Thanksgiving Impossible

The situation: Beijing, China. Thanksgiving. I have access to an oven a block away. It's a real oven, but small. One glorified toaster oven in my kitchen. Three mixing bowls, one of them metal (but flat-bottomed, but sloped-sided). Two medium-sized pots, one large frying pan. Two pie plates, one tart pan, and a large, round, casserole dish that looks a lot like a pie plate, but isn't. Four sets of silverware. 

The only piece of equipment that is worthwhile is a set of knives. Good knives.

The mission: Cook a real Thanksgiving dinner for 15 people. 

I started Friday night. The turkey was procured and transported from the other side of the city by the Canadian. I met him coming in when I was going to school. It was in a blue plastic Ikea bag. We both stopped and peered in in awe. We poked it. We looked. All the Chinese walking by on the sidewalk were incredibly curious. What on earth were those two whitefolks looking at that was so interesting?!?!

The Physicist was doing the roasting. Although he had long ago offered up his oven (which he had never turned on), he stepped up to the plate and said he'd do the actual roasting so that I could do all the other cooking. Running back and forth between two apartments was not going to get everything done. However, he wanted to pick up the turkey Friday night, not Saturday morning. So, stuffing must be made. Bird must be stuffed and trussed. It was falling apart (a wing was broken, the neck cavity had been sliced apart... much bamboo skwewering was necessary). I also needed to make up a list of directions and a turkey-roasting emergency kit, complete with turkey baster, meat thermometer, extra aluminum foil, and the like. Tommy (the Turkey) was then placed in a roasting pan, put back into the aforementioned Ikea bag, and walked across the street. The deal between the physicist and I was that I would provide the directions and he would return with a cooked turkey; I would never question what happened in between. 

Then. Pie. I admit that I'm a bit rusty in the pie crust department, especially with a Crisco crust. It ended up being a bit more crumbly than is ideal, but not impossible. I made both a sweet potato and a pumpkin chiffon. The sweet potato was easy. I was already cooking up the pumpkin chiffon pumpkin part (egg yolks and sugar and pumpkin and gelatin) when I realized I'd have to whip the egg whites. Until stiff. By hand. With a small whisk. And a medium saucepan. Oof. 30 minutes later, the whites were whipped. So was I. But I still had pecans to shell. The Chinese roast the pecans in the shell, so they had started to break apart. Still, it was hard going.

Sleep.

Up at 7:30. Time for coffee and more pie. I made the pecan and then the apple. I must say this for the Chinese, they have some good apples.

From Thanksgiving Impossible

On to veggies. I'd used up a lot of the sweet potato for the pie (I didn't have quite enough pumpkin for a chiffon and a standard pie), so I had to roast more potatoes. I also made a homemade green bean casserole, so that meant slicing Chinese long beans (not that there was even an option of buying them frozen), slicing onions, and making fried onions for the top. The recipe said to cook them in the oven, so I did, but it was a pain. In the future, I think I'll just pan fry them. Succotash with fava beans instead of limas because I couldn't find limas. I toyed with using soy beans, but I didn't. Maybe next time.

Then potatoes. I used the rice cooker to cook the potatoes. Even then, I had to do it in two batches. By then, Tommy arrived and he smelled good. I mean good. The Physicist said his entire apartment smelled like Christmas. By now, I knew I was good. A little gravy (or a lot) from the pan drippings and everything was ready. I even had a platter to put Tommy on (thank you again, Ikea). 

From Thanksgiving Impossible

The folks were arriving, although the procuring of tables and chairs had hit a stand still. I managed to convince them we did, in fact, need tables and chairs, so off everyone went to bring back things from their apartments. Soon, they were wrestling a table into my spare room (with help from the Mathematition) and the Biologist was setting the table. I was definitely losing steam, but everyone else was stepping up.

Wine and beer was opened. We all filed into the spare room and the turkey was carved.

From Thanksgiving Impossible

I did it. I cooked a dinner for 13 people in my tiny-ass kitchen. I made a proper holiday meal. Everyone left stuffed and happy. They were all incredibly impressed and properly thankful. 

From Thanksgiving Impossible

Not only did I cook Thanksgiving dinner, but I earned a bye for our Christmas festivities. (Although I did say I would be happy to cook a bird if that's all I had to do.)

