It all just sort of fell together tonight; almost to the point where I’m thinking of giving up planning all together. It started as I arrived back at school after picking up some milk from the commissary (with milk going for $3.00 a half gallon, one of the only real extravagances I’ve bowed to over here. I just can’t give up cereal; as a counterweight cereal is dirt cheap, I can get a box of Count Chocula for $1.70). It was late and as I entered I could see my friend Mr. Lee the custodian. Suddenly the lights in the hall went out and we greeted each other in the dark. My reason for returning to school was to collect my bags and packages (it was a good day at the post office) and head across the street to catch a cab home. As we parted he said “it late, you go home”. To this I silently agreed and for no real reason besides just wanting to be nice I replied “are you done with work too?” Even though his English isn’t great, he got the implied message that I wasn’t trying to imply and said “Oh yeah, yeah, yeah, I give you ride home. I’ll be right back, you wait here.” After putting it all together myself I smiled, I was lugging around a back pack, a large duffle bag with packages and a grocery bag so a ride home was sounding right on, and best of all, this would mean I would go the entire day without shelling out for a taxi between work and home (it was my neighbor’s turn to pay the morning fare).
Of course nothing is ever as simply as it appears and I soon found myself joining a daisy chain of people heading toward his car; before we’d be off to my apartment we had to drop off three mama-sans at the front gate. When we arrived at the gate, Mr. Lee said he’d be right and headed off with the cleaning ladies. He was soon back and we were off. Once again with no motive besides comforting small talk, I asked him “where is your house from here?” He once again read what was there to read and replied “Oh I show you my house, I take you”. This was met with mixed feeling on my behalf, it had been a long day and I certainly wanted to get home, but I was curious to see the inside of a Korean house having only ever been inside the places they build with us (and our government’s dollars in mind). In the end it didn’t matter, I knew the die had been cast and I knew where the car was headed.
If you’ve ever been to a China town you know the scene, narrow roads, lots of cars and lots of people. Mr. Lee’s apartment was on the top floor of a three story building. As we remove our shoes and enter we are of course met by his wife, a small, strong woman with a permanent scowl. She speaks no English and I speak no Korean which always makes for a somewhat awkward experience; you throw in the scowl and my nature of not wanting to upset anyone and the experience becomes doubly so. Korean society seems to be of the more male dominated variety, so I figured she was going to be nice to me in a there’s-no-real-way-for-us-to-communicate kind of way (I just hoped she wasn’t cursing me under her breath).
Mr. Lee was one of the first persons who were really nice to me when I got here to Osan Air Base. I had it in my head there would be someone, maybe several people, waiting for me upon my arrival, perhaps with a large welcoming van and a hearty “welcome to Korea, we’re so glad to have you”. Of course what I got was a searing hot asphalt parking lot and a physically and emotionally draining death march to the base hotel weighed down by 100 lbs of luggage. As you can tell I still haven’t forgiven this place for that; I mean seriously, they knew I had no idea what was going on, surely someone could have been there. This is after all what I’ve always received in the past, the Army had someone waiting when I got off the plane in Germany; even the lightly funded Peace Corps had someone with a pickup waiting. It’s just bad manners, but I suppose we should get back to the story.
When I first wandered onto the school grounds Mr. Lee was there to say hello and show me around. A few days later he loaded me into his car and took me apartment hunting. He’s completely uninhibited and went around to the apartment complexes randomly trying door handles and when we came across a vacant apartment we went in. When we found one we liked he went around until he found someone who knew the landlord and before you know it, I’m sitting in an office surrounded by Koreans talking a blurred streak while I run my eyes across the wall looking for something interesting to look at. The best part about Mr. Lee is he’s always looking for an excuse to go do something besides what he’s probably suppose to be doing; the sort of quiet rebellion the world needs. Man I don’t think there was one day while I was in the Army that I wasn’t thinking about how I could escape this stupid task and go do something else. I turned the 30 minute paperwork run into the hour and a half Kleber Kaserne breakfast/paperwork run every Tuesday and Thursday. The reason I never became a famous scientist is because working in a lab sucks and I was always wandering the hallways or skipping out altogether and going to the Brewer game smuggling beverages inside in my pants; definitely one of my two favorite Brewer games, my Uncle Chris can tell you about the other one. All this side talk which really has nothing to do with the story at hand reminds me I need to someday soon tell you my quiet defiance Peace Corps story involving Joey Rios and his favorite invention the air conditioner.
