Digesting Memories

Growing up, I've always hated eating boiled eggs. The yellowish-blue ball of hardened yolk would lodge in my throat and had to be washed down by gulps of water. When I left for college, I swore that I would never touch another boiled egg except during Easter. But every day during the summer in Beijing, I would wake up to sugared tomatoes, steamed buns, chewy wooden ears . . . and two boiled eggs. Waipo would faithfully repeat the secret to her father's longevity (he died in a traffic accident when he was ninety), and watch me patiently until I squirmed and ate everything on my plate.

But after the summer, when I returned back to America and had to figure out my own breakfast every morning, I would always reach for the eggs and start boiling my water. I still grit my teeth when I ate them, but somehow I wanted to keep doing it. To show her that I hadn't forgotten.

When Chelsea left for college, I also took it upon myself to continue her idiosyncratic habit of mixing cereal with yoghurt, even though I used to tease her about it.

Other times, I was obsessed with baklava, barbeque chicken pizza, subway chicken teriyaki sandwich and co. because each bite was a way of holding onto them and pretending that they're still there to force me to eat those things.

And right now, I would really like some Pear and Gargonzola.

Cannibalism and other subtle messages

The Donner Party was a group of pioneers (not the Mormon ones) who attempted to cross the freezing plains to reach California in 1846-7. They had a lot of women and children and even hired helpers. But because they were misled by a greedy store keeper who wanted to sell them more supplies, they started on a supposed shortcut and were snowed in for months.

The group was so desperate for food that they ate the oxhide in their bows. And their makeshift roofs. And each other.

Apparently they even tried to practice cannibalism in true democratic style when somebody suggested a vote to pick their human sacrifices.

Ultimately, they were rescued. But only 48 of the 87 people made it into California.

For our 328 assignment, we had to run probit and logit models to calculate the characteristics that contributed to higher survival rates.

Younger and older people were vulnerable. Being a hired help is not bad. Being male is advantageous. Being in a family is even more so. So if you're a married male adult, you've hit the survival jackpot.

And if you're a single female, you're shafted. Or just eaten.

I think I just found another incentive to get married.

p.s. It's nearly 2 a.m. and I'm still sitting in the TA office working. School sleepover party? It's starting to look that way.

A Cutting Look

My parents know that whenever they call me during my Sunday cooking sessions that I will either 1. slice my finger along with the tomatoes or 2. drop the phone because hot oil just hit my eye. Note that this only happens when I'm talking on the phone with my mom. I just get distracted.

This Sunday, I was frying chicken. Deep frying. Dawn pointed out the fact that I had already talked to my mom so I would be safe. I prided myself on my perfect timing. I was invincible.

Then as I was reaching for the last piece of breaded chicken, my mom called back.

The rest was history. I accidentally dropped the piece of meat straight into the scalding bubbling hot oil. And in protest, the chicken splashed the oil all over my arm. I yelped and burned while Hwanhi and Dawn rushed to relieve me of the stuff I was holding.

They ripped through my mom's 72 hour kit and wrapped me up with layers of gauze.

The biggest burn was on my wrist. And guess what shape it was in?

A chicken thigh. 

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The next day, I felt self-conscious so I removed most of the gauze around my elbow and just kept the one on my wrist.

I walked into my English class and barely plopped my bag down when the girl next to me pointed to my wrist and gasped,

"What happened to your . . .?"

 
She never finished her sentence. Then suddenly sympathetic, she asked,"how is life?"

Me: Well kind of stressful. I feel like things are spiraling out of control.

Girl (with a firm squeeze right on my burnt wrist and a knowing empathetic look): You can do this.

She sneaked another look at my clearly DIY wrist gauze job again.

Wow. She thought I was cutting.