food ‘n homeland
It’s ironic in that cruel way that many local Nicos (Nicauragense) can not afford to drink fresh-brews of the savory volcanic coffee for which they are famous.
No, for average Jose’s its Nescafe instant, pre-packaged sandwhich cookies and crackers and all things partially hydrogenated and shelf-stable in the heat.
Weird phenomena upon returning.
About 1 day after our return to
Cali
, I notice my skin flaking. Mind you, we didn’t burn while we were away, and used up an entire new can of sporty-sweat proof SPF 50. Yet steadily this week, flakes appeared on my face. Eeek. All right, I can understand the dark peeling spot on the bridge of my rather prominent nose-surely I should have applied extra SPF there…
As the days passed it didn’t end.
Dios Mio, my cheeks, my forehead, even both earlobes!? P’s face and his wrist? I spent this workweek walking around looking like I’m in the aftermath of an expensive chemical cosmetic peel – but I didn’t DO anything and I don’t actually WANT a whole new skin!
In fact, it’s getting alarming. Is this some kind of delayed sun exposure phenomena? Perhaps I’m just allergic to being back at work?
Now I sit in my office on Market St. thinking about pieces of my heart, of my very being scattered all over creation. Where are you from? Where is your home? There are multiple manners to respond to such questions. I am from
Taiwan
. That is the land of my birth and of many happy memories of family.
But we are not Taiwanese. My blood goes back to
China
, to
Mongolia
, to
Manchuria
. The Taiwanese have their own culture and language deserving of recognition that the Chinese can not usurp.
If home is defined as where I live now, then I am a Californian. Indeed, to my chagrin, I am. I grew up near a beach, went to college near a beach, have sped down PCH singing happily in a convertible, own an embarrassingly large assortment of bikinis and sportswear, I hug trees & will drive all the way to Berkeley to sate my lust for fine salad, or all the way to L.A. for a roasted artichoke & soy dip.
As an American, I own too much crap, eat too many sweets, and sing the star spangled banner to myself as I drive. (scoff if U will, but hey- can YOU sing it in entirety!? And I didn’t say I sing it WELL.)
But where do you love? I fell deeply in love with the family that took me in in
Costa Rica
. Where do you feel you belong? I felt like I belonged on this earth truly and deeply…more so in the roar of
Iguazu
Falls
bordering
Argentina
and
Brazil
, than I do in the concrete trap of my home.
Where are the ones you love? Everywhere.
Ann Arbor
,
Taipei
,
L.A.
,
San Francisco
, even the dull places like
Fremont
&
Cupertino
. Few moments in life are finer than when the ones I love are with me, no matter where that is geographically…mom and Auntie in
Mexico
, P kayaking on
Lake
Cocibalca
, on the train to
Tainan
with dad, skinny dipping in freezing El Portal waters with my bridesmaids.
I am back in “my” land.
I watch people thwack one another with their shopping bags on
Market Street
pretending not to notice, (to say the least of apologize!) I put on my sunglasses and my game face as I duck the panhandlers, the lady with the Juicy Couture bags, the guy laden with Macy’s parcels, the Bristol Farms Picketers, the Jesus Loves you dude, the 12 galaxies dude, and the woman always handing me manicure flyers. Past the so called security guard at the shoe store who apparently is paid to stand in front of the shop & check out the legs of all female pedestrians. I cringe a bit to think that his is where I "belong"?
My organic banana is from
Peru
. My water is that snooty staple Perrier. I am attempting to eat a Thai take out from the Bloomingdale’s food court. Coriander entrée that is making my nose water which paired with my heartache and peeling makes for quite an unattractive presentation today. sheesh. Thank goodness I found a way to make a living that is not dependent upon my being more than minimally physically presentable! I calculate that this modest box of food costs close to 200 cordobas.
Just think, in NicaraguaI could have bought 100 yummy El Faro pastries (!!!!), or a giant Pescado entero plus a Tona beer, or 24 shots of Flor de Cana rum (ugh).
