H. Hsu Word Salad

I may be one of the few Americans whose first inclination upon hearing the term "steakhouse" is to cringe.  Big slabs of red meat must be of supreme quality and skilled preparation so as not to come out in forms that remind me of shoe leather and beef jerky.  Fortunately, I scouted Open table .com with an open mind while seeking a place for Thanksgiving dinner.  Having decided this year that 5 hours worth of my cooking labor (not to mention 2 hours or so of shopping) was not worth it (and that I was not in the mood for Chinese). 
Thus it was that Mom, Bro, P and I celebrated Thanksgiving at Arcadia, a Michael Mina restaurant that I have been reading about for months on end.  The slogan "Modern American Steakhouse" was not enticing to me, but the mention Michael Mina was. And a 4 course prixe fixe for $65 sounded just right.  Crossed my fingers and made the reservation thinking, "it better be nice as I am the one dragging my family to this joint they never heard of-and it’s in the lobby of the San Jose Marriot." We all know hotel restaurants tend to be rather grim  & mediocre eating affairs after all…
Arcadia was, to put it simply, amazingly delicious. Beautifully presented and served, savory and subtle and each course improved upon the last. Bravo. For once, I agree with all the reviewers.

First Course: We went with the Roasted Butternut Squash soup (Butternut, oh, butternut how I love thy tasty bearing, but I’ll never buy one at home again lest I purchase an axe or giant meat cleaver). Their soup came with a generous gob of chantilly cream & the most perfectly formed sage leaf I’ve ever seen. Even Ben the soup hater ordered this soup. P has the endive salad with point reyes (oysters anyone?) blue cheese, pomengrante and toasted pumpkin seeds. YUM -o.

Vino: Being indecisive, P and I both went with the wine flights. Flights are the favorites of wine newbies, wafflers, lightweight boozers, and people on a budget (I guess we are all of the above) because you get 3 partial glass pours for one price to sample.  Arcadia’s Chardonnay flight runs about $17 and the Pinot Noir the same.  By night’s end P was scarlet red, and I was a happy camper, enlisted mom to have some chardonnay as well. Sorry, too busy eating to memorize the vintages and origins of each. And BTW the bread was yummy too-regular warm french bread as well as fresh olive studded rolls.

Second Course: I’m just partial to finger foods of all kinds, but this was my fave course. It was the teeniest one, but the most creative and fun.  P ordered Lobster corn dogs. (Mina is known for creating a killer lobster pot pie)  These 3 little dogs came artfully arranged with fennel slaw and whole grain mustard and they went down smooth as silk.  We probably could have eaten 20 of them had the opportunity arisen…Ben ordered a stuffed quail. The tiny bird was roasted to brown bliss with couscous, dried fruit and almonds in a pomegranate verjus.  Mum & I ate the biggest scallops we’d ever seen.  They were served, 2 huge scallops on a small white rectangle atop shallot potato cakes, braised leeks, with a smattering of American caviar.
By this point, I am like, hey, we got our money’s worth no matter how the rest of the meal turns out.
After the artfully arranged small courses, we expected equally petite yet beautiful entrees.

Entree Course: Holy Moley THAT is the third course?? We all passed on the slow roasted turkey/bread pudding/sweet potato/sage gravy meal…it sounded great, it was Thanksgiving but we were too tempted by the other offerings.  All 3 of them ordered American kobe Cowboy Steak. Instead of the artsy little cut, out came a honking 20 oz. cut with cramed spinach, a side of bearnaise, and a mini skillet full of scalloped potatoes rich with cream. WOW. Turns out this restaurant is known for its Kobe burger at lunchtime, made with the same fragrant cut as this steak.  I was tempted by the Sugar Pie Pumpkin raviolis in brown butter sauce, but Thanksgiving was no night for my veggie meal.  In search of something new, my order was the Ahi Tuna "Wellington" in wild mushrooms duxelle and pinot noir reduction.  The seared tuna was inside a thin layer of pastry and amidst the mushrooms and sauce in 3 giant slices across the plate.  Muy excellente.  We all had to pack up a portion of th entree, knowing that next there would be a

