Eating eels on the Day of the Ox.
July 29, 2014
July 25, 2014
July 24, 2014
July 23, 2014
For the weekend at the mother-in-law’s, where there will be many things grilled over charcoal and a number of cans of cold beer emptied. She loves sausages, the mother-in-law. When I see big plump Japanese wieners, I think of her. And priced half-off! I grabbed all of the cheap wieners, castrating any other shopper’s hopes of getting any.
July 21, 2014
Sam’s boss gave him sumo tickets for yesterday and he wanted me to go, but I said that if this is not an opportunity for a boys night out, I do not know one. Sam invited three boyfriends instead and they had a wonderful time. Sumo is not my cup of sake. I do not understand it. Large-breasted boys in pretty-colored diapers and eccentric hairstyles clap their hands and expose their crotches to the audience, then alternate between slapping and hugging each other until one of them falls down in a no-girls-allowed magic sumo ring that some other boys in fancy dresses keep salting between “bouts” while loudly shouting.
There must be a great deal of farting happening in that pure holy penis-owners-only ring, what with force-fed wrestlers doing all those sudden grand plies. It is exciting when the audience throws pillows. They’ve been sitting on those pillows for hours and surely a lot of farting has been going on there as well. (Sam picked up a program in English and there are etiquette rules, one of which is: “Please photograph from the rear or from your seat” — see).
I guess some people like that sort of thing, but include me out.
July 19, 2014
June 29, 2014
These are “pen shells” I guess. Tairagi. They were in-the-enormous-shell fresh at the market and I wanted to steam one to see what it tasted like There was a line at the fish place and I had more shopping to do so I told Sam to get one for me. The fish guy had taken the nice mollusk and sahimied it. I was disappointed. I thought it would taste like a scallop but it didn’t have that rich sweet taste, it was bland. The shell is nice though.
Yamaya and Valor. Bargain success. Many packages of dried tomatoes and dried onions marked down. Many rice noodles and papers.
Uniqlo. Summer dresses and T-shirts.
June 27, 2014
From Shiga prefecture. Delightfully fruity. I love spring beers the best and of course they never stick around for long — this is marked down to half price because who would buy spring beer in summer? I would, that’s who.
May 19, 2014
May 11, 2014
On Father’s Day supermarkets advertise thick cuts of meat and wine because obviously someone’s in the kitchen cooking the meat and pouring the wine for dad. Mother’s Day: ready-to-eat mass produced sushi and wilted carnations. If mom isn’t in the kitchen, nobody is. Women like pink, low-calorie foods, don’t like booze.
I asked Sam if his mother ever hugged and kissed him and he said no, of course not, you know that. I can’t imagine his mother hugging or kissing anyone. I’ve kissed and hugged him enough to be a big huggy-kissy-face nuisance. Enough for several lifetimes. I can’t help myself.
The American advertising phrase “Being a mom is the hardest job in the world” : ridiculous. If that were true humans would be extinct. You’ve only admitted that you’ve had a pampered selfish life and never done anything physically demanding, ever, and are bad at taking care of small humans, an activity humans have done throughout history. What you’re saying is that being human is incredibly difficult. Not something to brag about! But then I don’t know what a “mom” is in contemporary American culture. Here, mom, have some more nails to keep you up on that mom-martyr cross.
From Garrison Keillor’s Leaving Home:
“Arlene picked up her sister Irene and they drove up to the cemetery and sat in the car. June 10 is the anniversary of their mother’s death. Lutherans don’t ordinarily observe such days but the girls do because it would have pleased their mother, Mrs. Holm, so much. She was impossible to please when alive, but now that she is gone and her spirit recedes into the shadows, the girls are able to satisfy her with this annual trek to sit under the tree that shades her — she always burned easily, Mother did, and always needed shade. The tree’s roots reach down where Mother lies, so in a sense Mother is shading herself, like a lady with a parasol.
“The rain patted on the roof and ran down the windshield. Irene held a bunch of yellow and blue irises. ‘Do you know that I still hear her sometimes — I’m washing dishes or ironing, something simple, and I hear her say, Oh, Irene you’re doing that all wrong, here let me, and my hands tighten on the dishcloth, I grab the iron. The simplest things. Putting toast in the toaster. Boiling an egg. Oh, Irene, that’s not how to do that, here I’ll show you. I still hear it. Never when I’m trying to do needlepoint, or make a souffle — always when I’m pulling a weed, hanging a picture. Oh, Irene, that’s not straight, Irene, here. What’s the matter with you? Oh you don’t put on a pillowcase like that.’ She began to sniffle. ‘Oh this is so crazy. I don’t know why it has to be like this.’ She cried and Arlene cried and they held hands, the rain streaming down the glass. And then Irene bounded out of the car and ran up on the grass and heaved the bouquet as far as she could toward their mother’s grave. It hit the tree and fell apart in a shower of wet irises and dropped on the grass.”
My mother’s favorite flowers were dogwood and lilacs and I still hyperventilate a little when I see them and turn away.