Living the Dream

Over the last day or so, I've realized that I've been living out a fantasy of mine. (OK, so three fantasies: the first two being living and working in China and teaching the most amazing, thoughtful, kind, and studious group of children imaginable.) But no, I'm not talking about such mundane fantasies. Nope. I'm taking about the elusive Thanksgiving Fantasy.

"Huh?" I hear you say.

I love Thanksgiving. Love. It. It is about giving thanks for, well, everything, spending time with friends and family, and eating. A lot. Of good food. Those are all things that I whole-heartedly support. The thing is, I really love my Thanksgiving food. Some of you have been kind enough to indulge my tendency to take over and have let me do many things my way (and for that I am forever thankful). But generally, I find myself tagging along at someone else's feast and silently (and secretly) wishing I could just do it all my way, for once. 

Please, do not misinterpret. I have loved every single Thanksgiving I've been to. I remember them fondly along with friends, friends of friends, parents of friends, family, and strangers. I've loved the ones with copious alcohol and the ones without. I've loved the quiet family gatherings and the scores of people overflowing through every room. I've loved them when I'm new in town and know no one and I've loved them when I'm established and know everyone. I love Trivial Pursuit and sometimes even Cranium. Like I said, I love Thanksgiving.

But secretly, in my heart of hearts, I've wanted to host my own Thanksgiving. I've wanted to invite you all to my house and do it up the way you have all taught me to over the years. There would be some things from childhood Thanksgivings, things from Southern Thanksgivings, things from the Northwest. There would be all the bits and pieces I have collected and treasured and wished I could put together into one glorious whole.

The thing is, you aren't allowed to host Thanksgiving without a family. Not really. People with houses and children and real jobs invite you to their house to experience the joy of families. Those of us who are happily single, financially sketchy (God bless divorce and unemployment and student loans and teacher salaries), and habitually wandering just don't have the resources to invite the rest of you over. And realistically, it means you would have to drag your kids and all their stuff all over the globe (or country) on the most traveled holiday of the year. That's not fair of me to ask you to do. I don't have a house big enough (I don't have a house). And it's just easier for me. So I don't even put you in that position. (But sometimes, when I consider whether I want to even think of marriage, the fantasy of Thanksgiving with you all at MY place is very, very alluring.) 

However, I suddenly find myself surrounded by people who also don't have families. They also don't have houses or china sets or tricked-out kitchens. They all live no more than a (long) subway ride away. And most of them don't know a darned thing about Thanksgiving.

I get to school them. The way I want it to be. Thanksgiving in all my — um, er, its glory.

Now, it's not Thanksgiving at home. I can't get everything exactly how I want it. I can't get every perfect ingredient. I don't have every tool I need (*coughovencough* *coughKitchenAidcough*). But I can come pretty damn close, and I'll be damned if I'm not going to go down trying.

And (like you all do) they are supporting me whole-heartedly. I have infused them with my Thanksgiving spirit and I'm having to turn them away for lack of anything for them to do. Granted, I've pawned off the cooking of the turkey -- but only because Nigel offered. (He's got a real, albeit small, oven.) I dressed and trussed the bird and have given him directions (that I fully expect he'll mostly ignore). Jon procured the turkey to begin with. Andy said he'd rouse the boys in the morning to collect tables and chairs from all the apartments so we all have a place to sit. Catherine and Caroline have been offering up shopping (and chopping) services. Aaron is finding me Christmas movies. 

Maybe it won't be Martha-Stewart fantasy perfect, but when are fantasies ever perfect? At the end of the day (quite literally), I'll have everyone over to my house. Most of the foods will be cooked to my specifications (cornbread in the stuffing, cranberry sauce in the shape of a can, cucumbers and onions, cheese in the mashed potatoes, homemade green bean "casserole") and peas and carrots for my Canadian. I'll make my own pie crust and there will be a hint of citrus in the pecan pie.

And while it won't be "perfect" because all the rest of you are back in the States (having already eaten your turkey while I am typing this), it will be me and my newest best 14 friends with lots of great food and bottles of (probably bad) wine. 

I am living the dream.

Athletic Prowess

From the newspaper (translated by a Chinese staff member): The proof that the Americans aren't any good at athletics is that they've never, ever won a medal in the Asian Games.

I couldn't make this up if I tried.

Silent Reading

I was coerced into running the Book Club at school. It's a pretty thankless job, when you think about it. Running an after-school club that feels like a class... getting kids excited about literature when they have a tough time as it is. Getting shy students talking... What did I agree to?

