Are we human or are we dancer?

What is your definition of a real human being? I've struggled with the answer to this question everyday since graduating from college. And it's sad to say that was a long long long time ago. (Thank goodness I'm petite and asian and can still pass for an undergrad)

I remember having a conversation about the choice to be inked or not to be inked with a 21 year old while vacationing in Australia. This boy err man or maybe man-boy was obsessed with his tattoos. Some were in easy to spot places like the inside of his right wrist and others were not like the ones on his upper arm, across one side of his chest and one on his lower abdomen. I mentioned that night after one too many beers that I had always wanted a tattoo but the sheer magnitude of the decision as to what to actually get and where to put it on my body (where it would stay FOREVER) has pretty much forced me into indecision on the whole matter. I told him that I wasn't entirely convinced that it was possible to be a "real human" being if you had visable and obvious tattoos. And I was pretty sure that I should strive to be an real human. It seemed like a logical conclusion to me however he was fairly adamant that my definition of a "real human being" differed greatly from his. 

I only meant that being a person with large visible tattoos seemed to be the antithesis of what an adult should be. And for me a "real human being" = adult.  When I was a kid I thought for sure by the time I hit 30 I would have things all figured out. I didn't necessarily want a house in the burbs with 2.5 children and a white picket fence but I just thought that I would be an adult or at least feel like and adult... doing adult things like my parents. I wasn't sure of all the details but I thought that I would have a plan and a goal and direction.

I am now 30 years old with absolutely no idea of where I'm going, what I want and how to get it. All I know is that I have no ink on me anywhere and I don't think I'm any closer to being a "real human being" then my 21 year old visibly inked friend. Harrump....perhaps it's time to rethink this inking thing after all.

Today is the first day of the rest of your life.

I've decided that it might be time to extend the scope of this blog to include food, love and life. I started this blog ages ago as a way to share my culinary adventures with my friends and family via the web and honestly I had hoped it would be something that my boyfriend (at the time) and I could do together because I thought we lacked "common interests." Fast forward 2 years and I am no longer with said boyfriend but still obsessed with food and still have tons of random thoughts and ruminations that I feel compelled to share with the world.

My posts have been sporadic at best and the layout atrocious. But it's not my fault :( I really hate using the html editor provided by blogger. Maybe I'm retarded or something...but i just can't seem to make this thing look the way I want it to. And it's really depressing when I see blogs by youngins that look super slick and polished. You'd think that with my background in programming that'd I'd be able to get this thing to look good. Oh wells.....I guess it's just not one of my strengths. I'm ok with that...we can't all be good at everything :)

Flat whites and Freedom

Who knew that our aussie aunts, uncles and grand pa and grandmother had a secret plan to lock us Americans away in their little home in North Melbourne. For days, we were forced fed “home cooked” dinners that tasted great but made us yearn all the more for the freedom to go out and buy some food … any food. Seriously. No vacation is complete without checking out the local dining scene … at least not for me.

For some reason, the family thought that we wouldn’t be able to navigate the city on our own and this just baffled me to no end. I mean I’m 30 years old…something that I’m not usually shouting out to the world but in this case I thought it would be enough proof of my competency in life. I really don’t know what kind of stories my father had been feeding these people for the past 20 some years...but it certainly seemed like he failed to inform them that Phuong and I were actually real adults capable of getting around a city without falling victim to kidnappers, gang bangers and other evils that they believed lurked around every corner in Melbourne.

After a few days of what felt like forced imprisonment, I was finally presented with a chance to break free from our confinement. I discovered from one of my aunties that she not only worked in the City but walked there from my grand aunt’s place (the location of our internment) and also there were trams that ran straight into the city and other destinations all around Melbourne. This aunt proved to be our saviour and key to freedom - thanks Vichi.

That very day Phuong, Judie, Michelle and I all left the house bright and early and trailed my auntie to work. We happily trudged past Royal Children’s Hospital, past University of Melbourne and straight by Queen Victoria Market …. right into the city. First stop…coffee shop. A flat white for me, hot chocolates for the girls and of course a meat pie for Phuong. A morning cup of coffee laced with freedom.

The Meat Pie

It’s like a poor man’s chicken pot pie except they’re mostly made without chicken or any real discernable meat. Just a kind of mushy meat-like substance that isn’t half bad smothered in tomato sauce (or as we call it in the states – ketchup) The aussie’s really seem to like their little meat pies because they were being sold at almost every fast food outlet through out Melbourne. Our aussie cousins informed us that the Four And Twenty (which were proudly sold at all 7 Elevens) was an all time favorite. With this kind of recommendation, Phuong couldn’t resist and on our first day exploring the city promptly bought and devoured her first meat pie. That was the beginning of the meat pie madness. For days she went on and on about getting more meat pies.

I wasn’t a huge fan of the weird consistency of the filing despite the fact that I typically like savory pies but somehow this just didn’t work for me. Different strokes for different folks, I guess.