So we’re in Mr. Lee’s house and he gives me the tour and it’s really actually very nice; more so than I thought for a school custodian. He shows me all the family pictures and tells me about his kids who it seems have done quite well for themselves; in fact his oldest was somehow involved in the construction of his building which is why he has such a nice apartment. I ask Mr. Lee if he is from this part of Korea and he says “Oh no, no, no; I from rice paddy. City people no good, they don’t help each other out.” Two things stuck me, first I loved they way he said he was from the rice paddy; it’s sort of like someone from America saying they’re from the country, just way cooler. Second it made more sense why he was being so nice to me; that’s the way it was for him, how people acted toward others.
Next thing you know we are sitting at the kitchen table and food is about to be served. This is where things start to get interesting. Unfortunately I’m hungry and tired so they’ll have to get interesting tomorrow (usually this is the time I would go scramble a couple of eggs for a nice bedtime meal, but that’s not going to happen tonight for reasons that will become clear shortly)
We are now beginning day 3 of this story, it really must be finished tonight.
After the tour we end up at the kitchen table and start eating these large nut-like things. They have obviously been boiled and once you get inside the shell they taste surprising like a boiled sweet potato. I tell you this with great confidence, as a former Peace Corps volunteer in Papua New Guinea I know many things about the taste of boiled sweet potato (and fried dough, but that’s a whole other story; there is surprising variety to fried balls of dough). I soon learn we have been guided to the table for a reason as Mrs. Lee brings two plates of food to the table; I really would have preferred she had brought three plates and joined us, but Korean society doesn’t seem to work like that. On my plate is some very interesting looking purple rice and two fried eggs. Nature is way more amazing then the average American diner would know. I’m sure most think all rice is white except perhaps the Californians with their commune grown organic brown rice. Purple rice? never would have thought it. Once again this took me back to my Peace Corps days during training when we would all meet up after spending time in our respective villages and you would hear crazy talk like “my family served purple kau kau (sweet potato)”. I didn’t really believe it until I saw it for myself and of the sweet potato varieties, the purple were just about the best. The purple rice was actually quite good, it had little extra purple nuggets in it, almost like flavor crystals or the marshmallows you find in Lucky Charms. The eggs were simply eggs, I do prefer my eggs scrambled and find the fried egg fairly tough to get down, but it was obviously a nice gesture and a free meal on top of it.
As I’ve mentioned earlier in this blog, I’m big into fluids and normally follow every bite of food with a satisfying drink. The problem this time was there was no drink... that is until about half way through the meal. After another round of quick fire verbal Korean between the two, a rather strange looking large jar is brought to the table. The jar has all the hallmarks of the kind you see in science fiction movies containing the brain of some unfortunate soul and is topped with a piece of wax paper held tight by a rubber band. Much like the brain-in-a-jar there is something large lurking inside surrounded by a clear slightly off-colored liquid. Once it is set on the table I can that the thing inside is some kind of root. The make shift top is removed and the liquid is carefully spooned into two glasses. Great care seems to be taken in all aspects of the handling of this jar and its contents. Mr. Lee signals his wife to stop adding to his glass and says he’s driving; he doesn’t however make the same request in regards to my glass.
The reverent treatment, the small glasses, the “I’m driving” comment, it was all coming together; this was some kind of mysterious homemade hooch. Mr. Lee signals to me, we raise the glasses and drink. The texture is somewhat thick and the taste very earthy, almost papery. Surprising and fortunate is the lack of any feeling of harshness I felt sure would follow. It wasn’t that bad, it wasn’t good, but considering the jar it came out of, I was somewhat at ease. The added bonus of it all was I know had something to drink, a real plus considering the fried eggs and the damn fried yokes that came along with them which were starting to test my stomach in a way that if failure occurred, it would be most unfortunate.
