Raw Food? No. Just No.

Raw Food? No. Just, No.

Sashimi! Yea, Right.

It seems to rotate decades. For a while, the *thing* is to do raw eggs in a blender with some other mish mash. Of course, raw oysters come and go with seasons and uhhh...oil spills. Steak tartare made its rounds (with or without the raw egg plopped in the middle) and is still on some uppity menus.
But sushi and sashimi will not go away. (For the sake of simplicity here, I'm going to refer to both of them just as 'sushi'). They are everywhere - in supermarkets, crap house buffets, and ma and pa seafood shacks. Every now and then, I give it another chance, and optimistically order something beyond the California Roll, like Tamago Yaki (the omelette seaweed roll), which, I know, is still like clinging to the edge of the pool - really safe.
So I branch out and actually order something with a piece of *gag* fish slapped on top. I usually ask for recommendations from the itamae (sushi chef) for a virgin sushi eater, but apparently, this gets lost in translation, as certainly one cannot possibly imagine "Fatty Tuna" sounding appetizing to a newbie. So of course, once I have accepted the recommendation, I feel obligated to look appreciative, as if Chef Suzuki has just introduced me to heaven in between chopsticks. I do a little semi - bow and shy smile a la Japanese girl. And to be certain, the sushi always looks beautiful. There are the intricately carved radishes and curled onion thingies all in a dragon boat that serves as the vehicle for my Fatty Tuna. I feel guilty about all the work Chef-san has gone to, because this is really just my little experiment to see if my taste buds have learned to accept that sushi has made a place for itself in the world, or if I have to keep turning my nose up at invitations to "go for sushi". (Really, that royal looking dragon boat is going to get left with limp pieces of fish hanging overboard, in the end, can you see it coming?
Because once the sushi is served, here comes the most difficult part, that I have never figured out: I have chopsticks. The tuna roll does not arrive in a friggin bite size piece.
Apparently, I am expected to deep-throat this Fatty in front of God and everyone and, remember, I was just giving it a second chance! I don't even like it - this was a charity eat, not food rape!
I am *so* sure this was planned. I mean from the beginning, like, why the hell not just cook the damn fish instead of trying to pretend it is good that way. C'mon people. Work with me. You know damn well, this sushi thing is out of control. Eat it rare if you must, but when you have to cover up the taste of your food with soy sauce and the horseradish sauce from Hell, i.e., wasabi - it's begging you to be cooked.
And Chef Suzuki? What's next, you gonna serve me a little Puffer Fish and watch me in the throes of spasms while you and your henchmen giggle back there?
Round-eye is watching. I'm on to you.

Restaurant Review and Political Warning.

Chinese Food: A Restaurant Review and Political Warning.

Tonight we took Exit 5 to the Hell that is King Buffet. Oh, Silly Self! When will you ever learn that Chinese buffets are sent from abroad to slowly but surely take over the world by fronting coronary artery disease as a bargain, disguised as 200 awful 'entrees'? How many dollah will you lose on this Chinese Roulette Game? How many all nighters on the potty?

Be warned! These things are a carefully executed offensive! They are a quiet, undiscovered surgical strike to our nation - how else would thousands of Chinese restaurants all over the country have the exact same menus?! They are are answering to our McDonald's and Burger Kings with a vengeance!
In our region, King Buffet is leading the strategy with a most diabolical and militant cuisine. Not to be satisfied with dosing biological warfare through stomach cramps, they add a hefty front line of staff armed with traditional weaponry of the "long bo staff" disguised as mops which fling toxic water to and fro at will during your meal. Should you decide to have a converstation, be prepared to interrupted by an unsmiling soldier who will demand you to work while camped there: you will have to hand over the soy sauce to be switched out. You will later be stopped, and forced to hand over salt and pepper shakers for for the same reason. Incredibly, this assault is tenacious, and a third time, you will work, releasing your container of sweetener packets to your warden's custody.
You will continue to attempt to manage the rumblings of hunger you had when you first walked in, overlooking the fingerprint smears on nearly everything, to sample bites of deep fried...animal.
You may attempt an oyster from the cold bar, but you may as well swallow your own snot and reserve your bathroom for the night, as you surely will have invited c. vibrios to nestle into your gut.
At no time during your futile attempts to nourish yourself will your table be cleaned.
Remember, people! This is the 'Nam of culinary war! It ain't for sissies! Clean your own damn table!
You're on King Buffet soil now, Punk!

