My Bane and Gregor Mendel's Life's Work

One day, when I was about five years old, my mom counted out fifteen peas for my dinner. This was the minimum intake if any of the children at the McGlinchey table wanted dessert. My little brothers got more because they loved those disgusting, roly-poly green balls, but I made it up by eating more than my fair share of spinach. After finishing my pork chops and apple sauce, as well as my mashed potatoes, I would push five of the alien-puke-colored orbs on to my spoon, using my fork because I didn’t even want to touch those vile critters. With my left hand on my glass of milk and my right hand holding the spoon unsteadily, I would, in quick succession, toss those putrid pellets to the back of my throat and then force them down my gullet with a cleansing mouthful of milk. The process would be repeated two more times, at least once a week, for the next thirteen years.

Once I moved out of home, one of the most liberating feelings for me was to be able to leave the peas on the plate. Not that I ordered them, but they would occasionally show up as the veggie side dish that came with the order. Or I would segregate them from the rest of a beef stew, leaving a dozen of them crowded into a corner of the plate. If anyone asked, I was man enough to admit my aversion to the emerald globules and confident that if that if any derision followed, I could probably name off half a dozen vegetables, from asparagus to zucchini, that the insulting party despised.

Seven months in Wales gave a whole new dimension to my disgust for peas. Every Wednesday, lunch was mutton with mint sauce (a vile dish in and of itself) and mushy peas served with an ice cream scooper. It was explained to me how the proper consistency was reached by one of the cooks, but since I was trying to suppress the gag reflex the whole time, I didn’t remember what was said afterwards.

Arriving on Taiwan, I was introduce to more varieties of vegetables, legumes, fungi and lichen with only bitter melon entering that “No-entry” group. Thanks to the freshness of the veggies, I have grown to like previous foods that were on my “Don’t Eat!” list, like broccoli, string beans and eggplant. In fact, the only food from childhood that remains verboten are peas.

Enter the concept of presentation. When I was young, a slab of meat to the right, some greens to the left and some form of potato at the top of the plate was Mom’s idea of presentation. If you didn’t like the veggies and/or their juices skirting along the edges of the scalloped taters, well, then eat faster. Nowadays, the words “wonderful presentation” is like a name brand sticker on a pair of jeans or a T-shirt. You could probably get the same dish for a quarter of the price at a New Jersey diner. And with the savings, you could leave nice tip without getting a service charge.

Chinese cooking has always made presentation a cornerstone of its cuisine, especially with the use of colors. A gray-skinned fish, complete with the head and tail, is covered in orange-tinted sweet-and-sour sauce with green shredded scallions thrown on top. Chicken soup, complete with the head and claws floating inside, is served in a colorful ceramic pot. White lobster meat is laid out on a bed of lettuce on one side of a long serving dish next to the head, antennae and tail of the boiled crimson crustacean.

Peas, due to their beryl color, are often used to add colorful contrasts to a dish. They are sometimes thrown into fried rice, along with corn and chopped-up slices of ham. Sweet and sour or spicy sauce is occasionally laced with peas. I have seen the meat fillings of steamed dumplings containing peas.

So, it just seems natural for Costco, in order to cater to the Taiwanese palate and sense of presentation, to serve a combo pizza with not only peas and corn, but also pieces of carrot. Whatever happened to onions, mushrooms and green peppers? 

Fengshui, or How Earth, Wind, and Fire Dropped Water From the Group

Fengshui. Sounds like some rare tropical fungus found under the toenails. Apparently I have been battling fengshui most of my life. At least that’s what the Asians wearing those exquisite silk jackets on various shows on different “science” channels say. Heck, if “history” channels can run shows about gator hunters and pawn shops, I guess an ancient Chinese belief can be considered science. My first experience with it was seeing a huge mirror at the entrance of the largest Daoist temple in Chiayi, the Jiuhuashan Dizang Temple. I was told that it was placed there not for narcissistic parishioners, but to prevent bad spirits from strolling into the temple. One can still see blank, shiny CD’s taped or glued to the backs of cars to prevent any gremlins from throwing a spiritual wrench into the vehicle, while scooters sometimes highlight their “NO KISS” mud flaps with an old “Best of the 80’s” as well. Graves are placed near water, like rivers, wells or even rice paddies, to be conducive to the spiritual flow. I was told that prayer rooms in private residences with shrines to a god or ancestors cannot face west, evidently the unluckiest direction of them all. It’s understandable, considering how the “west” meant desert and warring steppes tribes that, at one point, went on to rule most of Asia, including the Chinese, in spite of the Great Wall.

