Bridesmaid Dresses

With the wedding fast approaching, I knew I had to get cracking on a few critical items. At the end of April, I flew out to LA to decide on a cake, finalize the wedding menu, choose the table design, hire a photographer and find a dress for my bridesmaids. All in all, it was a busy, but successful trip where my maid of honor even managed to squeeze in a bridal shower.

But the one item on the list that wasn't so successful was finding a dress for my bridesmaids. For some reason, I'd thought this would be an easy task where we would just walk into the garment district of LA (aka cheap bridesmaid dress central) and effortlessly choose a dress at a very affordable price. Reality hit when we found an abundance of stores with essentially the same generic, bland-looking merchandise. Each store might have one or two dresses among many that their neighbor did not carry.

Generally, if the store had nothing particularly interesting to offer, the sales staff tried to be as helpful and polite as possible. Unfortunately, the store stocking the most varied, interesting dresses had the bitchiest shop owner I'd ever encountered. It was toward the end when I'd felt that our shopping tour was going to be a bust that one of my bridesmaids spotted what I thought was our jackpot. There were so many cute dresses to choose from, and the line for the fitting room snaked through the store. Within minutes, we'd found "the one", "that dress." One of my bridesmaids emerged from the fitting room after a long wait and modelled the dress for us. Perfect! Our shopping trip was now a success! All I had to do was flag down the shop owner to place our order and try to negotiate a volume discount.

(LANYTransplant) Miss, excuse me. How much is this dress?

(Sales lady) Eighty-five.

(LANYTransplant) If I order five of them, can I get a volume discount?

(Sales lady) No. Eighty-five, that's it. I don't order dresses (snatching the dress out of my hand).

I reached over to grab the dress that the bitch put back on the sales rack only to have her snatch it out of my hands again.

(Sales lady) You can't have it.

(LANYTransplant) Well, can I just look at it? (taking it back)

(Sales lady) No, it's against store policy. (snatching the dress right out of my hands again)

(LANYTransplant) I just want to see the label.

(Sales lady) No, you can't see it! It's against store policy!!

And with that, my bridesmaid dress hunt in LA was a bust. But what I did manage to do was sneak a peek at one of the many dresses that the shopowner carried all under the exact same brand. The shopowner was careful to have ripped the main label off of all of her merchandise, but missed the side ribbons, bearing the Rose and Lula label. I googled the brand name, hoping to order the dresses online only to discover that Rose and Lula was a designer label with a $200+ price tag on each of its dresses. That, and the dress I saw at LA's garment district must have been a discontinued model since I couldn't find it anywhere online.

Now back in New York after having accomplished all of my other wedding tasks, I decided to find a dress by a well-known bridal brand and order the dresses online through either House of Brides or RK Bridal which carried several suitable bridesmaid dresses in the $100 range. But time was running short, and with the 16 week lead time that these retailers required to be safe, I was out of options.

Now I was stressed. Where would I find five of the same dress in various sizes that I could order quickly at the affordable price that I'd promised my bridesmaids? Right about now, the Fiancee chimed in, "What about that garment district-y store we walked into down the street once?" I didn't remember what he was talking about, but dashed out the door dragging the Fiancee behind me and demanded that he show me the place.

In less than ten minutes, it was LA's garment district deja-vu right in the middle of White Plains! Some of the dresses were the exact same disasters of a gown I saw in LA, but each dress had non-negotiable price tags. With the prices printed on each dress, there was no need to bargain or haggle, as the owner had priced each dress at the floor already. I even saw the same dress that I wore as a bridesmaid for my cousin's wedding at a price cheaper than what she paid after negotiating a volume discount and haggling even further with the salesman to bring the price down to what she thought was the floor. She had about $5-$10 left to go.

After a short browse through all of the dresses, I pulled a satiny green knee-length halter dress from the rack and modelled it for the Fiancee. With it's $39.99 price tag and various sizes available to order and pick up within 10 days, this would certainly do. I snapped a few pictures and sent off images of the dress to my bridesmaids for approval. Within a few days, I'd collected everyone's dress size and returned to the shop over the weekend to place my order.

