Yo-ho, yo-ho. An expatriate's life for me.

I know what you’re thinking, and yes, it’s been a long time (over a month? Sheesh!). In my defence, I’ve been busy.

December is for Creationism

I wrote this on the first day of December. I wanted to publish it as is, rather than editing it due to the delay in posting. Sorry about that, by the way; my VPN has been on the fritz lately. Enjoy!

*    *    *

Don’t let this title alarm you. I’m not looking to have an evolution discussion, especially not here on my Chinablog (and besides, Bill Nye the Science Guy said it best). Instead, I want to talk about my own version of creationism…

PCV Cribs

In an attempt to return to my social-outcast, over-achieving roots, I am going to go above and beyond the BlogThings prompt. I’m not going to take a picture of something I see on a regular basis; I am going to take nine pictures of something I see on a regular basis! (That’s not entirely true; really, my desire to take more photos is an attempt to usurp the topic and post a blog I mentioned wanting to write a year ago.)

I see many things on a regular basis, but the most common—besides the trash heap outside my building—is my flat itself. If you followed the link to my post from a year ago (nearly to the day, believe it or not), I mentioned wanting to create a post about my humble abode. 我的家.

China and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day

Let me tell you about my day…

I was supposed to observe one of my Chinese colleagues at eight this morning. I awoke at 7:15 to a severe la duzi (拉 肚子) fit—so I cancelled that. Regardless, I wanted to make the day worthwhile. I worked through the morning: washed a load of laundry, ironed my trousers, graded midterms, organised and tidied up my flat and even found a website to watch the last episode of The Walking Dead.

Other than cancelling to spend too much time on the porcelain throne, I would have to say all in all, a great morning. Then I left for a lunch date I had made with a couple of PCVs and another foreign teacher at my university. I successfully ordered some zi ran tudou pian (孜然土豆片) over rice, and it was delicious.

At this point, China turned on me. It was no longer a good day...

...In the Sky

Today is a special day. It is a momentous occasion very dear to me. Today is a hallowed celebration of every great, circular mind ever to consider the impending greatness of nature, and that says nothing of the fact that it is Einstein’s birthday.

Today is 14 March 2010.

Today is Pi Day.

I LOVE Pi Day. I love it so much I had to use capital letters to better express the severity of my love. I have done something to celebrate Pi Day every year since high school (yeah, I’m pretty cool). In college, I surprised one of my math professors—who never took kindly to my shenanigans, I might add—with those Little Debbie Pies for our entire class. Last year, I bought a pie from Martin’s and shame-ate it for dinner.

The greatest Pi Day celebration came while I was studying in London. Upon mentioning my adoration for the holiday, my ambitious and amazing friends said we should just make a pie ourselves. We googled a recipe, bought the supplies and had a fantastic evening.

This year, again finding myself out of the country, I decided I should again attempt the terrifying task of baking a pie. Don’t fret; this will not be a hive-inducing account of my endeavour. Instead it will be a charming tale of success and whimsy.

As I mentioned in the aforementioned hive-inducing post, my kitchen is less than ideal. My knowledge and skills with an oven are even less competent than my stovetop abilities. Couple that with my hand-me-down toaster oven, and I was fairly nervous. Something was going to go wrong.

So, to alleviate my anxiety, I reached out to another Lanzhou PCV—the amazing Courtney—who is not only knowledgeable in the realm of baking, but has proven it time and again, bringing delicious baked goods to our many potlucks. I asked her some questions referencing various recipes I had poured over online. Her response not only answered my questions, but extended an invitation to tag-team the pie at her place, where all the necessary ingredients were already gathered.

She's making it up as she
goes, and it's perfect

Deal.

Today was a particularly occupied day personally, so the preparations and production of Pi Day’s eponymous and pleasantly palatable pie took place previously. And by previously, I mean yesterday.

Mmmm. Doughball.

The crust was a simple combination of shortening, flour, salt and water. We didn’t have an actual measuring cup (because I left mine in my flat), so we improvised the amounts, and with Courtney’s experience, it wasn’t a problem. I wish I could tell you what kind of apples they were, but I bought them off the back of a truck outside my university.

