The Museum of Fine Arts
To no fault of my own, I found myself living across the street from the Samuel Adam’s Brewery. I’m nowhere near a Beer Connoisseur but when free beer is offered, I take. The beer tasting tours last for about an hour before and take you through the various steps of beer making. I’ve been on the tour several times now. I just find it a good way to start my days off. I usually bring a friend along to give the impression that I am simply accompanying a friend. 
First they gathered us around a small room where they introduced us to the ingredients: Barley and Hops. Barley is a type of grain, and they are roasted to varying degrees to create malt. They let us take a handful of each level of roasted barley and taste it. They also let us take a handful of hops, these flower-like flakey things, and make it crumble in our hands so they release an fairly good odor. Then they take us to a different room where they teach us about the brewing process. I already forgot exactly how it works. Yeast was evidently really important. They said Yeast a lot. This made me want to giggle a lot. Things go into giant things where they do something and are transferred to other containers where they go through other processes. Here’s what I remember: the yeast makes the stuff multiply, and they sit in the containers for 30-60 days while they ferment or something.
Afterwards, they finally take us to the tasting room where we sampled three different beers: The regular Sam Adams Lager, the Seasonal Sam Summer, and the special 26.2 Marathon Beer which was specially created for the Boston Marathon when Sam Adams was made the official beer of the Boston Marathon. Because, you know, that’s what runners need after 26.2 miles of running, a tall glass of beer.
Anyway, I had fun. I learned a lot, but clearly not enough to start brewing my own beer. I honestly think, I don’t pay too much attention to make sure I have a solid excuse to come back and learn the brewing process over and over again.
Yeah.. this was an awful entry.
Posted in Dancing Tastebuds, La vita e bella, Rubbish
“That’s Mahogany!”
I started to read the book, but I haven’t gotten around to finishing it yet. But the movie had come out and I was really craving buttered popcorn. It’s been weeks. So, I went and watched it.
The measurements to which our imagination can be challenged has risen a hundred times higher than just a simple decade ago, that as I watched the elaborate detail brought on to the movie of genuinely amazing costume designs, make-up, set locations, and special effects felt … normal. Along with technology, the audience has become just as sophisticated. We are now too rarely impressed.
The same with the first 212 pages of the book that I have read, the movie lacked something. It didn’t address the issues it brought forward, it merely presented it. The issues of justice, inequality, poverty, conflict and others were all there, but never explored deeply as it had the opportunity to.
There was nothing wrong with the movie. It was entertaining, delightful, and good. The characters, most of which were portrayed excellently by actors with raw talent. I was amused by the big stars that kept surprising me with their appearances. Elizabeth Banks, Woody Harrelson, Stanley Tucci and Lenny Kravitz were pleasant surprises. They owned their characters. They made me believe that this was who they are. They are people who believed it was beautiful to have enormous blue hair, and cakey white powdered skin. I believed that they believed they looked their best. Even though, we all knew they looked fuckin weird and ugly.
What made me like the book, the story and the movie was all on the shoulders of one person. Katniss. I liked her, I liked her a lot. It’s refreshing to watch a heroine that is worthy of admiration. She wasn’t overly sexualized, although her hotness was just as clear as the strength of her character. She was self-relient, moral, resourceful, intelligent, practical, daring and kind. She was also imperfect with her temper, pride, apathy, and submission to the world she lives in. Though I’m sure, it’s only a matter of time before we all find her starting a revolt. Since, I hadn’t finished the book, I thought for sure she would organize all the sacrificed children against the game makers by the end of the movie, I was sorely disappointed the ending was anti-climatic and resolved nothing. Apparently, it’s a trilogy. So, I am hopeful.
There isn’t much a human can do at a dog park. Truth be told, sometimes it gets a little awkward. Often, it’s just weird. I’m not a big fan of small talk. There’s only so many times you can agree that “it’s nice, spring came so early this year.” So, usually, I stay fixated on watching my dog, Baz, and hoping he won’t pick a fight. I sometimes worry, the playful growls and barks will turn into deafening roars and then bloodshed. I suppose, it’s like watching kids on the playground, always wanting to keep an eye on them. To make sure they are safe. I wouldn’t really know. I don’t have any kids, and if I spent any time standing by a playground watching children play… Well, then. That’s just slightly creepy.
I try to pick a nice spot at the dog park. Away from the chatterboxes who like to agree about the “beautiful weather we’re having” and find more than five synonyms for the word “nice.”
I prefer small crowds at the dog park anyway. Dogs are dogs and sometimes their fangs will show. The less dogs there are to pull away from each other, the better. It also makes for a more ‘real’ conversation beyond the weather, but doesn’t really go much further than “how old is your dog?” These days, I sometimes hope for some time to exercise my flirting. It’s rarely happened. The weather as a topic of conversation doesn’t get you very far.
So, like I said, I find a spot. Somewhere I can sit, or have something to lean on. And I just watch the dogs.