(Shopowner) Ahh! Hello! You guys back to order the dresses! I have right here!

The shop owner pulled out an order slip, and asked me to fill out my name, address and phone number before taking down my order and calculating the total.

(Shopowner) Ok, you have five dress. When you need it by?

(Fiancee) As soon as possible.

(Shopowner) Well, when you get married?

(Fiancee) Soon, very soon. We need the dresses as soon as you can get them to us. We're getting married out of state and need to mail these out.

(Shopowner) What's so rush? Ok, ok. I get them to you as soon as I can. You put down half deposit today.

Since these were my bridesmaids who would be paying me back, I handed the shop owner my credit card.

(Shopowner) What? You stand there and let your wife pay? Hahaha. Just kidding! It ok.

Haha. Funny, funny. Not really.

(Shopowner) Ok, miss. You sign here. And where you live? What your address to pick up dresses from?

(LANYTransplant) It's right there on your order slip. I wrote it down, remember?

(Shopowner) But that his address (pointing to the Fiancee).

(LANYTransplant) Yes, well mine, too.

(Shopowner) Oh, you two not marry and living together?! Oh, bad bad! Very bad! (now wagging his finger at us) Hahaha! Just kidding! Just joking! OK, I get those dresses to you very soon!

Not funny. Annoying, even. He probably thinks I'm pregnant.

Everyone Thinks Everyone Else is an Idiot

The last two weeks at work have been really busy after coming back from vacation and having a huge project underway with one team member out on vacation and another out on maternity leave. I was the only one left on our three-person team, and because I'm paranoid about not making the deadline which was specially extended for me, I'd been working through lunch and staying late every night.

With so much work to complete, I had no time to run lunchtime errands, but needed to make a withdrawal from the ATM before heading home. Time would be tight to make my train, but seeing no line for the ATM that I passed by on the way to Grand Central, I figured I could squeeze in a couple of minutes to get some cash. It was raining, and as I fumbled around in my purse to find my ATM card, a lady on the other side of the CHASE door that I was trying to get into was frantically pushing all of three of the doors trying to get out.

Poor lady...looks stressed...maybe if she would calm down a bit, she'll remember how to open a door.

I swiped my card on the cardreader, but with both the lady and myself trying to push the door open, nothing would open. So, I swiped again, and let the lady do all the pushing. The door opened, and she jetted out as I slipped in. All ATMs were empty. There was only one other lady waiting around staring out the window.

Hmmm...she probably forgot her umbrella and is waiting out the rain. Hope she brought a book or has a lot of minutes to burn.

I quickly withdrew what I needed and headed back out to Grand Central. There was plenty of time to catch my train. I reached a door and gave it a shove only to find it locked. No big deal. There were two other doors to try. I gave the door right next to it a good shove, but it was locked, too. Now I was getting a bit worried. There was only one more door to try, and after slamming my full weight against it, I found that it, too, was locked.

These were the only doors out. I was locked inside a CHASE ATM lobby. Now, I was frantically shoving all three doors, but nothing worked. I couldn't get out. I went back over to the ATMs and tried to talk to the lady who was still staring blankly out the window.

Excuse me? Hello? Excuse me, Miss.

No response. She wouldn't even look at me. What was wrong with her? How could she not know I was trying to talk to her?! I was the only other person in the lobby, and right up to her face!!

Miss? Excuse me? Miss?

She continued to ignore me, and started dialing her cell phone to talk to someone else. Seeing that she was no help, I went back to frantically shove all three doors. What was wrong with everybody?! The entire ATM lobby was made of clear glass and located in a busy intersection. Couldn't people see that I couldn't get out? I was frantically shoving all three doors!

After a minute of door-shoving, a man walked by to use the ATM and looked slightly amused at how nervously ineffective I was at opening doors. He slid his card against the card reader and opened the door for me, not once thinking that this same scenario might happen to him next. I stopped him as he headed past me.

