clarahsu – Page 21

Smell and Taste

Cumin, smoked paprika, ginger are the three must haves in the kitchen. Together or alone they can make any dish tastes good. The only trick is to be liberal. Don’t measure your spices. Go by feel. Heat up the oil, put in a good heap or two and let the spices sizzle. The aroma from the pot will tell you if you have enough. Judgement is with the nose.

I did an experiment once, holding my nostrils tight with a cloth clip while putting food in my mouth. The sense of taste disappeared.

The best thing in a rainy winter night is a bowl of lentil soup. Warming, delicate, complex.

Reading with THE GAME

On Super Bowl Sunday, the game, the game, the game was everywhere. During our drive up to Cotati, I held Dore’s small plastic radio in my hands so he could listen to the game. The big TV screen in Cotati’s Redwood Cafe was playing the game (without the sound) when we walked in. There was no escape, even when we were there for a poetry reading.

The Giants scored first. Then the Patriots made a comeback. But the poets were busy untangling cables and setting up mikes. The audience trickled in half-filling the cafe. There were more than a few people who didn’t care about the game.

And when the poets came on stage someone turned off the screen. No wonder the owner of the cafe stayed home today. Super Bowl was forgotten and nobody bothered to check the score after the reading.

It was a super evening to have my son Lawrence and his friend Cameron accompany my reading with their music. It was super to hear Jack and Adelle Foley, and to read with Jack. One of the teams in the game would walk away depressed. There was no such feelings among us.

Photo by Wen Hsu.

Flag Day

This morning the Wong Benevolent Association on Waverly Place decked out their flags. “No parking” signs were tied onto the lamp posts between Sacramento and Clay Streets. A row of folding chairs was set up in front of the building. A man with a rag wiped down each red plastic seat and rusty frame. Old folks, done up, had big ribbon rosettes pinned on their chests.

Whatever the occasion, there were lion dance and fire crackers, food and music. Miss Chinatown Pageant brought out glittering young girls wiggling down the alley way in the arms of their escorts.

Down on Washington Street, youth groups put on blue overalls and started to clean the streets, all in preparation for next Saturday’s Chinese New Year parade.

I went about my business, but was affected by the sudden surge of energy. My piano students looked forward to the annual carnival on Portsmouth Square, where they would win stuffed animals and buy cotton candy.

Photo by Dutched Pinay

Old Man in Business

The old man was getting ready to leave as I walked into the optometrist’s office. He eyed me.

“I like your hat.”

“Thank you. You’re the first to compliment.”

“Really? Well, you know, when you’re 93 you can say what you want and not feel shy.”

He was waiting for his son to give him some lunch money so he could walk up to the Capitol Restaurant on Clay Street for lunch.

“They have chicken a la king on Thursdays. A little creamy for me but easy on the teeth.”

When he found out I wanted to have an eye exam and get new glasses, he went around the reception desk and pulled out a form for me to fill in.

“You’re Doctor Lee!”

The office was filled with papers of all sorts (mostly newspapers) and the counter had stacks of trays with glasses in them. Everything was dusty. Everything. Chinatown–old family business (over 60 years)–Mr. Rogers/Dr. Lee’s neighborhood. He learned my name and I was his friend.

“My son Michael will take care of you.” He gave me a wave of his hand and walked out.

Joycean Night

Two events were happening simultaneously on opposite sides of town, both celebrating the birthday of James Joyce. I had to choose between going to Jack Hirschman’s Readers Cafe at Fort Mason, or join a group plow-through of Finnegans Wake at a friend’s home. I went to Fort Mason, where Hirschman featured Jack and Adelle Foley paying tribute to “Germ’s Choice”.

Joyce’s river in Finnegans Wake morphed into two magma lavas. They flowed side by side in discordant tempos and when they pinged, syllables bounced off in all directions, stinging the listeners, confusing their ears, jamming their computation demanding total surrender to the voices, words, chorus (of two, if you are counting bodies). Then all of a sudden, when their multi-rhythms began to take over the room, they stopped.

