they talk past each other
unaware
they really have the same goals
unaware
of friendship
everything's not lost
mercredi 27 avril 2011
nothing pleases me anymore
well that's an exaggeration isn't it? It's not quite nothing, just the routine humdrum of everyday life. I mean if you took me skydiving right now I would probably be grinning ear to ear and my face would look like I just had an orgasm.
And I wonder that no matter where you go in life, what job you have or what you have accomplished, it all won't fucking matter because you know what? we're human. we have amygdalas. no matter how progressive we are, the basic pattern of our circuits was laid out thousands and millions of years ago.
miles to go before I sleep
miles to go before I sleep
miles to go before I sleep
miles to go before I sleep
mardi 26 avril 2011
Secrecy cannot love Forever
your cunning Tongue! and impassioned Hands—
rub into my soul like no others can.
well, hyperbole. if others tried
would anyone rival you in Luxury ?
“No .” comes my tender whisper. a Lie—
for which my conscience lingers. you would be—
the perfect one for Me
if not for social—mores;
Acceptability—
Secrecy cannot love
Forever.
Romeo and Juliet was
Tragedy—
rub into my soul like no others can.
well, hyperbole. if others tried
would anyone rival you in Luxury ?
“No .” comes my tender whisper. a Lie—
for which my conscience lingers. you would be—
the perfect one for Me
if not for social—mores;
Acceptability—
Secrecy cannot love
Forever.
Romeo and Juliet was
Tragedy—
hello. it is good to see your sunny face.
five years later it is 10:05 am and oh dear blogging, I have fallen back into your arms. I didn't realise how much I missed this. I mean I guess I thought it was childish and that I had outgrown you... but really you were waiting for me all along. I'm a different person now, yet still the same. The same themes still remain.
-- I really shouldn't be making out with you at this moment in time stuck between six donuts I bought at 4:30 am and 11 am zhongwen class, but I love you. I love you like demonstrators love paving stones that sit on urban beaches. (sous les pavés le plage. je t'aime je t'aime je t'aime)
I guess I snubbed you for that snotty girl facebook, whose face I must still see daily, but you my dear, you have soul. here there are no false appearances, no fronts, no careful cultivation of an image, untaggings and careful considerations. freedom. ziyou. I mean I remember 2003 and 2004 where blogging was like the hip thing to do and my sister did it.
:: checking what remains of my blogroll, which I have no time to fix
oh hey she's still blogging. and Fabriz. and John Foo but he moved and everyone else is gone. but I'm excited. youuu make me happy. do you realise? I did not realise that it was in front of me.
see, I wrote, but I wrote for others, and was constrained. I wrote for me, sometimes. but here I write to you. it's a little different. I mean I'm going to use the little things I've learnt over physics lab this past year to put an analogy: facebook notes are like zero impedance. writing to yourself is like infinite impedance. here making love to you has characteristic impedance and some essence seems to drift forever, timelessly.
I must redress you of course. you look a little shabby. a little worn. a little retro. you have charm. I shall love you again. In semi-public. If we are discovered that is part of the excitement. If we are not, we have us.
--
I remembered you when I discovered the internet archive of the blog of Singapore's new favourite Opposition minister, Nicole Seah. An ironically it was through a comment of a PAP supporter who for some reason thought that such strong, emotional writing did not portray a strong-willed, talented human being who as a student had many endeavours and conflicts that would surely lay a strong foundation for thinking critically and empathising with her constituency. Well I do. And that makes Ms. Nicole more endearing. Seeing her love of writing, made me remember you.
hello. my name is john riemann soong, aka Evariste, avec l'aspiration d'etre d'une unique sorte de fille. if you remember. I don't think I told you before, but now I don't hold back. I am preparing to write a forceful argument in zhongwen for my 8-minute presentation that will sweep everyone away. just you watch. I have to study for a likely biochemistry quiz though. and do shamefully abysmally late lab reports. new subjects, old tricks, my love.
-- I really shouldn't be making out with you at this moment in time stuck between six donuts I bought at 4:30 am and 11 am zhongwen class, but I love you. I love you like demonstrators love paving stones that sit on urban beaches. (sous les pavés le plage. je t'aime je t'aime je t'aime)
I guess I snubbed you for that snotty girl facebook, whose face I must still see daily, but you my dear, you have soul. here there are no false appearances, no fronts, no careful cultivation of an image, untaggings and careful considerations. freedom. ziyou. I mean I remember 2003 and 2004 where blogging was like the hip thing to do and my sister did it.
:: checking what remains of my blogroll, which I have no time to fix
oh hey she's still blogging. and Fabriz. and John Foo but he moved and everyone else is gone. but I'm excited. youuu make me happy. do you realise? I did not realise that it was in front of me.
see, I wrote, but I wrote for others, and was constrained. I wrote for me, sometimes. but here I write to you. it's a little different. I mean I'm going to use the little things I've learnt over physics lab this past year to put an analogy: facebook notes are like zero impedance. writing to yourself is like infinite impedance. here making love to you has characteristic impedance and some essence seems to drift forever, timelessly.
I must redress you of course. you look a little shabby. a little worn. a little retro. you have charm. I shall love you again. In semi-public. If we are discovered that is part of the excitement. If we are not, we have us.
