Experimenting on foods.

[LostInTyme]

Ever heard of Hamburger-Helper? Right there, on the shelf, in the grocery store. Gets the girls, every time. PS - use ketchup.

 

[Trenchfriend]

Doesn't sound/look so bad.

But I still prefer fastly selfmade Burritos.

 

[Zombie_61]

Ever heard of Hamburger-Helper? Right there, on the shelf, in the grocery store. Gets the girls, every time. PS - use ketchup.

I've been married 40 years so I don't know about getting the girls, but I prefer Tuna Helper. I've tried four different "flavors" of that Hamburger Helper stuff, and they all tasted the same--bad. Ketchup? I'll vomit.

 

[Hercule]

I've been married 40 years so I don't know about getting the girls, but I prefer Tuna Helper. I've tried four different "flavors" of that Hamburger Helper stuff, and they all tasted the same--bad. Ketchup? I'll vomit.

I'v been on the fence (leaning off) about ketchup ever since that summer when my dad abandoned my brother (17 at the time) and me (8 at the time) at a camp ground in up state New Hampshire, and my brother combined ground beef and ketchup and called it sloppy joe. It rained the whole time. It wasn't good.

As for hamburger "helper mixes" I prefer Rice-a-roni.

 

[Zombie_61]

...As for hamburger "helper mixes" I prefer Rice-a-roni.

Rice-A-Roni has one "flavor" called "Stir Fried Rice". It doesn't taste stir fried, but if you add a couple of scrambled eggs and a chicken breast cut into cubes (eggs and chicken cooked separately, of course) it's really quite good.

 

[Fifty150]

Chicken is sold in cans. I didn't know that. Or maybe I chose not to know. I just don't go down the supermarket aisle full of canned foods.

Sunday. A day of worship for some. In some communities, it is customary and ordinary to "dress up" for worship. In some communities, the outfits can be quite colorful and attention getting. Let's say that they are wearing "loud" clothes. Some of the ladies have hats, which I can't even describe. Gloves that go up the whole arm. Furs. Wigs. Feathers. Men dressed like dictators. Pirate shirts. Capes. Outfits that look like they belong on stage, in a Motown review.

So it was a Sunday. Church day. About noon. I'm sitting on my bike, parked in front of the bar, drinking a beer. This girl is walking up the street by herself, dressed like Diana Ross, and swinging a plastic bag. I can see 3 cans in the bag.

She is young. As in mid 20's, under 30 young. Only she is dressed like a senior citizen, church lady. I had to find out what the costume was all about. Was Ike Turner going to come around the corner with tires screeching, in an old Cadillac?

She is looking at me in the same way I'm looking at her. We make eye contact. As I'm sure, that in her world, a guy in leather, sitting on a motorcycle, and drinking a beer - while everyone is suppose to be in church, is not normal. I had to say something. But the only thing that I could come up with was, "what's in the bag?"

Lunch. 3 cans. Can of chicken. Can of mixed vegetable. Can of cream of mushroom. Add noodles. In the midwest, it's called a casserole?

There's enough for 2. Would you like me to join you? That dropped her jaw. Left her speechless. So I reminded her that most religions expect you to help save the wretched. As I'm clearly in need of salvation, she could fulfill her mission by feeding me.

 

[Fifty150]

"You are completely clueless about my culture!"

Yeah. I am. I went to school in my neighborhood. I didn't have the privilege of being sent across town on a school bus. The kids who did get bussed? They weren't too happy about it either. People of a certain age were a part of a social experiment, where children from different neighborhoods were sent to other neighborhoods. Apparently, there was no "opt out". A lot of people who did not have school age children overwhelmingly saw this as the first step to diversity and leveling the playing field for the underprivileged. The people who did have school age children were voicing their disapproval. Nobody wanted their kid to go to school an hour earlier, to be loaded onto a bus, then sent across town to be beat up and bullied.