Hey, I just want to warn you that you might not be able to get out. The lady before me was stuck in here, too, until I let her out.

A slight look of panic crossed his face.

Seriously? Do you have a second? Can you hold the door for me? Where's the ATM? I'll be right back. Please wait! I'll be right back!

Of course I'd wait. How rude of me would it be to lock him in after he'd let me out? I held the door for about a minute while the man made his withdrawal. In that time, two people walked in as I held the door open. A minute later, the man returned, and I ran down the street to catch my train. I felt a little bad about leaving the other two trapped inside.

At least there's two of them. They could keep each other company. Maybe even get the stone wall to talk. Within five minutes someone else will need to use the ATM and let them out.

And then another round would start.

Housekeeping Robots

This year the Fiancee splurged on a couple of housekeeping electronics with his bonus check. With both of our lives getting busier and more stressful at work, neither of us cares to clean after getting home from work, so we end up being bogged down with household chores over the weekend. To lighten the weekend load and prevent the birth of allergy inducing dust bunnies during the week, the Fiancee ordered a Roomba and Air Rabbit from Amazon.

The Roomba is a vacuum cleaning robot. Resembling an oversized hocky puck wielding little side sweeping bristles, the Roomba sits in its battery charging unit until the programmed time comes for it to work its magic. The Roomba moves from room to room vacuuming and dusting every inch of your home so that you don't have to. Upon completion, the Roomba parks itself back in its battery charging unit and lets out a little victory tune. The Fiancee programmed our Roomba to work at 5PM on 3 days during the week so that we'd both come home to a dust bunny-free apartment.

The Air Rabbit is a stationary air purifying system. In addition to sucking up dust particles, it also eats up germs and odors. As long as the unit is plugged in, the Air Rabbit kicks on automatically to clean up any dust, germs or odors that it detects. It also has a "turbo" mode to allow its zealous filters to clear the air in especially overwhelming situations.

Since we've had it, the Air Rabbit has done a fantastic job. We no longer see dust particles floating in the air, and both of our allergies have improved. If we were to deep fry in the kitchen, the smell of deep fried foods no longer lingers so that we have to open a window to let the freezing winter air clear out the smell. Before the Air Rabbit, we'd fry our food, bundle up in our puffy winter coats, and then open up both the front door and a window to create an air tunnel to whisk away the smell. I'd always want to hide away from the door, as passers-by probably wondered why the crazy Asian people down the hall were sitting at the dinner table with teeth chattering in their ski jackets.

On the other hand, the Roomba worked well only after a little trial and error. When we first got the robot, we were curious to see how it worked, so we charged it up and watched it go. The Roomba made diagonal lines across the room, changing directions when it bumped into something, or deciding to make a straight line to follow a wall. The robot danced around chairs or sometimes seemed a bit confused as it went around in circles over the same leg repeatedly. Eventually, it would move on to another leg and continue on its way. Sometimes, the Roomba would start out moving in larger and larger concentric circles. Regardless, in the ten minutes or so that we watched it clean, it seemed to be working fine. So, the Fiancee programmed a 5PM start time on Monday, Wednesday and Friday.

On the first Monday that it ran, I came home to find the Roomba parked back in its battery charging unit. It seemed to have done its job aside from chewing up the living room rug and missing the bathroom and a few dusty spots here and there. For its Wednesday run, the Fiancee decided to roll up the rug and put all chairs up on tables (the way restaurants do) to help the Roomba do a better job. With chair legs to bump into, get confused over and waste its batteries turning around in circles, it seemed like the solution to achieve the maximum benefit would be to clear the path as much as possible. Rolling up the rug would also prevent the Roomba from mistaking the edges for dirt and trying feverishly to suck up the entire rug.