We started club time without any novels. I am new and the school hasn't really built up a library of books for lit clubs (they might have one or two copies of a book, but not 8-10). So it was rough going at the start. Then club was cancelled for 3 weeks (first for flu shots, then for exam week, finally for an all-school meeting). Today, we were back in business. 

And two of the eight students showed up.

It was me and two boys in a room. Preparing to read The Kite Runner. And they wouldn't stop giggling. No reason why, just giggling. Ahh, high-schoolers.

So, they look nervous and shy as I talk about reading books. I explain keeping up with the main events and how to use sticky notes to make notes. I explain questions and predictions and reader response. They giggle. And it's loud outside. We are three people in a mostly empty room with a lot of hard surfaces perfect for bouncing sound around. We're also next door to the loudest class in the school. Oof. Is it ever loud.

Finally, I ask how they want to read. Aloud, silently, should I read to them? They choose silently. OK. I leave the room for a minute, to let them calm down, and grab some tea. 

When I come back in the room, they are quietly reading. They are immersed in their books. I pick up a book and start reading along with them. The noise in the background dies away. Occasionally, one of them snickers a little -- there are a couple of bad words early on in the book -- so I can tell where they are at. Occasionally, one of them reaches over to see how far along the other one is. I show them where I'm at -- and they are amazed. Then we go back to reading.

Before we know it, our hour is up and the bell is ringing. They don't drop the book and run away. They slowly finish where they're at and then stand up. 

Maybe Book Club isn't such a thankless job after all.

Silent Reading

I was coerced into running the Book Club at school. It's a pretty thankless job, when you think about it. Running an after-school club that feels like a class... getting kids excited about literature when they have a tough time as it is. Getting shy students talking... What did I agree to?

We started club time without any novels. I am new and the school hasn't really built up a library of books for lit clubs (they might have one or two copies of a book, but not 8-10). So it was rough going at the start. Then club was cancelled for 3 weeks (first for flu shots, then for exam week, finally for an all-school meeting). Today, we were back in business. 

And two of the eight students showed up.

It was me and two boys in a room. Preparing to read The Kite Runner. And they wouldn't stop giggling. No reason why, just giggling. Ahh, high-schoolers.

So, they look nervous and shy as I talk about reading books. I explain keeping up with the main events and how to use sticky notes to make notes. I explain questions and predictions and reader response. They giggle. And it's loud outside. We are three people in a mostly empty room with a lot of hard surfaces perfect for bouncing sound around. We're also next door to the loudest class in the school. Oof. Is it ever loud.

Finally, I ask how they want to read. Aloud, silently, should I read to them? They choose silently. OK. I leave the room for a minute, to let them calm down, and grab some tea. 

When I come back in the room, they are quietly reading. They are immersed in their books. I pick up a book and start reading along with them. The noise in the background dies away. Occasionally, one of them snickers a little -- there are a couple of bad words early on in the book -- so I can tell where they are at. Occasionally, one of them reaches over to see how far along the other one is. I show them where I'm at -- and they are amazed. Then we go back to reading.

Before we know it, our hour is up and the bell is ringing. They don't drop the book and run away. They slowly finish where they're at and then stand up. 

Maybe Book Club isn't such a thankless job after all.

What an Ass

Friday night was a parents' night at school. We hold these nights on Fridays because many parents live outside of Beijing, and must fly in for the meeting. They fly in, spend five minutes with each teacher, spend the night in a hotel, and then fly home. They are dedicated to their children's education.

The event runs until about 6:30. As a way thank the teachers, the school brings us out to dinner afterwards. I'm not talking about a sandwich tray in the teachers' lounge or some colleagues going Dutch unofficially. Nope, I'm talking about an official sit-down meal paid for by the school. With beer, no less. 

We had a great time looking through the menu. Some of the translations were priceless. We have to go back with a camera. I can't even begin to fake just how awesomely bad some of the names were. While the Chinese staff usually order for us when we go out, this time they gave us a chance to order on our own. Well, the Canadian decided we should try something "exciting". OK. Donkey it is!

It was a cold dish. Sliced meat with a ginger/garlic dipping sauce. I did a side-by-side comparison with the cold sliced beef we also ordered. I couldn't tell much of a difference. It tasted like... meat.

