Tastes Like Chicken

Last week, after a friend’s goat stepped on my head (I have video proof!), I wasn’t too sure about goats…but after this week’s adventure, I can honestly say I like goat. Especially with curry!

We discovered this by traveling to Bill Gatesland, home of the Sea Hawks, the Huskies, Seattle Grace and Dr. Frasier Crane.

Spontaneously boarding an articulated bus (note, if you want some extra fun, try sitting in the bellow seats, they’re super bouncy), Groom and I rode the public transport to the Fremont neighborhood where we sauntered past an Indian Restaurant. Our stomachs growled us into submission (was that yours or mine?), so we stopped to read the large menu board posted near the sidewalk. We both saw it at once.

We looked at each other. “Dare we?”

We dared and it was delicious! Goat meat is not gamey like I’d feared. It’s less fatty than lamb, so it was a perfect combination of texture and flavor. Lip smackety good.

Groom and I are such nerds. Our definition of fun is going to the Planetarium at OMSI in Portland on the way up, having sushi lunch with Bee Bugg, almost getting kicked out of Whole Foods in the Pearl District (they thought Frida was a food spy! Hee-larious), and viewing a Coffee Exhibition at the Burke Museum.

We attended John Fluevog’s birthday celebration on Friday the 15th and each got a pair of shoes. Whoo hoo, mine are bright orange. On Saturday, we hung out with the highest-ranking non-fiction writer on Amazon.com (you can look that up if you want to see who it is) and together were shanghaied into a conversation by complete strangers about the Northwest disappearing into the sea within the next 18 months. Yeah, that was fun.

The other fun thing was the U-District Street fair. The weather in Seattle was positively gorgeous, a miracle in and of itself, but sales were down from last year. Sigh, I know. Want to know by how much? One dollar. I’m not kidding, so I’m doing a little jig.

You’ve heard the phrase, “April showers bring May flowers,” well, here’s another springtime observation. When the sun finally comes out after a long spate of rain, so do the people and who doesn’t love the first of the summer B.O.?

Parades of humanity flowed past our booth, the unwashed masses in their blinding white skin suits, several of them offering their bodies for cash. One guy held a hand written sign advertising you could punch him in the stomach for five bucks while other bright individuals were letting folks staple crisp green Lincolns to their foreheads with a staple gun. Ka thunk, ka ching!

Which might explain why I had a dream that Jane Seymour (the actress, not one of King Henry’s the VIII’s harem) was Miley Cyrus’ mother. I do not know what a Hannah Montana is, but I’m pretty sure Jane S. and Billy Ray did not make it.

But I did catch that episode of My Name is Earl, where Joy, who is White-Trash American, falls in love with Ms. Seymour’s open heart necklace sold by Kay Jewelers and just had to have one.

Every day is a learning opportunity and I learned something new just today. People skills.

Or the opposite of people skills. A woman came into the booth wearing a Jane Seymour open heart necklace sold by Kay Jewelers and recognizing the design, I asked her, “Is that a Jane Seymour open heart necklace sold by Kay Jewelers?

The woman smiled and nodded, her hand instinctively touching the pendant hanging around her neck suspended from a chain, pleased that I had noticed. People skills.

Hey, I saw that episode of Earl,” I told the customer. “Joy sure wanted that necklace bad.”

Oopsey, she was not flattered.

But I was when a very handsome man in a sharp suit gave Groom the full body sweep with his eyes. “Oh my goodness, did you see that?” I squealed, “He was soooo checking you out!”

“He was not,” Groom deferred. (Pause...)“But if he was, did he like what he saw?”

“Ho baby, you got the Dude glance.”

There’s no phobia taking place here, just a milestone. Over the last ten months, Groom has lost 60 pounds and can fit into something other than Diego Rivera’s overalls. With his designer zapatos and form-fitting togs, he finally got the urban seal of approval from a well-dressed fancy man in downtown Seattle. I think my husband is becoming a Metro-sexual.

It’s been fun to watch people’s reactions to him, especially those who haven’t seen him in a while. As the Art Fair season has just begun, we’re at the starting point of visiting our annual destinations and the difference is quite evident.

