Antebellum
Stupid. Fucking. Weather.
Writers and poets have always called Spring the season of change. Personally, I like to think of this change as a gradual shift from the frozen, dead winter to vivid life.
What I've seen this year, however, has been sporadic warm days, three days a week of rain, and a downward spiral of temperature from March. Pleasant days pass in an ambling stride - but at a breakneak pace. Even as I encounter the scattered beautiful spring mornings and afternoons, it becomes clear to me how damn little time there is.
Two days until the last math team meet and Madame Arnoldy's Magnum Opus, Hope in Haiti evening. There's only a week until the APs come like soldiers and only four or so weeks until the Greatest Generation shuffles off of this secondary-educational coil forever. SAT1 scores come in, whilst expletives go out.
I was making tofu the other day. Amazing stuff, tofu. It really has no taste or substance whatsoever; that I like tofu remains a mystery to myself, even. Acquired taste? Perhaps.
To understand The Tofu, one must first understand the circumstances that lead up to The Making Of The Tofu (MOTT). The interaction was something like this.
TheBuchanan is reading the history textbook.
AznParent666 (6:23p.m.): I'M LEAVING NOW. MAKE TOFU.
Auto-response from TheBuchanan (6:23p.m.): kthxbai
AznParent666 signed off at 6:23p.m.
TheBuchanan returned from away at 6:55p.m.
AznParent666 signed on at 7:00p.m.
AznParent666 (7:00p.m.): WHY HAVEN'T YOU MADE TOFU
TheBuchanan (7:01p.m.): ... Fuck.
Making dinner is singularly unpleasant when an unhappy Asian is in the vicinity. The coldness and dampness of the three blobioids, jiggling on my hand, froze my liver. I procured a large, dull knife from the drawer... Slowly, carefully, I set the icy gelatin on the cutting board. I ran my hand under the cold water, restoring some of the feeling and loosening the icy cramp in my liver. I gave delicate slices to dissect the lumps of tofu. The soft substance slices easier than butter; it disintegrates with the little structure it has. My mom, meanwhile, is bustling around, the very sign of competence, stomping on the kitchen floor like a Communist Godzilla. The moment I finished my last cut, she seized the dull weapon from my hand and brandished it, waving it in my face even as she yelled incoherently.
BAM! BAM! BAM! BAM! The knife came down rapidly, terrifyingly, accurately, upon the other raw food items that my mom was processing. The sound electrified me, but I retained enough of my basic functions to move toward the pan and get it ready. I watched the angry Asian's face contorted horribly; she spoke contemptuously at my inability to measure desired vegetable oil accurately. Finally, she set down the knife, and I managed to use it to slice some seasoning for the mixture.
The fire was going, and I was stirring the tofu complacently. The tofu, barely malleable in its former shape, now resembled slugs in its motion and consistency, only slimier. Beside me, the Asian's adept knifework continued to beat upon the eardrums of war. But the sneering was now incapable of deterring me from my task. Sure, there wasn't enough salt or soy sauce, and sure, there was something definitely wrong about tofu drowning in a bowl of oil, and I suppose that you could make a case against the liberal amount of "hot sauce" spices that I added. But in the end... actually, there was really no point at all to this anecdote about making tofu. The tofu came out thoroughly mediocre and unremarkable. I... damn.
Into this mix comes my new profession: Professional psychologist! Oh, yes. My life is now "HUNG, SD" - a drama with sitcom elements. The show stars young, good-looking, witty, slightly arrogant Asian psychologist Jack Hung. Currently, I'm unsure exactly what a psychologist does, but I do imagine that it involves "psychoanalyzing" different students who suffer in school, due to academic stress, social stress, stupidity, or any number of factors.
SD
Apr. 26, '06
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