when words fail

11/20/09 - Celebratory Plate.A gift from the Bitbit Café....

Thu, 19 Nov 2009 20:58:00 -0500

11/20/09 - Celebratory Plate.
A gift from the Bitbit Café.

… my God, how beautiful Shakespeare is, who else is as mysterious as he is; his language and method are like a brush trembling with excitement and ecstasy. But one must learn to read, just as one must learn to see and learn to live.
— Van Gogh

(I cannot wait to see his exhibition in Taipei.)

Over the last two months, raw ideas have been taken apart over and over to be polished and rearranged. Each week we returned with new concepts, from material to technique, hoping something might just spark off a change and bring the sentences to flames.

In each piece hid a different fuse, often in unexpected locations and with varying lengths. Every now and then, we were surprised to see a sudden onset of brightness, provoked by things exchanged over Thursday nights. I worried sometimes, there was not yet enough strength to withstand the deconstruction - yet we must take the old apart to build something new - or that time would run out before we can construct again.

All the worries evaporated last night as we huddled around the table, warmed by what we have accomplished. Over melon beer, crème brûlée and chocolate cake, we shared life stories now preserved in faithful words.

***

From “Material” by Alice Munro:

The story is about Dotty. Of course, she has been changed in some unimportant ways and the main incident concerning her has been invented, or grafted on from some other reality. But the lamp is there, and the pink chenille dressing gown. And something about Dotty that I had forgotten: When you were talking she would listen with her mouth slightly open, nodding, then she would chime in on the last word of your sentence with you. A touching and irritating habit. She was in such a hurry to agree, she hoped to understand. Hugo has remembered this, and when did Hugo ever talk to Dotty?

That doesn’t matter. What matters is that this story of Hugo’s is a very good story, as far as I can tell, and I think I can tell. How honest this is and how lovely, I had to say as I read. I had to admit. I was moved by Hugo’s story; I was, I am, glad of it, and I am not moved by tricks. Lovely tricks, honest tricks. There is Dotty, lifted out of life and held in light, suspended in the marvelous clear jelly that Hugo has spent all his life learning how to make. It is an act of magic, there is no getting around it; it is an act, you might say, of a special, unsparing, unsentimental love. A fine and lucky benevolence. Dotty was a lucky person, people who understand and value this act might say (not everybody, of course, does understand and value this act); she was lucky to live in that basement for a few months and have this done to her, though she doesn’t know what has been done and wouldn’t care for it, probably, if she did know. She has passed into Art. It doesn’t happen to everybody.

***

To end the night, I shared a passage I’d discovered at a bookstore back in Philly. It reminded me of a time when I saved every good idea I had, and as a result, I wrote nothing. Among the most important things I have learned about creation is to give. Give, and more shall come. This is true beyond writing.

Give it all. Give it now. The way to write is to throw your body at the mark when your arrows are spent.

I am no longer sure what the question is, but I do know that the answer is Yes.

One of the few things I know about writing is this: spend it all, shoot it, play it, lose it, all, right away, every time. Do not hoard what seems good for a later place in the book, or for another book; give it, give it all, give it now.

The impulse to save something good for a better place later is the signal to spend it now. Something more will arise for later, something better. These things fill from behind, from beneath like well water.

Similarly, the impulse to keep to yourself what you have learned is not only shameful, it is destructive. Anything you do not give freely and abundantly becomes lost to you.

You open your safe and find ashes.

11/18/2009 - Sugar Lumps. The prompt was confrontation. I wanted...

Tue, 17 Nov 2009 22:47:00 -0500

11/18/2009 - Sugar Lumps.

The prompt was confrontation. I wanted to see how she would handle her writing in a more trying situation. The challenge turned out to be difficult, only not in the way I had imagined; a week later when we met again, she told me she could not - for the life of her - think of anyone she wanted to confront.

But since my husband was nearby, she said cheerfully, I decided to confront him. Naturally he was not too pleased when I declared that.

I hope you didn’t tell him I was behind this.
Immediately, I had a vision of being chased around by her angry husband.

***

Posted with permission and slight modification:

Dear,

It has been years that we have known each other, and it has come to a point where I must discuss several things about you that make me unhappy.

I understand, it might be hard for you to change, but these habits you have are causing discomfort and inconvenience to my life. My purpose is not to put an end to our ties; I am writing this letter only because I want our marriage and friendship to last. I hope you will read carefully and help me find solutions.

First of all, you put my health at risk. You are such a good cook that I cannot stop eating the dishes that you make. They are always very well handled, seasoned, and presented. I have gained weight since we first met, and continue to do so to this day. Additionally, I have enjoyed eating at home much more than eating out these days —this confines my exposure to the world-known restaurants in our city.

Secondly, you make me look old. You can always make me laugh at the most unexpected time and occasion. This morning, when you mentioned a cycling trip over the weekend, I reminded you that we did not own any bicycles. Then you sent me a picture of the cycling trip in your mind. (http://333.fotoc.com/hk_icycling/v/hkopen09/pairmen/BCW_5294—.JPG.html)
Your humor has succeeded at making me laugh every time, I therefore have more winkles than anyone around my age.

Finally, you are deteriorating my Chinese. Even though your Chinese is still quite limited, you always try your best to use it whenever possible. This forces me to use simple words and baby sentences to continue a conversation with you. The effect is devastating — for the longest time, I haven’t had a chance to speak sophisticated Chinese like a mature, successful, professional native speaker that I am. Your very cute and sexy accent makes it especially hard for me to stop you. You should take full responsibility for my atrophied mother tongue.

To conclude, you have directly inconvenienced my health, beauty, and intelligence. I shall use a lifetime to observe whether you seek improvement or not.

Xie Xie. (Thank you)

Your Tai Tai (Your wife)

***

Of course she would.

She was smiling at me as we finished reading together. Somehow I was not surprised she had given the heavy subject such a delightful twist. Every time I think about this letter, I feel a happiness float up.

I shall use a lifetime to observe whether you seek improvement or not.

Flaws she named, but they were all perfect flaws. I was reminded of the bowl of sugar lumps sitting on the dining table — coarse, uneven on all sides. Imperfect, and lovely at that.

11/11/09 - Remembering a Bento.Photo credit: Eric Weng Two or...