What I failed to mention earlier was the reason we ended up at the table in the first place. Before entering his building Mr. Lee showed me his adjacent garden and its multiple leafy contents his wife turns into Kim chi, the most iconic of Korean dishes. My reply was that I hadn’t had Kim chi yet which was all that really needed to be said. Coming from the rice paddy, he assured me his wife made great Kim chi which turned out to be right on the mark.
It was really one of the more all-over-the-place meals I’ve ever eaten: bland rice, stomach churning egg yolks, cold spicy pickled leafs of some kind, and fermented ginseng to wash it down. With each bite the eggs were harder and harder to get down, but I persevered and made it very near the end. This did however come at a price. The continuous sips I was taking from my glass began to lead to a slow wave of disorientation rising up my spine headed straight for my head. I hadn’t mixed alcohol and food so thoroughly since the whiskey waffles I used to make in the Army.
Now I’ve been drunk before but this was something strangely different. It was a very warm almost trippy feeling and it slowly flowed over my head like a warm blanket. This was no ordinary blanket with the standard scene of flowers or racing stallions, this was a warm blanket with a picture of old men and giraffes sitting together on top of a felt table laughing; it really made no sense and my mind couldn’t seem to wrap itself around it.
The newness of the experience made it all the more baffling. I really didn’t want to get drunk let alone looped into a world I’d never been. There is I guess two ways to handle a situation like this, you can mentally fight the oncoming rush or you go along for the ride. I thought to myself what w ould my friends do in such a situation? What would Geisler do? Well the answer to that is pretty obvious. What would Rios do? Completely different answer but just as obvious (now if I was on an international flight, things would be a bit more uncertain). Nope, I was on my own here. I chose to fight, but there really is no guarantee you’ll win. I distinctly remember putting up just such a fight many years ago while listening to the Concert for Bangladesh and playing cards with some guy named Matt who would later become my friend. I lost that fight like no fight has ever been lost in the history of the world. I sat there half catatonic having no idea when it was my turn to lay down a card. This time was different, I felt aware and hopeful about my situation. There was only one stumbling block in my way; only one but a fairly big one, the half full glass in front of me I knew would have to be finished.
Suddenly my heart began to sink; coming toward me in dazed slow motion was a frying pan full of fried eggs. The spatula came out and two freshly greased fried eggs were carefully placed on my plate followed closely by another helping of purple rice. The site alone of all that food on my plate was nauseating, but I was aware enough to know I had no choice; it had to be eaten. I began to swirl the rice with my fork and then swirl it some more, just because you know something must be done doesn’t make it easy to do. I eventually got to work and each bite was once again followed by a sip from the glass I wanted desperately to avoid.
By this time my mind and my stomach were completely out of synch, my minding seeing weird things and wondering if it should fight till the end, or just let go and see where it was taken. My stomach on the other hand was engaged in a slow churn, every bite of egg was forcing the contents of my stomach further and further into my throat. At was at this point I knew something must be done; going down meekly is not something I’ve ever subscribed to.
My big break came when Mr. Lee got up, walked to the edge of the kitchen and began speaking to his wife. It was obvious the rest of this drink had to go, but where? I could pour it into Mr. Lee’s glass; that wouldn’t work, he made a big production of finishing his drink. Time was surely running out and I was completely at a loss… until I stretched my head around the corner and looked into the living room. Sitting right at the junction of the two rooms allowed me arm’s length access to the living room. As luck would have it there was an aquarium nearby. Now before you jump to any conclusions, I didn’t dump it into the fish tank. Standing next to the tank was what looked like a cylindrical garbage can. As I peered at it I only see the inside of the top portion and was unsure whether it was actually a garbage can or a storage container of some sort. Looking back at Mr. Lee and ensuring he was preoccupied, I leaned over as far as I could for a better look. About midway down there appeared to be discarded tissue paper; I couldn’t see to the bottom and therefore be sure, but with the situation critical it would have to do. I quickly grabbed the glass, leaned over and let fly into the garbage can. The whole time this was happening I had vivid thoughts of the time, years ago, when I was out with my friends Matt and Lori Geisler who both wanted very much to do a shot which I wanted no part of. The pressure put on me was annoying so I said I’d do it, but when the time came to throw it down, I threw it over my shoulder instead. Of course I was totally busted by Lori and it still comes up in conversation from time to time. The deed was done; I quickly returned the glass to the table and was comforted to find Mr. Lee oblivious to it all.