Adding that bit of ginger
was a stroke of genius.

After the apples were washed, pealed and chopped, we squeezed some lemon juice over them and added just a pinch of fresh, grated ginger. We tossed them in a mixture of flour, sugar and cinnamon. (If there was one thing I could do over, I would have discovered the brown sugar in her pantry sooner and added it to this mix.)

Mmmm. Apple filling.

When we rolled out the crust, it was a tad difficult, but we managed. I had a glass platter in my flat that looked close enough to a pie tin, so we used that. Crust on the bottom, then a filling full of delicious apples. Apparently, it’s good to put a bit of butter over the apples before adding the top of the pie. I learned that after we put the top on and Courtney realised we forgot.

Into the oven it went after a brushing of egg. Fast forward however long it took to bake… and it was done. It smelled marvellous.

The before.

The delicious after.

With the leftover crust and apples, we made a couple muffin-sized mini pies. Although, we wondered if they should be called tarts instead. They followed the pie into the oven, and smelled equally marvellous. As a reward for our efforts, we split one of the minis.

What do you think?
Should it be called a tart?

I hope you enjoy your Pi Day. Even if you don’t bake your own pie, eat something circular, learn about the history of Pi, thank Leonard Euler for popularising the use of π and take the Pi Day Challenge.

I washed while Courtney handled
the dough.

She was showing off while
I was using a peeler.

The goal was to get a picture of
me cutting myself. Alas...

The delicious mix, pre-apple. 

The delicious mix, post-apple.

We peeled an extra apple? Don't mind if I do. 

I was told to poke holes in the bottom to help it cook
properly. Whaddya think? 

Quotation of the evening: "Instead of slits,
we'll just call these 'butter holes'!"

On Cooking...

I’ve joked many times about not being an adult. Mostly, it’s banter, but sometimes I wonder if I really mean it, because there are lots of things I associate with adulthood that I either cannot do, or have never done. I wonder why I feel as though I need these life experiences to give myself the peace of mind.

The more I think about these “adult-making” experiences—these rights of passage—the more I think they are my attempts to emulate my father. Growing up, Mom had to work nights, which left Dad to deal with feeding my brother and I. This was never a problem, because my dad loves to cook. I have many memories of nights after band practice, or cross-country practice, or track practice, or theatre rehearsal, sitting on the sofa reading or doing homework while my brother played games on the computer. The television may be on, but if so, it was muted, because my father had some Steely Dan or blues radio cranked, cranked so he could enjoy it in the kitchen. He would be sipping on a glass of wine, or a beer, peeling or chopping, slicing or boiling, frying or baking. Even if it was an “easy” night with a frozen pizza (or two, if Tim and I were in-season), he was cutting up extra onions, peppers and olives and covering it all in extra mozzarella cheese.

It was a mystery the things he did (and still does) in the kitchen. When I was young, I guess I was always too scared to get in his way. I took it for granted that there was a chef preparing my dinners. (And, let the record state, my mother is also a phenomenal cook. Some nights, we would come home to find things already prepared: lasagna in the oven or a roast in the Crockpot; it was always delicious.)

Flash forward to college: I lived in a dorm, so I never cooked. I was on a meal plan. Cooking was still not necessary. That is, until my junior year, when I spent a semester living in London. That semester, I had to cook for myself. It was terrifying, but I found out I could make a mean chicken noodle soup with bouillon and carrots… so I ate that a lot. My other tactic was to team up and help my friends cook. They could do it well, so I learned some things from them.

Fast forward and I was living at home again, waiting for my Peace Corps application to be processed. Mom still worked nights; I was working at a high school, still coming home late from grading and lesson planning. When I got home, it’s déjà vu. Dad’s cooking and working his magic. I wanted to help. I had acquired some dexterity in the kitchen. Every time I prepared and cooked dinner, something went wrong. My father had to step in and help me out, or I was asking for it because I panicked. I was still a failure in the kitchen, but I was at least working along side my dad, trying to learn everything I could before I left the country.

