Give me beautiful, gorgeous, sexy....not like that

My fingers are tired and my brain is not functioning after sitting for 2 hours in LA traffic...so I give you a series of pictures.

Herb

 Herbert was our pet for one afternoon, chained up to the fence of Il Fornaio as Poblano and I worked on our laptops in the midday sun in Old Town. As I sat there sipping on sparkling water, eating fruit, and working on my dissertation, Herb came to us and sat on the steps as his real owners wined and dined inside the restaurant. He was a good dog, didn't run away, drank all his water, dug up small but manageable holes in the dirt, and kept us company until the sun set behind the building and it became unbearably chilly. Thanks Herb, I'll mention you in my acknowledgements.

 Taking a picture break from our work

 starry night

Prior to finding the alleyway behind Il Fornaio, Poblano and I had brunch at Intelligentsia...delicious by the way. Breakfast sandwich, side of hash browns, and an ice cold Angeleno. Doesn't get much better than that.

 if i had that dress id stand like that too

This is the Monique Lhuillier dress I drooled over while reading a magazine at the nail salon. I don't drool over many things, least of all clothing. Wedding? Marriage? Who said anything about that...I was planning on wearing that to work tomorrow. 

That is all folks...it's now time for a korean bento, some dissertating, a splash of Modern Family, and then back on TV with Poblano.

Chasing pavements

 About a month ago was the Santa Anita food truck festival at the race tracks and Poblano and I ate at a total of 11 food trucks from hawaiian shave ice to the famous grilled cheese (mac and cheese grilled between two slices of sourdough bread with pulled pork) to the LA born and bred korean tacos, to Filipino tacos that I cannot pronounce, to tikka masala fries (masala sauce with creamy yogurt drizzled over fries), to meatball sliders from the fusion komodo truck. Best moment? Towards the end of our debauchery that day we spotted a couple sitting on a bench stuffing what looked like the world's most amazing burger in their mouths. When we approached and asked what they were devouring, the woman replied: "It's a quarter pounder burger sandwiched between two donuts....but don't worry about it." It was the best response ever.

Needless to say, Poblano was as happy as a little kid sitting in front of Starbucks waiting to catch an afternoon show at the Arclight (was this the day we spent 2 hours of our lives we'll never get back watching the latest Harold and Kumar?)

Coffee makes you intelligent

That's a lie, but coffee can definitely enhance concentration, at least temporarily, and sometimes that's all the time I need to get stuff done in the morning. Last night's adventure turned my brain into spaghetti this morning and a cup of strong joe was in order. Poblano took some time off work to come with me to the dry cleaners and after that errand, we crossed the street to Specialty's Cafe and Bakery, a chain cafe with long communal style wood tables and blown up pictures of farmhouses and cat tails in front of sunsets. They serve healthy sandwiches ("Peanut Butter Stuff" consists of peanut butter, cranberry sauce, bananas, and granny smith apples on whole wheat bread), soups, salads, cookies in the shape of Sponge Bob, and best of all, Chicago-based Intelligentsia coffee! No hand pours available but regular drip and espresso drinks are offered in their signature grey and white paper cups with UNC Tarheels baby blue sleeves. We grabbed a Pecan Shortbread cookie (otherwise known as a Mexican Wedding Cookie or Russian Tea Cookie), or as Poblano calls them, "nun farts." These were giant farts and full of nutty pecan goodness. The Americano I ordered was not as strong as I hoped it to be but that probably has more to do with the barrister than the coffee itself.

However, it's been a great morning so far and Poblano and I are heading out to a new ramen joint for lunch. More on that later!

Epic adventure

who was the first one who decided to
put this furry brown thing in their mouth?

On the way home from work yesterday afternoon, Poblano and I decided we were too impatient to see each other and that I would start making my trip back home at around 7pm. Although the GPS said it would take about 6 hours and 40 minutes, I knew the weight of my foot and figured that if traffic cooperated, I might be able to make it in 5 hours. After shaving and consuming a very ripe kiwi, I packed up the car, made sure I remembered Toca and Oso, and started my pilgrimage back home. Luckily for me, traffic was light and by the time I rolled past Palo Alto, it was only 12:30am and I was wide awake belting out "You Da One" by Rihanna. The babies had given up on trying to escape their travel cage, which I think was their way of distracting me and getting me to stop singing, and was spooning each other in a peaceful slumber.