Mr. Lee eventually returned to the table and normal eating activity was resumed. By this time I was picking at my food, crying inside with the thought of more fried egg. I then noticed something horrible. As I has eaten this second helping and neatly yet subconsciously eaten around the yolks and was now left with a pile of rice and two neatly excavated fried yolks; the rice was of no concern, that could be downed without a blush. The yolks on the other hand would never in a million years stay down. Brilliant thoughts suddenly entered my head. I had been in this situation before and came out the other end. When much younger and eating at our Dad’s, my brothers Matt and Dan and I made a true art out of concealing food we didn’t want to eat. This is the route I would have to take. My mood lightened and I even chuckled internally as I thought of the Seinfeld episode where he stashes mutton into his jacket.
With swift smooth motion a napkin is transferred from the table to my lap; man I was still good at this; quiet defiance, once again the hallmark of my life. I suddenly felt strong and invincible. I comfortably returned to talking to Mr. Lee, waiting and watching. Every time he looked away I smoothly transferred yolk from plate to napkin; after a few waves of the hand the task was complete. The napkin was neatly folded and tucked into a pocket and triumph was mine. The anxiety I felt was gone, I was able to relax and enjoy the disorientation I had so recently fought.
In retrospect I understand why I couldn’t say no and I understand and appreciate the generosity that was shown to me. I was later told by another that the serving of ginseng was something of an honor; you didn’t do this for the casual guest. And of course life isn’t about getting even with those that have helped you but rather bringing it forward to those you are about to deal with. With this in mind when I get a place of my own I want to be just like Mr. Lee; whatever I have will be on offer and fried eggs will be served in abundance.
p.s. I don’t make Kim chi so don’t expect any
Holy hell, I can’t believe it took me 5 pages and thirty-four hundred words to tell this story. I seriously need an editor
Of course nothing is ever as simply as it appears and I soon found myself joining a daisy chain of people heading toward his car; before we’d be off to my apartment we had to drop off three mama-sans at the front gate. When we arrived at the gate, Mr. Lee said he’d be right and headed off with the cleaning ladies. He was soon back and we were off. Once again with no motive besides comforting small talk, I asked him “where is your house from here?” He once again read what was there to read and replied “Oh I show you my house, I take you”. This was met with mixed feeling on my behalf, it had been a long day and I certainly wanted to get home, but I was curious to see the inside of a Korean house having only ever been inside the places they build with us (and our government’s dollars in mind). In the end it didn’t matter, I knew the die had been cast and I knew where the car was headed.
If you’ve ever been to a China town you know the scene, narrow roads, lots of cars and lots of people. Mr. Lee’s apartment was on the top floor of a three story building. As we remove our shoes and enter we are of course met by his wife, a small, strong woman with a permanent scowl. She speaks no English and I speak no Korean which always makes for a somewhat awkward experience; you throw in the scowl and my nature of not wanting to upset anyone and the experience becomes doubly so. Korean society seems to be of the more male dominated variety, so I figured she was going to be nice to me in a there’s-no-real-way-for-us-to-communicate kind of way (I just hoped she wasn’t cursing me under her breath).