Fast forward again, and follow me across the Pacific. I find myself with my own, albeit small, kitchen. The last volunteer who lived here told me he rarely cooked, because it was, “just easier to eat out, and just as cheap”. That’s totally true, but dammit, I want to cook. There are many things I hope to gain from my Peace Corps experience, and one of them is an ease and competency in the kitchen. So armed with the knowledge and experience from London, my father and that delightful Wii game Cooking Mama, the following is the narrative I wrote 17 November, 2011, after cooking my first meal in my flat.

***

I am afraid of cooking. I can’t do it. I’ve never been any good at it. However, I feel obligated to start doing it. Chinese food isn’t always the healthiest, especially most of the food I eat off the street. This is a way I can have more control of what I consume. I want to be healthy.

I’ve been avoiding actually cooking. I cleaned my kitchen over two months ago. Then I put off buying a frying pan or wok. You see, my kitchen doesn’t have a stovetop, which scares me even more. The very little experience I have in the kitchen is on a stove. Now, all I have is a half-busted hotplate and this wok I bought last week. I’ve never cooked on a hotplate, nor in a wok.

Because I have a wok (and because it seems simple enough), I’ve decided my first meal is going to be fried rice. How hard can it be, right? I have rice (of course I have rice), and I found some beautiful red bell peppers on the street today. It’s the first time I’ve seen bell peppers in China, so I bought a couple and some carrots. Thinking about fried rice I had at Chinese restaurants back home, I remember there being egg in it, so I bought a couple of those, too.

I have a rice cooker. I’m so glad I have a rice cooker. That makes that part of the process so much easier. Cup of rice and a cup of water into the cooker, then “set it, and forget it!” (Sorry, that’s a terrible reference.)

Peeling the carrots and chopping up the veggies, I can’t help but wonder if I’m using an appropriate amount. I guess it doesn’t really matter. However, I worry a lot when I cook. I’m so afraid I’m going to ruin it. In fact, I almost cut myself at one point because I was worrying instead of paying attention to the cutting I was doing. I’m using a big ole cleaver. My host-dad in Chengdu always used a cleaver, no matter what he was cutting or chopping. I assume that means I’m integrating, right? Not only am I preparing a Chinese meal, but I’m using a knife that my sensibilities tell me is too big because that’s how I’ve seen Chinese people do it.

Now that all the veggies are chopped, I guess it’s time to turn on the hotplate. I wasn’t sure what kind of oil to buy. Back home, my family uses olive oil for everything. I can’t verify this, but I think it’s because it is healthy. I wanted to get olive oil, until I saw the price. It’s apparently a luxury item here in China, so it’s not happening on my budget. I went with peanut oil because someone told me that fish oil pops more and smells bad.

Alright, oil is hot and the veggies are in. When I see people do this on the street, the wok is just as hot as can be, and they just constantly move the things around in the wok. I’m not that daring, so I’ll turn the heat down and stir occasionally. I wonder if I should season this stuff. I have salt, pepper, paprika, basil and oregano. It was here when I arrived, but because the last guy said he didn’t cook, I imagine it’s been here a while. I guess I may as well put some stuff in it. It can’t hurt, right? Those are famous last words, but in this context, I assume if it does hurt, it’ll just be my taste buds.

This is taking too long. I’m getting impatient. I’m going to turn up the heat. I want to cook these veggies more before I add the eggs.

This is going really fast. I feel like I’m having an anxiety attack. It’s hot and I’m stirring it around constantly. I guess it’s time to add the eggs. Should I turn the heat down? I mean, if I’m cracking eggs, I can’t be stirring at the same time. I’m not one of those crack-an-egg-with-one-hand people. I’ll leave it hot. I’ve never been good at cracking eggs, even with two hands. Again, I wonder how many I should use. Two sounds like a good number. Crack. Dump. No shell. Crack. Dump. No shell. 

I chose poorly. I should have turned the heat down. I definitely burned the peppers and carrots a bit. Oh, well. It happens. I need to keep stirring this. The egg is sticking a lot. The rice cooker just turned off, so as soon as these eggs look cooked, I’ll add the rice.