Wed, 11 Nov 2009 09:14:00 -0500

11/11/09 - Remembering a Bento.
Photo credit: Eric Weng

Two or three weeks after I moved back to Taiwan, my parents took Pony and me on a food tour around Kyoto and Osaka, Japan. True to our ways, we roamed the streets from early morning to late night, seeking out restaurants favored by locals. We walked as much as we could, so that more meals and even more half-meals could fit into a single day.

On the last night in Kyoto however, we decided to take it easy and settle our dinner at a supermarket nearby. The bento I chose was a glorious combination of salmon roe, crab meat and sea urchin atop a layer of sushi rice. (I would move to Japan in a heartbeat just for the basic food they serve at supermarkets).

The cashier smiled and reached for the several boxes we had selected. She bowed slightly before setting out to wrap our purchase.

Did you hear what she just said? Pony tugged at my sleeve.

I shook my head.

‘I will be careful with your belongings.’ Isn’t that great?
My little sister was still observing the woman, face radiant.

Perhaps because soon after, I began my time with Workshop and had been devoted to the cause ever since, this is what I remember most about the trip. Sometimes while working with people, I flashback to the scene and imagine myself the cashier, hoping those before me would feel the way that we did.

I promise to be careful with what you entrust me.

***

I remember too, of course, how anxious I really was on that trip. Unnerved by the question marks and tension in my new life, I found it hard to fully enjoy myself. All the excitement and delight of the Japanese cities temporarily distracted me, but they could not put me at ease.

Nearly four months later, with a completely different spirit, I am now finalizing a trip to Bangkok with my parents and my grandparents for early December. Just yesterday, I put down the payment for my flight and hotel — not the first trip I have managed for myself, but it is the first one where I can truly say, I am not still supported by my parents in other areas of my life.

Good news upon good news: I will be officially behind the wheels this Friday. My driving coach had been right about those phoenix eyes.

10/31/09 - The 3PM Crab Feast. What is your schedule like today?...

Sat, 31 Oct 2009 20:43:00 -0400

10/31/09 - The 3PM Crab Feast.

What is your schedule like today?
Mom wanted to know. She had bought crabs from the market this morning - still alive, rattling the plastic bag where they were held.

Though it’s a Saturday, finding that common time with my parents proved to be no easy task; our workload concentrates most heavily over weekends. After some discussion, we finally secured an opening in the afternoon - the hour between three and four - to hold our crab feast.

When I arrived at my parents’ apartment, the table was already set and the two plates of crabs, its centerpiece. On each of our mats was a small dish carrying sauce made with vinegar, ginger and sugar; when seafood is fresh, a humble dip is all the complement it needs.

Was it a late lunch, or an early dinner?
We mused while cracking shells and scooping out cream from carapaces. In the end, we decided it was simply a meal invented.

***

At the Burger Joint in the Haight, San Francisco (July).

Andrew and I stopped by to have a snack before meeting Alison that afternoon. I ordered a plate of French Fries for the both of us. As I waited at the counter, zoned out reading a sign there, the cashier suddenly exclaimed, It’s such a gorgeous day, huh?

Yes it is! I smiled.
And it was. Outside, the sun brilliant, breezes cool.

Sometimes, she sighed, I am shocked that we live in a place like this.

***

In my junior year at Penn, I saw a man crouching on the grass outside my dorm one day. It took me a moment to understand that he was kissing the ground. He did it several times, rising and bowing low. I could not completely comprehend the sight, but I held on to it.

***

Those fragments above, I have been saving for the day when I can say, I feel the same way about being where I am now.

Today is the day.

The crabs were certainly worth smiling about, yet more than that, there are my days, though busy, still malleable and filled with possibilities for innovation. I am ecstatic to find this true not just with time, but also the other relationships I count around me: with people, with the city, with my work, with myself.

Lately, I have been shocked to live in a place like this.

***

This path, marked through space by ponds, statues, trees, sculpture, and steps, leads to a question - to a tall portico open to gardens on both faces and with entrances to the library and the museum on either side. The climax of the axis is a choice, not an instruction.

— from Chambers for a Memory Palace (Lyndon & Moore)

10/25/09 - Lemon juice & honey. I wrote to ask TJ what I...

Sun, 25 Oct 2009 02:09:00 -0400

10/25/09 - Lemon juice & honey.

I wrote to ask TJ what I should do about my overworked vocal chords. These days, I make a living with them, and there are times when I would talk for hours with little rest. Even when I sold advertisements back in college, I did not use my voice as much.

It’s clear: I haven’t learned to keep this part of my body relaxed when under demand. I grow hoarse after a while, unable to reverse the tightness.

When I was in district chorus, My sweet singer replied,
lots of the kids drank water with lemon juice and honey.

A lemon a day shared amongst glasses of water, I took up the formula as a first step to improvement. From there, I have also been inspired to work on my voice and polish my speech. I have always wanted to develop greater eloquence. Since I now have a career that depends on such progress, and also provides opportunities for practice, I am pushing forth.

It is a sign of a wonderful profession, isn’t it -
that we are able to seek growth in areas of our choice?

***

While studying Renee Grant-Williams’ Voice Power,
I highlighted these lines:

A technique always works best when it is invisible, that is, when it has become a deeply ingrained habit. And that only happens over time and with plenty of practice.

The remainder of this chapter on Voice Production reviewed a classic model for learning (therefore, change):

Unconscious Incompetence
Maybe you’ve never given much thought to how you sound or whether there was any prospect of doing anything about it. Having no idea what is wrong or what is possible can be a rather blissful stage.

Conscious Incompetence
Here, you are all too aware that improvements could be made. You’ve learned a few techniques, but they are new and might feel a bit strange. This stage is not much fun.

Conscious Competence
You have mastered a host of new skills, but at this stage, you still need to concentrate to keep all the balls in the air.

Unconscious Competence
This is the voice nirvana that we have been working toward. These techniques have become a part of you. You use them without thinking. Technique has set you free.

***

Damian once told me that the day I master my tango technique, I will turn a beginner once more. Only, a new kind this time - I will begin to truly feel the music, and dance.

***

Conscious now of an incompetence, the work commences.

To help me, Grandma shared some honey in a little vodka bottle (though I don’t believe she drinks Smirnoff Ice; it must be from my uncle’s house). Mom gave me a ceramic juicer as a gift. She had carried it all the way back from the Reading Terminal Market:

Philadelphia, we meet again.

10/15/09 - Salmon Rice with Crisped Salmon Skin. Two days ago, I...

Thu, 15 Oct 2009 03:50:00 -0400

10/15/09 - Salmon Rice with Crisped Salmon Skin.