Now that we are all grown up, we see the long term results. One of those kids is now Vice President of The United States of America. Prison population still has certain groups of people who are incarcerated at higher ratios. She helped put them there. I'm still the poor old Chinese boy in Chinatown. Still wearing the same leather flight jacket like Fonzie. The Shot Doc is still at my house, despite me telling her that her church clothes look like a costume for The Motown Review, and giving her "3 Can Casserole" a little "side eye".

I didn't grow up with The VP. I didn't cross paths with her until later in life, when she was a prosecutor, and guys like me were entering pleas of "not guilty". The Shot Doc is somewhat in awe by that. It's almost like 6 degrees of separation. "Aren't you proud of how far she has gotten?" Not really. I might beam with pride if Lahnee Chen gets elected to something. The Vee-Pee and I did not have social exchanges. She was trying to lock my people up. I'm more proud of Don Johnson shooting Nash Bridges in San Francisco. At least I got some work out of that production.

Maybe this is the end result of the school bus experiment. 50 years down the line, from 1970-something to 2020-something, a middle-age street kid who didn't get on the bus, is still in the street. A 29 year old from an underprivileged background is completing her residency, at the forefront of the fight against Covid, and somehow sitting in my kitchen expecting dinner to be served. And she thinks that her generation will bridge the chasm; and live in a harmonious, diversified society where they will celebrate their differences instead of being divided by them. Tonight, her social justice warrior canteen ration will be egg fried rice, and egg drop soup.

There was a coupon in the junk mail. In my world, I clip coupons. Shrimp was on sale. Stir fry. Put it in a pan. Stir it around. Add rice. Add eggs. I don't waste anything. The shrimp shells and egg shells were placed in a pot and simmered into a stock. Cook the veggies in the stock. Then add an egg to the stock, serve it over the veggies.

 

[Fifty150]

The 4th of July. That is actually how the birth certificate reads.

July's dad was actually a Captain in the South Vietnamese Army. A lot of people still call him Captain. When he went to the office to have his daughter's birth certificate filled out, they looked at him, figured he needed a translator, and sent in a young intern. This was in Hong Kong, which at the time, was a British territory. The clerk was Hong Kong Chinese, he was Vietnamese, and they both spoke rudimentary broken English. There was a big language barrier. He tells it like it was a Jackie Chan film with Chris Tucker. That is how she was named The Fourth of July Gold, and her date of birth is legally July 4th. Even though it was the month of February. He said, USA citizen, 4th of July. She said, baby name 4th of July? He said, baby's last name Goldman. The girl typing said, baby not man, baby is girl. She said, when born? He said today. She said, you say 4th of July? He said, American baby girl, USA, 4th of July. She said, okay, 4th of July.

It was her 1st day of school. I remember climbing off my bike and seeing them walking up the street. Her dad was wearing a green Army coat. Something that the American soldiers gave him during the war. He sort of stepped between me and his daughter, raised his arm as if to make a path for her so that she could walk past me, and eyed me with suspicion. Later in life, he told me that I looked like trouble with the leather jacket and motorcycle. She had this scared look on her face. I'll never forget that look. Eyes wide open, but always averting her gaze to look down at her feet. Like she was trying to hide her face.

One day after school, I was in Chinatown, hanging out other kids on the street. Parked in front of the bar, drinking a beer. We did that back then. Nobody cared if you were underage. There was a bunch of teenagers in the neighborhood who rode old motorcycles, parked them in front of the bar, and we just hung out there. Shooting pool. Playing music on the jukebox. And they served us. July came walking up the street, stood right beside me with that scared look on her face, and she grabbed my sleeve. When I looked, it was a white knuckle kind of tight grip. She just stood there, clutching my sleeve.

She knew some broken English. So I didn't have to try to understand her Vietnamese language. She was not the outgoing, flirtatious porn star of today, promising a trip to the moon. I asked if she was okay, and with her eyes fixed on her shoes, she nodded. So there we were for what seemed like an eternity. Silence. I'm sitting on a bike. She is standing next to me, holding my sleeve. The bartender came out with another bucket of beers on ice, saw July, went back into the bar and returned with a Coke. Back then, Coke came in those curvy bottles. She finally whimpered, "thank you". I asked her what she was doing out on the street by herself. She said, "you my friend". Still clutching my sleeve.