When I got home on Wednesday, the Roomba was not in its battery charging unit. Why was the door between the hall and vanity area shut? We never shut that. Now, I was getting scared. Had someone else been in the apartment? Were they still here? The Fiancee wouldn't get back for another half hour. Timidly, I reached out to the door handle and pushed it open. It was then that I could hear a worn out motor churning. Argh! All of the doors were shut. The Roomba had gone from room to room, shutting doors and had finally locked itself in the bathroom where it was sluggishly bumping around from wall to wall trying to find a way out. It never even made it to the bedroom! I picked the tired Roomba off the bathroom floor and dropped it back off to its battery charging unit where it let out a victory tune. What was it so proud of?! It had done a terrible job and gave me a little scare.

Since we didn't have any doorstops handy for its Friday run, we pushed all of the doors wide open against the walls, hoping that this would help the Roomba do its job thoroughly and return home to its battery charging unit. But on Friday, I came home to find that the Roomba had locked itself in the bedroom this time in addition to missing a few dusty spots in the living room. We didn't have time that weekend to buy a pack of doorstops, so we stuffed cardboard under all of the doors to keep them open and stop the Roomba from locking itself into either the bathroom, bedroom or vanity area.

For its Monday run, I came home to find the Roomba parked in its battery charging unit. All doors had stayed open, but the place looked like a hurricane had run through it. In the kitchen, a folding chair that we lean up against a wall was knocked flat on the floor. In the living room, we'd forgotten to roll up the rug which was now twisted and ruffled on the floor. A lamp was knocked over. Another lamp's cord was ripped out of the wall. The laptop's computer battery was pulled off of its cord and dragged across the room. But the apartment was clean, with no dusty spots missed. Damn robot was now developing an attitude!

After this, the Fiancee decided to use the guides, little electronic signalling devices, that came with the machine to block it from entering the kitchen and signal it to enter other rooms so that it wouldn't let out its aggression in one room for too long. The Fiancee also moved its "home" to under the bed rather than keep it outside in the livingroom where its base and cords made for a messy look. This time, we rolled up any lamp cords and made sure that the laptop battery was safely tucked away from the floor. When we came home on Wednesday, the Fiancee looked under the bed to see if the Roomba had gone home. It wasn't there. Nor was it locked in the bathroom or visible anywhere in the livingroom. Where was it?! Had the robot run away? Did it somehow open the front door and leave?! We'd spent over $300 on that thing. How could it just leave?! Now we couldn't even return it. After a little searching, the Fiancee found the Roomba tucked away behind a large houseplant in the bedroom. Its battery was exhausted. The Fiancee picked the Roomba up and shoved it into its battery charging unit where it let out its usual victory tune.

Over the weekend, we bought a pack of doorstops and placed them under all of the doors. The guides were all set up again, and we cleared the floors of chairs, rugs and cords. The Fiancee also moved the Roomba's home to under the vanity which is a more open, central location so that the Roomba would not have a hard time finding its home base. The next Monday, I'd forgotten to check the Roomba's whereabouts when I got home. The Fiancee and I rushed to make a light dinner while the Air Rabbit sucked up any kitchen odors. We wolfed our food down and hurriedly dumped the dishes into the dishwasher before changing into our gym clothes. After waiting about 15 minutes for our food to digest, we squeezed in a quick, but pretty intense gym workout. I was drenched after the workout when we got back to the apartment. It then dawned on us to check the Roomba.

We were both pleased to find that the robot was parked at home under the vanity. All of the doors had stayed open with its doorstops in place, nothing had been knocked over, and the floors were dust free. We'd found the perfect combination! Our Roomba was now behaving.

As the Fiancee hopped into the shower, I leaned over the kitchen counter and gulped down a glass of orange juice to quench my post-workout thirst, satisfied with the results of both of our housekeeping robots. Then out of nowhere, the Air Rabbit kicked into turbo.

Cantaloupes

In the Asian culture, it’s common practice to give fruit as gifts. And I’m not talking about pretty Harry and David gift boxes or fancy pre-packaged fruit baskets – I’m talking about fruit on sale from your local grocery store packaged in the same plastic bag that would have lined your trashcan if it weren’t being used to carry a gift.