Isla Ometepe
Getting to Ometepe island was a feat that entailed tumbling out of bed & into a car at an ungodly hour, over potholed roads shared with schoolbuses, horsecarts, bicyclists, and little vehicles that we could only describe as similar to Thai tuk-tuks. Arriving on the beaches of San Jorge, we were led to an industrial looking ferry (good thing I didn’t read until afterwards that one of those ferries had sunk not long ago), P turning green on the choppy waters and dissappearing into the loo, and then finally the smiling face of Erick at the arrival dock.
After an entire morning of driving and hiking about with our young guide, we are starving and utterly dehydrated. We’ve been sweating more steadily than I had known was humanly possible…
We sat down to eat at Charco Verde.
Sucked down that water and Pina juice, immediately asked for more. Added our Nuum electrolyte tablets (one of the triathlon supplies that come in handy during travel, Clif blox too) to water and sucked that down too while waving away the flies. Our waiter calmly brings a lit candle to our table in response to the fly-waving dance. Hunh. Ok, so now we know why people have candles on their tables in the middle of a blazing hot day.
I glance over at Erick drinking water at the counter. Behind Pruths’ shoulder I see him set down his glass and discreetly park on a bench.
Puzzled, I look at Pruth.
“Is he not going to eat lunch at all?”
P looks around, “What? Where is he?”
“Don’t they feed him?! If they don’t, we should get him something.”
Yet I feel shy about inviting him over.
It’s confusing. Surely neither he nor his bosses expect him to spend 10 hours touring us around Ometepe island without sustenance?
P hollers out, “hey Erick, come on and have something!”
He hesitates, then comes over.
“Maybe just a coke”, he says.
I made a face. Soda is not on my list of acceptable consumables. “You can’t just have soda, eat something, it’s gonna be a long day,” I say
“Maybe some beans…”, Ericka ventures.
“Sure. But just beans!?”
“OK, chicken , Ok?”
“”yeah, man, whatever you want,” P says genuinely.
And thus Erick winds up seated with us at lunch wolfing down a giant platter of grilled pollo and sharing our platter of Tostones con queso. In my mind there are few things in this life that good plantains can not mend.
In the U.S I am known as a notoriously irritating bird feeder.
Meaning, if you are dining with me al fresco, I will inevitably fling bits of food about as we speak, attracting flocks of avian friends despite the fact that they threaten to poop or alight upon us at any second.
Imagine now, at Charco verde, it was dogs.
Suddenly I glanced down at a cream colored lab mix with noticeable ribs in his skinny bod. He sighed softly and politely laid there. Not actively begging, just waiting.
I looked at that face, at pretty, light, warm eyes.
“You know what your problem is perro,” I said, “You were just born in the wrong country.”
And the food flinging began in earnest on my part.
About 5 hours after our initial meeting, Erick asks me what my work is.
“Estoy un Psicologia,” I reply.
Raised eyebrows.
“I want to know,” he says, “you know, I meet a lot of foreigners in this job. Why so many are old, older, like 40’s and they have no children?”
“Well Erick, they probably work ALL the time like we do.”
In my head I added: or they are probably selfish people who want to indulge their own intellectual pleasures and world adventures…kinda…like… me.
Erick looks at us and nods with obvious doubt in his eyes.
“To give you an idea how bad it is,” P says, “my brother lives only like a mile and a half away from us-and we see him maybe once a month.”
At this, Erick appears alarmed.
“We are 8, a big family” he says. “I have one sister working in Costa Rica, three brothers working on mainland. But my parents, and my grandparents, mostly everybody is together here on the island.”
I proceed to horrify Erick my explaining how much money it costs to pay for daycare in California. And how we both work late evenings to pay for our small home, so much that we do not even keep a parrot or cat for fear of neglecting it.