Eventually, she told me that she lived about 5 blocks away, so I offered to walk her home, since the bike only had a solo saddle. We walked all the way to her house in silence, with her clutching my jacket sleeve. Her dad, The Captain, was outside. Her just glared at me like I was the enemy. The Captain said, "take off shoe". Still holding my jacket, she sort of pulled my sleeve and steered me into the kitchen. She fills a wok with about a quart of oil on the stovetop. And started moving around the kitchen doing other stuff. The Captain comes in and sits down at the small table next to me. She gets us each a beer from the refrigerator.

I don't know if there was tension. There was a language barrier between the broken English and me not speaking Vietnamese. Then a plate of french fries appear. Fresh made. She just made them. The Captain said, "for you, American food". This was during The Reagan Administration, so I didn't have a cell phone to play with. The next thing I know, there was a plate of steamed chicken. The Captain says, "You like? Steam chicken. Hong Kong famous." She comes over and says, "take off jacket, we eat".

More cold beers came to the table. July said a bunch of stuff in Vietnamese to her dad, and it ended with, "my friend". That must have been about me. The Captain looks over at me, for several awkward seconds that felt like 20 minutes. He finally says, "45 Auto. I have same. American soldier give me." That's when I realized that he was talking about my gun. It was in a hip holster. I forgot that it was even there. I took another sip of beer, and had more chicken.

July, aka Big Booty Trudy, came over tonight. She came with a sack of potatoes and a chicken. Years later, I learned that when they were in the refugee camp in Hong Kong, because The Captain was an officer and her mom was a US official, they actually didn't live in the refugee camp. Her dad had refugee status. She was an American citizen. They had an apartment in Kowloon. She went to an elementary school with other international students. And that her English was better than broken English. She was just shy to speak it. According to The Captain, since July was too young to remember, her mom really liked the steamed chicken from the hawker stands. Fresh from the steamer, chopped into small pieces, with garlic, ginger, scallions, and soy sauce.

July still likes to make the same food, and teasingly remind me of how that was our first date. I have to insist that it was not a date. It was her dad giving me dirty looks, and me trying to figure out how many free beers I could drink at his house. What was the story with the french fries? Did they eat that in Hong Kong as well? No. Her dad actually knew that day, that she was going to the bar to find me. He told her to make fries because he had the idea that all Americans only eat french fries.

I never had the heart to tell her that steamed chicken does not go with fried potato.

 

[Fifty150]

A sack. Literally, a burlap sack. No label. That's how she brought those potatoes. A burlap sack full. At least 20 pounds. She got them from some sellers at the local farmers market. Apparently, they spoke the same dialect. Over 100 variations of languages and dialects in China and South East Asia. In the USA, when someone speaks the same dialect, there's an instant ancestral connection. Once a week, this family commutes over 100 miles to sell their goods in The Big City. Once a week, Trudy goes to socialize with them and buy their goods. Chickens. Eggs. Goat. Asian greens. Fruit. And potatoes.

I went with once. She told them about how her dad told her to bring me home and make french fries. "Oh yes. All American love french fries. Take some potatoes." That's how it started. Now they hand her sacks of potatoes. And they end up with me.

I ate fries again today. I'll be eating fries until after Turkey Day. I just packed up about 3 potatoes worth of fries in my lunch box. I'm taking these down to the morgue. Maybe Pale Amy will eat them while she's carving up dead bodies. Man, that girl is creepy. I would have nothing to do with her if she didn't invite me to sleep over at her house.

 

[Fifty150]

She was out of place. She didn't belong. She stood out like a sore thumb. Not because she was the only Indian in Chinatown. But because she was dressed in business clothes, and wearing sneakers. I haven't seen anyone do that since that movie in The 80's. Mostly because offices are now "casual". And the Financial District office staff is still mostly working from home.

She's standing in front of a deli window. The kind of Chinese deli that has food hanging. Pork, duck, chicken. I know the owner. Mei. Hipster looking girl in her 30's, colorful hair, with the sleeves cut off her white chef shirt, displaying tattoos on both arms. The kind of girl who wears Doc Marten boots, motorcycle jackets, and has a piercing in her nose. A couple of appearances on food television shows. She's standing in front with a beer and a cigarette. She nods her head and I stop. She goes back into the shop and returns with a beer for me.