A woman gasped when she saw him and boldly ordered him to lift up his coat (to his T-shirt) so she could “see his belly.” She gave it a love smack with her hand and after making certain the weight loss was intentional, congratulated him.

We ran into an artist who had also lost a significant amount of weight and while oohing and aahing over her, she confessed Groom had inspired her into it. You go girl!

At the Burke Exhibition, we learned that goats discovered coffee. Shepherds, while watching their flocks by night, noticed how the herd caught a buzz after eating the red berries from a flowering plant that smelled like gardenias.

I’m a little sleepy, so I think I’ll grab a freshly brewed cup of that red berry juice.

“Tossed salad and scrambled eggs, they’re calling again, good night Seattle…”

Land of the Rising Belly

Eeeeeee- I’m home from Japan and laughing at myself. One, I was worried about how this trip would pan out. Two, I had no idea they thought I was fat. Three, I couldn’t stop eating this time, either. Four, I got stuck on a toilet, and Five, I thought this trip would cure all that ails me.

The first trip in 1983 was so vivid I was concerned how this one in 2009 might compare. Well, let’s just say that notion was short-lived, about as effective as trying to relive a memory from long ago while strapped into a dizzying ride at the fair and being twirled and spinned into an altered state. Ha! Not a problem -- too busy trying to avoid throwing up cotton candy, elephant ears and chili dogs. Or in this case, red bean and custard waffles, oyster flavored potato chips and green- tea Kit Kat bars.

I’ve already touched on the fact that every single person who saw me again after a quarter of a century commented that I was “no longer fat.” Even the grandfather of a friend who met me once mentioned the moon face I used to have. Yes, I know I gained 40 pounds while I was living there, but as I lost it State-side, it never occurred to me that their lasting impression of me was that of a baby Buddha.

In the intervening years, I’ve tried to watch what I eat, and even while traveling to the Mecca of decadent desserts, bread and cheese (France), I’ve managed to avoid overindulging and kept most of the pounds off by miles of walking.

But as soon as I was fingerprinted and allowed entry into The Land of the Rising Sun, the trigger switch for eating-everything-in-sight was flipped on and locked in its upright position. I think it’s something they do to foreign nationals while we’re staring into the lens of the Interpol camera or fumbling with our passports, custom declaration papers and luggage, all bleary eyed and stunned from the squished cattle quarters in the airplane and recycled air.

Hey, I’m all for living green, but I do not love the word “recycle” and “breathing air” in the same sentence. And I think Japan’s new moniker should be “Land of the Rising Belly.” On our way home, while landing in San Fransisco, I was pulled out of line and ordered to be body searched. They offered a private room, but whooo boy, how do I say, Hell No without sounding like a potty mouth? As long as it was an invitation, I declined. Whatever they were going to do to me, I wanted it done publicly.

Thank God they didn’t do a cavity search because I haven’t been to the dentist in a very long time. I was miffed and slightly offended to be chosen for the big pat down as they seemed particularly interested in what I might be hiding under my blouse. Guess what folks, it was my belly! My protruding, clogged, plugged, filled to the gills with sticky white rice belly. After they felt me all over, they determined I was just fat. Oi!

But as I write this, it occurs to me they might have done me a favor. No, I don’t consider that flirting. I’m now suspecting that security could tell my eating trigger was on full tilt boogie and pulled me out of line to turn it back off. So, thank you, because now I’m not as inspired to eat everything in sight here in Homeland.

As I sat here with GlowGirl last night, (Pssst, she has a new nickname, “Crazy Bean Lady,”) sipping cherry blossom tea and nibbling on green tea cookies, she’s also been to JapanLand and knew precisely what I was talking about and we launched into fits and giggles over all the snacks and treats beautifully packaged in happy, appetite pleasing colors, wrapped and decorated with come hither ribbons and we drooled over Royal Milk Tea, Pokari Sweat, Kibidango (millet cakes sprinkled lightly with powdered soy bean), Manju (a traditional Japanese sweet filled with azuki bean paste), and chips made out of every conceivable and several inconceivable flavors.

Then there was the cabbage-muscat juice and the bamboo.