The highlight of dinner was the duck, though. Oh yes, I had my first official Peking duck. Thin pancakes, cucumber sticks, green onion shreds, plum sauce, and sugar. And duck. First, they bring out the duck skin. You get meat later on. And at the end they fry up the bones so you can suck on them. By then, I was stuffed, so I didn't try the bones.

The skin, though. Oh, the skin. Crispy, fatty, warm duck skin. It brought me back to my days at Maggie G's, when chef used to staff the duck cracklins after rendering duck fat for confit. The sauce was bitter; the sugar was necessary. We ran out of cucumber and onion. But the skin was heaven.

Definitely better than the donkey.

Snack Wrap Supreme

I have a new lunch-time favorite. It's tastes a lot like a chicken snack wrap you'd get at . It is a piece of flat bread wrapped around some fried chicken nuggets with some sauce and a little lettuce and cucumber.

Yesterday, it tasted good. Today I had to stand in line to wait for one, and I got to watch them made, and it got better.

Here's what I noticed.

The bread was cooking on a large, flat oven in the back of the kitchen. I say cooking and not heating because at one point, the man went over to check on the bread, looked at it, and put the lid back down. That tells me that he is watching for the caramelization on the bread's surface to show that it is cooked, not just heating them up.

Another man was breading the chicken. I couldn't see the whole process. I don't know if the chicken came in fresh or from a freezer pack. But I know that it was breaded before my eyes and then dropped into oil.

When the bread came off the griddle, the chicken came out of the fryer. A man then immediately spread the bread with some red stuff (I think it's the ubiquitous red bean paste), put on a handful of chicken, added a few pieces of lettuce, and a cumber spear. Then he tossed on two shakes of something (salt and pepper?) and rolled it up. Into a plastic baggie and voila.

The best snack wrap you've ever had.

Sure, it has fried chicken in it. You can call that bad for you. I suspect they use peanut oil, though. (Although I don't know, it is certainly the oil of choice in this country.) But I'm noticing that the food is actually made on the premises. Not heated or assembled onsite, but made. By people. Out of food.

It is incredible.

There is a man who makes the noodles. A man stirring up your soup in a pot. A man who puts the ingredients you want into the hot pot for you. And while I don't see it, I bet there is a man or woman chopping the meat and veggies for the stir fry, too. The food isn't 5 star cuisine. Some of the flavors are odd to my palate and sometimes you can tell that things have been sitting on the steam table for too long. It is an enterprise that serves 5000+ people daily. (Well, that's just lunch. Many people eat breakfast and dinner there, too.)

But they serve FOOD.

I wonder if that has anything to do with how wonderful the students are. They eat food, not highly-processed, food-like by-products of the agricultural industry. Imagine that.

The Heat Is On

One of the things that I had heard about China is that some apartment buildings turn off the heat in the winter. It's so cold, they figure, it costs too much to heat the place, so why bother? When we first moved into our apartments, that was one of the first questions: where are the heaters!?!? Beijing gets cold, and I really didn't want to spend the winter without even the hope of heat.

No worries, I was told, the heat is in the floor. Hmm. OK. I'll believe it when I have heat.

Then I learned about the centrally-controlled heat. Oh yes, the government says when the heat comes on (and goes off). So although it got really cold three weeks ago, the head doesn't come on until November 15th (or the 10th, depending on who you talk to).

My apartment complex turns things on in order, it seems. People in buildings 1 and 5 got their heat a week ago. I'm in building 6, so I didn't get heat until last Thursday. My friend in building 9 got heat yesterday.

And let me tell you, when the heat comes on, it comes ON.

The thermostat is centrally controlled, as well, so I can't do anything about it. Today, I left two windows open all day: one in the living room and one in the bedroom. Currently, my thermostat reads 25.1 degrees Celsius. Let me remind you that room temperature is 20 degrees Celsius. 25 degrees Celsius is about 77 degrees Fahrenheit. That's with the windows open. In winter. In Beijing.

So while it's winter outside, it's still summer in my apartment.

I <3 Beijing

WARNING: If you have no tolerance for good-hearted double Nintendo and/or find gutter humor utterly deplorable, you might not what to read this post. If, on the other hand, you have a sense of humor, read on.

I found this t-shirt during the second week I was here, and I had to have it. I've been planning the photo shoot opportunities the entire time. Finally, with enough poses up my sleeve and my friends sufficiently brow-beaten into agreeing to serve as photographers, I have the beginning of the series. I plan on adding more shots throughout my time here.

