Lots of Little Stories

Aug 29, 7:30pm


Keeping a Journal
Back when I was in Greece, I used to try to write everything down in a journal for Mom (she requested this of me for my own sake; she said she wished she had written more herself and treasured the memories her pen preserved for her). I would start by writing quick notes at the top of the journal entry that would remind me of all that I wanted to write that day. Then I would write the actual body of the entry; every time that I began to wonder, “What else should I write?”, I would look to those notes and be re-inspired. The night before I left for China, I found the journal I had written for Mom in Greece. We read it aloud together. I found that even when I had not completed some of my intended entries, I could remember the stories I meant to write based on those notes. It was a whirlwind of lively memories I think I would have lost if not for those notes. Due to the success of that journaling effort, I am prone to do the same now – but that may mean that sometimes I will end up with lonely notes titling incomplete entries. My apologies that you will not experience the same vivid recollections that I will from these notes, but I hope you can forgive me this one act of pure selfishness!

Calling driver (He can understand me, but I cannot understand him) – bus stop (LANGUAGE)
Smile too big for picture (CULTURAL NORMS)
Elodie (People) – sleeping over, getting locked out of dorm
Best plum ever – again and again (Food) – same with persimmons, but no luck with beautiful dragonfruit

Speaking Chinese – sometimes (Aug 30th)
We (me, Carrie, Travis, and all the people who help us in the office) speak a lot of English amongst ourselves right now. We (me, Carrie, and Travis) do not have a schedule, and have to get random errands done all the time, so I still feel comfortable forgiving my limited use of Chinese. I have learned to call our driver and ask him (politely) to pick us up (not to save us, as I asked the first time I tried to make a pick-up request when I could not remember which tone Lynn told me to use on “jie.” To those who know Mandarin, “jiu4” is what I sounded like when I should have said “jie1”). I can also call the water bottle people and ask them to bring us fresh water. I asked questions about a pressure cooker before buying it today (Is this one better than this one? Oh, this one is bigger? And on sale? Can I see it for a moment?). It was only 300 yuan ~ $48, split three ways between Carrie, Travis, and myself. I also bought black, white, and red rice; fresh enoki mushrooms and green onions and bok choy and carrots and some white root; flavored tofu in three shapes, and plain tofu. Along with the seasonings I bought (fennel seeds and anise stars), this will all become dinner tomorrow for all of my new friends. It cost about $11, and will feed 6 of us with plenty left over. Now I see why Huang Laoshi told me back at Miami U. that I could live like royalty on my salary, especially in terms of food. (See how dinner went by going to the section A Little Bit of Home in China.)

Meeting Marie (Aug 30th)
I was happy to practice my Chinese a tiny bit today, but that is about as extensive as my practice has been. For example, yesterday we walked all around the small suburban area of Tangjia (not at all like American suburbs, by the way – more like a dirtier part of a big city). We had to go to the bank and cellular phone store and grocery store. “We” included a new member of the English-speaking group: Marie. She is Belgian, but has been living in France for, like, 10 years. She speaks many languages fluently, and is studying Portuguese and Chinese here (I think). Marie and I connected very quickly; we share a similar sense of humor when it comes to the many small things in life that one can laugh at; we find other similarities to enjoy together as well. I really look forward to getting to know her better.
Her roommate and friend from China, Elodie, looks Chinese because her parents are Chinese, but she was born and raised in France and as thoroughly integrated in French culture as any other French-born girl. Her Chinese is the best among us since her parents spoke it at home and she studied it for several years more than either Marie or I. She is, however, not fluent, which surprises every Chinese person who begins to speak with her quickly and unreservedly about her white friends. I really like Elodie, too. Her Chinese is better than her English, and she is shy, so it is hard to have extensive conversations right now. However, she is always ready to smile, is very thoughtful and considerate of others, and is willing to try having conversations even when they are a little slow due to the language barriers (barriers maintained by my poor language skills, not hers!).

