30 Days to a Better Man, Day 15: make a meal

We're halfway home! And I gotta tell you, I'm glad I took up this challenge. I feel like a better man already. I have a much better grasp of my core values, my shoes are spit-shiny, my apartment's been decluttered, I've thanked some special people in my life (at long last), reconnected with old friends, increased my testosterone, and much more. This last half of the challenge, however, looks to be the most challenging — and the most rewarding.

Today's task is to simply make a meal. Too easy! I'm sure glad I had a mother and father who both knew how to cook and schooled me in the culinary arts. I've always thought cooking was a blast (it was the cleaning up afterward that I really minded). But I never knew that cooking is apparently quite manly.

Since Miss H's schedule is so demanding, and mine isn't, I do a good deal of the cooking at our apartment. And not just spaghetti or steak, either: chicken piccata, vegetarian lasagna, penne with vodka sauce, stir-fry, Caesar salad, red snapper with pepper and lemon, and chilaquiles casserole are just some of my specialties. I'm told I make a mean chicken fajita, too. 

In fact, that was the dish I selected for this evening: my special chicken fajitas with Spanish rice:

The instructions for Day 15 weren't specific as to what kind of meal you should make. Breakfast, lunch or dinner; it doesn't matter. But Hamburger Helper or Chef Boyardee should not figure into the picture. It should be concocted from scratch.

Since I habitually make meals by cooking, roasting, baking or frying a simple entrée and then opening cans of green beans and/or corn for side dishes, I decided to up the ante a little bit and craft the side dish from scratch, too. I've actually never made Spanish rice before, so I used this recipe. It worked like a charm. Tasted just like my Dad's special Spanish rice: warm, flavorful and delicious. Using Korean short-grain rice made the stuff delectably gooey, too.

Here's the final result, ready to be dished up to the wife, home from the cold and her crazy students!

Thank you, thank you. I'm the man. Now make sure to stop by tomorrow for Day 16. 

Sunday basketball

There was a moment just now—a moment when I glanced out of my apartment window, into the wet night, and saw hundreds of likewise-lit windows swimming eerily at me through the rain and mist. It was though the air outside was really murky seawater, and this city sat at the bottom of the ocean, and miniature submarines scurried back and forth between airlocks, and at any moment a shark or a whale might swim by my window. In that moment, I stepped back and wondered "Am I really doing this?"

I don't know which has surprised me more: the fact that I'm back in Korea or the fact that I've slipped into the routine so smoothly and easily.

It was a rocky start, as you well know. There were delays. Hang-ups. Mess-ups. Hiccups. But they evened themselves out. No matter what this job has thrown at me, I've rallied and risen. In fact, I've gotten so comfortable lately that I'd dare to say it's a routine. It's not just the weekdays, either. Even my weekends have acquired a regimen. On Saturdays I usually go into Seoul, or shop or something. I venture forth from my cave, my manhole, and obtain the requisite supplies for the upcoming week. Revel in the freedom a weekend affords. Strike out independently. Explore a new corner of the city. Do something fun, you know.

Sundays are a bit more laid-back. Generally, around noon, I wander 300 yards down Gilju Road to a little park hidden among some stubby evergreens. There, my fellow expatriates and I test each other's skills on the basketball court. I'm grateful to report that I've gone from "Grade-A Suckage" to "Certifiable Acolyte" in the span of three weeks. I'm not making baskets reliably yet, and I can get hold of rebounds but not sink them; still, I'm steadily improving. There's four or five of us who usually come: Peter, Jon, Andy, Martin, and most recently Stephanie. We warm up for half an hour shooting hoops or playing horse. Then we shoot for teams. This last Sunday we had enough people for three-on-three. Team captains picked their players (I will brag a bit here and say that I was one of those captains, by virtue of making the first basket). Then the game began in earnest. Half-court. Take-backs (if the ball hit the rim). Play to eleven. It was a fierce contest. We ducked, dove, dodged, hollered, sweated and slid, passing and dribbling and shooting. Goals were scored, desperate, jubilant, soul-affirming jump shots and layups. Everybody got a piece of the action. The humid air glowed with hot-blooded exultation, burning spirit and competitive fire—and a goodly dose of old-fashioned camaraderie.

Following basketball, the rest of my Sunday usually consists of reading, writing, laundry, cleaning, and other domestic pursuits, both leisurely and productive. Oh, and of course, a big dinner. I look forward to my Sunday dinners. I usually pull all the stops out and have multiple courses. And by that, I mean that I actually have side dishes with whatever entrée I've prepared. A couple of weeks ago it was bulgogi with fried garlic, kimchi and marinated spring onions; the next week it was mushroom soup; and last Sunday, it was supposed to have been chicken fettucine alfredo, but it wound up being just chicken fried in oil with garlic, kimchi and spring onions (noticing a theme here?).