Growing up, I watched my parents visit friends and family bearing bags full of crisp, juicy Asian pears, Fuji apples or sometimes meaty loquats plucked fresh off of my aunt’s tree down the street. Many times after having dinner at the Fiancee’s home, my future mother-in-law would rummage through her basket of fresh fruit, placing her best white peaches, mangoes or oranges into a plastic grocery bag for me to take home to my mom. In turn, my mother would fill a plastic bag full of golden kiwis or giant apples and hand them to my Fiancee to bring back to his mother after having dropped me off home.

More formal occasions might call for crates of fruit rather than plastic bags. I once bumped into an old childhood friend at a Korean grocery store after having not seen her for about five years. When I asked what she was doing there, she answered that she was headed out to a graduation ceremony and, nodding toward the crates of Asian pears, white peaches and golden kiwis, wanted to pick up some fruit as a graduation gift. Another time, an old coworker brought crates of mandarin oranges on her last day of work as a parting gift.

So despite growing up in America, where your host may seem baffled or even insulted at receiving plastic bags of fruit, I’m familiar with the custom, but know to keep it within my Asian circle. Otherwise, I know to bring a bottle of wine or a nicely packaged dessert.

A few weeks ago, the Fiancee and I were doing our usual weekend grocery shopping at the local Pathmark where sweet, juicy cantaloupes were on sale. Knowing that I’d end up having to scoop up a rotten mess from the kitchen floor if we bought more than we could finish, I limited the Fiancee to two cantaloupes only. About five minutes later, I found the Fiancee wheeling a cart holding four cantaloupes.

Hey, I thought I said two only. You know these are just going to rot!

Oh, I know. I picked up two extra for our friends upstairs.

Oh, alright.

I decided not to question the Fiancee any further as long as only two of those cantaloupes were for us.

Back at home unloading groceries, I noticed a plastic grocery bag holding two cantaloupes with a note taped to it saying, “From [Fiancee]”.

Hey, did our friends ask you to pick these up for them?

No. I just wanted to give them some fruit for all of the times last week that they drove me home because of the snowstorms.

You’re giving them cantaloupes in a plastic bag as a gift?

Yeah, who doesn’t love fruit?

But they’re not Asian. I don’t think they’ll understand. They might not know what this is. You’re just going to leave a bag of fruit from Pathmark on their doorstep with a post it saying nothing more than it’s from you?

Of course they’ll get it! Why wouldn’t they appreciate this? It’s fruit. Who doesn’t love fruit?

Not wanting to insult the Fiancee’s gift any further, I let him run upstairs and drop the bag of cantaloupes onto our friends’ doorstep. Meanwhile, I stood in the kitchen snickering at the memory of all of the perplexed non-Asian faces of friends who’d once asked me to explain why so-and-so felt the urge to do a portion of their grocery shopping one week. Then I imagined how our upstairs friends might react:

We’re definitely switching back to FreshDirect.

(tripping) Damn neighbors keep dropping their bags on our doorstep!

Did we forget to do something?

The child in me wanted to run upstairs and hide behind a plant until our friends came home just to see the looks on their faces.