"What does that taste like? Do you have a sample?"

The lost tourist was pointing at the BBQ pork. The shop calls it char siu. The girl speaks with a British accent. Mei tells her to go inside and have a seat. Then looks at me, jerks her head, as if motioning for me to go in also. It's a small shop, with horseshoe shaped booths along the wall. So I climb into the booth with the tourist. Within a few moments, Mei is back with some sliced pork on butcher paper, a beer for the tourist, and she slides into the booth with us. That is how slow business has been in Chinatown since Covid. The owner of a restaurant, a quasi-famous celebrity chef, has nothing to do but hang out.

The tourist is named Aisha. She's a Brit. Her agency sent her here for training. 12 weeks of living in a hotel room and eating take-out food out of styrofoam boxes. Mei says something about how I sit around doing nothing with my life, and that I should show her around. Jokingly, I said that she should just give me some food from the kitchen, and I'll take the tourist home to make her dinner. Mei actually went into the kitchen and brought back a few pieces of raw pork, and a little cup of sauce, then told me to make my own char siu. Mei says to Aisha, "Go ahead, he's not going to kill you. Come back tomorrow and tell me if he made it right. And take this yam. The vendor gave it to me. I don't know why. I didn't order it. It's not even on the menu here." Maybe the produce vendor likes her, and thinks that he'll win her heart with a sweet potato. What is the difference between a yam and a sweet potato. To me, they're the same.

On the way to my place, we stop at the bar. I introduce Aisha to Betty The Bartender. I show Betty the raw meat, and told her the story. Then I said that she should come over after her shift. Also, bring some beers, I'm almost out. "You want me to deliver beer to your house? In exchange for some pork you've never cooked before, which you will probably burn. And I'm suppose to think that's a good idea?" Well, yes. You can just take a case of beer from the bar. I don't live that far. A case of beer isn't that heavy. Besides, Aisha is new, she doesn't know anyone. And I want you as a witness, in case she tries to kill me or something.

Now I have this stranger sitting at the table, waiting to be served. I don't know what I'm doing. But I figured it can't be that hard. Throw it all in the oven, and have another beer. Then throw it all into a dish. Simple. Now the only thing missing is The Bartender with more beer.

 

[Fifty150]

"You still got those tomato growing?"

Bartender Betty. She actually came over. A dozen beers in a cooler backpack. It's a backpack, made like a soft cooler, with that insulated material. She laughs. Then proceeds to tell me that Chef Mei Mei gave me garbage. "That's what they throw away." Her dad was a butcher. She knows. Butchers square up and trim off the rib plate, into what is sold as "Saint Louis Style Ribs". I got the pieces they cut off. Bits and pieces with cartilage and bone. Meat cutters would take it home to make soup stock.

Betty chops up the pork and makes some kind of marinade. Then she goes out back and comes back with tomato and basil that I have growing in 5 gallon buckets. This seems to be a recurring theme. Other people picking my tomato.

Betty grabs a couple of plastic storage containers, and puts food into them first. "I'm taking this back down to the bar. Sally, That Girl, is covering for me while I'm up here. You two should come back before last call."

Then Betty says to Aisha, The Lost Tourist, "I know all his secrets. Anything you want to know, just ask me."

As Betty leaves, Aisha looks at me and asks, "Who are you? This is so bizarre. The girl at the restaurant gives you food, then the bartender comes over to cook it. She didn't ring the bell. You didn't let her in. She walked right in. She had her own key."

I need to say something to Betty. This is all wrong. Who eats black bean sauce ribs, with saute tomato?

 

[Fifty150]

"You might as well live at In-N-Out. You are the only person I know who has a french fry cutter at home."