On Friday night I'm hosting a cooking class of sorts. The octopus I routinely buy at E-Mart has sparked several wild hypotheses among my coworkers. People have asked me what exactly I do with the octopus to prepare it. Dissatisfied with my own answer ("Take it home, boil it and eat it whole") I decided to paint myself in a more civilized light and prepare some proper octopi. And while I was at it, I thought I'd invite some of my coworkers to my apartment so they could watch, and sample the results. The recipe I've picked is called nakji bokkeum: stir-fried octopus with vegetables. It's a common dish, available in any halfway decent restaurant. There's even a TV-dinner version. The dish is spicy (a liberal amount of gochujang—pepper paste—goes into it) but full of vegetable and seafood flavors. With some artful preparation, I hope my coworkers and I will cook quickly, eat slowly, and have a lovely sip of something afterward. I'll let you know how it goes.

Apart from that, what more is there to tell? That I'm slowly carving my way through Joseph Conrad's Heart of Darkness? That I'm opening a second bank account on Thursday to wire money home more inexpensively? That Martin, Andy, Jon, Peter, Stephanie and I gathered at the pub late Sunday night to watch Manchester United trump Queen's Park on the telly? That Miss H is still anxiously awaiting her paperwork, and I am still anxiously awaiting her?

All those things would be true. Years from now I shall write a little book about Korea. Its joys, its sorrows, its gifts, its privations. Only my comrades-in-arms shall understand it.

my new digs

The new semester begins tomorrow. I was wrong about having a four-day weekend, as it turns out. Before things get really crazy, I think it's high time I showed you some pictures of my apartment:

The entry foyer with its vestibule for shoes. (There's also a storage cabinet to the right.) Koreans, like other Asian cultures, have this thing about wearing shoes indoors...

The stunningly large and spacious bathroom. Most Korean bathrooms have the whole room as the shower, with the sink and toilet getting soaked every time you clean yourself. It's rare to find a Western-style bathroom like this. I ain't complainin'.

Immediately as you enter, the bathroom is on the right, and this kitchenette is on the left. The range is composed of two electric burners. Apparently the toaster oven is something of a rarity in Korean apartments as well. That's the (clothes) washing machine open in the center of the photo there. No dryer.

Most of what you see here already came with the apartment. Except for the desk, that is. I pilfered it from the hallway.

Entering the living room and turning around gives you this view.

Remember how I said that there's no clothes dryer? That's where this handy rack comes in.

The staircase to the loft.

My nightstand.

Management gave me a rather nice sheet set...or rather, not. Koreans don't believe in sheets. There's a fitted sheet, a comforter and a duvet or whatever. No actual sheet sheets. Weird.

The view of my living room from the loft...neato-keen!

And this, ladies and gentlemen, is the view from my ninth-floor window. The long, low building behind the soccer field is a school. The brown brick building on the right is a church. And behind...row upon serried row of apartment buildings. Koreans live vertically.

So, one small day of madness separates me from the weekend. I've got plans for that weekend, too, which I shall tell you about after they materialize. Until then...wish me luck tomorrow folks.

Your favorite expatriate English teacher, signing off. 

to-do list for March

Here's what I've got so far:

• go visit my Korean friend down on Geoje Island
• get a wastebasket and a reading lamp
• compile some simple Korean recipes and start actually cooking for myself
• venture forth to Itaewon and find What the Book?, the English-language bookstore I mail-ordered from when I was here before
• buy some booze and get the bar running again

No doubt other items will make their appearance in due time.

My friend down on Geoje-do is Charles, the liaison I worked with at Reading Town. He's got his own hagwon now and I'd love to stop by and see how he's doing. He took good care of me when I was here before.

I made some delicious bulgogi for myself the other night, and I want to get all the necessaries for bibimbap (one of my favorites) and cook up a batch.

What the Book? seriously saved my bacon when I was languishing with homesickness. I ordered a stack of books and started going through them like they were cocaine and I was Kobe Bryant. I spent a lot of money, sure, but the bookstore's rates are very reasonable and they do free shipping on orders over a certain amount. But now I'm close enough to just ride the subway there and buy books directly from the store! Hot diggity dog!

And the last one's self-explanatory. I need to get the cocktail bar back in business. I called it the Hole in the Wall when I was down in Geoje, and now that I'm here in Bucheon I see [cough] no reason to change things.

Friends, furniture, food, books, and booze...I'm quite the epicurean, aren't I?

cocktail review no. 25 - Tom and Jerry

Ha! Previous record smashed! THREE cocktail reviews in a row, by golly! Postman, you've done it again. I mentioned earlier that the tower topper was redolent of cooking, reminding one of the smells and sounds and sensations of a kitchen full of happy people during the holidays. Well, this drink is actually cooking.