Two days ago, I nearly crashed into another car at the driving school.

At the time, I was slowly negotiating my way out of a curve. There was a car directly ahead of me, so I thought to myself: I must brake now, or I might hit that. I had completely forgotten, my foot was still on the accelerator pedal, and in all of my eagerness to react, I stamped down.

The car flew forward. I remember the horror on that woman’s face, as I headed directly for the driver’s seat. Within a split second, I found the brake, but by the time I stopped, we were only inches apart.

I covered my face with both hands and leaned into the steering wheel, cold sweat breaking. It was fortunate, the woman did not make wild turns in a panic. If she had done so, the timely brake may not have saved us.

Instead, she waited,
as I should have too, before reacting.

***

While I am writing this, I keep remembering a dinner Pony and I made for our grandparents not too long ago. After a round of vichyssoise that night, we served salmon rice pyramids topped with the fish’s skin. Though crisped to perfection, the strips of skin were too salty. We had been overly excited about marinating, and turned too generous a hand over our fish. The skin ended up absorbing most of the hit.

You must wait a while every time after you flavor, mom reminded us. Don’t be in a hurry to gauge the results right away. They are not accurate. It takes a bit of time for the flavors to spread.

It also, takes a bit of time for clarity to come.
The faster reaction is not always the better one.

***

You will pass the test, my driving coach said to me despite the incident.
You know why you will pass?

I was too focused on the driving at the time and made no answer, so he continued on his own,You will pass because you have phoenix eyes.

(They call eyes that slant upward like mine, phoenix eyes)

What?! I couldn’t help it.
I’ve never heard that one before.

That’s because you are young, and there are many things you still don’t understand, my coach said with much satisfaction.

I won’t argue with blessings, but I am resolved to master my calm for those phoenix eyes to work their charm.

9/?/09 - Pony’s Buffet. How do you manage your time? Do...

Tue, 22 Sep 2009 19:28:00 -0400

9/?/09 - Pony’s Buffet.

How do you manage your time? Do you wake up each morning, already clear on how the day should unfold? Do you right away divide up your hours, and allot each piece its due?

After Kelly threw out the questions, Pony and I thought for a while, then I answered for myself. I told Kelly that I don’t plan out everything from the beginning, as there are too many variables along the way. But I have clear goals and I focus on them. I try to waste no time.

At this she smiled, No time wasted!

It was a Monday night. Although as usual the BitBit Cafe had its day off, Pony brought the restaurant back alive for her dinner party. The buffet she had prepared, a glorious sight spread across multiple tables.

***

A few days ago, dad drove me around Sansia to give me a more complete picture of the area. He wanted to show me how the streets I now recognized, connected with one another. Up until this point, my understanding of each place had been piecemeal. It was exciting, to finally put the bits together, in context.

As we passed by an unfamiliar street, Dad pointed out the window.
Do you recognize this? We come here in the mornings to buy ingredients.

That’s the market street?
I stared at it. Empty of people and stalls, the street seemed particularly short.

In the mornings of our visits, when the whole street crowded, I often had the impression that this stretch went on forever. Since most of our items could be purchased near the entrance, I had never actually reached the other end. Now, I was shocked to find it so near. Right before my eyes.

Dad laughed,
With so much life, the place does seem to expand.

***

Time, too;
with so much life, it seems to expand as much.

I just submitted the first drafts for two books due to publish in December - works of collaboration with my family. One is a collection of essays, another a children’s book.
Workshop is sailing into its second month. New projects are under way, ideas continue to branch.
My weekly apprenticeship at the Bitbit Cafe has been humbling and in that, inspiring.
What part of the day I have left, I have been keeping up with my physical training, my reading and my studies: Spanish, writing, food, anatomy.
I have also been spending a great deal of time with my family - time that I’ve missed. Together in the next few months, we are preparing to launch several new projects.

So much has happened; so much more to come.
I count two months since I’ve moved back, yet it feels like it’s been more.

***

On such a full sea are we now afloat,
And we must take the current when it serves,
Or lose our ventures.

— Brutus from Julius Caesar

***

Hesitation, away.

9/15/09 - Salmon & Homemade Gnocchi.Plated by my mother. For...

Tue, 15 Sep 2009 10:34:00 -0400

9/15/09 - Salmon & Homemade Gnocchi.
Plated by my mother.

For one of the projects I launched at Workshop, I did some research on naked mole rats. When asked why these ugly-cute animals don’t have much hair, the National Zoo responds:

The underground tunnels they live in have a fairly constant temperature and humidity. If naked mole rats need to get warm, they huddle together. They don’t have to waste energy growing hair.

As I read this, I was immediately reminded of an account that had caught my eye in The Creative Habit:

Philip Roth…was a model of late-life rejuvenation, having produced in his sixties four remarkable novels in a row… Roth had pared his life down to the minimum number of moving parts. Near his desk he kept two small signs, one reading “Stay Put”, the other “No optional Striving” - reminders to avoid the temptation of anything other than the… essentials.

***

No unnecessary struggles.
Only essential striving.
- I ask this of myself from the beginning of each day.

To honor the naked mole rat spirit, I made gnocchi at the Bitbit Cafe during my apprentice hours. Those clever underground dwellers are known to dine
on tubers.

8/?/09 - Smoke Our Own. That year, she was in fourth grade. She...

Wed, 09 Sep 2009 00:01:00 -0400

8/?/09 - Smoke Our Own.

That year, she was in fourth grade. She went to a friend’s place after school. There, the grandmother of the household took a look at her and exclaimed,

A maw-tsui!
Meaning: someone with an underbite.
Back in Penghu, a kid like that, we strangle at birth.
No one wants a maw-tsui.

Shocked, the little girl went home and hurried to her older sister.
Er-jie, er-jie!
(Second sister! Second sister!)

For the first time in her life, she felt the threat of her underbite. It must be something of a curse. Else, why would she deserve death on that archipelago off Taiwan’s coast?

***

My sister was only 15 that year, still very innocent,
grandma told me.
I ran home that day, all flushed with worry. She listened to me seriously, and we both wondered what to do next. Er-jie wanted to help me - that girl had such a heart - so she said, ‘why don’t you try pushing your upper teeth forward? Day after day, surely the problem will be fixed’.

So every day, I did. Whatever free time I had, I pushed my teeth out. Er-jie encouraged me all the while. We began to see the change in time.