Enjoy! I sure did. ;-)

From I 3 Beijing

Wait for it... what is it that I love (that I am obviously not loving right now)?

Oh yes, there it is... BJ!!

From I 3 Beijing

I also love the fighting turtles. They could be the mascot for a hippie California university.

From I 3 Beijing

From I 3 Beijing

From I 3 Beijing

From I 3 Beijing

:-D

I admit that the Chinese translation of this shirt isn't funny at all. It just says "Beijing". Ho-hum.

The Life and Times of Donald Duck

OK, so I don't know much about his life, but I know a lot about his death. Here he is, waiting for his beheading.

From Donald Duck

I was glad to see he had already been eviscerated. He also had had his wings chopped off. I assume the store sold them separately. And I didn't even have to pull the heart out of his body -- it wasn't included. Still, I was feeling very much like the Queen of Hearts. And chop off his head I did.

From Donald Duck

The bit in the middle I put aside with some duck backs in the freezer for some duck stock.

Once skewered, badly, and trussed, poorly, he went into the oven. He was also dusted with some salt and pepper and thyme.

From Donald Duck

I admit that I overcooked him... it's tough when your recipes are in pounds, your duck is in kilos, and smaller than when purchased, and you aren't ever really sure what temperature your oven is at. Oh, and I haven't ever rotisseried anything before.

From Donald Duck

He tasted pretty good though.

And now, he's becoming soup. 

From Donald Duck

You can see the full album here

A Word about Money

The unit of currency in China is RMB, or Renminbi. Well, that's what the banks call, it anyway. The bills are called yuan and the symbol is a capital Y with an extra line on it... except when they use the symbol that looks a lot like a Greek pi. 

So, if you say yuan, everyone knows what you're talking about. Most people call them kwai, however. It's a lot like calling "dollars" "bucks", as in "Give me 20 bucks." Kwai means "lucky" in Chinese, and we all know that having money is certainly lucky -- hence the name. All the kwai have a picture of Mao on them, but the different values are different sizes and colors -- it's all very Monopoly. One yuan is worth about $.15 (or 10p if you're British). Spending 100 yuan notes is a lot like dropping twenties.

Next in line comes the jiao. Ten jiao make up on yuan -- so it's like a dime, except instead of just being a denomination it's its own thing. Remember, one yuan is worth $.15, so one jiao is worth... next to nothing. Jiao don't have pictues of Mao on them, they have pictures of cute children. However, everyone calls them mao. (Talk about screwing me up when I first got here -- the mao is the one withOUT his picture on it.) Jiao are bills, unless they are coins, and are smaller than yuan bills.

And then there are fen. One hundred fen make up one yuan -- like pennies. They are small, aluminum coins that weigh next to nothing. And if jiao are worth next to nothing, fen are worth nothing. Often, you don't even get them as change in stores. Today, my grocery bill came to 51 yuan 9 jiao and 3 fen. Instead of giving me back 7 fen, she just gave me back 1 jiao. Most items don't cost fen, it only comes into play with weighed produce. As far as I know, fen are so unimportant they don't even have nickname.

I guess that's how you know you've made it -- you get a nickname.

What Else Floats in Water?

A duck.

I bought an oven a couple of weeks ago. I'm sure I told you about that. It's one of them new-fangled convection ovens with a rotisserie attachment. Fancy. Well, after a, er, short day of grading, I decided it was time to try out the rotisserie. And, since I live in Beijing, and the weather has turned chilly, what better meat to roast than a duck.

Off I trundled to the store where I bought a half a duck earlier. And... there they were. Whole ducks. I had expected to see them with the head on. That's how most birds are sold in this town. But...

As I looked closer, it appeared that the WHOLE duck was there. There appear to be no slits in the duck at all. That means no nice, neat package of giblets stuffed inside a clean cavity. Not even a mostly clean cavity with just a few congealed blood bits. Oh, no. That I can handle. I mean a WHOLE duck. Head. Feet. Entrails. All of it. In a neat package of, well, duck skin. 

Glorious, roasted, crispy duck skin.

So that was it. It was a moment of truth. Would I buy the duck? Would I face up to the most disgusting thing I've encountered so far or would I walk away and buy some nice bit of trimmed pork or something? I wanted duck. I wanted roast duck. I scanned the chickens. They looked anemic and scrawny -- and the purple ones just look evil. I've tried to pick meat off of a whole chicken, and it's just not possible. And the ducks looked kind of scrawny, too. The half ducks weighed almost as much as the whole ducks! Would I be paying for too much bone if I bought a whole duck? But you can't really put a half a duck on a spit. (Fowl, it seems, are built rather like the people -- thin. What can I say: no one has any breasts.)