The lavas mutated back into the river, Bussoftlhee, mememormee! Till thousendsthee. Lps. The keys to. Given! A way a lone a last a loved along the

Photo by Rhy Tranter.

Shell Mounds Across Train Windows

shell mound protest — Defending the sacred shellmounds in Glen Clove

Stephanie Manning takes the train to work from Berkeley to Davis. She writes during the commute, resulting in many poems. These poems have the rhythm of the train, steady in pace, rocking a little from side to side, always driving til the very end. Her subjects have to do with the Sacramento River, wild life, the changes in urban developments along the track she has been observing on nearly a daily basis. The shell mounds–of shells, bones and evidences of early human settlements–are of particular concern for Stephanie, and she is active in the preservation of these historical sites.

Industrial contamination plays a big part in destroying the shell mounds. Big businesses put out a gesture of respect to placate the conservationists and then turn around and do what they please. Stephanie is the eye-witness bringing us first-hand reports on the gradual disappearance of something seemingly insignificant and useless. To most people, the evidences of early lives have nothing to do with modern times. The fate of the shell mound is unknown, except that they are preserved in a series of Train Poems.

The Foot Goes Down

I learn about the stresses in a sentence. Da Dum Da Dum is what I have to write. It’s hard when I feel awkward, shy and clumsy. Instead of da Dum I go dum Dee-dee Dum. My teacher says in not so many words, “Abide the rule before you turn it lose.” His wife says she is going to make a meal, and bids farewell with five Da Dum Da Dums. I’m stunned and muted, unable to say goodbye. Oh when can I be just as eloquent?

The moon is bright as I walk up the hill. I count the stars: a one , a two, a three. A four, a five… and there, my precious feet! “Sweet dreams, sweet dreams!” the night owl makes a hoot. My feet will rest in bed till morning comes.

Lantern Rhapsody

The magic of light encased, hanging down from the ceiling, or swinging on a long stick, flickering. The glimmer inside a paper fish’s belly, yellow star fruit, hairy rambutan. When I was small I pulled a little white curly crepe rabbit with four wooden wheels. A candle was lit inside, held by a thin wire. My sister and I walked up and down the length of the short corridor at home. She with a butterfly of transparent wings. We were the keepers of light, short legs toddling, gleeful and drooling, a kind of mythical youngling along with the shadows that cast on the walls and ceiling.

In Turkey there are congested galaxies. In Morocco you have to rub the painted glass three times (to clean away the dirt) before the genie appears. He has grown big and slightly stooped since the last time we met but he’s the same one, I’m sure of it.

Photo credit: Shutterstock

The Wine Convert

It took only one sip, and I became a wine lover. The red liquid in my glass had the vocabularies that described fine wines: bouquet, smoothness, complexity, burst of flavor, etc. These words, to my amazement, were real, not pretentious or highbrow descriptions, and I experienced all of them in one sip.

Interesting that until just a few days ago wine had little appeal to me. Maybe because the ones that I had tasted did not bring imagination into their formula. But this bottle of wine–and I can’t remember the name of it or the Oregon vineyard that produced it except that it had won awards–brought intrigues and pleasure to the palate simultaneously.

“This is art!” I exclaimed, helping myself to a third glass.

Morty, who brought the wine, was very pleased.

“We Shall Be Changed”

"You must change your life." Rainer Maria Rilke.

” Did they change your life?” Jack Foley asked me, commenting on someone’ s poetry. I never thought of poems being life-changing. At least it is not what I think about when I attend a reading or pick up a collection of poetry. “Life-changing” is a tall order. Do poets set out to change lives when they write? If not to change others, does the poet’s writing change the poet? If a poem is to have a place in the universe, what part of the alchemy does it play?

There are poems that I remember. I remember them because they are meaningful to me. They are meaningful because they touch a part of me that was not touched before. If I get a glimpse of something unknown, I have already changed.

“…but we shall all be changed, in a moment, in the twinkling of an eye.” (1 Corinthians 15:52)