The Smells of China (Aug 30)
*-* Warning: Uncensored content below. My father has requested that I clean up the language “for the children,” but sometimes “doodoo” and “poo” just don’t cut it when telling a story like this. If you disagree with the necessity of the minor profanity herein, I would truly enjoy considering any alternative narrations you would like to submit. *-*
Walking around town, I was accosted by a scent I knew all too well from my many years of horseback riding: manure. There were no horses to be seen, but I knew the smell horses left in their wake better than my own deodorant. I asked Lynn where it was coming from (pretty sure that it had to be from the ancient trash cart parked nearby). She said, “Oh! That is stinky tofu!”
“No, no. That is most definitely shit, Lynn. I know what this stuff smells like. You must be getting a different draft.”
“Huh?” She gave me the look that said I had spoken too quickly or had used unusual nomenclature.
“You are not smelling the same thing I am smelling. I don't know where it is coming from, but that --" I waved my hand before my flared nostrils, "-- is definitely poop.” I made some not-too-graphic motion to clarify what “poop” was in case she had not covered that term in English class.
“That is stinky tofu. That is what it smells like.” Lynn protested.
“No, no. We are smelling different things. What I am trying to say is that you may smell something bad, but I smell something worse.” I continued. Travis joined in the conversation, trying to clarify to Lynn that two separate but terrible smells existed on this street: one tofu, one crap. I laughingly began to yell “LIAR!” at Lynn, who persistently claimed that we were all smelling stinky tofu. All the while, she was snaking us through the streets of the city. She stopped and looked at us expectantly.
“What?” I asked.
“There, smell.” She pointed to a vendor boiling large tofu dice. I leaned over and smelled. Nothing. “No, over there.” She pushed me into the steam cloud that had billowed away from me when I leaned over the tofu pot. The wind was suddenly stuffing steaming hot fecal matter up my nose, accosting my senses like nothing in this world ever has. Lynn was right. We had been smelling stinky tofu. The neologist who dubbed stinky tofu did not quite capture the intensity of the olfactory experience. I now agree that stinky tofu is the most vile concoction ever conceived for consumption by man (Note: if this was a food first made by a woman, it was probably for a husband she hated or for soldiers forcefully occupying her house. When the fed men figured out that they had been tricked into believing that what they were eating was a regional specialty, they tried to save face by pretending it was the best food they had ever eaten. In their over-anxious zeal, they were a bit too successful, and popularized the dish for ages to come. Thus the torment my nose underwent on Friday.)

More Tofu, Please!
Not all tofu here is stinky tofu. My experiences with bean curd have been increasingly heartening. I had a dinner at the dining hall with a simple tofu dish on the side that I loved. Lynn said it was made with soy sauce and “more” -- additional ingredients that she did not know. I also had success at Carrefour on Saturday, sampling pre-made tofu steaks at one hot station, and buying 9 small seasoned steaks for dinner tonight in addition to the large cube of unflavored tofu I got.
My first experience, though, I believe I already related – when I ate a large glob of aged tofu that was supposed to be eaten more like wasabi than meat steaks.
(September 1st update) Last night, we had a dinner with several forms of similarly flavored tofu. Some were thicker, denser, or more tender than others. One form was like big rubber bands in everything but flavor. I’ve never eaten a rubber band, so I couldn’t provide that comparison.

Yammy Yammy Yam Noodles! (September 1st)
I was thrilled to find another of my favorite foods here (though I have not tried the Chinese version yet – and, if I have learned anything, it is that it is a mistake to act as though there is a single Chinese version of anything culinary). Konnyaku, sometimes referred to as yam noodle since it is made from a tuber sometimes referred to as a yam, is sold by the pound near the produce section rather than in prepackaged bags in the refrigerated ethnic section as in at American grocery stores. I am soaking my 1-pound hunk in light soy sauce (a soy sauce purchased at the suggestion of the stocking boy at the market, who was happy to help in both English and Chinese). – see the “Konnyaku” section below for an update on how it tasted!

The System Works
Buying produce is sometimes an adventure in itself. For each item that is not already labeled with a price, a price must be assigned to it at the nearest weigh station by the posted minion. I had been told that the Chinese would cut in line wherever a cue could be cut and that, if I were not to become exceptionally rude, I would never get anywhere in a timely fashion as I got pushed back further in every line. This has not panned out, but I have learned that one is expected to be a little more proactive about receiving some services. For example, at Carrefour, the huge supermarket that has kept Walmart from ruling China's grocery experience, I am often sardined with a dozen people holding bags of produce, trying to be the next person to place their bag on the scale. There is a kind of order that is recognized, but there is also a healthy respect for those who can wile their bags onto the scale a little sooner rather than later by the quickness of their hand and the ability to spot an opening called “opportunity”. No one pushes someone else's produce off the scale for their own benefit, and, when there are fewer people waiting, a natural order does take precedence. The workers at the scales often pay enough attention to what is going on in the crowd to begin reaching out to help customers who have been waiting patiently through the chaos of racing produce bags. As I see it, the system works, and it works faster than a cue. People figure out the rules, and make a system that works in a dense country of billions.

Choppity Chop Chop
During a not-so-busy market outing the other day, I began to crave watermelon. After looking at several sizable melons, I turned to the seller and asked, “我可以买半个西瓜吗？(Wo keyi mai ban ge xi gua ma? Can I buy half a watermelon?)” He replied that I could, took the watermelon I was holding as an example of “xigua” (in case I spoke poorly and needed to provide a visual clue as to my meaning), and chopped it in half with his machete. Impressed, I asked if he could slice it up for me, too. This I asked by attempting to chop the watermelon with the sides of my hands. The man must have felt bad for the stupid American whose hands could not compete with the chopping action of his machete; he sliced the watermelon for me, too.
(I love Mom’s version of the story, and will include it here unedited:
Rachel only has a small refrigerator and must share it with a roommate. Not wanting to take up too much of the very small refrigerator, when she went to the market (chicken so fresh it is still pooping next to the fruit/veggies, children and pets meandering through, napping with their vendor parents/owners) last week, asked the watermelon guy if he had any half watermelons. He pulled out a machete and cut one of his watermelons in half and handed it too her. Eyes wide open, she asked if he could cut that half into smaller pieces, as she has no knife back at the apartment.)