--
I remembered you when I discovered the internet archive of the blog of Singapore's new favourite Opposition minister, Nicole Seah. An ironically it was through a comment of a PAP supporter who for some reason thought that such strong, emotional writing did not portray a strong-willed, talented human being who as a student had many endeavours and conflicts that would surely lay a strong foundation for thinking critically and empathising with her constituency. Well I do. And that makes Ms. Nicole more endearing. Seeing her love of writing, made me remember you.
hello. my name is john riemann soong, aka Evariste, avec l'aspiration d'etre d'une unique sorte de fille. if you remember. I don't think I told you before, but now I don't hold back. I am preparing to write a forceful argument in zhongwen for my 8-minute presentation that will sweep everyone away. just you watch. I have to study for a likely biochemistry quiz though. and do shamefully abysmally late lab reports. new subjects, old tricks, my love.
lundi 28 février 2011
NQR-7-ACE Clementi
it snows above the A-train express
but it was always
. winter below
she smiles to me a bygone street
that once led from the Apollo;
remember once—
she was that bygone kid of that bygone suite
waving from the ninth floor of Toa Payoh
June rains upon a soul aboard the A-train express
from 125 St to Ang Mo Kio
and
; maybe
. there might be
. a stop for your door.
oh the piano is playing its faraways—
and the elevator streams with those
on their way to places they will be sure
of what they are looking for
but this schoolkid
. always hesitates.
maybe
; one day
. he might find once more
. your floor.
it’s a warm midsummer night, strolling
down this street, with all its crowds
tabled. standing. loitering. smoking.
and walking
down to the bus stop
it ambushes with wafting breeze
a ten-year-old heart
that sits amidst lungs that make
twenty-year-old sighs;
the cab driver on Rector St picks me out
and honks to say,
“Where would you like to go tonight?”
and if only I could reply
“Do you know the way
to Telok Blangah Heights?”
where I cried those last goodbyes
before I took that fateful flight
how was I supposed to know?
they never told
of how I would be forever haunted by every set of lights
from Fairfax Metro to Chicago
hoping your face might appear in the windows.
it snows above the A-train express
and past the rattan door the candles glow;
the jacket and suit is probably telling
the evening dress and pearls
his latest exploits in the Orient
ordering those childhood memories from long ago
to go with red wine in polished glasses
while squandering hor fun from Ipoh
oh it’s a strange and familiar feeling
to be on the outside looking in
to know the thing they call exotic
is a place known as
home.
my old Dover Road Estate
but it was always
. winter below
she smiles to me a bygone street
that once led from the Apollo;
remember once—
she was that bygone kid of that bygone suite
waving from the ninth floor of Toa Payoh
June rains upon a soul aboard the A-train express
from 125 St to Ang Mo Kio
and
; maybe
. there might be
. a stop for your door.
oh the piano is playing its faraways—
and the elevator streams with those
on their way to places they will be sure
of what they are looking for
but this schoolkid
. always hesitates.
maybe
; one day
. he might find once more
. your floor.
it’s a warm midsummer night, strolling
down this street, with all its crowds
tabled. standing. loitering. smoking.
and walking
down to the bus stop
it ambushes with wafting breeze
a ten-year-old heart
that sits amidst lungs that make
twenty-year-old sighs;
the cab driver on Rector St picks me out
and honks to say,
“Where would you like to go tonight?”
and if only I could reply
“Do you know the way
to Telok Blangah Heights?”
where I cried those last goodbyes
before I took that fateful flight
how was I supposed to know?
they never told
of how I would be forever haunted by every set of lights
from Fairfax Metro to Chicago
hoping your face might appear in the windows.
it snows above the A-train express
and past the rattan door the candles glow;
the jacket and suit is probably telling
the evening dress and pearls
his latest exploits in the Orient
ordering those childhood memories from long ago
to go with red wine in polished glasses
while squandering hor fun from Ipoh
oh it’s a strange and familiar feeling
to be on the outside looking in
to know the thing they call exotic
is a place known as
home.
dimanche 25 juillet 2010
autumn changes
the old man sits in his studio
sunlight pouring in from that high window
singing of Yellow Submarines and Yesterdays
sometimes turning to his piano
to play chords of faraways
occasionally remembering me.
and when he does, I creak out
that half-hopeful
half-fearful
smile.
the engineer works in his laboratory
"Please don't touch; please don't disturb."
But it's OK -- all men must be busy sometime
so I and my sister build our own in the room across
out of legos, blankets, books and barbie dolls.
and once in a while, he remembers his apprentice
and he teaches me his secret alchemies.
but apprentices -- ambitious ones especially --
err occasionally, you see
by discovering too far.
it's still /his/ house,
even if mom did build it;
so the sheriff stares the suspect down
and sends the intruder off
to a prison of a cellar.
the furious bartender serves himself another
amidst the broken glass and plates;
and when he leaves, the old man looks at me
as if to ask, "Why did you betray me?"
but this ten-year-old never betrayed his father
for you see, he never had one.