Choices! Indecision.

Well, I came here for something different and I didn't want to roast a chicken, I wanted to roast a duck. So, I picked up Donald and put him in the basket. Of course, poor Don was frozen, so there wasn't anyway I'd be cooking him up tonight.

To hedge my bets, I walked over to the pork counter and picked up a tenderloin (or something that appeared to be a tenderloin). (I cooked it up with some veggies a la Murley, and it was quite tasty.)

As I walked out the store, I wondered if I had made a horrible decision. Was I wasting money? Would chopping off a duck's head become too scary once I was home? Would I lose momentum since I'd have to wait for the darn thing to thaw? And then I considered the price... 20 yuan. That's... yeah, $3.00. It's Beijing, and while some meat can be pricey, duck is not one of those meats.

I stopped by a friend's place on the way back and she pointed out something that I hadn't thought of before. Not only might I find viscera inside, but perhaps unformed or partly formed eggs. (OK, maybe those are considered viscera, too, but I hadn't considered it before.) Ewwww! 

Don is sitting in the fridge right now, waiting. The plan is to go sightseeing tomorrow and then roast him on Saturday. That should let him thaw and give me some time to screw up the courage to decapitate and eviscerate him, literally. 

This is going to take more courage than anything else I've done, except maybe get on the plane.

Dear Cleaning Lady,

Thank you so much for your hard work. I came home from work last night and I was nearly blinded by the sun streaming in the windows and glancing off my shiny tile floor. It was like walking into the plushest of hotel rooms, except it was my apartment! 

Not only did you wash the floors, but you dusted everything, including the annoying extra shelf under the TV, and you arranged all my reusable bags into a nice, small, neat pile. I am in awe of your organizational abilities. You put my dishes away (after cleaning them). And the bathroom? Well, what isn't there to love about a sparkling clean bathroom, even one as cutely decorated in light blue and light pink flowers as mine is. 

But I admit I am confused about a couple of things. First, why did you make the bed like that? I don't sleep with my head inside the wall, so why were all the blankets flush with the top of the bed? You turned down the comforter, true, but the comforter was at the very edge of the bottom of the mattress -- once I got in bed, my feet would be in the cold air! It just doesn't make sense to make the bed like that. But please don't get me wrong, just because I know how to make a bed doesn't mean that I DO make a bed, and I am grateful for your hard work. (I heard on NPR once that you shouldn't make you bed in the morning because it encourages the growth of dust mites -- who thrive in warm, moist environments, just like your bed after you get out of it. You should leave the covers off so it drys and cools quickly. Yeah, that's why I don't make my bed each morning!)

Secondly, why did you throw away my ear plugs? Since you did throw them away, I can only imagine what you thought they were. Actually, I can't imagine what you thought they were. They're bright pink ear-canal-shaped squishy things. No, they are not bizarre, Western... I don't know whats. They're sleep aids. Haven't you noticed how loud this place is? I live near the garage/parking lot and I hear car alarms and honking at all hours of the day and night. I can hear the loud rumble of construction trucks rolling in and out at midnight. And don't even get me started on the honking on the street corner. I'm half a block away, and I can hear it through my closed windows. And then there's the hammering and drilling from the apartments still being finished in my building. The loud fire door clanging in the hallway. My neighbors. How can you sleep without ear plugs?

Don't worry, I have a few more stashed away, and I've learned that ear plugs can be washed and reused for quite some time. I'll just remember to put them in the drawer before you come the next time.

See you in two weeks!

Love, -c

No Cats Were Harmed in the Writing of This Post

We have a lot of groomers in my apartment complex. There are cleaners for each building, both those that clean the common spaces inside the buildings and those that pick up the trash located in the cans outside. There are guards to open the gates. There are people to cut the grass, water the lawn, and drain the fountains. There is also someone to brush the grass.

Huh? My thoughts exactly.

On my way to the store on Sunday, I noticed a worker along the edge of the lawn. He had a long, straw broom. Imagine the best caricature of a witch's broom. I'm talking long, rough-hewn handle with sparse, jagged twigs tied to the end. He was on the walkway and facing the grass. He was brushing the grass, as far as I could tell.