If you didn’t know already, dogs are extremely playful. Most of them, anyway. They are also usually a ball of energy. So a dog park looks something like an ice skating rink. There are a lot of different kinds of creatures, big and small, fat and skinny, hairy and bald, tall and short. They zoom around in circles, often forgetting if they were doing the chasing or being chased.
It is highly entertaining. The dogs are evidently happy. More often than not, there are yips of excitement and wagging tails, simultaneous with all the sniffing about. The smiles on their faces are so clear and pure. The feeling of joy spreads between the dogs who are just thrilled to have the open space and freedom to run and play in. Their happiness is contagious. It feels like there isn’t a single worry in the world.
It often feels like a little piece of heaven. Who knew it was nearby?
Sitting around a dark, practically vacant living room in Allston one summer night a couple of years back, our conversation had turned to the books we were currently reading. I offered my own share, and though I can no longer remember what it was, judging by the time period, I will surmise I was reading something by Garcia-Marquez. This was dismissed rather quickly.
As we passed to the left and sailed to the right, one of my more eccentric friends pledged his life that David Sedaris was the best living writer in the world. I disagreed immediately, but silently and only in my head. A hundred different authors scrolled through my brain in own list of ‘best living writer.’
But I listed on. Intrigued by the passion brought forth by the mention of his name and the almost unanimous nomination of his name for the sought-after title of ‘best writer,’ than the intoxicated and under-influenced description of the guy’s work. It seemed I was coherent enough that I wrote his name on a list in my then-Palm Centro that was reserved for things I needed to purchase, read or watch. David Sedaris’ name would remain on that list for many years before I even picked up a book of his. Maybe because I smoked too much back then.
I finally started to read the book a week ago. I finished it promptly within four days.
The man is hilarious. His stories weren’t even all that exciting but he had a way of placing verbs after nouns and between adjectives that reading his words was as natural as exhaling. I giggled often, chuckled plenty, maybe even laughed out loud on several occasions. Doing this inside a somber train, trying to balance myself on a crowded car while everyone around me either stared blankly ahead still wishing they were back in their beds instead of on their way to work, or staring blankly ahead wishing they were already in bed after a long day at work, brought a lot of curious stares in my direction. On more than one occasion, after I let a hearty guffaw escape, I was asked what I was reading.
“Me Talk Pretty One Day.” I would reply. I wondered then if they simply thought, poor Asian girl, she doesn’t speak English well. I’d raise the book to show the title and they would go, “Oh.” probably scolding themselves for judging too quickly.
I tried to think of the structure of the book and wondered if it followed the normal, plot + challenge = resolution/outcome. It didn’t seem like it did. The book itself is made up of about two dozen hilarious and imaginative observations on the real life experiences of David. The narrator/main character/author is very humble and human. Without extolling self-deprecation he pokes fun at himself often and never appears to try to be a hero yet becomes highly admirable as a normal person who’s comedic but brutal honesty reflects what would be in our minds had we been in his shoes. The chapter about the girl stranded upside-down on a broken roller coaster wherein he contemplates the righteousness of his thoughts of having an exciting story to tell should the girl plummet to her death.
The book is more than just funny. It is clever, and insightful. Playing with the chapter name of Youth In Asia which turned out to be about Euthanasia is most probably the smartest title I’ve heard of. David delves deep into the eccentricities of his own family and connects us to the same story of our own familiar experiences.
Without telling us much about who he is and deciding instead to show us who he is, Me Talk Pretty One Day, the book is extremely effective at communicating to the reader the fallacies of our protagonist that we immediately relate and feel comforted that we have someone like us, in the story.
Walang matigas na tinapay, sa mainit na kape.
As a child, coffee was something that I stayed away from, and even feared. I was told repeatedly, “It will stunt your growth.” Wanting to be tall and graceful when I grew up, I stuck to my ‘orange juice’ of Tang or ‘chocolate milk’ of Ovaltine. The cheap, packaged and processed foods so common in third world countries.
But I watched my grandmother make herself a cup of coffee every morning. She’d stir several teaspoons of instant coffee in a cup of steaming hot water, added sugar and some creamer. She’d never let anyone make the coffee for her. I once asked her, why doesn’t she just tell us how much milk and sugar to add. “I’m the only one who knows how I like it,” she said.
That made perfect sense to me.
It wouldn’t be until much later in my life where I would begin to toy with the seductions of coffee. My cousin Norman, and his wife, Shiela needed to have their morning coffee just like my grandmother did for years before. Eager to act like an ‘adult,’ I would mimic my cousins order, “Coffee, please.” I drank it, how they drank it, some sugar, some milk. I did not like it very much. But having moved from the hot tropics of the Philippines, to Northern California where coffee at times, was necessary just to warm myself up. I drank it quite often.
Soon after, I was introduced to a pretty little mermaid that always came along with a special kind of coffee. I discovered there was more than simple coffee. There was iced coffee, lattes, and cappuccinos. For years, I always ordered a grande caramel macchiato with an extra shot. I experimented with white chocolate mochas, vanilla lattes, or cappuccinos. But i usually stuck to my ‘usual.’