Mr. Lee was one of the first persons who were really nice to me when I got here to Osan Air Base. I had it in my head there would be someone, maybe several people, waiting for me upon my arrival, perhaps with a large welcoming van and a hearty “welcome to Korea, we’re so glad to have you”. Of course what I got was a searing hot asphalt parking lot and a physically and emotionally draining death march to the base hotel weighed down by 100 lbs of luggage. As you can tell I still haven’t forgiven this place for that; I mean seriously, they knew I had no idea what was going on, surely someone could have been there. This is after all what I’ve always received in the past, the Army had someone waiting when I got off the plane in Germany; even the lightly funded Peace Corps had someone with a pickup waiting. It’s just bad manners, but I suppose we should get back to the story.
When I first wandered onto the school grounds Mr. Lee was there to say hello and show me around. A few days later he loaded me into his car and took me apartment hunting. He’s completely uninhibited and went around to the apartment complexes randomly trying door handles and when we came across a vacant apartment we went in. When we found one we liked he went around until he found someone who knew the landlord and before you know it, I’m sitting in an office surrounded by Koreans talking a blurred streak while I run my eyes across the wall looking for something interesting to look at. The best part about Mr. Lee is he’s always looking for an excuse to go do something besides what he’s probably suppose to be doing; the sort of quiet rebellion the world needs. Man I don’t think there was one day while I was in the Army that I wasn’t thinking about how I could escape this stupid task and go do something else. I turned the 30 minute paperwork run into the hour and a half Kleber Kaserne breakfast/paperwork run every Tuesday and Thursday. The reason I never became a famous scientist is because working in a lab sucks and I was always wandering the hallways or skipping out altogether and going to the Brewer game smuggling beverages inside in my pants; definitely one of my two favorite Brewer games, my Uncle Chris can tell you about the other one. All this side talk which really has nothing to do with the story at hand reminds me I need to someday soon tell you my quiet defiance Peace Corps story involving Joey Rios and his favorite invention the air conditioner.
So we’re in Mr. Lee’s house and he gives me the tour and it’s really actually very nice; more so than I thought for a school custodian. He shows me all the family pictures and tells me about his kids who it seems have done quite well for themselves; in fact his oldest was somehow involved in the construction of his building which is why he has such a nice apartment. I ask Mr. Lee if he is from this part of Korea and he says “Oh no, no, no; I from rice paddy. City people no good, they don’t help each other out.” Two things stuck me, first I loved they way he said he was from the rice paddy; it’s sort of like someone from America saying they’re from the country, just way cooler. Second it made more sense why he was being so nice to me; that’s the way it was for him, how people acted toward others.
Next thing you know we are sitting at the kitchen table and food is about to be served. This is where things start to get interesting. Unfortunately I’m hungry and tired so they’ll have to get interesting tomorrow (usually this is the time I would go scramble a couple of eggs for a nice bedtime meal, but that’s not going to happen tonight for reasons that will become clear shortly)
We are now beginning day 3 of this story, it really must be finished tonight.
After the tour we end up at the kitchen table and start eating these large nut-like things. They have obviously been boiled and once you get inside the shell they taste surprising like a boiled sweet potato. I tell you this with great confidence, as a former Peace Corps volunteer in Papua New Guinea I know many things about the taste of boiled sweet potato (and fried dough, but that’s a whole other story; there is surprising variety to fried balls of dough). I soon learn we have been guided to the table for a reason as Mrs. Lee brings two plates of food to the table; I really would have preferred she had brought three plates and joined us, but Korean society doesn’t seem to work like that. On my plate is some very interesting looking purple rice and two fried eggs. Nature is way more amazing then the average American diner would know. I’m sure most think all rice is white except perhaps the Californians with their commune grown organic brown rice. Purple rice? never would have thought it. Once again this took me back to my Peace Corps days during training when we would all meet up after spending time in our respective villages and you would hear crazy talk like “my family served purple kau kau (sweet potato)”. I didn’t really believe it until I saw it for myself and of the sweet potato varieties, the purple were just about the best. The purple rice was actually quite good, it had little extra purple nuggets in it, almost like flavor crystals or the marshmallows you find in Lucky Charms. The eggs were simply eggs, I do prefer my eggs scrambled and find the fried egg fairly tough to get down, but it was obviously a nice gesture and a free meal on top of it.