***

Grandma couldn’t remember how long it had taken her, but finally one day her teeth aligned. Just barely. I could see now, as she opened her mouth to show me, yet I would never have noticed that something peculiar about her teeth, had she not shared the tale.

No one believes my story,
grandma continued.
Except one person - a dentist I met after my pregnancy. Back in the day, your grandpa and I didn’t know any better; we thought treating cavities would harm the fetus in my womb, so I let them worsen till the baby was born. By the time I went for treatment, I had to make a mold for my teeth.

My dentist made that mold twice, thinking he had blundered both times.
Finally, the man confessed his confusion. Why was it that her teeth, so straight as they seemed, would be completely misaligned in the back?

She told him the story.

Do such things really happen in this world?
He hadn’t learnt about braces by then. It was the first time he entertained the notion, that the teeth people are born with can be rearranged. Novel though it was and almost ridiculous, he believed.

***

I like being with you two so much, grandma told Pony and me at lunch.
You make me feel the future’s filled with hope.

Grandma, always a step ahead of me, I was going to tell you and grandpa that. When I am with our family, I believe we can do anything.

Anything, starting from our own smoked bacon and ox tongue.

8/?/09 - Bitbit Cafe’s Beef Stew. On the way out of our...

Sat, 29 Aug 2009 06:37:00 -0400

8/?/09 - Bitbit Cafe’s Beef Stew.

On the way out of our restaurant, Pony couldn’t find her keys. We looked on the shelves, we looked in the drawers, we looked in unlikely places (like the space between cups). They were nowhere in sight.

What are you looking for? Shuixian asked, then carried on peeling her potatoes as before, while we continued our search in more improbable places.

Suddenly, she threw down the peeler and pointed at a shelf above our heads, There it is! Her face glowed with triumph.

How did you see it?

I love the feeling of finding things, she smiled, so whenever I see people search, I would always keep an eye out, hoping I’m the one to discover first.

***

What feeling are you addicted to? Pony asked me some time later when the episode had already left my mind.

Hmmm?

You know how Shuixian said she likes to find things? I like the feeling of being chased.

Metaphorically?

No, literally. Remember that day when I rang grandma’s doorbell?

Yes, I remember that day. Pony had a moment of confusion and thought we had gone to the wrong door. Instead of waiting to apologize, my little sister screamed and grabbed my hand. Without having enough time to process everything, I bolted down flights of stairs with her before she abruptly came to a stop and laughed, Oh wait, I made a mistake - that WAS grandma’s door.

Why did we run? I could barely catch my breath. I had never seen her run so fast on a treadmill.

I don’t know, she said sheepishly. I took off before I could think about it.

I love the rush of being chased, she said. What about you?

***

I keep thinking of Emilia’s turn of phrase: hooked on a feeling.

So what about me?
I’m hooked on metamorphosis.

8/24/09 - Making Bread with Grandpa. If you want to learn...

Sun, 23 Aug 2009 20:41:00 -0400

8/24/09 - Making Bread with Grandpa.

If you want to learn anything, ask us, Grandpa told me one day at lunch.
If we know how to do it, we’ll tell you. If we don’t, we’ll figure it out.

My grandparents are the most curious and driven octogenarians I know. I find it striking that they have only become more eager to discover the world as time passes. Every few days, grandpa would share a newspaper clipping with me, and almost everyday, he and grandma would have an English phrase they wish to discuss.

Is it alright, Grandma described a time when a friend had invited her to breakfast in English,is it alright that I said: Thanks- she struggled a bit with the recollection then slowly, carefully, she continued, but my dear waits for breakfast with me.

It was not a response I had expected; it was much more elegant. I smiled and put my arm around her, just as grandpa decided to share his English phrase of the day,

We cannot escape each other, he declared.
Divorce is not an option.

What? I looked up, confused. Where did you learn that?

He didn’t respond right away. Instead, he explained what the sentence meant and asked if the translation was right.

Are you trying to tell me something?
Grandma pretended to be angry, but her mischievous eyes gave her away. The two of them looked at each other and suddenly burst out laughing. An old woman and an old man; a young girl and a young boy. These days with my grandparents, I see splits and parallels of time.

But divorce is not an option, that’s a good thing right? grandpa said innocently, Anyway, I didn’t say it. Clinton was the one who said it.

And you remember it just like that? I marveled at his memory.

Oh, and I remember all the details of what you’ve told me too, he smiled.
It runs in the family, you see.

***

Grandpa instructed me as I rolled the dough for his new bread recipe, Whatever we do, we should ask ourselves if the method is ideal. We can always improve, always find a better way.

When I grow old, I want to be like my grandparents.

You don’t have to be waiting in any line!, grandpa randomly announced in English (he had been tracking Obama’s statements on the healthcare reform).

8/18/09 - Sand Dunes Sandwich. I rented this motorcycle that...

Tue, 18 Aug 2009 11:22:00 -0400

8/18/09 - Sand Dunes Sandwich.

I rented this motorcycle that barely had any power, Marc told me, and I tried to ride it across a field of sand dunes. It was the funniest thing.

We were at the milonga, waiting for our gathering to warm up, when he started telling me about his South America travels. Riding the air bike, Marc jerked his right fist a few times, imagining a full throttle. He was ready to burst forth, he even had me convinced.

Only, the bike threw us off.

I fell, he laughed, arms flailing,
and I just kept falling. Later, I met a guy who wanted a ride. I said why not. So the two of us - two grown men - were on this thing, and it wouldn’t take us anywhere. We bounced all over the place. We had no idea where we were. You should have seen it! I laughed so much, I almost pissed in
my pants.

His mirth was infectious. I couldn’t help laughing with him.
That’s really nice, you know, I told him.
Some people get angry when they’re lost.

He was quiet for a moment, then he said,
I learned that sometimes, you have to get lost to find your way.

***

It’s not easy, starting a business for the first time, in a place I’m only beginning to know. It’s not easy, when I am still negotiating all the differences in my life. There are so many of them.

I’m conflicting emotions all over the place: I’m bright-eyed, I’m doubtful. I’m ecstatic, I’m frustrated. I’m full of hope, I’m frightened. Some days, I feel right on the path. Other days, I feel far from where I intended to be, and it’s on those days that I keep replaying my conversation with Marc.

I think about the sand dunes, and the two guys on their bike. I can’t help it, an optimism takes over me. I remember then, that whatever it is, it’s all mine. All mine, this grand adventure.