He describes how his wife was eager for a baby, that they have an 8 month old. About his father giving him some property where he is working hard and almost finished building a house.
“I am OK to take care of them, my wife and the baby. But I want make a plan. I look around me, I see guys like 40 years old they got nothing. Nothing. Drunk and all that stuff. That’s not going to be for me.”
“ The volcano hike, in high season, I go maybe 4, 5 times every week. I can feel I am getting older, not as easy like before.”
How wise, I think. A vigorous young man who is aware that he can’t count on that body forever.
Such insight will do his little familia a world of benefit.
Kinda like how when I was 17 and having a pageant queen high, a banner year in all respects, being deluged with bouquets of flowers and all sort of attention-I reminded myself that such things were guaranteed to be short lived. No way was I gonna be like those 30 or 40 something dames framing their tiaras and dreaming of their glory days.
I inform Erick about the latest studies that show how cuidad San Francisco has more dogs than children. He stares at me incredulously.
“Why?”
San Francisco“Because it’s so expensive to live in now all the families are moving away, running away. But people work all the time and keep dogs instead like children. You know, they buy toys and clothing for the dogs.”
His smirk becomes a chuckle. In his head I am sure he’s thinking “stupid Gringos.”
I inform him that my friends are paying $400 a month for their canine companion to attend doggie daycare when they work.
He shakes his head. I wonder if he is being offended at how wasteful we are.
“You know, in the big cities,” I say, “like Los Angeles and San Francisco,they even have panaderia- panaderia just for dogs only.”
At this he breaks into outright peals of laughter, trying to imagine a bakery for nothing but dogs.
Erick pointed out many sights along the way that we did not have time to stop and peruse. Among these was Playa Santo Domingo, and also a very large and polished church. Yellow, in much better condition than any other structure I’d yet seen on the Isle.
“That one is an orphanage,” He said as we zipped by.
“Really!?”, I asked, peering back at the building and hoping to glimpse….what?
“Not that building. Church in front, the children have another building in the back. Maybe…300 orphans.”
Thank goodness there was no time for me then to mull over such facts. And no time in our itinerary to stop. I’m not sure we would have ever left if anyone had let me in to play with those 300 ninos. Either we’d be at home with a Nico child right now (But we promised one another we wouldn’t adopt ‘til we are say 40 or 50 !), or we couldn’t have left ‘til I emptied my wallet and gave away every stitch we wore or carried. Innocent, orphaned, babes on a volcanic island in the middle of nowhere…sounds like movie fodder.
Unsmokables - Oakland
Why do Iove the unsmokables despite being too much of a suburbanite to have made actually it to a live show thus far?
www.unsmokables.com
‘Cause the groove is positive, because I adore Bo who has a voice that would kill me with envy - if she wasn’t sweet to a fault (and had somehow managed to tolerate me as a supervisor for some years. Imagine. Me as the boss who directed her to "learn to be more mean." Curious that she doesn’t require therapy in the aftermath…), and the fusion of cultures in this group represents what Oakland means to me.
A young 19 year old Richmond woman from Youth radio was speaking this week about how sad it made her that a tragedy such as the one at Virginia Tech gets worldwide attention, yet no one really gives a hoot that vibrant young people are violently killed every week in places like Richmond and Oakland. One can’t compare tragedies of course, but there is truth in her words.
Often I "represent" as hailing from O-town. It amused yet alarmed me that in the heart of post-Katrina New Orleans, the Cops there raised eyebrows when they heard Dr. Helen was from Oakland. "That’s a rough city." said one officer. (This in the middle of a bullet-pocked police station in a national disaster zone. You’re calling US a rought city?!)
Am I poser since I don’t actually live there? Some may say so. Y’all are entitled to your opinion. But I have spent, and still do spend most of my life working. And I’ve spent the majority of those thousands of hours devoted to Oakland, and now Richmond as well. Because all those communities of color hold brilliance like you couldn’t imagine. Enough talented, creative, hardy young and old souls to make it worthwhile to keep working in a place where my colleagues get mugged seasonally,I wield pepper spray religiously, & I know to either run like hell or duck if we hear gunshots.