He looks away; and climbs into a Ford Windstar
riding off into the fall sunset.
sunlight pouring in from that high window
singing of Yellow Submarines and Yesterdays
sometimes turning to his piano
to play chords of faraways
occasionally remembering me.
and when he does, I creak out
that half-hopeful
half-fearful
smile.
the engineer works in his laboratory
"Please don't touch; please don't disturb."
But it's OK -- all men must be busy sometime
so I and my sister build our own in the room across
out of legos, blankets, books and barbie dolls.
and once in a while, he remembers his apprentice
and he teaches me his secret alchemies.
but apprentices -- ambitious ones especially --
err occasionally, you see
by discovering too far.
it's still /his/ house,
even if mom did build it;
so the sheriff stares the suspect down
and sends the intruder off
to a prison of a cellar.
the furious bartender serves himself another
amidst the broken glass and plates;
and when he leaves, the old man looks at me
as if to ask, "Why did you betray me?"
but this ten-year-old never betrayed his father
for you see, he never had one.
He looks away; and climbs into a Ford Windstar
riding off into the fall sunset.
lundi 10 août 2009
une personne, qu'est-ce qu'elle est?
My new roommate is Iraqi, who has pretty good listening comprehension for 2 years of immersion. He's in a native-level writing class, but I've discovered that ESL classes often do a pretty poor job at reinforcing spoken language foundations (pretty important as the spoken language IS the language). One thing that wasn't emphasised in class was the pretty important phenomenon of English stress.... in fact it's not covered in non-ESL classrooms either, excepting linguistic classrooms.
Sometimes I feel that the pedagogy of English language classes are still stuck in the era before the Great Vowel Shift of the 17th century ... in the high school classroom there's no discussion of diphthongs, vowel quality versus historic vowel length. I bet the long/short vowel distinction confuses the hell out of native speaker children too. HEY look guys -- English doesn't have five vowels. It has at least thirteen vowel phonemes (some dialects have as many as seventeen). It has five vowel LETTERS to represent the vowel phonemes with. If you analyse the "long vowels" as combinations of two vowels or a vowel + semivowel, then you could theoretically reduce the English phonetic vowel inventory to eight vowels. (And then only if you make a lot of mergers ... like if you think "plus" and "the" have the same vowel quality, after ignoring stress.)
So anyway .... there's an Iraqi refugee community here in Charlottesville, but they're pretty invisible to the public. One thing I've found to be potentially quite useful for both teaching English writing and having something of mutual interest to talk about is Riverbend's blog on the war ... as a very good (and sometimes biting) English writer and an Iraqi refugee, she makes useful talking points, even though she hasn't written a new post in almost two years.
Yesterday was a somewhat good day. After a curious day out, and enjoying someone else's good cooking, it struck me as I lay down on the couch, looking at my absurdly long legs, how much I've changed. Well okay, duh right?? I mean haven't I written like 20 posts on the idea already? But visiting the homes of some other members of the refugee community I was suddenly reminded of HDB flats and the ambitions and mindset I had when I was 14 and in Singapore. And now I've almost abandoned and given up hope on Singapore, even defending the merits of living in America compared to living in Europe. I've grown up into exactly what I thought I wouldn't be.
Sometimes I feel that the pedagogy of English language classes are still stuck in the era before the Great Vowel Shift of the 17th century ... in the high school classroom there's no discussion of diphthongs, vowel quality versus historic vowel length. I bet the long/short vowel distinction confuses the hell out of native speaker children too. HEY look guys -- English doesn't have five vowels. It has at least thirteen vowel phonemes (some dialects have as many as seventeen). It has five vowel LETTERS to represent the vowel phonemes with. If you analyse the "long vowels" as combinations of two vowels or a vowel + semivowel, then you could theoretically reduce the English phonetic vowel inventory to eight vowels. (And then only if you make a lot of mergers ... like if you think "plus" and "the" have the same vowel quality, after ignoring stress.)
So anyway .... there's an Iraqi refugee community here in Charlottesville, but they're pretty invisible to the public. One thing I've found to be potentially quite useful for both teaching English writing and having something of mutual interest to talk about is Riverbend's blog on the war ... as a very good (and sometimes biting) English writer and an Iraqi refugee, she makes useful talking points, even though she hasn't written a new post in almost two years.
Yesterday was a somewhat good day. After a curious day out, and enjoying someone else's good cooking, it struck me as I lay down on the couch, looking at my absurdly long legs, how much I've changed. Well okay, duh right?? I mean haven't I written like 20 posts on the idea already? But visiting the homes of some other members of the refugee community I was suddenly reminded of HDB flats and the ambitions and mindset I had when I was 14 and in Singapore. And now I've almost abandoned and given up hope on Singapore, even defending the merits of living in America compared to living in Europe. I've grown up into exactly what I thought I wouldn't be.
samedi 1 août 2009
du train et de l'enfance
il court, il s'écoule; les wagons, ils roulent.
le ciel pleure – à quelle heure sera-t-il trop tard?
de revenir, de se souvenir;
quelque part, un coeur coule et déboule;
quelque part, un cerveau s’écarte.
les gares s’envolent. mais tu restes immobile
de Bishan à King's Cross
les minutes s’envolent, comme de l’huile
dans un sablier – et on savait que
l’huile et l’eau ne se mélangent jamais.