Dessert Course: Pumpkin Cheesecake with fresh whipped cream and homemade fritter, Apple tart Tatin with cinnamon ice cream, and Chocolate molten cake like it’s never been done before. None of that cheap, overly sweetened stuff that passes for baked goods.  All the flavors were clean, fresh, hitting the palate in layers of developing subtlety instead of the cloying goopy feeling most American desserts render. 
We had to flee home before our stomachs exploded or our food coma rendered us incapable of driving.  I was oh-so thankful that that Thanksgiving morn M, L and YM had agreed to run the San Jose Turkey trot 10k with me!! Started the day in good health with a brisk sunshiney dash beside friends, (with our adorable sweethearts at the finish line bearing Pelligrino), ended the day in sheer gustatory luxury con familia.  For once, I could not be more thankful.

 Surely my teeny clan of readers, who are a well-read, well traveled, well-fed bunch, have heard of Desiderata before.  One of our CSPP professors had a huge poster of it framed in his at-home therapy office. 
The days are shorter now, and winter is settling in.  Time to fatten up, bundle up, spend a little time reflecting and restoring.  At Alameda yoga station, one class each month is dedicated as a "restorative" class.  I really appreciate the presumption that restoration is important.   It’s a class where one sets up the body with all sorts of strategically placed bolsters and supports to relieve pressure, and then simply lays there, breathing mindfully.
As we reflect back on the year,many of us must unfortunately mourn losses and accept and count dissapointments amongst the milestones and achievements.
The state of my country has me seriously pondering whether the Mayans were right, that we would manage to self-destruct by the year 2012. Career-wise I left an agency and people whom I adored and admired, in pursuit of personal growth.  Whereas I do not regret my decision, it was nevertheless, a difficult, sad one. 
And most notably, 2007 has brought the deaths of three individuals who I truly, deeply loved, and were at the heart of my family. (Sensei Furuya, whose eulogy is in this blog archive, my paternal grandmother Mrs. Pao Chi Hsu, and my dear Uncle Pei who was always my Taiwan home-base).
I know I am not alone in this, the aches and pains of the human condition.  One of my poor interns recently had one of those therapy days where "3 out of 4 clients was crying their eyes out." I’ve had a few days like that myself as well, sitting in the room with someone’s raw pain- admiring their resilience, doling out kleenex, wishing their luck would turn for the better, reassuring them that they were not crazy, and that this, too, shall pass.  This week my little private practice has suddenly received a flurry of phone calls, new potential clients all feeling the ill effects of life in Silicon Valley, where restoration opportunities are scarce indeed.
Thus in this setting I was reading an excerpt from Desiderata, and it reminded me how much I like the poem in its entirety.
Thus, a reminder to all: pace yourselves. "do not distress yourself with dark imaginings…" and "be gentle to yourself."

 
Desiderata

Go placidly amid the noise and haste,
and remember what peace there may be in silence.
As far as possible without surrender
be on good terms with all persons.
Speak your truth quietly and clearly;
and listen to others,
even the dull and the ignorant;
they too have their story.

Avoid loud and aggressive persons,
they are vexations to the spirit.
If you compare yourself with others,
you may become vain and bitter;
for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself.
Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans.

Keep interested in your own career, however humble;
it is a real possession in the changing fortunes of time.
Exercise caution in your business affairs;
for the world is full of trickery.
But let this not blind you to what virtue there is;
many persons strive for high ideals;
and everywhere life is full of heroism.

Be yourself.
Especially, do not feign affection.
Neither be cynical about love;
for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment
it is as perennial as the grass.

Take kindly the counsel of the years,
gracefully surrendering the things of youth.
Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune.
But do not distress yourself with dark imaginings.
Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness.
Beyond a wholesome discipline,
be gentle with yourself.

You are a child of the universe,
no less than the trees and the stars;
you have a right to be here.
And whether or not it is clear to you,
no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should.

