Lightening flashed at 3:15AM. The dog awoke and went into her usual multi-hours long frenzy. At 5 I gave up, got up, and took her out into the living space so that Liz could try to get some sleep. I decided to make a pot of pu-erh and try to polish off “The Last Chinese Chef”.
I really don’t like this book at all. The parts of this book that are about the food and the history of the places (and the history of the food) read as though they were written by someone else entirely. The actual narrative story is incredibly trite, obvious and badly in need of a stern faced editor. But the food parts were worth the rest. I will now forever be obsessed with a cuisine I will probably never get to eat. Part of me feels like reading books that aren’t very good is a sinful waste of time. But a bigger part of me feels like I need to read bad writing sometimes in order to fully appreciate the writing that is so good it makes me laugh out loud with joy just from the mere structure of the sentences, let alone the content. I need to read Nicole Mones in order to truly love Neal Stephenson.
I was supposed to go throw disc this morning at Tom Bass park, but the rain has picked up again, and so that’s not going to happen. Now I’m just alone with the dawn listening to Gabriela Montero do terrible things to Bach on a piano (which upsets me intellectually, but makes great background music) drinking absolutely transcendent tea, listening to the dogs snore and realizing that the ringing in my ears is almost exclusively on the right side, now, not both.