tu te souviens? tu te souviens d’elle?
je me souviens. je me souviendrai
des choses belles. des souvenirs mauvais.
tu y reviens? où vas-tu?
je ne sais pas. qui saura?
si la vie est comme le train, la vie continue
mais on se demande: sera-t-elle revenue
en passant devant ces gares de noms familiers.
le ciel pleure – à quelle heure sera-t-il trop tard?
de revenir, de se souvenir;
quelque part, un coeur coule et déboule;
quelque part, un cerveau s’écarte.
les gares s’envolent. mais tu restes immobile
de Bishan à King's Cross
les minutes s’envolent, comme de l’huile
dans un sablier – et on savait que
l’huile et l’eau ne se mélangent jamais.
tu te souviens? tu te souviens d’elle?
je me souviens. je me souviendrai
des choses belles. des souvenirs mauvais.
tu y reviens? où vas-tu?
je ne sais pas. qui saura?
si la vie est comme le train, la vie continue
mais on se demande: sera-t-elle revenue
en passant devant ces gares de noms familiers.
jeudi 2 juillet 2009
ground beef curry, for a poor college student's budget
abstract: I merged two online recipes for this one, and tossed in a little of my own innovation. Good for 8-10 prata or about 3-4 bowls of rice -- which is for me a waking day's meal. At minimal expense and effort, depending on how fast you chop, this meal should be ready in about 30-40 minutes after including preparation time.
reagents:
1. Put the chopped onions, chiles, ginger and garlic into a blender, along with some salt and a little bit of oil (1-2 tbsp). Blend them until you get a slightly coarse but mostly-smooth paste. I used the icebreaker function for this -- fresh onions are turgid and full of water so they resist for a minute or so before suddenly going smooth.
2. Pour out the paste into a large pan that has been pre-heated to high. Wait for the first bubbles to start forming (because of the water in the paste boiling), then turn heat down to low. Stir the paste about every minute for 15 minutes. Add 1-2 tbsp vinegar at about 12 minutes through.
3. Coat the beef generously with the tumeric/curry powder and the spice mix. If you are feeling especially garlic-y, add in about 1-3 more cloves of minced garlic here. One option is to blend the beef, but I didn't do this. Add the beef to the paste, and cover the beef with the paste. If the beef is still frozen, turn the heat up to medium for about 1 minute until the ice melts or till mild bubbling starts again. After that, return to low for about 10 minutes. Stir occasionally.
4. Most of the aqueous content will have evaporated by now, allowing the temperature to skyrocket. You can tell because the oil starts to gurgle vigourously even on low. Add the tomatoes and any stir-fry vegetables desired, along with any tomato juice saved from the chopping stage. If mild bubbling stops, turn the heat up to medium until mild bubbling starts again, then turn back down to low. Toast for about 1-2 minutes.
5. Add 1 cup mix of water and milk (I used a ratio of 2:1), turn up to medium until mild bubbling starts again, then simmer on low. Add pandan extract and 1 tsp sugar. I used brown sugar, but white sugar will probably work. I simmered here for about 1-2 minutes.
results:
delicious. a sweet and savoury curry with a creamy but coarse texture, a light brown colour with tomatoes softened. Cilantro can be added to garnish. Nose-mouth-reasoning (NMR) spectroscopy confirms presence of an array of various aromatic and arguably pharmacologically-active (high-inducing) organic compounds. Photo of pan after a run with just tomatoes, half-eaten:
discussion/theory:
From my very informal knowledge of curry theory, there's basically 3 stages of curry cooking. First there's the sauteeing / frying, where onions, cumin, garlic, ginger, etc. are toasted at high temperature (125-185 degrees C). I didn't use fresh (non-mix) cumin in this recipe, but it could be included. The aqueous stage (starting with the onset of vinegar, then water) immediately reduces the temperature to around the boiling point of water (or slightly higher, as acetic acid forms a negative azeotrope with water), and then simmering (at about 85-95 deg C), generally the last stage, is used for heat-sensitive ingredients like milk.
This recipe modifies this a little in a way I find interesting. Firstly partially because I was lazy and didn't want to toast the onions first before grinding them into a paste (a hassle -- you risk overcooking and you have to fry them in batches), and because someone appears to have done it successfully with fresh onions (see references), I didn't have a very prominent high-temperature stage. The paste that's used is a mix of some oils and mostly water, and sauteed on low, the water takes 15-20 minutes to evaporate fully though where oil is present the onions probably cook at a higher temperature -- hence the need to stir constantly as to cycle the oil.