Steak Frites. Basic meat and potato. This happens every now and again. She lets me know in advance, in her words, to "clear the place out". Meaning she doesn't want anyone else hanging around when she comes over later. None of my buddies sleeping off hangovers, or hiding out from their wives. No hookers leaving a mess in the bathroom. No freeloaders looking for a free meal. No transexuals using my computer to "live cam". And no creepy autopsy doctor talking about her case load. So Pale Amy had to go.

Okay, at least she brings the meat and potato. Even though I am expected to cook it. Years ago, she lectured me on it. Dry rub. High heat. Sear the meat. Let it rest on the hot cast iron. Only Idaho russet. Triple rinsed in cold water. Well drained. Very hot oil. Always use a stainless steel mixing bowl to toss it in seasoning. Don't get fancy or cute. Meat and potato should be just salt and pepper.

She gave up on trying to get me to peel the potato. I leave the skin on because I am lazy. And fried potato skin taste good.

My favorite part is the juice from the rare meat, flavoring the potato.

 

[Fifty150]

I travel light. Basic grooming and hygiene items. 3 t-shirts, boxers, and socks. I can put it all into 1 backpack. I'll be wearing my leather A-2 jacket, a wool Pendleton, jeans I got from Oregon State Prison, and Dr. Martens boots.

The plan is to ride overnight to Pahrump. We'll roll into town around 0600, where we flash mob the Chicken Ranch. The bartender and short order cook will not know what hit them, when dozens of Harleys come rolling in at 6 in the morning on Thanksgiving Day. There may be about 80 of us. As you can imagine, there may be 1 prostitute working that shift, as the house is not expecting company. I guess when we all ask for beer, breakfast, beer for breakfast, and the VIP services.....the bartender, cook, and hooker will quit on the spot and walk out.

My turkey is done. Whomever comes to my house for Thanksgiving, without an invitation as I invite nobody, will find food. But they won't find me. There's enough people who have keys to the place that they can let themselves in. I will be celebrating at a brothel in the desert.

 

[Fifty150]

I hate it when you go to jail, but you did not officially go to jail. I was there. Behind the bars. In a filthy cell. But there's no booking. No official admission. They just threw me into the cell for awhile, until they got their plan together. Then into the interview room. When they were done, they put me back into the cell long enough to make me hungry. Starvation. Psychological torture. But did they think that I would be hungry for jail food?

The jail never booked me into custody. I was not under arrest. There was no free meal. And if I became infected from an airborne pathogen, or touched a dirty surface and rubbed my eyes..... they'll deny that I was ever in custody there.

Back on the streets, the first thing that I wanted to do was get some lab work. People catch all sorts of disease in jail. TB. Hep. HIV. Flu. Herpes. Gonorrhea. Chlamydia. Covid. Since I was at Mission Emergency Hospital, I decided to get a flu shot. I actually didn't decide. The Shot Doc decided that I needed a flu vaccine. Why not? Being in jail probably exposed me to a flu virus.

The last time that I got 1 was maybe 6 years ago. I do not get an annual flu vaccine. Only time I get a flu shot, is if it's free. Well, that's no excuse. In this part of the world, the flu shots are always free. The only times I've ever had a flu shot, really, was while I was literally standing right there in the room where the shots were being given; and a nurse or doctor pulls me aside and rolls up my sleeve. Otherwise, I won't go on my own.

The immunization building. A red brick building, which was built about 100 years ago. The current hospital is housed in a modern building which was donated by a tech billionaire several years ago. All of the old buildings were retrofitted so that they wouldn't fall in an earthquake. Stepping off the elevator on the 2nd floor, there was a CDC photo backdrop, and a cardboard cutout of Dr. Fauci. People were actually taking selfies with it. I shook my head in disbelief.

The Shot Doc says to me: "Why did you ask for the STD tests? You can't catch those using a public toilet. The only way to get them in jail, is to have sex with someone in jail."

No. I wasn't having sex in jail. Just figured I would get tested anyway, while I was at the hospital. That cardboard cutout of Anthony Fauci made me want to get tested for sexually transmitted infections.

I cut some chicken breast into bite size pieces. Coat them in seasoned flour. Chicken nuggets.

Vinegar. Sugar. Ketchup from a bottle. Sweet and sour sauce.