Oso's always the big spoon

As I got closer to Palo Alto, proud of myself that I was making such good time, the Jetta made a single loud beep indicating it could go 10 more miles before the beginning of a slow, quiet death. I didn't panic at first until I remembered the lady only takes diesel and finding diesel on the peninsula is surprisingly difficult. I took the exit at Palo Alto University and the Jetta, feeling ignored, angrily declared 10 seconds later that it had 5 miles left. By the time I reached El Camino Real, she was threatening a hunger strike and the meter read "0 miles." I felt her buck underneath me and seeing a Valero straight ahead, I pulled into it crossing all fingers and toes that they would have diesel. They did not. They also did not have a bathroom so the bladder I had told to be patient for the past 4 hours was also pissed off and the thought crossed my mind to piss in the back of the gas station against the brick wall. This was not a proud moment. Thankfully, the urgency of finding diesel overwhelmed the urgency of my bladder and after several unsuccessful attempts of finding nearby (no more than "0 miles" away) diesel, Poblano jumped out of bed, filled up a container of gas, and came to my aid in less than 15 minutes. We still made it home by 1:30am, which is pretty impressive in my book.

Liquid Courage

After several nightmare interactions with HR this morning, I decided to leave campus for lunch and treat myself to a veggie drink from the Blue Zone juice bar at the Loma Linda Market. The "Three C's: Carrot, Celery, Cucumber" blend I tried last week did wonders for my mild cold symptoms and today I wanted to go for something with almond milk in it for more substance.

My plans to get a veggie drink was thwarted when out of the corner of my eye I spotted a sign that said "Pumpkin pie smoothie." When I asked the lady what was in a pun-kin pie smoothie she said "a slice of pumpkin pie of course." This was too much for my ferret-sized brain to grasp and I needed to know more.

"Well, a thin slice of sugar free pumpkin pie, with the crust and all, extra spices like nutmeg, dairy free yogurt, vegan protein powder, hemp, and almond milk...what size would u like?" I searched for a super gulp cup but could only find a 12 and 16 oz. Guess what I ordered. It is heavenly. Like pillows of pumpkin married graham cracker crusts and are consummating their marriage on a water bed of almond milk and creamy yogurt. Guilt free...cuz they're married. Babies are all legit. My day has gotten 20 times better. Now let me consume this pleasure in the midst of ducks, ponds, and vitamin D before going back to the VA to conquer some village idiots.

Bistro means it's trendy

Pasadena, the little that I know of it, is very white. They are not necessarily the "we have white guilt and need to impress people with our love and knowledge of ethnic cuisines" either. Although Thai, Indian, Chinese, and Japanese eateries are scattered all throughout town, they all have a bounce to their step, a shine, a trendiness to them that most "authentic" Asian places just simply do not possess. In addition, this place offers brown rice with all their dishes, and I know if I hollared for some brown rice in the Li household, I would feel the wrath of gramma and my shame of asking for "healthy and impractically expensive" foods would eat me alive. This made me wonder about CHAM Korean Bistro because while Yelp promises 251 reviews and 4 stars, the skeptic in me screamed "Korean Chipotle! Korean Chipotle! Korean Chipotle!" However, further research coupled with an increasingly disgruntled stomach made my decision for me and I placed my order on L.A. Bite for "California Bibimbap" and "Beef bulgogi and glass noodles in hotpot."

white people bibimbap

"real" bibimbap

Chef E.J. Jeong, formally of BOA steakhouse and AOC Wine Bar, does an interesting "globally inspired, yet true to its heritage" job on these dishes. While pleasing to the eye, the excitement may have ended there. My California bibimbap arrived in a large plastic bowl filled with slivered shiso leaves, julienned jicama, shredded carrots, cucumbers, butter cabbage and a container of toasted sesame oil and another of red pepper gochujang. In a separate eco-friendly tub was the spicy bbq pork bulgogi resting on a bed of onions and rings of scallions sprinkled on top. The brown rice (what seems like a medley of red and brown grains) showed up in yet another paper container and when dumped into my larger bowl, added a burst of purple to the already colorful mix. This was not the bibimbap I'm accustomed to eating at most "real" Korean joints, nor was I expecting that and while the flavors were not entirely one dimensional they were not exactly three dimensional either. There was a tang to the dish that I couldn't put my finger on that seemed to be the underlying tone. The meat, although juicy and tender, lacked the char and "fire meat" flavor the dish was named for. As mentioned earlier, the undercooked onions sat passively on the bottom as if accustomed to this second class treatment. My dish did not come with an egg and this may have been its biggest downfall. What bibimpap does not have a perfectly fried slightly undercooked egg resting on top, declaring itself as the single most important ingredient that will hold all the flavors and textures together with its creamy canary yolk spilling into all the nooks and crannies of the rice?