Frying fresh onion paste on low makes the paste cook very evenly, and it comes out beautifully with no sign of burning or overcooking, and the paste was still mostly white around 10 minutes and browned only slightly at 15, but with the obvious smell of the significant onset of caramelisation. I think using fried onions to make a paste is the standard procedure, to avoid having so much water at the beginning, but a beginner or careless cook risks overcooking especially since some recipes call for very browned onions. Vinegar is also usually added at the high-temperature stage, way before water, where evaporation occurs very quickly, but the effect of adding it on low near the aqueous stage is something to be explored. In effect the high-temperature stage was shifted into the middle, and then only for a very short time. There was also no real separation of the water and milk stages in this recipe.
footnotes:
a. I used 1 habanero and 1 serrano, but I suspect red works better instead of habanero for more flavor and less heat! Man, 1 habanero can still inflame an entire pan of curry...
b. Use whatever curry-friendly spices you have on hand, feel free to substitute. Use cheap spices -- I got cinnamon, nutmeg and poultry seasoning for pretty a buck each per bottle at the supermarket
references (inspirations):
* http://www.cooks.com/rec/view/0,1627,154184-240193,00.html
* http://www.asianonlinerecipes.com/online_recipes/singaporemalaysia/chicken-with-spicy-coconut-milk-gravy.php
reagents:
- 2 onions, chopped coarsely (into sixteenths)
- 2 tomatoes, chopped into bite-sized chunks -- keep the juice
- red and green chilesa
- 2/3 cup ground beef
- generous amounts of ginger (I used about 4 tbsp or 1/4 cup)
- garlic, coarsely chopped (or smashed to bits with a jam bottle), 4-6 cloves
- curry masala powder or any mix with tumeric, but mixes including coriander, cardamom, etc. preferred
- spice mix: nutmeg, cinnamon, poultry seasoning -- thyme, rosemary, sage, etc. [not essential]b
- a drop of pandan extract (or a better yet, a pandan leaf, if you have one!) [non-essential]
- cooking oil (solvent)
- water
- milk [can be skipped]
- stir fry vegetables [can be skipped]
- wine vinegar or regular vinegar (if you like it slightly sour -- most of it evaporates)
- salt, sugar
1. Put the chopped onions, chiles, ginger and garlic into a blender, along with some salt and a little bit of oil (1-2 tbsp). Blend them until you get a slightly coarse but mostly-smooth paste. I used the icebreaker function for this -- fresh onions are turgid and full of water so they resist for a minute or so before suddenly going smooth.
2. Pour out the paste into a large pan that has been pre-heated to high. Wait for the first bubbles to start forming (because of the water in the paste boiling), then turn heat down to low. Stir the paste about every minute for 15 minutes. Add 1-2 tbsp vinegar at about 12 minutes through.
3. Coat the beef generously with the tumeric/curry powder and the spice mix. If you are feeling especially garlic-y, add in about 1-3 more cloves of minced garlic here. One option is to blend the beef, but I didn't do this. Add the beef to the paste, and cover the beef with the paste. If the beef is still frozen, turn the heat up to medium for about 1 minute until the ice melts or till mild bubbling starts again. After that, return to low for about 10 minutes. Stir occasionally.
4. Most of the aqueous content will have evaporated by now, allowing the temperature to skyrocket. You can tell because the oil starts to gurgle vigourously even on low. Add the tomatoes and any stir-fry vegetables desired, along with any tomato juice saved from the chopping stage. If mild bubbling stops, turn the heat up to medium until mild bubbling starts again, then turn back down to low. Toast for about 1-2 minutes.
5. Add 1 cup mix of water and milk (I used a ratio of 2:1), turn up to medium until mild bubbling starts again, then simmer on low. Add pandan extract and 1 tsp sugar. I used brown sugar, but white sugar will probably work. I simmered here for about 1-2 minutes.
results:
delicious. a sweet and savoury curry with a creamy but coarse texture, a light brown colour with tomatoes softened. Cilantro can be added to garnish. Nose-mouth-reasoning (NMR) spectroscopy confirms presence of an array of various aromatic and arguably pharmacologically-active (high-inducing) organic compounds. Photo of pan after a run with just tomatoes, half-eaten:
discussion/theory:
From my very informal knowledge of curry theory, there's basically 3 stages of curry cooking. First there's the sauteeing / frying, where onions, cumin, garlic, ginger, etc. are toasted at high temperature (125-185 degrees C). I didn't use fresh (non-mix) cumin in this recipe, but it could be included. The aqueous stage (starting with the onset of vinegar, then water) immediately reduces the temperature to around the boiling point of water (or slightly higher, as acetic acid forms a negative azeotrope with water), and then simmering (at about 85-95 deg C), generally the last stage, is used for heat-sensitive ingredients like milk.
This recipe modifies this a little in a way I find interesting. Firstly partially because I was lazy and didn't want to toast the onions first before grinding them into a paste (a hassle -- you risk overcooking and you have to fry them in batches), and because someone appears to have done it successfully with fresh onions (see references), I didn't have a very prominent high-temperature stage. The paste that's used is a mix of some oils and mostly water, and sauteed on low, the water takes 15-20 minutes to evaporate fully though where oil is present the onions probably cook at a higher temperature -- hence the need to stir constantly as to cycle the oil.
