Mr. Fu

Waiting on my bike for cars to pass, I oppose the proper flow of traffic, simply because to agree with it would take me away from my home.

At last the cars pass slowly; ‘new hands’ slower than old hands, as they methodically and awkwardly navigate first around a ‘No Parking’ sign and then me and another opposer on bicycle, too. The sign is propped up adjacent to a full set of parked cars.

Last to wait for, in our attempt to pass, is an army-green colored canvas-covered traxi - the local adult-size version of a tricycle, which acts as a taxi.

Instead of passing, he slows and opens his flimsy hinge of a door and grabs the plastic yellow sign. He folds it flat and tucks it inside his cabin.

He mutters under his breath and audibly informs us that he’s going to do away with the sign, as if we had asked.

Had he arrived on-duty just to do so? Or was he simply stealing the sign with only a two biker witness?

The fellow behind me and I chuckled at his brash, if rational, manner, and I peddled away now that the jam had disappeared.

mr. fu

I imagine the essence of this very situation, and perhaps more so, a character just like him:

A Mr. Fu, the kind of man who takes matters by the horns and wrangles them by hand - be it orderly or ad hoc. Be it justly or unlawfully.

He is the kind of man who silently opposes the government, staging action that leaps when there is the slightest loss of command.

He express his opinions not with words, for many a worthy word are lost to fool ears.

He is deceivingly patient. But let there be no doubt, he will act. And he acts without regret. Regret is a foolish thing to hold onto, he says. Regrets should be lost with the wind as the weather changes on a whim. To hang onto regret is to wear your winter clothes in the spring, for sake of not wasting them.

This Mr. Fu is a man that people respect -no matter if they disagree or support him. Either way, he is too quick for anyone to comment.

A complaint registered with Mr. Fu is lost to ears wizened, for he knows that foolish words are but the sound of rustling leaves, the wind having already left.

Mr. Fu smiles with his eyes, and without need of words, he speaks only when words are necessary. It is in this way that he usually has the last word.

Others dare not speak after him, else to offer thorns when a rose has just bloomed.

Mr. Fu is alone in his actions, his thoughts, but never lacking for others drawing near.

Note: Access to Blogger is still blocked within China. Without access to a much appreciated VPN (proxy), I would be unable to publish to my blog from within mainland China. Thus, I am blessed and grateful to be sharing.

eggs benedicite

Making eggs in Beijing can be an exciting deviation from the regular breakfast duty...

the delicious eggs benedicite

Last year, my roommate's mother would visit from Tianjin, a coastal city some 3 hours East of Beijing by slow train. In fact, Auntie would more so *visit* Tianjin and *reside* in Beijing to cook and clean for her 21-yr old daughter, who was self-studying French and supposed to be looking for a job.

Auntie grew up on the farm and still found comfort in taking the longer road. She conserved gray water for later flushing the toilet instead of using *clean* water. She made steamed buns from scratch, along with stuffed buns, date buns, dumplings, salads, sweet potato porridge, and fried eggs.

And I was quite the lucky girl for having many opportunities to taste her many delectable dishes; here, I will share with you the rewards of just one of her dishes, but not without a savory twist.


the fried egg

I learned from Auntie that the best of eggs are fried, one at a time, in a wok with plenty of oil and just the right amount of salt. The edges are crispy, the center soft. And unlike the typical attempt at cooking up an egg, this version of the fried egg stays in one piece as you lift it from the pan and onto your plate.

Of course, no recipe would pass through my hands without some altering, and here is the story of two lil' country eggs that got fried in the big city:

It was a chilly morning in the last days of the 3rd Moon. Not only were there one too many egglings in the basket, but the collective shivering was akin to the chattering of teeth. They could stand it no more and were ready to crack.

There was only one thing to do, and that was for the most brave and martyrous of the egglings to embrace the deshelling of innocence and venture into the Kitchen Unknown, referred to in lore as the Hot Oil Baths of the Land of Wok.