My oldest client was 92 yrs old, spunky as all get out and still living independently in Oakland. She’d get Dimsum with her kids (seniors in their 60’s) and join the BART tai chi crew. My young Oaklanders have been African America, Lao, Cambodian, Croatian, Tongan, Vietnamese, Mexican, Chinese, mixed race,white kids, you name it, we got it. And by God, they have made me crack up and grow up like no other.
Despite its nasty rep (or its many fair-weather friends such as all those smiling Warriors fans at Oracle arena last night. Glad to see you twenty thousand enthused folks. Where the hell are you when we have a school fundraiser, political youth rally, or Alice Arts project!?), Unsmokables reminds me of the Oakland I have come to know. Where the most peculiarly random combos of souls become fast friends and share their worlds with one another.
it’s been too long sing Queen Latifah busted outta this hood and onto the airwaves/movies/cosmetics ads-we’re definitely due again for more local talent to catch the larger spotlight…
Granada to California
Yesterday morning I enjoyed my last Nicaraguan desayuno (breakfast), savoring the locally grown volcanic mountain coffee, the rice & plantains with everything, the papayas big as a small child. I know Gallo Pinto is poor man’s food, but it’s healthy and delicious and I am too lame (or over-processed) to have ever made it at home, I will miss it. Even more than the food,I will miss dining in buildings with no walls, just open air onto beaches, gardens, or Plaza central. I long to see geckos scampering around our bedroom, and to be liberated from the manacles of my scheduler for another week.
Through the misery of American Air travel, we re-entered the atmosphere in stages. One, P began to enjoy the fact that he could comprende what everyone around us was saying again.
Two, my very first priority upon reaching Miami from Managua: find a Starbucks and get a big, tall cup of hot water. Not that crappy overpriced, worker-exploitive coffee-just hot water so I could brew us some REAL chinese tea which I missed terribly. We bought 2 pastries as well, which cost about 5 bucks.
"God that’s like 90 cordobas!" , he mutters into my ear.
One could buy 4 servings of Vigaron, a full meal with that kind of $$ in Plaza Colon. Yucca (Casava), shredded cabbage salad, ginormous Chicarrone (yes, that is fried pork skin), with lemon and pickles.
"What a rip-off! Rip off! You are not going to hear the end of this for years…" I replied.
"And so begins your depression again" P observes. I guess that’s step 3.
In San Juan del Sur we looked up El faro Panaderia, a bakery run my a youth center. We ordered two pastries there, and were charged about 30 US cents. Needless to say we went back the same night and bought 5 more pastries. I am sure that everywhere we traveled the locals marveled at how incredibly us two Chinos could eat!
Step four: My so called depression deepened as I accessed my voicemail: 8, all from work. From my main job, from my private practice, and from my contracting work. Oh, and also calls regarding my commissioner position and an event we are planning for next month. Groan.
P checks the home VM.
3 telemarketers, 2 loved ones wishing us Happy Songkran (Thai New year) while we were away, and 1 bank checking on why in hell were we charging stuff in Nicaragua.
Also came the news we had been sheltered from about the homicidal rampage of a troubled young Korean man in Virginia. I got concerned work calls about that as well.
Do I want to do assessments for community probation again. Can I do a didactic training in 2 weeks. When will I finish my part of a community violence forum. Important stuff surely. But enough to send me on a plane or horsecart back to a place where no one thinks of me as a professional anything, and the biggest worry of each day was whether I would have the physical stamina for each days’ ambitious activity (kayaking/volcano hiking/swimming) in the relentless heat.
We were picked up by my Querida mama, with my aunt along for the ride. Greeted cheerfully despite the fact she had circled an entire hour while we waited for our bags & had to resucitate my houseplants while we were away. Greeted with a chinese bakery pink box stuffed with egg custard tarts and BBQ pork buns.