Separation anxiety

I gave Toca a bath this evening and her fuck you to me after the ten minute ordeal was over was to take a dump in the middle of my kitchen as I was trying to get her back into the towel to dry off. Her relentless chicken squabbles and merciless chomps on my toes were just about all I could take and eventually let her roam about the apartment in search of her brother, who would readily submit to her abuse and allow her to regain her sense of manhood. In less than five minutes the siblings were huddled in their pirate ship hammock practically snoring their troubles away. I envied them as I watched them sleep in the least creepy way possible; not because they had peanut butter smeared all over their face and whiskers, but because they were safely nestled against each other, a pair that could never stay far away from each other for too long. I missed Poblano immensely at that moment and nothing could console me.
When lunch came around today I was neither creative nor hungry and opened and closed the fridge in 5 minute intervals hoping with the mind of a four year old that the next time I opened it, it would be stocked with ready to eat meals and Guinness. Alas, each time the cream cheese container, unopened package of english muffins, and tightly sealed package of smoked salmon stared up at me with pleading eyes and trembling lips...I gave in and made myself a second rate open faced lox. Even the lox came in a pair and I hesitated for a few minutes before scarfing down the second half, bitter that if I couldn't have my other half, the muffins would not either damn it.

"Often I'd take out my magnifying glass and stare into the chaos that was her face”

On a weekend trip two years ago to Coarsegold, a sleepy conservative town located between Fresno and Yosemite National Park, I stumbled upon an antique flea market in which white older men in camouflage caps were idly seated on Chukchansi Casino folding chairs, trying to hold their ground against aggressive bargain hunters and yelling over the loudspeaker, which was broadcasting the beginning of the second round of the main event: the tarantula race. Strolling through the market, which was set up on an unpaved parking lot in front of the town's only tobacco shop, you couldn't help but wonder what type of people intentionally chose to reside in such a town. The sluggish pace of people's footsteps, the sun beating down mercilessly onto thirsty weeds, misshapen rocks, and kicked up dirt, the church-goer who squats down in his dungarees to examine a $10 dresser on its last legs spit out onto the side of the road. Such sights may bring comfort to some but I felt lonely and eager to get back to "civilization," while fully aware that when I arrived, I would be craving the seclusion of the great outdoors.

It was at this flea market that I found an entire stretch of table devoted solely to selling empty classic glass soda bottles. At the risk of falling victim to the "everything classic is trendy" phenomenon, I whipped out  my Lumix and squatted down to capture a shot of the sunlight hitting the glass in the most apologetic manner. There was nothing spectacular or special about those bottles but I've always had a fascination with glass containers be it pyrex tubs, mason jars, Italian old-world glass bottles, or my newest obsession, weck jars. Left to my devices, I'd save and de-label every glass container I own, while quickly realizing this would undoubtedly secure me a position in the antique fair, complete with my own fold out chair and deep forehead creases. So I resort to collecting jars when they are reasonable priced and if they serve multiple functions in order to seem normal. 

Containers have a way of making me feel like my life is in order, like the things I cherish most will be kept safe and sealed, the comfort of knowing I can write my own labels rather than use pre-established categories, the simple pleasure of being able to see through the glass at my artifactual life unaffected by climate, and the knowledge that when it comes time to uproot to another location, my jars will fit neatly into a paper box, clanking against each other with a knowing nod that says, "The clanking means we have not been separated."

In psychotherapy we often use the term "containment," referring to the safe therapeutic space where difficult emotions can comfortably move about, a component of this having largely to do with the therapist's ability to self-regulate her own emotional reactions and using appropriate boundaries to provide the structure that will
ideally help a patient feel "contained." Not only does the therapist act as a container for the patient, encouraging aversive emotions and relational interplays to be experienced fully within the glass structure, the patient is also able to look through the magnified walls at the patterns and themes contributing to immobilization and ineffectiveness. If you think about it, containment is all at once critical, enlightening, and maddeningly chaotic....

.....I suppose not unlike storing one's life in mason jars with the faint hope that they might keep in the same way that cherry rhubarb preserve would.

Framed dollar bill

This is officially the very first entry of our blog and it's sort of like giving birth to something you are not quite sure will turn out to be a human baby. I'm making an attempt to resist the temptation to hit the delete button, re-read every sentence, and try to sound witty. One of my biggest fears is publishing something that is not worth publishing in my eyes but after watching a short by Derek Sivers (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-GCm-u_vlaQ&feature=player_embedded) on "What's Obvious to You may be Amazing to Others," I've gathered up the courage and the kind of mania that one can only experience past 1am, and I present to you the bastard child of China and Poblano (more on that later)....a blog baby born out of a mixture of boredom, insomnia, devotion, envy, passion, joy, and last but not cheesy in the least, love. 

This baby, from here on out referred to as "the chexican," is like the first dollar bill earned, framed, and hung up awkwardly on a large sheet of white wall speckled with grease and bits of chicken. This chexican will learn how to crawl, waddle, ram its head into the corner of a Salvation Army vintage dresser, realize that life is too short to complain, pick back up with grace and conviction, and continue to make its way into the kitchen for some Gerber's chicken and gravy. 
 
While there is a certain amount of desire to feel validated, hence publication on the world wide web, this is largely a forum for self-exploration, a meeting place for China and Poblano when the rest of the world feels much too large, an intimate examination of our passion for food, eating, and discovering origins, and a space to be heard even if no one is listening. 

Let's see what this baby has to offer shall we?