hours break in between classes on Monday. Either reality is cruel; or I’m excessively ignorant of potential pot holes laid out before me. (This might come in between my aspirations to learn how to drive. Lordy.)

a picture speaks a thousand words, six pictures speaks six thousand words

Pictorial vignettes from before and today. Click to enlarge them


(Behold the steady state of capital per worker in a Solow Model of Growth)


(The Investment Tax Credit which helps to provide the incentive to Invest)


(Hello nation building and nationalism. I see you.)


(My iPod Classic 80GB whom I like to call Raúl González Blanco)


(Neil Gaiman and the moderator who made me cringe with his poor pronounced, singlish infested, humourless questions. I wasn't sitting close enough; and this was taken with my phone camera which isn't exactly the best out there - my phone is specifically designed to play music, not take photos)


(The Supreme Court.)

wasting away the sunday evening in a mass of literary goodness

Don't you just love it when one minute people are telling you your team sucks and the next instant their own team loses rather pathetically? Football's a goldmine of bragging/taunting opportunities. Either way, Liverpool's on its way to crashing out of the title race; and it's not even Christmas.

Gerard Pique's scoring of own goals would have been invoked some sympathy for me if he played for any other club. I always find it gravely unfortunate when a defender scores an own goal; though, having said that I relish it when they happen to play for Team Clusterfuck and Team Wildrabiesfuck. (Most people refer to them as Barcelona FC and Liverpool FC).

As of now, Barcelona are only a point ahead, Madrid's recovering slowly from the Alcorcon fiasco, Higuain's AWESOME, Benzema's still a bitch - but he did set up the assist for one of the Higuain goals, I'll give him that - Raúl was priceless from the touchline after Albiol was sent off. He was looking to bite off someone's head, with his tiny little fox teeth; I'm sure he snarled. Like RAWWWR, or however foxes snarl. I hope in light of Higuain's performance, Pellegrini will give him the regular place in the starting line up that he deserves. It would be the biggest regret in Real Madrid's history of regrets to let Gonzalo Higuain go. He is the best thing to have happened in a while; dedicated, young, speedy, he is exactly the kind of #7 replacement Real Madrid needs. I hope after Raúl retires, Madrid award Higuain the coveted #7 jersey - I think he has it in him to live up to the legends who have donned it during their careers with Real Madrid. I see him as Raúl's ideal successor.

My insensitivity (towards fans of Liverpool and Barcelona) aside, football was good for me this weekend. The clubs I follow won (OMG DIMITAR BERBATOV - part time Bulgarian mobster and part time Manchester United striker - SCORED); the clubs I have a special compartment reserved for in my loathing bank failed to win, and generally were shitty. Karma's a bitch.

A caveat: There were eight red cards handed out, spanning over the English and the Spanish league this game day. I'm not sure if the exact figure is eight, but it is close enough.

That aside I WENT TO SEE NEIL GAIMAN TODAY. To be truthful, I have never met as charming as him; he was absolutely mind blowing, with his effervescent stage personality and adorable curls; shame the moderator was an ass with his stupid Singlish which put a heavy damper on the whole event. Otherwise the crowd (of about 900 people packing up the Victoria Concert Hall) were fantastic - they cheered, they clapped and they (most) asked intelligent questions when questioning was opened to the floor. Neil recounted his Bee growing experiment - I sympathize with his PA! He talked at lengths about Alan Moore - absolutely adore him; said that he is, I quote, "a big hairy writer". He talked about the anecdote, courtesy of Moore, of scary trousers and how he came to be given than title. Let's see....hmmm, he talked about his project in China, which was interesting to hear, but I wish he'd have talked more about himself as a writer, as an artist, as the author the 900 of us gathered there today have grown to love. He did expound on the Sandman, but absolutely no mentions of Mirrormask. I love Mirrormask. I should have asked him a question but they opened a limited number of questions to be permitted from the floor due to time constrain.

Overall, it was a fantastic experience. But it was too hot to queue up outside the Arts House for his book signing. Besides I didn't bring any of the copies I own with me. I'm going to dig through the national library and re-read American Gods.

FAIL OF THE DAY: Yesterday, as a Halloween treat, AMANDA PALMER (Neil Gaiman's girlfriend from the Dresden Dolls fame) PERFORMED A FREE CONCERT OUTSIDE THE ARTS HOUSE. A FREE CONCERT WHICH I SHOULD HAVE GONE FOR IF I HAD KNOW BECAUSE I ABSOLUTE LOVE HER AND HAVE HAD OBSESSIVE PHASES WITH HER ALBUM Who killed Amanda Palmer. I don't know what I'm more upset at; my ignorance, or the fact that the concert was you know free.