Frying fresh onion paste on low makes the paste cook very evenly, and it comes out beautifully with no sign of burning or overcooking, and the paste was still mostly white around 10 minutes and browned only slightly at 15, but with the obvious smell of the significant onset of caramelisation. I think using fried onions to make a paste is the standard procedure, to avoid having so much water at the beginning, but a beginner or careless cook risks overcooking especially since some recipes call for very browned onions. Vinegar is also usually added at the high-temperature stage, way before water, where evaporation occurs very quickly, but the effect of adding it on low near the aqueous stage is something to be explored. In effect the high-temperature stage was shifted into the middle, and then only for a very short time. There was also no real separation of the water and milk stages in this recipe.
footnotes:
a. I used 1 habanero and 1 serrano, but I suspect red works better instead of habanero for more flavor and less heat! Man, 1 habanero can still inflame an entire pan of curry...
b. Use whatever curry-friendly spices you have on hand, feel free to substitute. Use cheap spices -- I got cinnamon, nutmeg and poultry seasoning for pretty a buck each per bottle at the supermarket
references (inspirations):
* http://www.cooks.com/rec/view/0,1627,154184-240193,00.html
* http://www.asianonlinerecipes.com/online_recipes/singaporemalaysia/chicken-with-spicy-coconut-milk-gravy.php
samedi 13 juin 2009
imprinting
“The Earth is the cradle of the mind, but one cannot stay in the cradle forever.”
***
Gexin saw the Old Man’s hands. Venturing forth from his suit, they were tough and sinewy, and their veins gripped his skin like iron chains. Stains of discolouration and lines of creases bore testament to a vigour slowly withering away, but they receded underneath his skin whenever he readjusted his grip on his pen. As the Old Man continued writing, Gexin took occasional glances at the streaks of white on the underside of his arms -- the only hints of tenderness. In some ways, the Old Man’s hands were a perfect extension of his face. But his face occasionally broke out into smiles. His hands never smiled.
The Old Man had finished penning, and there was a momentary stare of silence as the ballpoint ceased its frictions against the surface of the paper.
“Sign here, please.” He sighed as Gexin cautiously took the pen from him. “What happened to you, my dear Gexin? You used to be so well-behaved. Did we fail you? Or is this your hidden nature?”
Gexin remembered this office from years back: its old tomes and ancient cedar; the sunlight that could only peek in; the electric candles that cast many shadows. Once it had seemed so vast – vast in its imposition, vast in its majesty, vast in its ability to induce fear. But now he was a little taller, a little more cynical, and the office seemed a little smaller, a little more suffocating. The awards and distinctions that decorated the office now somehow seemed less monumental, less – what was the word? Less superhuman.
“Perhaps it’s because I grew up sir.”
The Old Man frowned. But the youth’s expression did not waver.
***
-- Konstantin Tsiolkovsky
***
Gexin saw the Old Man’s hands. Venturing forth from his suit, they were tough and sinewy, and their veins gripped his skin like iron chains. Stains of discolouration and lines of creases bore testament to a vigour slowly withering away, but they receded underneath his skin whenever he readjusted his grip on his pen. As the Old Man continued writing, Gexin took occasional glances at the streaks of white on the underside of his arms -- the only hints of tenderness. In some ways, the Old Man’s hands were a perfect extension of his face. But his face occasionally broke out into smiles. His hands never smiled.
The Old Man had finished penning, and there was a momentary stare of silence as the ballpoint ceased its frictions against the surface of the paper.
“Sign here, please.” He sighed as Gexin cautiously took the pen from him. “What happened to you, my dear Gexin? You used to be so well-behaved. Did we fail you? Or is this your hidden nature?”
Gexin remembered this office from years back: its old tomes and ancient cedar; the sunlight that could only peek in; the electric candles that cast many shadows. Once it had seemed so vast – vast in its imposition, vast in its majesty, vast in its ability to induce fear. But now he was a little taller, a little more cynical, and the office seemed a little smaller, a little more suffocating. The awards and distinctions that decorated the office now somehow seemed less monumental, less – what was the word? Less superhuman.
“Perhaps it’s because I grew up sir.”
The Old Man frowned. But the youth’s expression did not waver.
***
vendredi 3 octobre 2008
X for Congress. Bring change! Take on Washington!
Ah, behold the Collective, bereft of individuality, subservient to the lowest common denominator, hated by Ayn Rand. It is the "Power" to fight against; the "Man" to stick it to, the "Establishment" that must be disestablished. It is full of antipathy, nonchalance about social ills, myopic self-interest, and entrenched corruption. It is powerful, repressive, monolithic -- the reason why "Government" has a capital G.
Yet, what is the source of the Collective's evil, stubbornness and malice? Who exactly makes up "the political machine"? What is the root entity responsible for the Collective's actions? Is it Bush? Pelosi? Lee Kuan Yew? Why does Iraq proliferate with violence even after Saddam has been long hung?
It is election season in the United States. Everyone is clamouring for change; with the spectacular collapse of some of the biggest financial firms, everyone is collectively applauding the increasing misfortune of everyone on Wall Street. Rightly deserved, those scumbag i-bankers and CEOs! Stick it to the man! Stickkkk ittttt! And in this weeks' debates, if it was not already observed long ago, we see that both Obama and McCain are competing as reformers. Obama will apparently fight for change we can believe in; McCain the Maverick will deal Big Oil (a decidedly evil Collective) a crushing blow in Washington. Governor Palin, mayor, Miss Alaska, and soccer-mom, spent much of yesterday's VP debate stressing how she intends to address the plight of the average middle-class American, tackling the Big Guys (that oh-so-evil Collective) in the political arena.