As I’ve mentioned earlier in this blog, I’m big into fluids and normally follow every bite of food with a satisfying drink. The problem this time was there was no drink... that is until about half way through the meal. After another round of quick fire verbal Korean between the two, a rather strange looking large jar is brought to the table. The jar has all the hallmarks of the kind you see in science fiction movies containing the brain of some unfortunate soul and is topped with a piece of wax paper held tight by a rubber band. Much like the brain-in-a-jar there is something large lurking inside surrounded by a clear slightly off-colored liquid. Once it is set on the table I can that the thing inside is some kind of root. The make shift top is removed and the liquid is carefully spooned into two glasses. Great care seems to be taken in all aspects of the handling of this jar and its contents. Mr. Lee signals his wife to stop adding to his glass and says he’s driving; he doesn’t however make the same request in regards to my glass.
The reverent treatment, the small glasses, the “I’m driving” comment, it was all coming together; this was some kind of mysterious homemade hooch. Mr. Lee signals to me, we raise the glasses and drink. The texture is somewhat thick and the taste very earthy, almost papery. Surprising and fortunate is the lack of any feeling of harshness I felt sure would follow. It wasn’t that bad, it wasn’t good, but considering the jar it came out of, I was somewhat at ease. The added bonus of it all was I know had something to drink, a real plus considering the fried eggs and the damn fried yokes that came along with them which were starting to test my stomach in a way that if failure occurred, it would be most unfortunate.
What I failed to mention earlier was the reason we ended up at the table in the first place. Before entering his building Mr. Lee showed me his adjacent garden and its multiple leafy contents his wife turns into Kim chi, the most iconic of Korean dishes. My reply was that I hadn’t had Kim chi yet which was all that really needed to be said. Coming from the rice paddy, he assured me his wife made great Kim chi which turned out to be right on the mark.
It was really one of the more all-over-the-place meals I’ve ever eaten: bland rice, stomach churning egg yolks, cold spicy pickled leafs of some kind, and fermented ginseng to wash it down. With each bite the eggs were harder and harder to get down, but I persevered and made it very near the end. This did however come at a price. The continuous sips I was taking from my glass began to lead to a slow wave of disorientation rising up my spine headed straight for my head. I hadn’t mixed alcohol and food so thoroughly since the whiskey waffles I used to make in the Army.
Now I’ve been drunk before but this was something strangely different. It was a very warm almost trippy feeling and it slowly flowed over my head like a warm blanket. This was no ordinary blanket with the standard scene of flowers or racing stallions, this was a warm blanket with a picture of old men and giraffes sitting together on top of a felt table laughing; it really made no sense and my mind couldn’t seem to wrap itself around it.
The newness of the experience made it all the more baffling. I really didn’t want to get drunk let alone looped into a world I’d never been. There is I guess two ways to handle a situation like this, you can mentally fight the oncoming rush or you go along for the ride. I thought to myself what w ould my friends do in such a situation? What would Geisler do? Well the answer to that is pretty obvious. What would Rios do? Completely different answer but just as obvious (now if I was on an international flight, things would be a bit more uncertain). Nope, I was on my own here. I chose to fight, but there really is no guarantee you’ll win. I distinctly remember putting up just such a fight many years ago while listening to the Concert for Bangladesh and playing cards with some guy named Matt who would later become my friend. I lost that fight like no fight has ever been lost in the history of the world. I sat there half catatonic having no idea when it was my turn to lay down a card. This time was different, I felt aware and hopeful about my situation. There was only one stumbling block in my way; only one but a fairly big one, the half full glass in front of me I knew would have to be finished.
Suddenly my heart began to sink; coming toward me in dazed slow motion was a frying pan full of fried eggs. The spatula came out and two freshly greased fried eggs were carefully placed on my plate followed closely by another helping of purple rice. The site alone of all that food on my plate was nauseating, but I was aware enough to know I had no choice; it had to be eaten. I began to swirl the rice with my fork and then swirl it some more, just because you know something must be done doesn’t make it easy to do. I eventually got to work and each bite was once again followed by a sip from the glass I wanted desperately to avoid.