Therefore be at peace with God,
whatever you conceive Him to be,
and whatever your labors and aspirations,
in the noisy confusion of life keep peace with your soul.

With all its sham, drudgery, and broken dreams,
it is still a beautiful world.
Be cheerful.
Strive to be happy.

Max Ehrmann, Desiderata, Copyright 1952.

RIP to Lucky Dube- a South African Reggae Star who died the victim of a random carjacking on October 18, 2007.  His music career spanned something like 25 years and 22 albums.  Lucky was only 43 years old.  The situation has made for some fascinating internet fodder, those who have reacted to the loss of this great talent and outspoken social activist with intense anger "F*** South African, Fifa should not let them have the soccer game"as one posted, (world cup scheduled for 2010) or those who glorify Lucky Dube’s legacy "Legends never die." 
I feel…a terrible grief that is somewhere in between.  Taking this senseless loss as another reason to call S. Africa hopeless is the last thing that Lucky Dube stood for or would ever want.  But it’s an epic tragedy that a man who spent years crafting an art, a message of self empowerment, peace, and South African pride, should be murdered by one of those downtrodden people he sought to represent. 
While it’s true that his legacy of music can still elevate people for years to come, I am sure his widow and seven children would not agree with the maudlin sentiment that "he’s not really dead".  Their family will never be the same, and by the outpouring of grief and rage across the internet, it’s clear South Africa, as well as reggae and peace lovers worldwide, will not be either.
Lucky addressed his country’s horrible crime problems often in his work, and it is ironic or perhaps poetic that that is how he met his premature end.  Unlike many other so -called ‘artists, Lucky Dube did not glamourize marijuana use nor the high crime lifestyle.  Black on black violence is not just some kind of slogan, it’s a real symptom of social problems with roots far back into history.  Lucky Dube’s absence is an enormous loss, but it’s also a reminder that all the previous and ongoing losses matter too.  Those who don’t have a reggae star in their families still grieve.  Take a look at his smiling face and a listen to the buoyant music, the message, at least, lives on:

Lucky Dube
"Together as One"
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sLYkw-kUMUE&NR=1
"Prisoner"
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kRi8nIPugGM

Here’s a chance to test out your SAT skills. 
Warning, you may get hooked!  =)
Got this e-mail from my sweetheart :" Internet game fights hunger."
Hmm. Well I am slowly becoming a contemporary Luddite, I don’t ever play computer games…but lo and behold, this is a Vocabulary game!
Heck yeah, I actually thought all that SAT stuff was not only easy but kinda fun (my vocab and english scores made up for the really embarrassingly mediocre mathematics section).

            There’s a vocab game online that donates rice to third world countries
through the UN.  For every word guessed correct, they donate 10 grains
of rice.
The link for game is:
http://www.freerice.com/index.php

Here is the BBC article about it:
http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/europe/7088447.stm

Thus far I have to admit it has been addictive.  Each word that pops up next is a challenge to be conquered, and the little graphic rice bowls filling up are enough reward for me to keep on clicking away.
So, if you need a somewhat yet not totally mindless distraction, unfurl your linguistics and earn some rice for the less fortunate in just a few clicks!

Found myself on yet another red eye to the East Coast this
week. No rabid Red Sox fans or apple pickin’ this time, just a jaunt to our
Nation’s capitol to speak at a symposium about Men’s health disparities in the
area of depression.  I’m there to speak for the menfolk, my Asian and
Pacific Islander brothers who have no voice in these hallowed halls of policy
making.

When ACMHS got the invitation to speak at the symposium, I assailed our interim
executive director JF, "We HAVE to go, who else is gonna represent the
Asians!?"
JF is a whiz at budgets and activism, but not a man who loves the mike, nor a
mental health clinician.
"I’m totally unqualified to speak about this." JF stated. "But
why don’t you go? Free trip to D.C.!"

I said I was maybe interested.  Maybe. They forwarded more info. That was when I saw who the keynote speaker
was: Dr. David Satcher. (!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!)
Yes! Sign me up! I’m in!
I want to be in the same room as Dr. Satcher!
I blabbed about being at a symposium with Satcher the way other ladies gush
about George Clooney or that scrawny Timberlake boy.
The most typical response I heard: "Dr. Who??"