Then today I saw one of those posters outside Newcomb Dining Hall -- we should apparently cast some vote for a fresh face I've never heard of for Representative in order to take on Washington. There's something romantic about the idea -- romantically quixotic.
But how did it come, do you think, that the capital of a nation, named after its first commander-in-chief, painstakingly-planned and meant to be a prestigious cornerstone, is also used as a symbol of the greed, degeneration, and repression of the evil Collective? Take on Washington, the White House, the Fed. We must take it on, because the majority of people running the country thus far are adversaries to be defeated; we must hand the Collective's ass over to it, subjugate it totally, destroy it. Lenin would be proud, for he advocated that the machinery of the State should be totally suppressed.
The strange thing is, everyone is clamouring to disestablish the Establishment. Everyone wishes to fight the Power. Everyone thinks there is an institutional evil that must be broken. Truly, The Man must be very cunning and insidious, for it prevails even when everyone is against it!
Indeed, the insidious nature of The Man -- the evil Collective -- can be best seen when it prevails in the most unstable times. No matter how many times its secret police ravages the streets, it rules -- even when its own agents fight each other or get purged. Its original founders, who were once vicious and powerful themselves, fall and are removed from power -- but the Party, the epitome of the evil Collective, rumbles on like a tank, its viciousness never ceasing, not even with the death of the power broker Mao Zedong. Perhaps the Party's evil is really due to the Gang of Four? No, because the Party suddenly decides to cease following the orders of the Gang of Four, choosing to arrest them such that Hua Guofeng now rules. But is the Party's power controlled by him? Nay, for Hu Yaobang succeeds him, and then in turn by Zhao Ziyang; and despite all their sweeping reforms as the Collective's leaders, their power too, proves insignificant in the face of the evil Collective.
The agency behind their removal is always omnipotent: they are arrested, deposed, exiled, fallen out of favour; the downfall caused by the same dark Cloud that also hung over that prominent member of the Inner Party that Winston is asked to discredit. Surely then, the true source of the Party's evil must be Deng Xiaoping, who reveals his power behind the throne as he works to oust Zhao Ziyang, his own disciple. But nay, Deng Xiaoping dies -- and the Party continues to rule iron-fisted. The evil Collective insidiously penetrates governments all over the world, for despite the death of Ivan IV the Terrible, despite the removal of the Romanovs, despite the passing of Stalin and Lenin, despite the CCCP's fall -- the corruption and violence of the mobster government that everyone hates persists.
Here the omnipotence of the Collective is truly frightening -- it has the ability to transcend and destroy its own architects. How then does it come to pass that an institution can be the adversary of all its members, and yet stand as powerful as ever? Is there something magical about the union of individuals and the social contract they form, that gives rise to a magical hydra-ish organism that thrives as an ethereal entity that haunts all its members, suppressing individualism, silencing dissent and inhibiting independent thought?
Perhaps a better metaphor would be centrifugal force. It is a strange kind of force, for it appears out of nowhere on the whole, even when it doesn't show up on individual free body diagrams. It is almost like a "phantom" force. But those who are familiar with physics know that no law of physics is being violated, for the problem is one of perspective; outside the collective system, one can see how each individual member of the Collective, defending their own self-interest, individually imposes a penalty on everyone, generating a force that pushes the collective towards common suffering; but when the Collective is the reference frame that the observer is in, it appears that a phantom force is causing everyone misery. It is a malevolent form of the invisible hand -- but it has no will of its own; it is merely the sum of the individual wills of others.
And so, we return to take on Washington. In Washington D.C., there are no gun battles, no secret police besides the Secret Service, no purges, coups or hangings. And yet all the candidates treat Washington like a battlefield. Bring change to America -- vote for me and I will fight the cronies in Washington! Yet nearly every Congressman promises that to his or her constituents in one form or other. Perhaps it has not occurred to them that they are all fighting against each other.
There is no question that there is institutional evil, corruption, inefficiency and incompetence. But to try to fight it with an "us versus them" attitude, treating everyone else in the institution as an adversary, only contributes to the institutional forces that appear to commonly repress everyone. The problems of Collectives are not inherent to Collectives themselves. There is nothing inherently bad about a union of individuals. No, they are ultimately due to all the individuals that comprise and participate in them. It only seems that individualism disappears when collectively grouped, and this makes it much easier to attack inhuman collective entities (or certain prominent leaders) as the problem, without having to judge the actions of ourselves and individual peers. Society is a fraud, they say. But aren't you part of it?
Yet, what is the source of the Collective's evil, stubbornness and malice? Who exactly makes up "the political machine"? What is the root entity responsible for the Collective's actions? Is it Bush? Pelosi? Lee Kuan Yew? Why does Iraq proliferate with violence even after Saddam has been long hung?
It is election season in the United States. Everyone is clamouring for change; with the spectacular collapse of some of the biggest financial firms, everyone is collectively applauding the increasing misfortune of everyone on Wall Street. Rightly deserved, those scumbag i-bankers and CEOs! Stick it to the man! Stickkkk ittttt! And in this weeks' debates, if it was not already observed long ago, we see that both Obama and McCain are competing as reformers. Obama will apparently fight for change we can believe in; McCain the Maverick will deal Big Oil (a decidedly evil Collective) a crushing blow in Washington. Governor Palin, mayor, Miss Alaska, and soccer-mom, spent much of yesterday's VP debate stressing how she intends to address the plight of the average middle-class American, tackling the Big Guys (that oh-so-evil Collective) in the political arena.