***

I prayed for you last night, my grandma said.

She had asked for a blessing:
that no matter how dark or difficult my present path becomes,
I would always feel myself ascending towards daylight .

***

At the last Lo de Picherna at Mt. Vernon.
Cerveza? Marc asked, as always.

Of course! I replied, It’s our tradition.

He laughed, Yes, you know it really is a tradition. I knew there was going ot be all this alcohol tonight, still I brought two beers.

After everyone left, we took our time cleaning up, putting away the chairs and tables one last time. When we were finally done, we could hardly keep our eyes open. No matter, we still insisted on dancing. In the after-hours, we had the church-turned-dance-space to ourselves. We had the high ceiling, the wooden floor, tango, cerveza, and a few leftover sandwiches.

***

Dearest Marc,

I know those were finger sandwiches that we had, but what I remember is so much bigger, and so much more colorful. That’s why I made my lunch full-size plus a slice of pineapple to do you justice. (Well yes, I was also very hungry, but minor point.)

Happy birthday again.

Come!!! :) , you wrote.
I wish I could have. Does this count?

8/10/09 - Mistakes. Early morning, the sky clear blue. The...

Tue, 11 Aug 2009 19:31:00 -0400

8/10/09 - Mistakes.

Early morning, the sky clear blue.
The sun’s rays stole through openings between vendors’ roofs. I followed my mother from one stand to another, striving to avoid mopeds traveling under no rules, and striving, at the same time, to tease out the market’s separate rules. There’s a different way of talking here, a different pace, and different price tags even, depending on your ties.

Barely 7AM, the street already wide awake.
Being in midst of all this life, it’s easy to forget the days of typhoon we’d just weathered. Here, only the cost of goods still bore our disaster’s mark; a head of cabbage had easily blown up five times its usual worth.

It’s always trying after a typhoon, my mother said. We face the challenge of preserving our quality against rising prices. Times like these test how we make the best of our situations.

***

Rewind: Photo I

Gabe studied a photo of the Italian Market and shook his head.

I’m not really sure what’s going on here, too much is happening.

But that’s the nature of a market place! the student argued.

Yes, it’s chaos. But you are organizing it. What makes a photographer stand out is what you do with a situation.

Rewind some more: Photo I, Day 1

In the introduction of our course, Gabe prepared us for our first crit. He motioned towards the white wall we were facing.

All your first attempts at photography will be here, it will be, he chuckled goodnaturedly and winked, a wall of mistakes.

***

My wall of mistakes:

I was assigned to make omelets for the rice accompanying the borscht we were serving. It was a special type of omelet that my mother wanted - a swirling one. I failed miserably at the task.

At first, the pan was not hot enough, so the eggs stuck; then the pan was too hot, so the eggs over-crisped. I did not swirl it fast enough, or I swirled it unevenly. I made the omelet too thin and it broke; I made it too thick and it delayed the cooking time, ruining the texture. A few times, I didn’t let the omelet set properly before moving it out of the pan, and at the last minute, it tore apart.

When finally, I began to have minor success, I had trouble taking the omelet out and placing it on the rice: sometimes covering only partially, sometimes too much bunching at the sides.

Am I stupid?
I felt the heat from the stove, but even more so, the heat from myself. I was frying in my own embarrassment. My sense of timing and my ability to assess mistakes were further warped by all that eagerness to make right. Much of my fault had been impatience, yet dumbed by anxiety, I could not slow down. Instead, I reached for redemption with yet more speed. That naturally only pushed me farther away.

***

You will learn, Damian said to me the last time we danced at the milonga, With more experience, you’ll learn to let go of your mistakes when they happen on the dance floor, and keep dancing. You won’t do a little twist with your shoulders or make a face, you will just keep going.

Grace, I understand as facing mistakes in real-time unflinching, unparalyzed.

The next time I see you, he continued, You will dress like a tanguera, talk like a tanguera, act like a tanguera.

***

For lunch, I brought a plate of my failed omelets home. I devoured those mistakes, to demonstrate this is how things work here - not the other way around.

8/4/09 - Roses of Roasted Pork Tenderloin.Xiao Mi Fen’s...

Thu, 06 Aug 2009 21:35:00 -0400

8/4/09 - Roses of Roasted Pork Tenderloin.
Xiao Mi Fen’s demonstration.

By 6AM
I was up and working out.

7AM
I was pushing my way through the crowded market, with bags of meat
and vegetables.

10:00AM
Done with my portion of the kitchen prep, I took a short break to finalize my studio’s brochure design.

11:30AM
The restaurant opens (read: the curtain opens).

Every Tuesday now is my apprentice day at the Bitbit Cafe. I am starting with dishwashing, basic cutting and plating. The photo is one of our chefs’ demonstration for me.

***

From “The Grand Design”, The Elements of Typographic Style:

Literary style, says Walter Benjamin, “is the power to move freely in the length and breadth of linguistic thinking without slipping into banality.” Typographic style, in this large and intelligent sense of the word, does not mean any particular style - my style or your style, or Neoclassical or Baroque style - but the power to move freely through the whole domain of typography, and to function at every step in a way that is graceful and vital instead of banal. It means typography that can walk familiar ground without sliding into platitudes, typography that responds to new conditions with innovative solutions, typography that does not vex the reader with its own originality in a self-conscious search for praise.

In the next 23 months of my stay in Taiwan, I plan to build the culinary skills and knowledge that will free my movements, and take me to the beginning of style.

***

Soon after graduation, I began to think about the division of time. In school, time was always divided for us: two semesters in a year, every year you move onto something else, and every few years, you move up to a whole new level. Clear breaks mark the boundaries between one partition and another. They give us a chance to reflect, to recharge, or change directions if we so desire.

Do you ever feel like you’ve lost your sense of time?
I asked a friend who had graduated a year ahead of me.

He nodded,
When you are working 9 to 5, every day seems to go by slowly because it’s so much the same. You feel as though the days will never end. But then, a year goes by, and you are caught by surprise because you hardly noticed its passing.

It happens, but I don’t want it to happen to me. I want to feel time brushing against me and know as every particle passes, that I have used it to the fullest. I give myself two years in Taiwan because that limitation puts my days in context. What is a day out of two years? What is any subdivision - a week, a month, three months, six months, twelve months and so on - when you measure them in that light? Limitation gives weight to time.

***
Rewind:

Damian was leading me to turn around him. The Molinete, the windmill wheel in tango. Think of the last step, he said as I turned. Focus on how you want to end.