Of course, my Chinese may make me sound like a stupid American (and I have been told by Marie that some of my actions & sayings are so American), but at least I did not perform a cooking demonstration in a packed superstore using hot pepper oil on a hot wok.
Yes, there are many cooking demonstrations in the large supermarkets here. And I watched as one fellow began to heat a wok to demonstrate how one of those electric stove tops works. I saw that he had red oil among the ingredients he planned to use, but, really, no one is silly enough to use hot pepper oil to saute onions, are they? (Max & Craig have suffered from my own learning experience in this matter. In Max’s poorly ventilated apartment, I reached for the conveniently located jar of sauce with hot chili oil floating on top rather than finding a more basic oil when I was afraid the ginger would burn in the hot pan I was overseeing. Who knew that so much capsaicin could get into the air? Well, Max & Craig & I did after that night, and we consequently were endowed with deep insights into what it must feel like to breathe pure hell fire.)
It was not until I was in line ready to purchase all my wonderful goods that my inquiry was answered. People on one side of the store started coughing. The coughing worked its way closer and closer, and then BAM! I was right back in Max’s unventilated apartment, painfully sure that I was going to die a tragically peppery death. But I guess capsaicin only excites the nerves in disturbing ways; it did not seem to cause lasting effects.

“Wo keyi mai nage”... (This is a story I’ll elaborate on if someone reminds me to do so…

A Little Bit of Home in China
I do not intend to live my unaltered State-side life in China, but there are some bits of homeyness that I thoroughly enjoy here. For example, having an electric pressure cooker! An electric pressure cooker is a speedy rice cooker, a steamy stew pot that mimics the tenderness- and flavor-infusing wonders of a slow cooker; it is a stand-alone stove top pot that can be used at a sauté pan, a hot pot (for the similarly styled dish), a safe way to cook when you cannot or do not want to stand in the kitchen to attend to the cooking foods, and it contains the heat of cooking so that less energy is needed to cook and less energy is released as heat into the house. (Breathe, Rachel, breeeeathe)
Needless to say, it did not take a lot of work to convince my fellow Americans to chip in a hundred yuan each to buy the 300 yuan cooker. The night we bought it was full of excitement, but we stayed out so late that we did not have time to use the cooker on our first evening of ownership. The next day, I went back to the store, Carrefour (a long but worthy commute on the 68 bus, where I learned that I am only second to old women and new mothers when it comes to being offered choice seating), and bought extra veggies and spices to make a grand little dinner for six. One of our six, Lynn, could not come, so five of us (me, Carrie, Travis, Elodie, and Marie) shared a dinner of chilled white rose-flavored rice; red rice, barley, and cumin; black rice with leeks; four kinds of marinated tofu; and steamed carrots, white radish, bok choy, and eggplant. We tried drinking some volatile resin that was labeled “Great Wall Wine.” Thankfully, we had some cool, crisp watermelon to wash out the flavor. I did not make tea for the meal because it was a primarily hot meal on a hot day, and I did not have time to chill heated tea into its iced counterpart (even though I had just purchased an ice tray along with the veggies – which, by the way, makes long, skinny, ice cylinders that can easily fit into any bottle or can of liquid refreshment).

Konnyaku
It is not a particularly popular item in China, I think, because Lynn does not know what it is called in Chinese, but konnyaku is cheap and available and delicious! Actually, it is not delicious alone, but when marinated in deliciousness. It absorbs the flavor of whatever you put it in. I am going to buy a bunch more and soak it with garlic and ginger and soy sauce and sesame oil and be happy!
This morning, I ate konnyaku steamed with enoki mushrooms and carrots. If you are not jealous, then you are not imagining the true delight that is konnyaku accurately.

Bloody Blood
I should not be surprised that my blood is as emblematic of my personality as it is sustaining to my life. It is bright and flowy, and it has trouble containing itself for long. You find it when you least expect it in strange places ~ like sitting on top of the refrigerator. Blood, why would you want to sit on the refrigerator? To keep me company while I clean the fruit? Is that why you came out to play? Because I was carelessly cleaning fruit?
I gave Blood an opportunity to come out by slicing my knuckle when I meant to slice a carrot. At first, Blood seemed too tired to play, and instead stayed inside for a while. Then, slowly, she wriggled out. Like me, once she gets started, there is no stopping her. If you think you've succeeded to put her to bed for a minute, you find her jumping around on the floor a few minutes later, or trying to taste some of the tofu you are trying to marinate. Gag her with a Band-aid, and she squirms out to say, “Hello! Look at me! Look at me! If you don't look, I'll start dripping!” I should hope that I do not say that too often, but my blood does.
I have had this happen before, where my blood is ready to come out of a cut at a moment's notice. Just about any opportunity that is presented to her is taken advantage of (another trait we share). Fortunately, I brought lots of alcohol wipes, so Carrie, Travis, and our guests can be easily be protected from exposure to our newly noticeable roommate.