Then today I saw one of those posters outside Newcomb Dining Hall -- we should apparently cast some vote for a fresh face I've never heard of for Representative in order to take on Washington. There's something romantic about the idea -- romantically quixotic.
But how did it come, do you think, that the capital of a nation, named after its first commander-in-chief, painstakingly-planned and meant to be a prestigious cornerstone, is also used as a symbol of the greed, degeneration, and repression of the evil Collective? Take on Washington, the White House, the Fed. We must take it on, because the majority of people running the country thus far are adversaries to be defeated; we must hand the Collective's ass over to it, subjugate it totally, destroy it. Lenin would be proud, for he advocated that the machinery of the State should be totally suppressed.
The strange thing is, everyone is clamouring to disestablish the Establishment. Everyone wishes to fight the Power. Everyone thinks there is an institutional evil that must be broken. Truly, The Man must be very cunning and insidious, for it prevails even when everyone is against it!
Indeed, the insidious nature of The Man -- the evil Collective -- can be best seen when it prevails in the most unstable times. No matter how many times its secret police ravages the streets, it rules -- even when its own agents fight each other or get purged. Its original founders, who were once vicious and powerful themselves, fall and are removed from power -- but the Party, the epitome of the evil Collective, rumbles on like a tank, its viciousness never ceasing, not even with the death of the power broker Mao Zedong. Perhaps the Party's evil is really due to the Gang of Four? No, because the Party suddenly decides to cease following the orders of the Gang of Four, choosing to arrest them such that Hua Guofeng now rules. But is the Party's power controlled by him? Nay, for Hu Yaobang succeeds him, and then in turn by Zhao Ziyang; and despite all their sweeping reforms as the Collective's leaders, their power too, proves insignificant in the face of the evil Collective.
The agency behind their removal is always omnipotent: they are arrested, deposed, exiled, fallen out of favour; the downfall caused by the same dark Cloud that also hung over that prominent member of the Inner Party that Winston is asked to discredit. Surely then, the true source of the Party's evil must be Deng Xiaoping, who reveals his power behind the throne as he works to oust Zhao Ziyang, his own disciple. But nay, Deng Xiaoping dies -- and the Party continues to rule iron-fisted. The evil Collective insidiously penetrates governments all over the world, for despite the death of Ivan IV the Terrible, despite the removal of the Romanovs, despite the passing of Stalin and Lenin, despite the CCCP's fall -- the corruption and violence of the mobster government that everyone hates persists.
The story really began in the middle sixties, the period of the great purges in which the original leaders of the Revolution were wiped out once and for all. By 1970 none of them was left, except Big Brother himself. All the rest had by that time been exposed as traitors and counter-revolutionaries .... A few had simply disappeared, while the majority had been executed after spectacular public trials at which they made confession of their crimes.
(Nineteen-Eighty-Four, part 1 ch. 7)
Here the omnipotence of the Collective is truly frightening -- it has the ability to transcend and destroy its own architects. How then does it come to pass that an institution can be the adversary of all its members, and yet stand as powerful as ever? Is there something magical about the union of individuals and the social contract they form, that gives rise to a magical hydra-ish organism that thrives as an ethereal entity that haunts all its members, suppressing individualism, silencing dissent and inhibiting independent thought?
Perhaps a better metaphor would be centrifugal force. It is a strange kind of force, for it appears out of nowhere on the whole, even when it doesn't show up on individual free body diagrams. It is almost like a "phantom" force. But those who are familiar with physics know that no law of physics is being violated, for the problem is one of perspective; outside the collective system, one can see how each individual member of the Collective, defending their own self-interest, individually imposes a penalty on everyone, generating a force that pushes the collective towards common suffering; but when the Collective is the reference frame that the observer is in, it appears that a phantom force is causing everyone misery. It is a malevolent form of the invisible hand -- but it has no will of its own; it is merely the sum of the individual wills of others.
And so, we return to take on Washington. In Washington D.C., there are no gun battles, no secret police besides the Secret Service, no purges, coups or hangings. And yet all the candidates treat Washington like a battlefield. Bring change to America -- vote for me and I will fight the cronies in Washington! Yet nearly every Congressman promises that to his or her constituents in one form or other. Perhaps it has not occurred to them that they are all fighting against each other.
There is no question that there is institutional evil, corruption, inefficiency and incompetence. But to try to fight it with an "us versus them" attitude, treating everyone else in the institution as an adversary, only contributes to the institutional forces that appear to commonly repress everyone. The problems of Collectives are not inherent to Collectives themselves. There is nothing inherently bad about a union of individuals. No, they are ultimately due to all the individuals that comprise and participate in them. It only seems that individualism disappears when collectively grouped, and this makes it much easier to attack inhuman collective entities (or certain prominent leaders) as the problem, without having to judge the actions of ourselves and individual peers. Society is a fraud, they say. But aren't you part of it?
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