By this time my mind and my stomach were completely out of synch, my minding seeing weird things and wondering if it should fight till the end, or just let go and see where it was taken. My stomach on the other hand was engaged in a slow churn, every bite of egg was forcing the contents of my stomach further and further into my throat. At was at this point I knew something must be done; going down meekly is not something I’ve ever subscribed to.
My big break came when Mr. Lee got up, walked to the edge of the kitchen and began speaking to his wife. It was obvious the rest of this drink had to go, but where? I could pour it into Mr. Lee’s glass; that wouldn’t work, he made a big production of finishing his drink. Time was surely running out and I was completely at a loss… until I stretched my head around the corner and looked into the living room. Sitting right at the junction of the two rooms allowed me arm’s length access to the living room. As luck would have it there was an aquarium nearby. Now before you jump to any conclusions, I didn’t dump it into the fish tank. Standing next to the tank was what looked like a cylindrical garbage can. As I peered at it I only see the inside of the top portion and was unsure whether it was actually a garbage can or a storage container of some sort. Looking back at Mr. Lee and ensuring he was preoccupied, I leaned over as far as I could for a better look. About midway down there appeared to be discarded tissue paper; I couldn’t see to the bottom and therefore be sure, but with the situation critical it would have to do. I quickly grabbed the glass, leaned over and let fly into the garbage can. The whole time this was happening I had vivid thoughts of the time, years ago, when I was out with my friends Matt and Lori Geisler who both wanted very much to do a shot which I wanted no part of. The pressure put on me was annoying so I said I’d do it, but when the time came to throw it down, I threw it over my shoulder instead. Of course I was totally busted by Lori and it still comes up in conversation from time to time. The deed was done; I quickly returned the glass to the table and was comforted to find Mr. Lee oblivious to it all.
Mr. Lee eventually returned to the table and normal eating activity was resumed. By this time I was picking at my food, crying inside with the thought of more fried egg. I then noticed something horrible. As I has eaten this second helping and neatly yet subconsciously eaten around the yolks and was now left with a pile of rice and two neatly excavated fried yolks; the rice was of no concern, that could be downed without a blush. The yolks on the other hand would never in a million years stay down. Brilliant thoughts suddenly entered my head. I had been in this situation before and came out the other end. When much younger and eating at our Dad’s, my brothers Matt and Dan and I made a true art out of concealing food we didn’t want to eat. This is the route I would have to take. My mood lightened and I even chuckled internally as I thought of the Seinfeld episode where he stashes mutton into his jacket.
With swift smooth motion a napkin is transferred from the table to my lap; man I was still good at this; quiet defiance, once again the hallmark of my life. I suddenly felt strong and invincible. I comfortably returned to talking to Mr. Lee, waiting and watching. Every time he looked away I smoothly transferred yolk from plate to napkin; after a few waves of the hand the task was complete. The napkin was neatly folded and tucked into a pocket and triumph was mine. The anxiety I felt was gone, I was able to relax and enjoy the disorientation I had so recently fought.
In retrospect I understand why I couldn’t say no and I understand and appreciate the generosity that was shown to me. I was later told by another that the serving of ginseng was something of an honor; you didn’t do this for the casual guest. And of course life isn’t about getting even with those that have helped you but rather bringing it forward to those you are about to deal with. With this in mind when I get a place of my own I want to be just like Mr. Lee; whatever I have will be on offer and fried eggs will be served in abundance.
p.s. I don’t make Kim chi so don’t expect any
Holy hell, I can’t believe it took me 5 pages and thirty-four hundred words to tell this story. I seriously need an editor
3 comments:
I wish there was a way to stash parts of your story in a napkin without you noticing.
grace, the end of that post just cracked me up. (so did joey's comment)
I know this is late but I do not believe he did not notice the dumped drink. Lori witnessed the trashed shot and Mrs. Lee was cleaning out her garbage pail as soon as you left Kev. Always finish your drink!
Post a Comment