By the time we entered our door, it was close to 2 am.
P turns the key and we step inside.
I looked around and said, "We’re rich."
Carpets, kitchen, TV bigger than me, 2 cars in the garage, consistently hot running water… It now seemd roomy enough for at least 6 families. I thought of those endless rows of shanty towns, the walls patched together with scrap wood, roofs of thatch or corrugated metal. Though I had seen & walked among poverty before, the incredible, endless extent of it in Nicargua was overwhelming. I felt embarassed at all the clothes I owned, all the food we waste each week.
We hugged each other close in our giant king sized bed, luxuriating in the change of perspective that comes with now being rich people, adjusting (poorly) to what now feels like freezing cold weather, and then steeling ourselves for the final re-entry phase; back to the offices Thursday morn.
Radio
Long, long ago, the city of Cupertino was quite white, and I mean Anglo white, Wonderbread white, as in only one Chinese restaurant for miles around (and not a terribly good one at that, "Magic Wok" I believe it was called). Of course the currently city resembles a satellite of Taipei, Taiwan. Go figure. Personally I’d surrender even all the fabulous food now in Cupertino (impressive really) to get back those groves of peach and cherry trees.
Mom said she knew things were getting interesting when shortly after we moved to town in 6th grade (for me, and I came along begrudgingly since I did not give a damn if the school district won awards), she answered the doorbell of her new home and found "two boys at the door looking for you. One tall black boy, and one white boy." Hence began some years of shooing away boys from that doorstep. I grew up mostly around an assortment of long-haired rockers and stoners, loitering at Grateful dead shows.
Anyway-weeks ago I received the most peculiar voice message through my cell phone,
"Hey, Helen, oh my God, you have to tell me when you’re going to be on National radio…I was driving home and heard you on the radio! Something about Asian women and high suicide rates…which is really too bad…since they’re really Hot."
Ah, Tad. Cupertino high school friend personified! So heartfelt and…deep! Well, he is one of those long haired closet brainiacs that play in a band, dwell in the tech world- but have never succumbed to the pocket protector/sensible mindset (not too much at least).
Anyways it was my first alert that a previously taped interview with a KQED reporter actually went somewhere besides oblivion.
http://www.kqed.org/pgmArchive/RD37/20070225/week
So I call my amiga K, "Hey Sweetheart, did you know that we were both on the radio!?"
Of course I missed it, but the archive is here. A bit choppy since reporters must take like a 45 minute interview and hack it into 5 minutes, but overall she did a good job. I had wondered if she would get anything useable. As she taped we had construction going on in the background (remodeling) and she put her hand out to make me stop habitually clicking my pen "that’s gonna pick up on the tape."
huh. I hadn’t even noticed, I’ve developed a Bob Dole like pen clutching habit…
I LOVE Pacific Time, it’s a great radio show that covers topics all over the Pacific rim and range from economics to social justice to Chinese punk bands in Texas to world politics…and food of course.
So, information for those of you who must tango with the media. In the past 5 years I have learned: reporters almost always work on a last, last minute deadline. Unlike us academics, they are each desperately chasing the "hot" topic of the week as well as competing with all other reporters for the best "angle" and under the axe of publication deadline. They will call you and hound you incessantly to be a source, to meet said deadlines. Then they will usually drop off the face of the earth and forget to tell you they published it, aired it etc. Half the time they will misquote you. Get used to it. Better still is when they ask you to go live on the air, into a taping studio, or on TV- with about 1 days’ notice (seriously).
Last week I found myself in a snazzy professional recording studio for a Chinese radio show. Complete with "On the Air" flashing light on the door, nice headphones, giant microphones etc. Thank goodness for the spiff view over SF Bay which kept me calm. I can improv & blab for days in English, but in Mandarin, eh….let’s just say my vocubularly stunts down about 9 grade levels.