Kathy, my screenwriting instructor constantly told our class that we should write our script with its ending in mind. Know that last scene, then write towards it.

I am seeing it, the spectacular finale:
Style, the power to move freely through the whole domain
These two years, if I use them well, will bring me closer
in culinary arts and more.

7/25/09 - Potstickers.Another present from grandma, homemade,...

Sun, 26 Jul 2009 04:54:00 -0400

7/25/09 - Potstickers.
Another present from grandma, homemade, frozen and mailed.

The traditional way to prepare potstickers is this: oil the pan first, then lightly brown one side before pouring in water to steam. When the liquid has fully evaporated, turn up the fire again to crisp both sides.

I was working the method when my mother walked into the apartment, finding me in midst of grease and smoke.

Do you mind if I show you another way? she asked,
This works fine, but I know a better alternative.

She washed the pan for us to start anew.
Always ask yourself if the things you are doing make sense. When you cook, think scientifically. You should know why you are taking each step.

Instead of frying one side initially, she began with steaming. Only when the dumplings are entirely cooked through, did she pour in the oil to finalize with browning. Eliminating that first step reduced both grease and time. The prelude was really not needed at all.

It was a small adjustment, but the fact of the matter is that it didn’t even cross my mind. When I’m around my mother, I am reminded to keep questioning my established ways, and to keep moving forward with intelligence.

***

Wine 101 at the Pinot Boutique in Olde City, Philadelphia.

A large part of the anxiety surrounding wine is its rituals and vocabulary, which can often be alienating,
the instructor opened his seminar with the statement.
But once you understand the purpose of what people do, you can break through that anxiety.

In the narrow room, we sat on couches and around tables, each with two glasses before us. All eyes were on the man as he continued, We are going to hold off liking and disliking for the time being. It’s fine to have preferences, but that’s not what tonight is about. Once you pin down those judgments, it’s hard to open yourself to learning.

The point here is to ask why, and only do things when there is a reason. This is what will distinguish you as an insider.

***

I have been revisiting passages from The Entrepreneurial Mindset:

In conventional planning, success means delivering numbers that are close to what you thought you would deliver. In discovery-driven planning, success means generating the maximum amount of useful learning for the minimum expenditure. You primary challenge is to maximize the conversion of assumption to knowledge at the minimum possible cost.
(pg. 232)

Plan to learn, it read.

I do.

***

For an extra kick, grandma puts a bit of scallops in her pork dumplings.

7/23/09 - Grandma’s Zongzi I sat with my father and my...

Thu, 23 Jul 2009 10:26:00 -0400

7/23/09 - Grandma’s Zongzi

I sat with my father and my sister at lunch, unwrapping the zongzi grandma had mailed to us. Inside each, she had stuffed the perfectly cooked sticky rice with meat, shitake mushroom, dried shrimp and duck egg yolks. Our apartment was quickly saturated with the aroma of steamed bamboo leaves and their savory fillings.

There are some childhood favorites I never grew out of. This, is one of them. And still like a child, I’m convinced that zongzi is only properly made when my grandmother makes it.

The other day, my father said as we ate,
when I was walking out of the building, a little girl ran towards me and sped right past. At the bottom of the stairs, I noticed a little boy waving goodbye to her. He kept waving after her, though she didn’t turn once to look back at him.

He waited till she disappeared out of sight, before jogging ahead. He didn’t go too far though. Something made him stop and he turned in my direction. When our eyes met, he smiled as if we were old friends.

I thought he might have mistakened me for someobody else.
But then, he started walking back towards me, and as I kept moving forward, he began to follow me.

“What’s the matter?” I asked him.

Shyly, he told me he was frightened by the possibility of stray dogs.

“But,” I paused, “Didn’t you just walk this way to take your friend home?”

He nodded.
“She’s scared of the dogs too, so I walked her home, but now,” he said very seriously, “I need a companion back.”

Amused, I let him trail along.

We walked a while before he suddenly screamed, “Watch out!” and burried his face in my back. I looked around but didn’t see anything.

“Oh,” he said sheepishly when I told him so,
“It might have been a mouse then.”

The little hero, My father laughed as he concluded the story,
If only the girl knew how much courage it took him.

(I just realized my mother had blogged the exact same story, but she must have heard it at a different time, and we certainly have our different styles.)

***

It’s been a week since I’ve moved back to Taiwan. Living here is a whole different story from vacationing here. There are alot of things I am not familiar with. Happily, there’s excitement in the new and every day I am finding more ground.

Two days ago, I found an apartment nearby and signed the lease that very night. Yesterday, I opened a bank account and also got a new phone.

For every contract I sign, I need to put down my Chinese name, which I haven’t used for the longest time. I write slowly, stroke by stroke, trying to make all three characters even on the line. So far, my efforts have all sadly resembled a third grader’s attempt to copy words beyond her understanding.

***

What’s your Chinese name? You asked.
As soon as I told you, you asked if I could draw the characters for you.

I laughed, secretly hoping the laughter can carry us over to the next conversation. My Chinese name, oddly enough, is almost a stranger to me. I didn’t use it, no one called me by it, and up until now, the signature had not been needed.

But you insisted, handing me a handbound notebook,
giving me its first page.

Here? My name?

Your Chinese name, you said again, and I saw that you were serious.

I gave you my best. One day, I would write these three characters in the matter-of-fact way people write their own names. But for now, this was as good as it gets.

Your eyes shone nevertheless. You wanted to know the proper order of every stroke. I watched with surprise as you began to practice my name in the space below. That surprise quickly turned into alarm as you became better and better at the replication. I had to stop you before you put
me to shame.

Drawing, you called the act.
I find your choice strangely moving.

Tell me, did you foresee that I would be across the world weeks later, signing my first contracts, seeing our moment in every stroke I draw?

***

Nowadays, I carry a signature stamp with me - as all Taiwanese do - to seal the agreements I make. My clothes, I hang dry. The older people whom I know through my parents, I call aunts and uncles out of respect. The tap water here, I should not drink before boiling or filtering. Although, I have forgotten this more than a few times.

7/16/09 - Interesting Pauses. Niny & Gary’s Dinner...

Thu, 16 Jul 2009 16:23:00 -0400

7/16/09 - Interesting Pauses.
Niny & Gary’s Dinner Part III: Krissy’s Gorgeous Dessert.
Entry finally completed after a week…

The only goodbyes I acknowledge are the ones we cannot dictate. Natural divergences that happen without ceremony. Often escaping notice, often defying control.