The design of my house has an important fengshui element: there is no clear line of sight from the front door to the back. However, since the large window next to the entrance allows a perfect view down the hall to not only the back door beyond the kitchen, but also the bathroom window at the rear of the house, curtains hang at the doorways to both rooms to prevent (or, when considering the flimsiness of the partitions, simply hinder) any good energy flow from going out the back. Unfortunately, these barriers occasionally come crashing down on my head when they get hooked on class binders I may have or a button on my cuff. I assume that this occurs when there is a build-up of non-auspicious fengshui at the curtains, thus acting as a release valve for the negative energy, though it does bother me that it always seems to happen to me and not my wife.

A few years ago, all of the clocks in the house were pointed to the south, thus allowing the hands to proceed in a westerly direction, which was supposed to be good for the position of our home. Apparently that rule about the west being unlucky is conditional, as with most things with fengshui. When I pointed out how the hands would be going towards the east at the top of the hour, I was told that I didn’t understand the concept. I didn’t dare ask about the digital timepieces

I have always wanted to go to the house of the fengshui “expert” my wife occasionally visits to see if he has followed his own advice and captured the essence (and the riches) of fengshui. Somehow, I think I would be disappointed, but then I would probably be told that such “gifted” people dispense such knowledge not for personal gain, but for the benefit of others. I wonder how such an attitude would transform Wall Street.

So, when I noticed that my wife was putting the covers down on all the toilets in the school and the house for the last few weeks, I naturally assumed that it was another “recommendation” (“order”?) from her local “advisor”. The need to prevent water, that conduit of all things spiritual, from taking away our home’s fortune seemed obvious enough. I asked her about it and, to my surprise, her actions were based on science, albeit from the Internet. One of her friends had posted a video that showed how wet and wild whirlpool created by flushing toilets spews lots of unhealthy things into the atmosphere of one’s home. So, now, I not only have to pick up both the cover and the seat when I need to urinate (Sorry, but, while I still can, I refuse to sit to pee.), but now I have to put them back down when I’m done. From now on, I’m going to hold it until I go downstairs and can use the urinals in the school’s restrooms. And since I’ll be facing south, I can rest assured that I’m not pissing away any good fortune.

Pork Fluff: the Flavor of the Beach in Your Mouth

One of the first Taiwanese words I learned was for that Taiwanese pseudo-condiment, bah-hú, or pork fluff. Dried, salted, shredded meat sold in cans and jars used to flavor congee (rice porridge) and stuff cheap sashimi. The way it seems to melt into sand in my mouth makes me want to eat any winter morning breakfast congee (gruel, if you ask me) simply plain. I learned the word after the first time I visited a Taiwanese bakery. Greasy donuts rolled in granulated sugar, like what one sprinkles on cereal, were next to some rolls that had been baked with scallions in the dough. They would have probably gone great with a steak, but not as the sweet snack I was looking for. The Taiwanese Danish were filled with an unappetizing pale purple paste that I later discovered to be taro. On a lower shelf, I saw what looked like a jelly-filled doughnut, though it was lacking any powdered sugar coating. However, it had that non-descript shape, not quite an oval, not quite a rectangle, almost trapezoidal that I remembered from the pastries my hometown German bakery used to have. This Taiwanese delicacy even had similar indentations left by the cooling rack.

So, using the tongs and the tray provided to me by a cute, tittering shop assistant, I selected my pastry and took it to the counter, where it was placed in a paper pocket and then a small plastic bag. Once outside the shop, I removed it from its wrapping, took a huge bite and promptly spit it out. As I looked inside this vile creation, I saw what seemed to be bits of chopped up jute string. Had the shop sold me a donut in which the filling had already dried out, though the bread surrounding it seemed fresh? I considered taking another bite, but instead pinched some of the fibers that simply remained motionless in the donut, another unsettling image when one expects jelly to be oozing out. The gritty sensation between my fingers was far from pleasant and when I licked them, the almost briny flavor made me gag. Once I learned how to say bah-hú, I never had to experience such bitter disappointment in my pastry selection again.

The one thing I do not understand is why the Taiwanese eat this stuff. Taiwanese cuisine is not only delicious, but usually good for you. I can’t imagine any nutritional benefits remaining in this overly processed food. So, I have come to the opinion that pork fluff may not be actually made from pigs. Old woven plastic tarps, the red, white and blue ones used at roadside banquets, on building scaffolding and as funeral tents, are recycled to make this savory treat. First, the tarps are placed at entrances of cement plants and building sites so that construction vehicles and gravel trucks can run over them repeatedly to get the proper texture. Next, they are soaked in typhoon-swollen rivers for that appealing hue. Then, they are placed on the roofs of buildings so that the particle-filled air of various city-centers can add that extra degree of grittiness so detested by most foreigners. Thrown into huge shredders, these once useless vestiges of Taiwan’s plastic society are transformed into an edible parch pulp to be canned and sold. Bon appétit!