The show went well enough, my usual spiel about psycho-education and removing mental health stigma, and how people need to get help & learn about managing and caring for their health rather than allow their problems to worsen etc.
Between takes, during the commercial breaks, the radio hostess and I chatted. She was impressive - silky smooth radio voice, perfect enunciation, a good improvisor who assisted me greatly in getting my points across. A long career in media both in Taiwan and now California. Tiny lady, yet quite a powerhouse.
I wound up explaining to her that my long term dream is to be able in some way to be a visiting scholar to Asia, especially Taiwan and Hong Kong, and teach others to help others. Train clinicians there as I am doing now (only the need is 500X greater there as there are no clinical psych. education programs).
She seemed amazed. "So…you actually, you’re saying you want to serve."
"Well, yes. Uh, that’s basically my whole career in non-profit. I want to share it with all the people in need in Asia…to share and serve what I have."
"Wow!" She said, "I’m a Christian, and I never knew that someone who’s not Christian also ever feels that desire to serve others."
WTF!?
Nice lady, but I wondered if she realized how annoying that statement was (I think not). First of all, I don’t know how it’s obvious or assumed I am not a Christian (it’s not like I wear an atheist sign on my head or on a chain around my neck). And other than that, I find it sort of offensive that some religions think they are the ONLY moral, caring persons on the face of the earth.
Puh-leeze. I don’t need church or even state for that matter, to do what I think is kind, just, or helpful.
Oh well, secular or no, she helped me pull together a short radio show that day which did result in some worried Chinese moms (day time slot) calling me for more info about how to help their families.
Foodie
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On the Sunday morn drive to yoga, P compulsively listens to a.m . radio traffic reports (mind you, there IS no traffic at 8:15 on a Sunday). This week, my grogginess dispersed suddenly when the announcer mentioned that the days Chronicle had the latest "Best 100" list.
I got home and my running partner had already sent this (Thanks B!):
http://sfgate.com/food/top100/2007/
First stop on this list:
to look and see if Cesar is on the list again (Yes). Admittedly, I have never actually had a meal at Cesar, but Chef Maggie hosted a 50th b-day party for my awesome friend Canyon who happens to be cooler than I am in every way (tough as nails and funny to boot). No better way to make a new friend than to sleep beside her in a tent for 4 days & go haul water, as I was fortunate enough to do in 2005. When I finally grow up, perhaps I’ll be more like Canyon…
http://www.canyonsam.com/
So, maybe another blog will address how badly I wanted to go to Mongolia with Canyon (find my roots, or part of them anyways) & her amazing Tibet stories, but now-back to food.
Maggie’s party treats were so simple and yet utterly divine, and I was so floored by that muy sexy uber-professional kitchen…how could Cesar be anything but spectacular?!
P comments that shoes and food are rather odd blogs after all that mourning. Alas, I still mourn, for many things in life. From what I have observed about myself as well as my clients…certain types of mourning simply never end…but they abate a bit.
No memory of my years in L.A is complete without Sensei and I eating our way through town at Ca’Brea, Aunt Kizzy’s, Pacific dining Car,The Ivy, and about 50 different San Gabriel/Monterey park Chinese establishments & dumpling houses of all kinds….including the Chinese food DAd and I brainwash everyone to love most: Islamic Chinese.
Never heard of it? Try it, there are places not just in L.A. but also San Jose and even Fremont…it’s like less greasy Chinese food (compared to standard Cantonese fare) and NO beef, NO alcohol, but YUM lamb and fat, chewy sesame pancakes/buns.
As for tonight, Amedei’s pistachio white chocolate bar has dissapeared down or gullets. We are pigging out and working out-gotta get Survivor-ready for Nicaragua next week!
How better to drown your sorrows than with frivolties & sensualities & travel?
