We’re hoping we can make some money on this someday. Of course, right now we don’t have a freakin’ clue what that would look like.
That’s not the sort of disclosure that builds credibility, I know, but we don’t care. Life is good, and it’s such fun to chronicle it. Even if this remains merely a robust personal journal that we can share with friends and family, and for ourselves down the road, it still beats scrapbooking or stamp collecting as a hobby.
Feel free to poke around the site: our home is yours. Just leave the half bottle of zinfandel that’s in the fridge. Rick needs to cook with it tonight.
P. S. For those of you who have followed us here from Pink Fluffy Icing, welcome home! Be sure to re-subscribe either on the home page so you know when there’s anything new on the whole site, or just on the specific section of your choice. For first time visitors, welcome yerself. We’re delighted to have you join us as we chart a new course through the blogosphere together.
(Gosh… that was a pretty darn presidential sentence. I should run in 2012. )
It’s an incredible heart joy to stumble on a little authentic taste of home when you’re in a foreign country. The unexpected whiff of fresh Johnnycake… the first flaky bite of tortiere on Christmas Eve… the scent of fresh-from-the-fryer poutine…. That’s how I’d feel about dim sum at Loon Wah, if I were Chinese.
I’m not. I’m Canadian, so for those less fortunate, the above food items translate into cornbread, spiced ground pork pie, and french fries covered in gravy and fresh cheese curds. But I do know the taste of someone else’s home when I encounter it. Don’t ask how: it’s a gift, and so is Loon Wah.
I should know, since I have eaten Saturday lunch there almost every week I’ve been in the SF Bay area for the past nine years. And I’m the one who bores quickly, remember? However, I never tire of the ballet.
Daniel, Peter, Cathy, Mei and the rest of the crew move through the modest space like koi in a crowded pond, swooping smoothly from table to table with fresh place settings, bottles of ice cold beer, glass tubs of hot chili oil, the occasional fork, and steaming wicker baskets of non-MSG’ed goodness.
The cart servers fly in from the shadows, and flit away with empty plates. Whatever it is that keeps fish from crashing into one another is in these waters as well. There’s an open, unpretentious friendliness not just toward the customers, but between the staff. That kind of energy translates easily across cultures, no matter what’s on the menu.
There are a few selections requiring a tad more gustatorial courage to broach than others, best introduced to your more intrepid dining partners (unless you think Aunt Tillie from Tuscon would like chicken feet, straight up). But even people who would prefer eating at the McDonald’s next door will find plenty to delight their delicate palates.
Unwrap a steamed lotus leaf and discover the piping-hot niceness of sticky rice waiting inside. Drizzle rice vinegar on a pot sticker tinted lightly with chili oil and wash it down with a hit of Tsingtao. Wrap your dimples around the dumplings known as “chiu chow.” Before you know it, you’ll be asking yourself, “How come Mom never made dumplings stuffed with peanuts, chives, and tiny bits of pork in a slightly sweet sauce when I was a little kid? Why didn’t she give me beer? Why don’t we have a tuba?”
You’ll ask the question because you’ll start feeling at home.
“Dim sum” translates literally to “touch heart,” and I guess that’s why we keep going back. I’d rather eat at a place that serves “touch heart” than one that only delivers “fill belly,” any day.
Spoiler warning: This post contains very girly concepts. If you’re likely to break out in a rash at such ickiness, bail out now and come back on Sunday. We’ll be posting the riveting new ramblings on our favorite Bay Area dim sum restaurant, Loon Wah. It will be much easier on the testosterony ganglions, I’m sure.
A few years back, I was facing the wardrobe challenge of being the mother of the bride in a stinkin’ hot July. I just knew I wasn’t going to make it through the day in pantyhose, yet without some assistance, my dress fell squarely in to the category of “too much information.” If I could just find something as lightweight as pantyhose with the legs cut off, I was sure that would do the trick. Off I went to Macy’s “foundational garments” section with grand hopes and a high-limit credit card.
Armed with about 8 different brands, sizes, and control options, I hit the busy dressing room. By the time I had tried on and taken off the first seven items, I had broken a major sweat and had stubbed my toe twice in the “dancing out of tight underpants” routine in the limited floorspace. However, I was willing to give the cause one more shot. Unfortunately, I had left the most robust item to the last.
I’m not prone to anxiety attacks, but by the time I had struggled and squished myself into place, I will confess to a rising level of panic. It was like sticking your head through stair railings: the view wasn’t as great as you had anticipated and now you were facing the really tricky part.
I needed out. Quickly.
It became apparent that the only way I could successfully liberate myself was to roll the whole shebang off my thighs like a rubber band off a newspaper. The beast came to life, picking up steam as it hit my ankles, whistling off into the corner of the dressing room. After a few jerky death flails, it lay in a four-inch square of unrecognizable beige spandex. I let out a little hysterical bark. The changing room chatter dulled to an alert silence.
I clearly was not going to spend good after-tax dollars on an apparatus that would have been banned by the Geneva Convention. However, I couldn’t bring myself to return the involuted mess to the attendant in its current condition.
Grabbing what looked like the waist hole with my right hand, I felt for the thigh opening with my left. I got it on the first try, so I gave ‘er a good yank and voila! With shaking arms, I wrenched it back into its correct orientation, holding it extended at full arms-length for five seconds so we were both clear who had the upper hand. Unfortunately, instead of letting go of the waist opening, the stress of the previous fifteen minutes caused me to lose my head. I let go with my left hand first. The elasticized thigh opening came ricocheting directly towards my face, with the price tag boomeranging around the edge. The stinging impact left me with a gaping wound on my nose.
Okay, “gaping” might be a stretch, but it was bleeding.
After a few seconds of stunned silence, I started to howl with laughter. In a nervously quiet dressing room.
A voice from three cubicles down called out, “What ARE you trying on? I want one!”
I looked at the offending tag. “It’s called ‘The Gripper.'” Honestly, one could hardly hear oneself pant for breath in the ensuing snorts and sniggers.
The nose wound has healed, but the emotional scars remain. So… this should explain a lot.