I’m so dumb! Do I have the memory of a goldfish!?? I forgot to turn down the hotplate while adding the rice to the wok, and burned the eggs and veggies a bit. It’s not a lot. It just adds colour. Stir, stir, stir the rice. Don’t stop stirring. I want to fry the rice quickly and I’m done. Oh! I have an idea. Why don’t I add some soy sauce to the wok? That’ll make it taste better, I think.

Well, the soy sauce has made the rice change colour, but it’s now more the colour I remember fried rice being Stateside. That’s a good sign. I guess it’s “fried” enough. Time to serve it up and hope for the best. The plan is to enjoy this dinner with a glass or two of aloe juice (it was on sale at the supermarket) and watch SNL on my computer.

 

***

Dinner was a success that night, and the episode of SNL was pretty funny, too. In fact, since then, doing some sort of fried rice type of dish has been my go-to meal. It’s so easy to do, especially when the only pan I have is a wok.

Cooking for myself has been a learning process. I’m finding google to be a great resource if I have a question I need answered. However, better still is when I get a long email from my mom or my dad, giving me advice and recommendations on how to prepare things. I’ve even emailed them a few recipes I have tried.

It seems as though we—we being the volunteers living in Lanzhou—have potluck-style dinners at least once a month. After uncomfortably showing up to the first few with only a bottle of wine, I can now prepare real food and contribute to dinner in a way that feels more substantial. I love it. As I continue to cook, I will post some successful recipes here to my blog (like the two linked above; check them out). I expect people to try them. If I can pull them off here in China, I know you can do them Stateside. 

A Very Merry Chinese Christmas

It's Christmas in China...

This is the first time I will be away from home on Christmas. I guess that officially makes me an adult?


I don't know if I have much to say, beyond merry Christmas.

There's a little slice of Christmas in my flat. Merry Christmas everyone. I hope everyone has a wonderful holiday season.

Writing is hard.

I’ve not written a lot lately. That’s untrue: I’ve written nothing lately. Other than those quick posts giving people some brief information about Lanzhou, I just haven’t found the time to sit and write. All of my time has been consumed with my job and my apartment.

It has honestly felt like I’ve been creating lesson plans since the moment the semester started. Like I mentioned in a previous post, I’m teaching sixteen hours this semester—four preps—and all of them are content courses. They told us volunteers always teach oral English, with the occasional content course. Apparently my situation is a bit different. However, I like it this way. Even though prepping for content courses is considerably more work, that’s what I’m used to; that’s what I’m comfortable with.

Unfortunately, I am still planning lessons only a couple days in advance. I’d like to get ahead at least a week or a week and a half. And midterms are coming within the next couple weeks. It’s hard to believe midterms are so close. After midterms, I’m going to get ahead in my planning. First, I should probably focus my energy preparing those.

I’ve got a few really good anecdotes from teaching so far, plus I have been brainstorming some ideas for blogs to write, so I’m hoping that when I get a VPN and full access to my blog (as well as some more free time to write), I can publish some things people really want to read.

A public notice: I will henceforth never refer to my living space as an apartment. Most people know I have a penchant for British vocabulary. Well, they do not use the word “apartment”—only “flat”—which, it should come as no surprise, I prefer tenfold. It’s easier to say; it’s faster to type; most of my students are used to European foreign teachers, who use British English; a couple of the foreign teachers on campus I’ve befriended are Europeans who lived in Britain for some time (so they’re heavily influencing my diction).

My flat is coming along nicely. The volunteer living here before me never cooked, so I have been spending a lot of time cleaning it. I wanted to make it clean enough that I was comfortable to say that I live in it. Also, if I am living in a place, I want to claim the messes there as my own. I am nearly comfortable owning the space and claiming it for my own. My other goal for the future is to publish a lot of pictures of my flat, so everyone can get an idea of what kind of space I’m living in. (If I was more technically inclined and/or had a better camera, I would make my own PCV Cribs episode. That would be a lot of fun, but I don’t have a camera that could film something like that.)