Early Kickoff of Ski Season

It's that time of year again when the weather gets cold, snow falls and Fiancee's friends, coworkers and boss kindly offer up their Vermont cabins and vacation homes up to those (me & Fiancee) less fortunate. Nothing I can complain about when we get free lodging next to a ski resort. The Fiancee and I went two weekends in a row and will be going again next weekend. With all this practice I'm getting on the slopes, I'd better improve by the end of this season!
For the first weekend in Vermont, the Fiancee's friends won a weekend stay at a Vermont cabin that sleeps ten. Bright and early at 4AM on Saturday morning, the Fiancee's friend showed up at our doorstep ready for a 3 1/2 hour road trip. I managed to drag myself out of bed and into the backseat of the friend's car where I fell right back to sleep for most of the drive (I'm not the most exciting travel buddy on a road trip, (maybe) unless I'm driving). When we arrived at the cabin in Vermont, everyone else was already there from the night before. After quickly unloading our bags and grabbing a bite to eat at the cabin, the three of us dashed off to Mount Snow, anxious to hit the slopes.
It was freezing cold out there, but the conditions were perfect with a thick blanket of white, powdery snow so soft that falling felt like landing on a fluffy pillow. Generally, these conditions are ideal for improving your technique with the diminished consequences of falling. But for some reason, on my second black diamond (what was I thinking?!) I must have looked a bit inexperienced while trying to maneuver my way to the left for a smoother (although extremely steep) descent down rather than to the right where I was headed for the bumpy, mogul-filled terrain. Looking a little bit flustered that I had skiied a little too much toward the right, I turned my head after hearing a nearby voice:
Miss, you're not a real good skiier, are you?
Huh? Ummm, well...
You really should turn back. These trails are the toughest on the mountain. It's really dangerous. If you take your skis off and walk back uphill, you'll find some nice greens and blues that would be much better for you.
Ok.
Go back up the mountain. You shouldn't be here.
Now, I realize that the old man was concerned for my safety and just trying to help, but this confidence-draining, fear-inducing advice was not helpful now that I was standing on a massively steep black diamond slope.
My first inclination was to take the man's advice. Stuck on the side of the mountain, I popped off my skis (Mistake #1 - Not being "a real good skiier", having to put your skis back on while standing on a near vertical slope is really a two, maybe even three, person job) and started inching my way back up to the top of the mountain (Mistake #2 - Try inching your way up a near vertical slope. Add on the pressure of thinking that everyone on the ski lift above you is staring at this ridiculously pathetic sight. Throw in a pair of skis and poles to hand carry and tell me that you wouldn't slip and slide). The slope was just way too steep and slippery. I hadn't gone more than 6 inches before I found myself sliding uncontrollably down the mountain on my stomach. I thought I'd never stop, but eventually did. Now I was in a state of distress. There was no way I was climbing back up the mountain after sliding down about a third of it, and the final two-thirds of it was still frighteningly steep. Sitting hopelessly on the side of the mountain, I pulled out my cell phone and decided to call the Fiancee for advice. He had been waiting patiently for me about halfway down the mountain and had already taken off his snowboard to climb up the mountain to look for me when I called. Climbing up a steep mountain is slow and tiring, so I slid myself down a bit more until we met. The Fiancee helped me back into my skis and cheered me on the whole way until I made it safely down the mountain. I was done with black diamonds after that. We finished off our day with a few more blue intermediate slopes and then headed back to the cabin after 5-6 hours on the slopes.
Back at the cabin, we all showered up before the Fiancee started to make everyone a nice dinner of Cuban-style chicken with rice, black beans and fried plantains. The cabin was nearly empty by the time we got back, as the other group had hit the slopes and came back about an hour after we did.
Everyone munched on a variety of gourmet cheeses and crackers while sipping wine until our scrumptious dinner was ready, which we all devoured, especially since we'd had a full day on the mountain. And then for our evening entertainment, we had shots and board games. My favorite was Balderdash where you had to make up definitions to words that no one has ever heard of on little strips of paper. The mediator would also write out a fake definition and the real definition on strips of paper before reading out the word, each made up definition, and the real definition. Then it was everyone's turn to guess the correct definition to win points. Points were also awarded to those whose made up definitions fooled others. I didn't guess the correct definition too often, but my made up definitions fooled enough people to put me in the running for first place at one point even though I finished third at the end. By now, I was too full of rum and too short on sleep to stay up much longer. The Fiancee, his friend and I turned in early. We'd have to drive out early the next morning since the Fiancee's friend had a family event to attend in the early evening.
The following weekend, the Fiancee's coworker offered up his Vermont vacation home to a few coworkers, which brought us back up to Vermont for another weekend. The Fiancee and I drove up at around 7AM on Saturday and arrived a little after 11AM. We decided to relax at the house on Saturday and have Sunday for a full day of skiing. While the coworkers did a half day on the slopes, the Fiancee and I napped by the fire, then read quietly, then napped again and then finally went out for a bit of snowshoeing around the house and over the frozen lake outside. Later that night, we all went out to a local seafood restaurant for dinner before settling back in the house to play drinking card games, which I don't find quite as fun as playing board games while drunk. Most drinking card games are about luck. All you do is flip a few cards here and there, and you're bound to end up drinking every other time. To me, it doesn't seem much different than everyone sitting in a circle and just taking sips one after another. But anyway, the Fiancee and I didn't want to get too hammered since we were going to ski the next day, so we turned in a little before midnight and tried not to drink too much.
The next day was horrible for skiing, as it was sprinkling. Regardless, we decided that we could handle skiing in the rain. Surprisingly, there were quite a few people on the slopes despite the bad weather. Supposedly, skiing in the rain is actually advantageous since it helps your control (or so the ticket lady kept saying). I think I might agree with that, but the Fiancee absolutely didn't. On a snowboard, he found that the rain made the slopes icy and hard to stay up on. My only complaint was that I was soaking wet even though my ski clothes claimed to be waterproof (guess it has it's limits). After about an hour and a half of tumbling around in slush, neither of us was having much fun, so we wasted our day of skiing and went back to the house to dry up, have lunch and then drive home.