I drank coffee only for fun or social occasions. Never needing a cup in the morning to wake me up. I enjoyed sipping it in the cold winters, and slurping the frozen coffee drinks in the hot summers. But only when I felt like it. Even as I entered college and my insomnia had reached its highest peak, I never developed a habit.
I spent a semester in Spain, and I learned a different way of drinking coffee. I learned, this was how I liked it. Coffee was a simple shot of espresso, and a little bit of steamed milk. It was called ‘Cafe con leche.’ I enjoyed how they enjoyed their drinks. They didn’t carry it in cups, and walked around sipping. They sat at small, dimly lit, smoke filled cafes, and drank their cafe con leches over quiet conversations about this and that.
When I returned to the US, I had developed an air of snobbishness and didn’t particularly enjoy the drinks the little mermaid offered. I saw it as an abomination. The destruction of a beautiful art, into the only thing US Americans are good at: capitalism. Make it bigger, add stuff to it, charge higher. They couldn’t even find a way to replicate cafe con leche.
I frowned at the cafe lattes, and stuck to espressos. Gratefully, a former lover shared my distaste for schmancy, fancy drinks. Espressos was all I would drink for some time.
Until, one day, I was hired at a cafe. I learned to make the drinks myself. I was thrilled at the joy of grinding fresh coffee beans, steaming milk to the perfect foamage, watching the espresso drip down and forming the perfect crema. I learned to grow tolerant of other cafes but now preferred to make my own.
By chance, I found myself in Venezuela, and discovered an even richer, tastier coffee. Just simple, intense, black coffee with some sugar. The bittersweetness of it all was the height of perfection, and after returning to the US, and yet again, finding out I could not find a replica of it. I settled with drinking my coffee as simple as can be, with just enough sugar to give me that bittersweet taste, that sometimes reflects the beauty of life.
My wondrous, and occasionally tumultuous affair with coffee, never developed into a full-blown committed relationship. I would enjoy it when it pleased me, and gave it the cold shoulder when it didn’t feel right. Through the ups and downs of it all, my final lesson was, I’d be the only one who knew how I’d like it.
I rummage through my closet, pushing each hanged clothing to this side and the other. I flip through my small selection of clothes looking for, evidently, the only thing that wasn’t there: something green.
In disbelief, I scolded myself for not having a single piece of green clothing having lived in Boston for more than 6 years.
Well, I did spend the last year in Los Angeles where their preferred colors were yellow and purple (down with the lakers) or red or blue (depending on who you talked to), my other self reasoned.
Even still, you don’t own a single Celtics Memorabilia? Myself counter argued.
I do too! My other self was getting defensive now, because I have a teddy bear dressed in full Celtics Uniform.
It seems I wasn’t going to solve my problem this evening as I hopelessly flip through my clothes and in desperation even dump out my dirty laundry. With defeat heavy in my heart, I settled on an outfit I was very comfortable in: Black.
Glancing quickly at the kitchen clock, it was confirmed I would not be on time. In my defense, I’m Filipino and it’s St. Patrick’s Day. No matter how far back I trace my ancestry, I was certain I wouldn’t find a drop of Irish blood. Anyway, I was almost ready, at the very least I had my underwear on.
The Plan, had been changing every 5 minutes. Most people already started their celebration as early as 6. In the morning. They were moving from one bar to another and I was 14 hours behind and needed to catch up quickly.
Finally, I was out the door, walking to Stonybrook Station in high-heeled boots I knew would be a big mistake at the end of the night. I was to rendezvous with Marcie at Park Street and we’d just go from there. I was impressed by the local’s dedication and loyalty to the event. People didn’t just wear every imaginable shade of green, their make-up and hair was festive too.
I found Marcie standing at the corner looking ready to be picked up when I got to Park Street. We then quickly concluded that we were too sober and needed to fix this problem. We head to Boylston Street, knowing the streets would be overflowing with beer and whiskey. Unfortunately, it seemed we were too late. Boston PD had shut down several of the bars for reasons we wouldn’t know. They were no longer allowed to let any more people inside. One polite bouncer told us, “Can’t let you in, Police orders I’m afraid.”
So, being in Boston, we just crossed the street to the other side where the bars hadn’t yet been shut down. We started at Bukowski’s but couldn’t be patient enough to wait for 5 minutes and trotted off to the bar next door, called Summer Shack. We hesitantly stood by the door and wondered if it was Irish enough. Someone walked out and we saw a full bar. That seemed good enough for us.
A few drinks in, we move on to the next bar lucky enough to be graced with our presence. By this point, we just wanted more whiskey in and didn’t care too much where. We found ourselves inside The Capital Grille where another round of Mr. Jameson joined us. We hopped on the train again over to Faneuil Hall, and several more whiskey on the rocks and danced the night away in a crowded, green infested, bar that’s been standing since the 1600s.