Egglings no more would they be; their destiny would be realized and they were ready for the frying. But little did they know, for the Hot Oil Baths of the Land of Wok was to be just the beginning of one sweet and spicy tale...

the real story

...Don't be shy with the oil. Plain vegetable oil will suffice, and the wok ought to begin with a shallow pool of oil about the diameter equal to the length of an egg. Place the wok over a med-high flame.

Once the oil has heated to temp, carefully crack open the egg and drop the egg into the shallow pool of oil. The water content of the egg will cause a sizzle and pop, and a pot lid serves two purposes here: 1) to shelter the splattering of hot oil, and 2) to steam the egg from above. A sprinkle of salt wishes them well on their way.

secret of the "over-medium" egg: steam

A fried egg is best handled in one piece, and the setting of the whites atop the yolk helps to firm up the egg in its entirety.

the egg wades bravely in oil

When the edges of the egg have turned a crisp golden and the top has clouded over, remove the cover and carefully slide a thin metal spatula under the egg, transferring to a warmed plate with lid. Repeat with twice as many eggs as there are hungry waiting mouths.

the romance of Chinese dining is kindled here: garlic and ginger

With the leftover oil from frying the eggs still heating, quickly add the minced garlic and ginger and toss, sauteing until golden. A medium flame will ensure that the sugars do not caramelize too quickly at the edges before the centers have softened.

brown sugar and spice

When the garlic and ginger threaten to jump out of the wok, satisfy their yearnings with the sweetness of brown sugar (jujube molasses sugar picture above) and the spice of red pepper flakes. The sizzling will cease and the mix will become viscous with everything that Buddhism shuns.

the finish: vinegar and salt bath

When the sugar has softened, add white vinegar and the salt. The mix will turn back into a wet sauce and take only a moment over the flame before begging to be poured over the eggs.

Though the heat of the spice is countered near perfectly by the sweet of the sugar, a bit of crunch will further satisfy any dental sulkings.

For this, simply slice up a [long, skinny, firm] Chinese cucumber and top with salt and sugar before dousing with white vinegar. Shake well for a thorough coating; this version of sweet and sour pickles is meant to have a bite, i.e., should be strong like a pickle, not delicate like a salad:

sweet and spicy meets the crunch: fried eggs benedicite

And not only were the egglings fried in the end as expected, but so too were baptized in the sweet and spicy waters where a tangy pickle awaited their savory succulence.

The End.

ingredients: eggs benedicite

vegetable•oil
2 country•eggs
sprinkle•of•white•salt

vegetable•oil
1/2 bulb•garlic
1/2" ginger•root
1/2 t brown•sugar
1/2 t red•pepper•flakes
1 T+ white•vinegar
1/2 t white•salt

1 sliced•cucumber
1 t white•sugar
1 t white•salt
2 T white•vinegar

tale of two tails

《the big old dog and the little yapper dog》

As chance would have it and lore would remember it, there once were two mates: the little yapper dog and the big old dog.

The big old dog laid steadily on the still ground, while the little yapper dog would yap and run in little circles about the big old dog.

The big old dog would get up, and mozy to and fro', moving freely as big old dogs do.

And the little yapper dog would follow close behind and all around, yapping as little yapper dogs are apt to do.

It was for each step the big old dog would take, that the little yapper dog took 4.

And though the little yapper dog had energy for more, those equal steps of 4 too soon trod once too many times about that big old dog, though what for...?

So after time itself drew weary, the little yapper dog took heed and halted the yapping and paused the treading, too.

For where a big old dog minds what only a big old dog might will to mind, any dog will know that there is fourfold more than a passive big old bore who cares for nobody more.

And the little yapper dog went silently and simply on away, for the little yapper dog was, in fact, no more a yapper than the big old dog was old.

At long last, the little dog was no more, and no less, than the dog that it was, which was a dog that is.

The End

Though there are things great and grand and worthy of tempting even the strongest, there are times of purpose that we must swim on and away.

即使大虫并不诱惑
(Even the big worm does not tempt)

by 云清, aka Jessica Bibbee