I got a message. I had to step out and take care of something outside. I was only gone about 20 minutes. When I came back, she ate all the chicken. The only thing left was sweet and sour sauce.

"That was good. Can you make a few more?"

A chicken only has two breast. I'll need another chicken.

 

[Fifty150]

Sally, That Girl. She's been hanging around The House. I didn't ask why. But it's okay to have someone who doesn't make a mess, and signs for deliveries from Amazon.

"Some girl came while you were gone. Black. Big hair. Big butt. Wearing a business suit. I couldn't see her face. She was wearing a mask. She dropped off a crab, and an envelope. I didn't open it. She said to tell you, 'no tickee, no laundry'. And that the crab came from The Club @ The Wharf."

Oh, The Honorable Madam M. I open the envelope. It was a court order for release of my personal property. Slick Billy, her Uncle Billy, came through. Now I can get my clothes back. And my bike back. And my gun back.

I look at the crab. Dungeness. The boats just came back. Local price is about $10 a pound. About 3.5 lbs a crab. Minus water weight and shell, we get about 24 ounces of yield. What else did Madam M say?

"Nothing. Except she stroked my hair, touched my face, and told me that I was pretty."

Well, I guess she will be back for dinner. She wouldn't just bring a crab, and not come back to eat it.

"What are you going to do? One crab is barely enough for two. Are you going to kick me out so that she can come for dinner?"

No. Sally stays. Maybe I'll kick myself out, so that Her Honor can have dinner with Sally, That Girl. Candles. Wine. So romantic. I'd rather be out drinking. I don't like politicians. Madam M was no different. Makes her living in elected office. Peddling influence. I don't like her. But she is Slick Billy's niece. And she has seen me naked.

I'll make some more fried chicken. Toss a salad for the crab.

"You can't do that."

What? I can't do what?

"Make fried chicken when a Black person comes to dinner. They'll think you're a racist. You make that chicken like Chick-Fil-A."

whoa-ohh-oh...... Sally, That Girl!

It's not Chick-Fil-A. It's Chinese food. I'm Chinese. I made it. It's Chinese food. Chick-Fil-A is not racist. They are just religious and conservative. Pro-life is not the same as Ku Klux Klan. And these are just pieces of chicken breast with sweet and sour sauce. I'll call it sweet and sour chicken.

 

[Zombie_61]

Under the heading of "Unintentional Experimenting on Foods", be sure to read the label when you're buying something you've never bought before at the market. I did some grocery shopping on Monday, and while walking through the frozen foods section a couple of microwave burritos caught my eye--"Cheeseburger" and "Buffalo Chicken", so I thought I'd give them a try. Yesterday for lunch I thought I'd try the Cheeseburger burrito, and it was only as I was checking the wrapper for cooking instructions that I noticed the term "Plant-based" printed on it. Son of a... I don't mind eating vegetarian, vegan, pescatarian, and/or whatever other forms of meat-free diets there are out there, but I prefer to know more in advance than the moment I'm taking the food out of it's container to prepare it. Oh well, money spent, damage done, I might as well give it a try. So I did. I can only imagine that the person or people who came up with this thing haven't eaten a real cheeseburger in such a long time that they've forgotten what they taste like, 'cause this thing didn't even come close. Well, except for the lettuce; that tasted like lettuce. Needless to say, I'm not holding out much hope that the "Buffalo Chicken" burrito will taste anything like chicken...or Buffalo, for that matter.

 

[Fifty150]

I just can't do it. Processed food. They slap a "plant based" label on it, but it's still processed food. Vegetables are great. I eat veggies. Real veggies. When they take peat moss, plankton, and who knows what else, then employ scientist in white lab coats to create a food grade product with all sorts of chemicals - I would rather eat deep fried foods.

 

[Fifty150]

As I'm snacking on the leftover chicken nuggets, I am watching a chicken nugget video. I may have to eat fast food chicken this weekend, just to satisfy my own curiosity.

 

[Trenchfriend]

Aah, poultry Wiener and Bockwurst are so much better!

 

[Fifty150]

2 more showed up at my door, like Jehovah's Witnesses