Well. Dr. Satcher was our 16th Surgeon
general of the United States,
our first African American male surgeon general.  His 1999 Report on
Mental health, and the addendums about ethnic minority mental health, were
groundbreaking.  Reading those reports were so validating, utterly
inspiring. Here was a person, Mr.
supreme medical honcho of the world’s mightiest (yet often mighty pig-headed)
country, stating the level of need and demanding that the country address the suffering
of thousands, millions of its citizens from treatable mental conditions.
Author John Head wrote that Satcher’s mental health report was as
groundbreaking as an emancipation proclamation for the legions of us who live
with mental illness or love someone who does.
He kind of looks and sounds like a jedi master, stately
demeanor, gray beard and all.

Here’s what the Health and Human services website notes: "Dr. Satcher
would most like to be known as the Surgeon General who listens to the American
people and who responds with effective programs. His mission is to make public
health work for all groups in this nation. He not only is a champion of
promoting healthy lifestyles, he is also an avid jogger and enjoys tennis,
gardening and reading. Dr. Satcher and his wife, Nola, have four grown
children."

Packing for this trip was a wardrobe challenge. Once again, P sat there taking
digital pics of me as I tried on my entire business wardrobe. We liked the red power-suit,"but I can’t wear the red suit in this setting, I am a peon
amongst giants at this event. You should only wear red when you run the
show." I complained to B that I was wasting way too much brainspace on packing. If I were a guy I could pack a blue suit, red
tie and be done with it. Instead here I
was pondering glasses? Contacts? Hair up? Down? Skirt? Pants? Too serious? Not
serious enough? Sheesh. 

There was the pink Ann Klein suit that our friends named as
"too grandma-like." B
suggested I go with more formal than not since after all, East coast folks are
more uptight than Cali. Finally I opted for the banquet, a basic
black suit. Shining olive silk blouse and massive stone necklace to keep it
from looking like funereal garb.  For symposium,
the burnt orange Fall suit which I wore when presenting in Buenas Aires. Had to
make a last minute dash to Macy’s in search of a plain blouse. For heaven’s sake it was a freakin’
expedition to find a simple blouse not done up with damned ruffles, sleeve
poufs, shiny crap, excess cleavage etc. And yeah, I kept the glasses on.

After arriving at Reagan airport and muttering to myself
about his godawful economy-ruining legacy, I sailed smoothly into downtown D.C.
, deciphered the Metro map, and hopped on my way to Gallaudet University.
The first thing I saw upon exiting the station was an enormous building: Bureau
of Tobacco, Alcohol, Firearms, and Explosives. Ooookay. Wanted to take a pic but I figured the armed guards standing in front of the barricades may not appreciate that.  Visiting Cheryl was
fantastic. The campus was gorgeous, the
head of the Counseling Psychology department gave me a personal, historical
walking tour, and Cheryl bought me lunch at the college lounge where everyone
was signing to one another (ASL) except for suddenly mute ‘ol me. If Gallaudet sounds familiar  to ya’ll , it’s because you may have read
about them protesting like crazy over there and how they threw our their last
president after oh, 2 days.

I get back to the hotel, there is a cute little blue gift
bag on my chair that reads : Men get Depression. I find something very humorous about that
serious message on this shiny bag. I’m
pleased that they’ve given me a copy of John Heads’ book “Standing in the
Shadows” along with some “men get depression” post it notes, DVD, and a bunch
of snacks and water.