They happen when two people finally fall out of each other’s planes, and it’s hard to pinpoint exactly when or why. No singular cause, the reasons are many, though none of them matter by now.

Because of this, I find goodbye a fluffy word that neither prescribes nor describes. And because of this, as long as we still have a trace of care for one another (whatever the nature of this care, good or bad), every parting marks only an interesting pause.

As Paul Gardner said,
A painting is never finished - it simply stops in interesting places.

***

Niny and I were picking blueberries a few days before the big dinner. She suddenly turned to me and said, You’ll always have a home if you come back to Philadelphia.

Then as soon as she said it, she corrected herself,
Not if, but when you come back to Philadelphia.

***

Marc had a mysterious smile on his face as we danced.

What? I asked.

Nothing, he kept smiling.
It’s just fun teaching you.

***

I went to say goodnight.

But we haven’t danced yet, Krissy said as she gave me a hug.

Tango’s first movement is an embrace.

When the song ended, I was surprise to see Krissy’s eyes glistening in the dark concert hall. My throat tightened.

***

Sometimes when Dasha spotted me on the side while she danced, she would wink as if we shared a little secret. A gesture fleeting, but unforgettable.

***

The morning of my last day in Philly, TJ sat down next to me on the couch and held out his hand. I linked my fingers with his.

Hi, he said, I’m TJ. Are you here for ITA training too?

Just like the first time we met four years ago.

***

This is my favorite place, Sarah told me.

Then you would have to share it with me,
I replied, meaning it is now my favorite place too.

I am already sharing.

The beautiful night was cool. In the park, swings flew towards the moon. Bits of mirrors on the mosaic wall fragmented street lights. Uneven pavements, stone walls, roadside Japanese maple. The city was ours.

What a perfect time to leave,
she said as we sat on the grass, trying to find planets far away.

***

On the way home from brunch, Emilia and I sat side by side on the subway.

I think I’m getting off at 34th for work, she told me.

I still planned on going to 40th.
Dropping off at different stops, that’s a good way to part.

It’s more poetic this way and anyway, this is not a goodbye.

Just a parting, a pause, I said.

A dash, she continued, Separating but suggesting continuity. Plus, the shape of the dash is like our train with its forward motion.

We laughed at the conversation so typically ours. I put my head on her shoulder. The train was approaching her station now.
She leaned down and kissed my face.
I love you babe, she whispered and got off the train.

I watched her leave, then put on my aviators for the rest of my ride through the tunnels.

***

Lucky I’m in love with my best friend
Lucky to have been where I have been
Lucky to be coming home again
Lucky we’re in love in every way
Lucky to have stayed where we have stayed
Lucky to be coming home someday …

TJ’s beautiful voice came through the earphones.
I just want to explain, he said,
that it’s only half of the duet because I want you to sing with me.

***

Brandon sat on my bed, flipping and reflipping through the book I had made. He stopped at a photo that merged black and white with color.

I see this, he said, but I more than see this.

He has always more than seen me.

On an ordinary day
The extraordinary way
You take what I can give and you treasure it
On an ordinary day
The extraordinary way
You turn to me and say, I believe in this

That makes me lucky
God I’m lucky, so much luckier than I ever thought I’d be
‘Cause what I have
Is the value that you see in these things

— Conjure One (Extraordinary Way)

***

While having tapas in the Mission, Andrew told me,
Whatever happens, you make sure that there is still affection, because see, affection is not a zero-sum game. You can move apart in life but remain fond of each other. I don’t think there is that one person who will save my life - that’s just silly. But hey, if the stars are ever aligned for us again, I know we’ll be great.

***

The way you held my face and said, I can’t wait to see you again.

***

What I had learnt from rolfing, Brian told me during our last session,
is that we are not as fragile as we think.

No, we really are not as fragile as we think.
Still, I hope our stars realign. Soon.

Until then, until then.

7/16/09 - Lobster from the Liminal Days. A conversation...

Thu, 16 Jul 2009 13:48:00 -0400

7/16/09 - Lobster from the Liminal Days.

A conversation overheard:

What does it mean?
I don’t know.
You didn’t ask any questions?
What is there to ask?
Does it mean that-
I don’t know what anything means.

***

On my last day in Philly, I had brunch with Emilia at Cafe Lift. While we waited for our frittata to come, I told her that I was glad to have a week in SF before finally going home.

It’s good to have that in-between place, I told her.
It will give me the time to think, regroup and move forward.

She nodded, In anthropology they call that transitional place “liminality”.
You know, like dusk, like dawn.

Like sunrise, like sunset, phases that belong neither to the day nor the night. Liminality stems from the Latin word limen, meaning threshold. It marks a time filled with nostalgia for happenings passed, but also a time gradually brightened by anticipation for what is to come.

As a page is closing, another one turns.
In this heightened reality, neither here nor there, the heart has a way of opening up to ambiguity and uncertainty. There is little else we can do on these shifting grounds, but to accept change as the world’s order. Giving in to the flow of time, I do not think of resignation; rather, release.

***

My flight for Taipei leaves in 8 hours.
I am laughing a little, marveling at how monumental, but also weightless the fact is. I miss Philly terribly, yet the shock of exiting is gone. Leaving is leaving, no matter where the next destination. A week ago I had already left. What then, is today but a progression of morning’s arrival?

We may be dazed, but at dawn we are not startled by the sun’s first rays.

***

Two nights ago when I was in San Jose visiting family, my aunt threw a feast of lobster, steak and pina coladas. I was thrilled when she gave me the last lobster to bring home. Since Andrew didn’t have a cracker in his apartment, we took a hammer to it and shared the amazingly fresh midnight snack over his kitchen counter.

7/12/09 - My Hilarious Goods.All glamorous on Rachel’s...

Tue, 14 Jul 2009 15:26:00 -0400

7/12/09 - My Hilarious Goods.
All glamorous on Rachel’s porch.

Early Sunday morning, Rachel picked me up at the Rockridge subway station. From there, the two of us went straight to a farmer’s market nearby. Within the first few minutes, we had already made our rounds and bought a bacon-salad pizza, a goat cheese tamale with Swiss chard, an almond croissant, and some other pastries.

That, however, was only the beginning.

We quickly lost track of time, frolicking around the market, tasting slices of plums and peaches vendors put out. We bought everything that struck our fancy. No shopping lists, no agenda.