Barbeque Flames

I must have known Joan of Arc in a past life because for as long as I can remember, I've always been terrified of fire. I don't think I lit my first match until I was well into my twenties. Also, when I first started cooking, I must have looked quite awkward trying to stir the contents of my pots and pans with my arm extended out as far as possible while standing a few feet away from the stove.

Contrary to me, my fiancee, an avid cook, loves to experiment with different culinary techniques and has always pushed me to tackle my fear of fire, as having a nervous assistant in the kitchen can be quite distracting. The first time that the Fiancee announced he was going to flambay something, I think I backed myself into the kitchen's farthest corner near a door and refused to move as long as he was continuing on with his plan to burn the whole place down.

Over the years, I've gotten more used to and comfortable with fire. I no longer stand far away from the stove when cooking, and when things boil over, causing quick flashes of orange to flicker up into the air, I know to just turn the heat down rather than scream and point until someone else does it for me. But every once in a while, a situation pops up that revives remnants of my old scaredy cat self.

To start, a couple of months ago on a Friday after work, the Fiancee had an urge to fire up the barbeque. Anticipating that this urge would come, he already had chicken legs, thighs and breasts marinating in the refrigerator from the night before. After grabbing a pair of tongs, plates, utensils, chips and chicken, the two of us headed downstairs and fired up the grill. I sat on the benches unloading the plates, utensils and chips while the Fiancee lit the fires and threw on the meat. About 5 minutes into barbequeing, the Fiancee noticed that we had no beer and wanted to run across the street for a six pack.

Regardless of how miffed I looked at the thought of being left alone in the dark to stand next to a burning grill, nothing was going to get between the Fiancee and his beer. He assured me that everything would be alright, I'd only have to flip the chicken once or twice, and he'd be back in 5 minutes.

Standing about an arm and a tong's length away from the grill, I reached over as far as possible and flipped each piece of chicken over once. Alright, that wasn't so bad. It was getting a little hot, but everything was still under control. A couple of minutes later, I decided the flip the chicken over once more. As the grease from the chicken dripped into the fire, the flames started to really pick up. Now it was getting really hot. Ok, turn down the heat, and stop flipping until the Fiancee returns. But the grease kept on dripping, and the fire just kept climbing higher and higher. This was really making me nervous. Pretty soon, the grill looked like it was engulfed in flames. The fire was so high that I could no longer flip the chicken without burning my arm off. Where the hell was he?! What was I supposed to do? Nervously, I looked around, but I was still alone, which prompted my executive decision to shut the grill and kill the fire.
About 10 minutes after he'd left, the Fiancee returned with his beer.

What happened to the fire? Why is it off?

Ummm...it's all done.