On a tour of Kyoto during the last stop (Kiyomizu Temple), we encountered a four alarm traffic jam. Well, I don’t really know how traffic jams are measured, but this one was a bouchon deluxe. Instead of sitting for the hour or two that was estimated, the “best bus driver in Kyoto” decided to take us up a narrow road on a steep hill. Scary. But our tour guide, bless her heart, was not expecting the added delay and had to repeat her memorized material. Her English is better than my Japanese could ever be, but that did not stop her nasal microphoned voice to eventually irritate me a little, especially since every word ended on a heavily accented vowel.

That last phrase would sound something like this… “every-YA wor-DA ended-A on-NA heavily-A accented-DA vowel-LA. Yipes!

I bet you forgot I was talking about bamboo. Before I sidetracked myself, I was saying that our vowel-heavy tour guide was repeating her material because the drive was taking longer than expected. She was talking about spring time edibles (see? more food references) when she landed on bamboo. Voila! A subject that I never knew could take up so much time. She milked that baby for blocks. Different ways it could be cooked, sliced, diced and quartered-DA.

Companion, who had been gobsmacked by the beauty and splendor of Kyoto, the ancient temples and shrines with their cherry blossom promises, had been quiet and mellow up to this point, but apparently the combination of the steep impromptu bus route, the loud microphone and the woman’s obvious passion for bamboo provided him with some inspiration.

Quietly, so as not to be rude (we were seated near the back of the bus), Companion, in a slow, Southern drawl a la Forest Gump, began naming his own twist on bamboo. “Refried bamboo, bamboo puddin’, scrambled bamboo, bamboo grits, hard-boiled bamboo, bamboo gumbo, …” Not fair for him to make me laugh like that.

The Japanese are not an outwardly affectionate culture, you know, all touchy-feely in public, but I learned a little secret. They have invented amazing machines to do some of the touching for them. Take our friend’s massage chair. We’ve sat in some before, or so we thought, with a little ball that goes ‘round and ‘round the shoulder blades, so I was expecting the usual when I was invited to sit down in the Takabochi 4000 Mach 9.

What I was not expecting was for it to lay down flat with me in it and for mechanized clamps to grab my ankles. I was strapped into this baby like I was going to receive a lethal injection. Not relaxing so far. Then the deceptive arm rests opened up and swallowed me from wrist to arm pit. Next, all the whirling massage parts were activated and vibrating things were running up and down my spine, my legs therapeutically jiggled, the blood pulsing to my head which was angled down below my shoulders. All that was missing was Hannibal Lecter’s hockey mask.

Then our hostess said, “Enough of you, time for him now.” She managed to untangle me from its grip and had me out and Companion in before either one of us could catch our breath. Japanese efficiency. While he was being “relaxed,” she motioned for me to follow her. She opened a door and the centerpiece of the small room was the most luxurious toilet I have ever seen. “Shhh…watch this,” and pushed me toward the Imperial throne. As I approached, the lid miraculously raised itself. Apparently a man should never have to lift a finger. I was in awe. I wanted to be a man in Japan.

Pointing to some fancy buttons on the wall, she told me to try it on my “magic spot.” With that little instruction, she left me alone and shut the door. The timing was right, as we had been sipping lots of tea and snacking on chocolate dipped strawberries (in honor of White Day, when men give women chocolate), so I overcame my shyness and decided to see what the mystique of the bidet world was all about. Whooo is about all I can say here.

It was surprisingly invigorating, and then I was done. But the water kept on jetting. I looked at the Starship Enterprise panel on the wall next to me, hesitated as my rosebud was continually watered and started pushing buttons. It wouldn’t stop. In fact, I think I renewed its subscription. I called out to Friend, no answer. I yelled a little louder, no one came to my rescue. I tried standing, but the fountain of youth was determined and the vicinity was getting wet. I quickly sat back down. We were heading out for dinner and who wants the telltale waterjet stream up the back of a bidet novice? Heeeeelp!

I sat there for what felt like a looooong time. Eventually the tank ran out of liquid, so I was finally free. Between the chair and the benjo, I got quite the lovin’.

As for curing what ails me, the trip did wonders in the healing department, but I imagined it would erase the pain of some other things, too, which at this point, it has not. But I remain optimistic. As bits and pieces of me are collected and the healthier tissue occupies more space, the broken bits can be collected too, and with some gratitude, offered up as well.