Costco and Driving Skill

Costco, that bastion of American consumerism, with it bulk shopping and large carts to accommodate it, has finally reached Chiayi. The mega-store’s newest branch opened just last week to huge crowds and manic shopping. For a country whose staple crop is rice, it was amazing seeing a nearly empty bagel table at mid-afternoon on Sunday. Muffins were flying off the shelves. Fifty people in line waiting for a roasted chicken. However, the sad part is that this palace of produce and products is now the big attraction of our fair city.

Unlike our bigger neighbors to the south and north, Chiayi lacks intellectual stimulus. The Kaohsiung Museum of Art has established itself as the southern purveyor of whatever the Taipei museums exhibit, while the Taiwan Museum of Fine Art in Taichung services central Taiwan. Both cities also boast small artist areas as well science museums worth a day-trip. Tainan has the National Literature Museum, along with Fort Zeelandia and other relics from when the Dutch tried to set up a colony.

Chiayi does have a museum, the first floor of which details earthquakes that have devastated the city and the country. The second floor has fossils of seashells and some stuffed animals, while the third floor often exhibits the local talent, including preschoolers. If you take the time to read the names and titles of the works of art, you could probably go through the whole museum in an hour, but since there were no translations, I did it in twenty-five minutes.

The now defunct prison has been designated as a historical building due to its unique Japanese-era architecture, as have some refurbished buildings connected with the Alishan Railway, which as of now doesn’t go to Alishan. At the Culture Center, there is a room full of Koji pottery, a style unique to Chiayi, as well as statues of Chiayi monkeys, made famous by an artist decades ago and copied by many. Then there is the 2-28 Memorial Hall, which commemorates those who died during the White Terror, though the pictures of a famous murdered artist and other Taiwanese leaders make for a depressing walk-through.

Costco, on the other hand, can offer one a first-hand look at a part of Taiwanese culture that frustrates and flabbergasts most foreigners, albeit at a slower and much safer speed. The way Taiwanese operate the carts throughout the store reflects their driving habits in many facets. At the entrance, it’s similar to the (c)rush of cars heading to popular sites during a holiday weekend. Carts attempt to merge into a stream of tailgating traffic that flows with a small hint of organization and hardly any respect for lane markers. One needs to be somewhat forceful in letting others know of one’s intention to enter the current. When a shopper turns off into a side aisle, there is a dash to fill the void created. Occasionally, a daring, usually younger driver will attempt to circumnavigate the crowd by quickly entering a space in the oncoming traffic lane, only to find his way block and the need to reenter the tide.

The way the store sets up the taste-testing stands imitates how farmers in blue trucks full of produce set up shop on a busy corner. What follows are shoppers stopping to enjoy a piece of ham or a paper shot glass of clam chowder oblivious of others trying to proceed down an aisle. The same occurs when friends see each other and instead of simply waving and continuing on, they linger in the middle of the way catching up on what the other has done since the last time they met, again unaware of the blockade that they have created until someone (usually me, because the Taiwanese are too timid in such situations) barks out “Duὶbuqĭ. Yào guò qu!”, literally, “Excuse me. Want to pass”. Though I would love to shout, “Could ya move ya party to the side”, it would be lost on the audience and I would get no pleasure from it.

When I first arrived in Taiwan, truck mud flaps, car trunks and scooter taillights would have “Don’t kiss!” written on them. I soon found out that it was not a government program on cutting down teenage pregnancy but a sincere desire of the drivers for some respect from fellow road warriors. This aptly applies to the notion that Taiwanese drivers don’t pay attention to what’s behind them, that they concentrate on what’s in front of the windshield and let those in the rear take care of (fend for?) themselves. If only the same applied at Costco. I have been to the Taichung branch at least a half dozen times and had someone run into the back of my ankles every time. One time, it happened at the entrance of the escalator going up when a schmuck behind me apparently didn’t want to let too much space open up between us. To a certain extent, this lack of focus is understandable, with all the goodies the store has to offer for the eye. Thank goodness Taiwanese highways don’t have so many billboards distracting drivers. Still, I couldn’t believe it when, at the end of my first visit to Costco’s newest emporium, as I was handing the receipt to the receipt checker (How do they do what they do?), a young couple pushed their cart right into my butt. I turned to see him raising a hand, bowing his head and saying “Saurry!” She put on a nervous smile, like most Taiwanese do in uncomfortable circumstances when they think finding the humor in it will alleviate any pain inflicted or embarrassment felt. When I said “Don’t kiss” and pointed to my buttocks, they giggled, as if they got the joke. I didn’t smile back.