You'll have to picture this, but whatever he was doing, it couldn't have been very effective. Anything he wanted to pick up would have been much easier to do with his glove-covered hands. If he were raking leaves, it would have been much easier if he had been standing in the grass and pulling the broom towards him, not pushing it away. All I can think is that he was brushing the blades of grass so they'd ... point in the same direction?

It reminded me of the scenes in Monty Python and the Holy Grail where people are hitting cats against trees. It makes no sense. But, I guess it gives you something to do. And in a country of 1.5 billion (and counting), having something to do isn't such a bad thing.

Slip-Sliding Away

The floors in this country are very slippery. I mean polished to a super-fine sheen slippery. Coated with a thin layer of water in the middle of the day because there is no concern for students' tripping slippery. No conception of sand in the outdoor paint slippery. Slippery.

I find myself sliding along our school corridors all the time. My Dansko clogs are no match for the floor. I can slide down the hall like a professional skater. I thought it was just me, and then I looked around. I noticed that all the teachers slide down the halls. Then I realized that everyone, students and teacher, taking a running slide in the first-floor foyer. It's a wide-open space (opening into a row of glass doors followed by rather unforgiving pavement and some stairs) of super-slippery floor. It's toot tempting. A nice running start... and sliiiiiiiiiiiide to the doors.

The thing is, it's not just the school. The subway floors are exactly the same, except, well, it's a subway platform. I'm not too worried about going over the edge into an oncoming train, but I am worried about tripping down the stairs and taking the mass of humanity out like a bowling ball crashing into the pins. Imagine what it's like when it rains.

Of All the Fried Bread Stands in All the World

Many of you know my penchant for breakfast. I love breakfast. Specifically, I love hot breakfast. I will eat cereal, but I consider it expedient, not good. Still, a morning must start with breakfast. I get mighty grumpy without any food in my belly, and there is nothing worse than a grumpy teacher.

I've been having problems in China because I don't have access to good breakfast. Although Katy stepped up and shipped me some Joe's Os (it turns out, I don't like Cheerios anymore), the post office ate them (perhaps literally). Without Joe's Os and sketchy milk (at best), I've been at something of a loss. I could cook eggs every morning, but that's a drag. I'm too lazy for that.

Fortunately, I live in China, and even in my remote, backwoods part of the city, street food abounds.

I've been going to the Fried Bread Man and His Wife lately, and it's good. Very good.

The man has a pedal cart with a griddle on it. He mans the griddle and his wife mans the counter. I think she also rolls out the bread dough. There is a bucket with a bunch of ones and fives in it on the counter.

As you walk up, the man is deftly flipping pieces of fried bread (think a sorta thick tortilla, like a chalupa) and dousing them with oil. Flip, oil. Flip oil. Flip. Then, he dips his chopsticks in some corn starch (or something similar), cracks an egg in a bowl and scrambles the egg. He pokes a little hole in a bubble in a piece of bread and pours in the egg. The egg fills the center cavity and cooks up. Flip, flip. Then, he slides the top of the griddle to the side and places the bread in the oven (think of a tandoor). You can see the glowing hot coals in the center of the oven and a shelf around the edge where the bread sits.

As you get to the front of the line, the woman shouts something at you. You don't know, so like the people ahead of you, you throw a five in the bucket and take out a couple of ones. (Crepe Man charges 3 kwai, maybe Fried Bread Man and His Wife do, too.) Nope, she yells at you some more, then finally tosses another kwai your way. She tried to not touch the money. I guess fried bread only costs two kwai.

She takes a bread from the man and paints on the ubiquitous red bean paste. She asks about your hot sauce preference, and you motion "just a little" with your thumb and forefinger. Then, she chopsticks on a piece of green leaf lettuce and a chopsticks-full bunch of pickled something. Into a plastic baggie and off you go.

Dear me. Is it good. The bread is hot and crisp. The egg is filling. The lettuce is crunchy. The hot sauce is enough to wake you up, but not so much that your poor mei guo ren (American) taste buds scream in anger. It is half a block up the street from where you turn right to go to school. It means crossing a street (twice), but it is worth it.

Remember, two kwai is $.30. 

This morning, I took the hint of a man ahead of me in line last time, and I got two fried breads. She puts them face to face, like a giant sammich. It seemed she remembered me, too. I got a big, toothy grin when I dropped my money in the bucket (and then took the correct change).

I think this could be the start of a beautiful friendship.