Wow! That was fast! Let's eat.

But I couldn't risk us both getting salmonella poisoning, so I quickly confessed to prematurely shutting off the heat. The Fiancee fired up the grill again and finished cooking the chicken.

Homemade Ice Cream

What's your favorite flavor of ice cream? Coffee? Chocolate chip? Just plain old vanilla? Mine's black sesame. A friend first introduced me to black sesame ice cream years ago on a trip to Australia when exotic Asian ice cream flavors such as lychee, green tea, passionfruit and sweet corn hit Sydney as the new fad. At first, I was scared to try black sesame ice cream despite my friend's recommendations since it looked (and probably would taste) like charcoal. But as we went out for ice cream several times during my stay, I eventually mustered up the courage to try it, and it was the most delicious flavor I'd ever tasted. Every night after that until I boarded a flight back home, I went out for a scoop of black sesame ice cream after dinner.

I expected the ice cream fad to hit Monterey Park just as it had Australia, but it never did. Meanwhile, I scoured the Southland for another taste of black sesame ice cream, but only found a few pathetic excuses for the flavor. They weren't even trying! Any version of black sesame ice cream that I found in the US wasn't even black and only had a slight hint of sesame flavor.

After years of trying to find and buy black sesame ice cream to satisfy my cravings only to see me toss it aside and declare, "It's not like the one in Australia", the Fiancee finally gave up and bought me an ice cream machine so that I could make the perfect black sesame ice cream myself. I was so excited!! The first time I made ice cream, I wanted to follow the exact instructions so that I would know what homemade ice cream should taste like when it's made right. Only after that would I attempt to modify the recipe to suit my own tastes.

My new Hamilton Beach ice cream maker came with an easy recipe for a basic vanilla ice cream which could be modified to any flavor you'd like. Perfect! I'd follow the recipe and flavor it with black sesame powder. First, I put in lots of sugar, then lots of extremely fatty whipping cream, a tiny bit of skim milk, a drop of vanilla extract, and then a bunch of black sesame bars we'd bought from China which turned into a powder when crumbled. I had no idea how fatty ice cream could be. Just looking at this thick, lard-like mixture made me want to gag. But I was determined to make a pint of the perfect black sesame ice cream, so I dumped the concoction into the frozen, churning machine.

About 45 minutes later, the ice cream was done. After dipping a spoon into the machine to scoop up a tiny bite, my tongue rolled over the rich, flavorful ice cream. I had made a damn good version of black sesame ice cream, but aware that I was eating a once liquified, now frozen form of pure lard, I wanted to gag. No matter how good the ice cream was, I couldn't get he thick, soupy image out of my head. After seeing how much sugar and heavy cream were required, the Fiancee would barely touch it. I had to come up with a less fatty version.

So, I googled a low fat ice cream recipe, and found one that used soy milk and gelatin mixed with a little bit of apple juice as the emulsifying agent rather than heavy cream. The recipe reviews promised a great tasting, nonfat ice cream. I'd found it! I'd have an edible homemade ice cream in no time! Following the recipe, I boiled soy milk sweetened with honey and vanilla extract. Then I mixed in a packet of unflavored gelatin soaked in a few teaspoons of apple juice. Finally, I chilled the mixture in the refrigerator overnight, as the recipe had instructed. Expecting a runny soy mixture the next day, I was somewhat shocked to find a pot of solid soy vanilla jello as I was getting ready to pour the ingredients into the ice cream machine. Reasoning that it must be right, as I'd followed the instructions exactly, I loosened my jello and dumped it into the ice cream maker.

About a half hour later, I ended up with something that looked and tasted a lot like snow. The texture and flavor were so completely off that the Fiancee and I gagged trying to eat it. Now my freezer was full of "ice cream" that neither of us wanted to touch.

A couple of weeks later to prevent a buildup of "ice cream" in the freezer, I returned the machine. Supposedly, the Chinatown Ice Cream Factory makes black sesame ice cream. If I can't drag the Fiancee out there, I'll drag V instead.