Every once in a while, we would vaguely remember that we wanted to make dinner with the ingredients at hand. Does this combination make sense? We would wonder half-heartedly before brushing the thought aside. How can food so fresh ever fail?

***

On a whim, I started collecting all the funny-looking vegetables I could find. Mostly, the squashes drew my attention, but there was also a heirloom tomato that somehow managed to twist all around itself.

I brought my prize to the cashier, who frowned and asked me if I wanted to go back for a better one.

Actually, I told her, I am buying it because it looks weird.

She stared at me, eyebrows lifted. Confusion briefly passed over her face. But the wise woman asked no more questions. With a slight shrug, she took my money.

***

What do you think? Rachel asked me, waving a handful of rosemary.

Hmmm?
I was aware she had been talking but I heard nothing of what she said.

Should we…?
She was asking something about the herbs
… or it might have been about our salad.

I looked at her blankly. She asked again. And again I missed what she said. Finally, shaking my head I laughed, Sorry I’m really overwhelmed right now.

I know. I can see that!

The environment possessed me.
I walked, mind emptied of thoughts,
hypnotized by motions and colors vibrant.

***

Eventually (or, miraculously), Rachel and I made our exit. We had so much food, our biceps could barely handle the weight. Still, we gravitated towards the chicken potpie stand on our way out.

Rachel blamed me for the disappearance of all self-control.
Usually I come here with someone who restrains me,
and not encourages me!

Happily sore. Happily blamed.

7/5/09 - Taking notice. (Niny & Gary’s dinner Part...

Fri, 10 Jul 2009 15:23:00 -0400

7/5/09 - Taking notice.
(Niny & Gary’s dinner Part II)

While waiting for dinner to start, Gary took a few of us out to pick blueberries. Having already collected a boxful the day before, I decided to trail along with my camera.

From the top of a ladder, through the net, I zoomed in on my friends’ ecstatic faces glowing with the setting sun. They laughed, popping berries into their mouths more often than saving them in containers. It’s astonishing, how something so simple can bring about this happiness.

When it was about time, Gary called out to the group,
One more minute to go!

I heard Krissy give a little shriek from the corner, and saw that she was frantically reaching for every berry in sight. Amused, I switched to video and followed her around until at last, she was satisfied. She stood for a moment, studying the treasures in her hands and then, she looked up at me.

A smile - such a smile - blossomed on her face.
My hands shook as I fumbled to switch back to photo mode. By the time I figured it out, she had already looked away.

Smile for me again, I called to her.

And there, there it is.

***

That night, while watching everyone dance, Dasha sat down beside me.

You know, She started, when we are listening to the same music, it’s hard to explain to each other, what we hear. But when we dance, I can feel how you listen to the music.

Later, she would correct my memory.
It’s: I can hear how you listen to the music.

But it’s more to feel! I said.

Or, Kristin joined in the discussion,
or is it about noticing what it feels, tastes, smells, looks, sounds like? It will always be there, whatever it is, until you notice whatever it is and then, you are transformed and cannot go back.

***

Not long ago, I sat with Gabriella on the rooftop of Vango Skybar. We looked up at the patch of sky above and saw lights from skyscrapers surrounding. That night, we had only city stars made on earth.

So what’s new? I asked her.
She smiled, Oh every day is new.

Our conversation flowed from topic to topic before she picked up the thought again, I realized that not every day has to be a big, dramatic adventure. That’s not what it’s about. Our lives are not novels.

The key, she continued, is to notice the little things.

And so it is.

This passage, from Julia Cameron’s The Artist’s Way, is dedicated to all of my friends who delight in life’s details. I hope we never stop taking notice of what truly matters.

… “Flora and fauna reports,” I used to call the long, winding letters from my grandmother. “The forsynthia is starting and this morning I saw my first robin… The roses are holding even in this heat… The sumac has turned and that little maple down by the mailbox…. My Christmas cactus is getting ready….”

I followed my grandmother’s life like a long home movie: a shot of this and a shot of that, spliced together with no pattern that I could ever see. “Dad’s cough is getting worse… The little Shetland looks like she’ll drop her foal early… Joanne is back in the hospital at Anna… We named the new boxer Trixie and she likes to sleep in my cactus bed - can you imagine?”

I could imagine. Her letters made that easy. Life through grandma’s eyes was a series of small miracles: the wild tiger lilies under the cottonwoods in June; the quick lizard scooting under the gray river rock she admired for its satiny finish. Her letters clocked the seasons of the year and her life. She lived until she was eighty, and the letters came until the very end. When she died, it was as suddenly as her Christmas cactus: here today, gone tomorrow. She left behind her letters and her husband of sixty-two years. Her husband, my grandfather Daddy Howard, an elegant rascal with a gambler’s smile and a loser’s luck, had made and lost several fortunes, the last of them permanently. He drank them away, gambled them away, tossed them away the way she threw crumbs to her birds. He squandered life’s big chances the way she savored the small ones. “That man,” my mother would say.

My grandmother lived with that man in tiled Spanish houses, in trailers, in a tiny cabin halfway up a mountain, in a railroad flat, and, finally in a house made out of ticky-tacky where they all looked just the same. “I don’t know how she stands it,” my mother would say, furious with my grandfather for some new misadventure. She meant she didn’t know why.

The truth is, we all knew how she stood it. She stood it by standing knee-deep in the flow of life and paying close attention.

My grandmother was gone before I learned the lesson her letters were teaching: survival lies in sanity, and sanity lies in paying attention. Yes, her letters said, Dad’s cough is getting worse, we have lost the house, there is no money and no work, but the tiger lilies are blooming, the lizard has found that spot of sun, the roses are holding despite the heat.

My grandmother knew what a painful life had taught her: success or failure, the truth of a life really has little to do with its quality. The quality of life is in proportion, always, to the capacity for delight. The capacity for delight is the gift of paying attention.

***

Andrew’s apartment in the Mission overlooks a row of little shops: cafe, bookstore, florist, bakery, fruit stand. I love the tall ceiling and his narrow, old-fashioned bathtub.

It’s surprisingly chilly here in San Francisco. I brewed a mug of warm Turkish coffee and helped myself to the girl scout cookies on the kitchen counter. Feeling guilty, I texted him about the theft, to which he gladly replied that he didn’t mind - the cookies were very, very old.

Moral of the story:
Don’t steal your friend’s cookies and get out to see the city now.