Banquet was set for Butterfield 9. Internet reviews of this place are beyond
gushing. “One of the hottest 100 restaurants in the world” says Conde Nast
Traveler. “Best game in town” says DC magazine. I walked briskly over from my hotel hoping I don’t get mugged and join
the infamous DC crime stats. Thank
goodness this downtown follows a reasonable grid so I don’t get lost. I find the place, check my coat, and am led
to the private party upstairs.
It takes me a while to slip into my groove. I look around and people are clumped into intently chatting, wineglass
dangling trios. I become aware that most
of these people have adult children probably about my age. I’m reminded how making small talk is like
water torture, wondering why I turned down that glass of wine upon entering…until
finally, that socially appropriate part of my head finally cocks into gear.  By nights’ end I am gabbing madly with a judge from Florida who advises their Supreme court, and the
psychologist in charge of mental health for Georgia corrections.

Georgia used to be stationed at the
Presidio in SF back in his army days, so we reminisce about SF. We all have the best pumpkin soup ever
created, with apple compote and the lightest touch of pancetta. Every person at my table orders a steak,
which I admit, looks beautiful. But I’ve
never been a steak-person. I have an exquisite,
melty risotto that likely slapped 10 lbs straight onto my thigh. I notice my colleagues turning red with wine
and I indulge too before the chocolate cake arrives. Damned fine meal. But I wouldn’t call it one of the top 100 in
the world…

Showtime. Symposium
day is here.
We spend from 9 am to 3 pm in the Barbara Jordan room of the Kaiser
Center in the midst of 4 giant cameras which
will webcast, then archive the whole event. There are
so many big shots in here I am scrambling to match all the faces and names with
the lengthy biographies in the info packet. 
Chatting with an African American local, I comment, "so how is it living
where all the action is?"
He notes, "well, actually you might say it’s where a
lot of INaction is."

True enough. Let me say that this was one rare conference where I really liked
EVERYONE I met! What a fabulous group of giant brains and appropriate
feistiness. 

Like when Larke Huang
pointed out that policymakers did not address school safety and did not pass
the billion dollars bill to help all the colored children lost to gun violence
very year….until Columbine occurred at a white school.

 We rush like heck to cram in all we wish to say in under 10
minutes. No small feat from me who’s used to giving 2 hour trainings. I’m not
as articulate as I hoped, stumbling a few times for the right words under the
glare of stage lights and staring into a big camera with a headphone wearing
man standing nearby flashing big cards which state things like “1 minute!”
But I manage… manage to explain some special needs for Asian
clients given our complex histories and heterogeneity. Manage to mention not only our clinic but
also our youth leadership programs, school based programs, developmental
disorders unit, groups for men, and intern/training program.

Relieved of my duty to perform, I can enjoy the rest of the
day in relative peace. With all the
cameras and gravity in the room, I refrain from acting like a starstruck
stalker and running across the room to talk to Dr. Satcher or start taking
pictures of him. I’d like to, but surely
that would be a faux pas which would reflect poorly on ACMHS.

Senator Patrick Kennedy (D-RI) shows up to raise some hell
after lunch and speaks movingly about his own mental health treatment, as well
as his dogged battles to secure more treatment rights and lessen stigma. Most of those in the room likened the
movement for mental health parity as another civil rights issue whose time has
come.

 Surely the highlight of my day came when Dr. Satcher said my
name. In passing, yes, but he said something to the effect of “…and I was glad
to see Dr. Hsu here to talk about the needs of the Asian community.” It took a minute to register. Hey. That’s me…He
said my name! OMG!

 We  parted ways and I
decompressed at the National Museum of Women’s Art. Treated myself to a fancy locally sourced,
sustainably farmed dinner at Agraria “from our fields to your table”. Heirloom tomato salad to die for, a glass of Argentine
Malbec, Juniper crusted Venison with puree rutabaga, roast brussels sprouts
grilled pear, pumpkin walnut cheesecake and cappuccino. Dined alone in peace,
jotting notes to myself about the symposium, and about my recently deceased
grandmother. Read from John Head’s
book (Had finished it before I landed in Cali the next day). Was served by a strikingly
handsome kid-waiter who told me he used to live in Turlock,CA and is here in D.C for school and football. Taxi’ed home with a distinct red wine buzz and a chatty drive who listed a dozen more restaurants for me to try next time I’m in town.  Ahhhh. Makes up for all the crap airport food and iffy
conference-room food of business travel.