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Chocolate
In the days I worked within the Dilbert engineering cubicles of downtown SF, my colleagues and I took every possible excuse to flee those gray halls. "lunch break", "smoothie break", "coffee break", "post office", "ATM run", "McDonald’s bonus toy break (not the ‘food’ just the toy)", and of course: "fresh air".
Some days might even neccesitate 2 coffee breaks, or the occasional "cookie break". It didn’t hurt (anything besides our productivity, that is) that minutes from the office we could find ourselves sucking in ocean breezes at the Pier, going to see an IMAX movie at Metreon, or shopping at Union Square. I think we topped ourselves the day 4 of us got on a bus, participated in a political protest with the Indonesians, strutted around with protest signs on TV, then came back to work. Mostly though, we would sit outside catching sun, avoiding pigeons, and watch the entire row of cars get towed off the curb at 4 p.m. sharp.
Accompanying a friend during a "sugar break", he suddenly asked me "All chocolate is good chocolate isn’t it?"
Au contraire! Oh, HELL no, you didn’t.
I went into a lengthy discourse about oil and sugar and filler contents and country origins of cacao beans and quality or fair trade and organics, nibs, percentages of blends, judicious use of additional ingredients, blah, blah, blah.
Like most Americans, my innocent friend was perplexed. "Hershey’s tastes good to me" he said. sigh. Ah, my friend, once upon a time, perhaps 1992 or so, I thought a Hershey’s kiss or Cadbury’s bar was pretty good too.
But such as with love, and lovers, or books or cheese; thus is chocolate-when you’ve had the goods, and I mean the GOODS…nothing else compares.
It will burn into your head and your tastebuds like cocaine and you will never forget it…addiction of sorts follows complete with the passionate pursuit to obtain ever more, and the growing hole in your wallet.
Previously, ventures for the good stuff were limited mostly to S.F. Especially:
http://www.fogcitynews.com/home.html
Today P and I stumbled across a small storefront on College ave.
I wouldn’t have stopped at all save for the small clapboard sign written in front: fine gourmet chocolates.
Oh, really. "I’ll just see about that." Countless times I have been oh so dissapointed with the confectionary standards and selections of retail establishments.
The upshot: Lulu Rae had 2 out of 3 products that render a place a haven for foodie chocolate lovers (by totally arbitrary H standards): They had Fran’s gray salt caramels AND the Vosge’s Goji Bar.
Although I must add a caveat about Vosge’s: that Goji bar and their exotic caramels kept me sane through this last long cold winter. Absolute 5 star winners in my gustatory world. I can not however vouch for many of their other products. Some of them just baffle me , such as the $495.00 bathrobe, red fire chocolate tortilla chips, chocolate with curry and coconut, and Woolloomooloo bar(what in hey is Woolloomooloo and god knows how its truly spelled for that mattter). Other treats are just so out of my budget I haven’t had a sample. (I don’t think I could justify joining a $515.00 13 month lunar chocolate club…if I even knew what that was). I also can’t figure out why there is a flirty nightie and robe for sale on the chocolate site, but what they hey, it’s really cute and Purple is my favorite colour. But back to chocolate.
(Last week I chose a cream puff over shoe shopping. Wow, now I know in what order my addictions lie.)
The one thing lacking at Lulu Rae was Amedei (I’m gonna work on them for that…) This place also had petit fours shaped like bunnies, fresh single serving chocolates like jewels, and a mind boggling array of hot chocolates and gelato. If I sound like a commercial it’s because I feel like a starving woman who just tasted manna. Such as the turkish delight samples we took seconds of, as P recalled how said turkish delight lured Edmond into the evil clutches of the Queen in Narnia. Lately he seems to rival me with non sequitirs and random tangents.
Anyways-
If we lived near here we’d be utterly doomed to financial and caloric demise. Take a taste for yourself sometime…you won’t regret it.
http://www.lulurae.com/main.htm
http://www.chocosphere.com/Html/Products/amedei.html
http://www.vosgeschocolate.com/