Reporting From Booth H:

"You Not in Kansas Anymore, Dorothy! Tornado Come, You in King Buffet!

No Clean Table!"

Reverse Identity Theft, or How I Became Ms. Witherspoon

Reverse Identity Theft, or How I Became Ms. Witherspoon

I didn’t set out to be Ms. Witherspoon.  I didn’t try, or want to be her.  She morphed to me in the middle of a July night without me knowing.  She’s a bad, bad lady and she’s trying to bring me down with her.

It all started when my cell phone carrier, Which Shall Remain Un-Named, refused to cooperate.  I called to tell Customer Service (I call them Cuss-tomer Service because they make me want to cuss.  OK, they make me actually cuss.) that if in order to talk on the phone I had to stand at the northwest end of the pool outside and touch the bug screen. (I needed to differentiate between the bug screen and the cell phone screen.)

A polite but firm agent named Arvind said, “But you have coverage there, Miss.  I think you must have a microwave oven on that is disruptive and causing interference.”

“But Arvind,” I replied, “This isn’t a pacemaker.  People use their cell phones around microwave ovens all the time.”

“Well how can you be touching a screen and be outside at a pool at the same time, Miss?” he said.  “This isn’t possible.  You have a problem there.”

“I’m in Florida, Arvind.  If we don’t have giant screens around the pool, it becomes a humungous Petri dish for mosquito larvae.  And now and then the occasional alligator takes a dip.”

“In that case, I suggest that you upgrade to the Yokomoto 875 which I can offer you today only at $299.99.  It’s water resistant and since you have a large pool –

“No.  I just want my phone to work.”

“Miss, I have the map up on my screen, and it’s showing me that your area is orange, which means you have total coverage and our towers have strong signals there.  I’m happy to report that you are completely in the orange zone and you do not have to stand by your screen.”

“Arvind, your map can be rainbow colored.  I’m telling you I don’t have coverage.”

And so it went until I got fed up and switched carriers.

The problem is that when I switched, I apparently was given Ms. Witherspoon’s old number and there are people trying to catch up with her.

First came the creditors.  Over and over they insisted I call their collections departments, until it was getting annoying enough that I did.  I explained that I am not Ms. Witherspoon and how I was just assigned her number.

They didn’t buy it.

And they were mean.

“Enough of this, Ms. Witherspoon.  It’s ridiculous.  Go to Western Union TODAY and send a payment.”

“But that’s what I’m trying to tell you.  I’m not Witherspoon.”

“Like we haven’t heard THAT one before.  You were loaned money on good faith.  Do the right thing and pay it back.  That’s what regular people DO,” she said.

I was starting to feel like I owed her money, even though I never had an account with them.
  She even looked up a relative of Mrs. Withersppon's and said, "Drea Witherspoon has good credit! Borrow some money from her!"

We bantered like this for a while until I was fairly certain she believed that I wasn’t Ms. Witherspoon.  Or that she wasn’t getting money.  But before she hung up, she demanded to know where Ms. Witherspoon was.

  Probably with LaKesha.  Because the next call I got was from Mr. Strong, was left a message saying that he understood LaKesha’s disciplinary problems in the classroom were being addressed.  LaKesha had assaulted another student and Mr. Strong wanted to assure Ms. Witherspoon that measures were being taken.

I called Mr. Strong to tell him that I’m not Ms. Witherspoon and I don’t have LaKesha.

“But you’re on our call list as the parent,” he said, “and I can’t release that kind of information to anyone but the parent.”

“Well, I don’t want to know about LaKesha’s bullying.  I just want to get off your call list because I’m not Ms. Witherspoon,” I repeated for the millionth time.

“I’m sorry, but it’s the policy to notify the parents when something of this nature occurs,”

he said.

“Listen.  Mr. Strong.  I don’t know where Ms. Witherspoon and her brood of unruly children are.  They’re using up a lot of minutes on my call plan because I have to keep calling people and telling them that I don’t owe them money or my kid didn’t beat up their kid, and I’m afraid the next call is going to be that I cut someone’s cocaine with baby powder.  So please.  Please.  Take me off your call list.”

Mr. Strong thought for a second and then he seemed to realize that I didn't "sound" like Mrs. Witherspoon. 

“Come to think of it, LaKesha Witherspoon's mother is usually threatening to beat me up by this part of the phone call.  Sorry about that.  I’ll get you off the list.”

Thanks, I appreciate it,” I told him, “and next time you see the kid, kick her butt.”