• 1 whole egg, separated
• ⅛ teaspoon baking soda
• 2 tablespoons superfine sugar
• 2 ounces (plus 1 teaspoon) light rum
• 6 ounces hot milk
• ½ ounce brandy
• ⅛ teaspoon grated nutmeg

In a mixing bowl, whisk the egg white until it forms soft peaks. In a separate bowl, whisk the egg yolk until it gets frothy. Fold the white into the yolk. Add the baking soda, sugar, and one teaspoon of the rum. Whisk it all together to form a stiff batter. Pour the batter into a warm beer mug and dissolve in it 1/4 of a cup of the hot milk. Add the rest of the rum and the brandy; fill the mug with the rest of the milk; stir, and sprinkle the nutmeg on top. See what I mean? Froth this, whisk that, stir here, sprinkle there. And "soft peaks"? What the hell are "soft peaks"? What the Sam Hill is "folding"? Jeez, I could've gone off on a tangent and made lemon meringue pie if I'd wanted... That being said, this drink is dynamite, and well worth the work. You have a frothy, fluffy medium disguising a hefty rum-brandy-nutmeg kick. It's similar to hot buttered rum, though a great deal more work-intensive; but it is also smoother, tastier, richer, creamier, and heartier. It's more flavorful and somewhat more comforting, particularly at this time of year. Nothing beats a hot mug of this while watching the original cartoon version of How the Grinch Stole Christmas (which, in my opinion, is the only credible version; Jim Carrey's be damned). I'd say it'd be good for a game of Taboo or Pictionary on New Year's Night, too. And I'd be willing to bet it's perfect for cuddling. Happy New Year!

happiness

It took me a moment after I woke up to remember that there was a guest under my roof. Even though I was lying on a tightly strung cot in the front room of our house, inches from the Christmas tree, I still didn't recall the matter right away. When I did, oh boy, I couldn't get up and get ready fast enough. I sprang up, put on the clothes I'd set out earlier, threw my pillow aside, rolled up my sleeping bag, folded up the cot...and then wandered into the kitchen and just sort of milled around, waiting for Allison to awake. I wanted to be ready to make her whatever she wanted the moment she asked for it. I pride myself on being a good host, y'know. Honest, that's all it was. Yep. Allison obviously prides herself on being a good guest, because she didn't keep me waiting long. She came into the kitchen, fully dressed, refreshed and looking like a million bucks. (How do girls DO that???) After I'd run through the menu, she requested toasted bagels with cream cheese and strawberry jam. So I whipped us up a batch. I'd never tried strawberry jam and cream cheese on a bagel simultaneously. Wow, that was a learning experience. It was far from unpleasant—I found the combination intriguing, in fact—but nonetheless indescribably weird. Normally I'm all for maximizing one's pleasure. Cream cheese stands well enough on its own, and so does strawberry jam. It seems only natural to mix the two in order to make a bagel taste twice as good. But it had never occurred to me that way before. It almost seemed like a little too much of a good thing, like strapping a shotgun onto an M-16, or getting a complimentary swimsuit model with every Lamborghini you buy. It's almost too much. Seems as though you would want to focus on one or the other. I never thought jam and cream cheese would mix so harmoniously. We tarried only long enough to pack a picnic lunch (Allison helped me make some PBJs) and pack up the car before we headed off into the bright, cool morning for Joshua Tree National Park. What is Joshua Tree National Park, you ask? This: Beautiful, ain't it? All the more beautiful in the cool of desert winter. It's just as beautiful in triple-digit heat, but not as fun to go see, if you know what I mean. So, after an hour and a half's drive through the scenic Mojave Desert, past Lucerne Valley, Yucca Valley, and into Joshua Tree (almost to 29 Palms), we entered the park. Allison stumped up for the $15 entrance fee, bless her heart. We spent a delightful morning just touring the place. Under the slantwise glow of the winter sun, in the near-chill of the Southern California winter air, it was a sublime sight. We drove to Keys Vista and took a good look out over the Coachella Valley, Palm Springs, Mount San Jacinto, and the Salton Sea. 'Fraid I don't have any images of that epic vista to share with you, though. Allison got better photos than I did. Her Kodak is actually set up to take panoramic pictures, which came out wickedly, awesomely, monstrously cool and downright breathtaking. (Besides, if I put a picture of the view up here on Blogger, you wouldn't have to go and see actually visit the park and see it for yourselves, now would you?) Then we began a slow dogleg back through the park to find somewhere to have lunch. We passed by Saddle Rock... ...and the Hall of Horrors, which was so distinctly named that I couldn't resist having a look-see. The look-see inevitably turned into a look-climb. I'm particularly glad Allison took that last photograph. I look just like Indiana Jones, don't I? I strained my left gluteus maximus rather badly climbing down, but apart from that, there were no mishaps. We elected to stop by the Jumbo Rocks for lunch on our way out of the park. Both of us noticed that our time together was rapidly developing a theme: "big." On the way home from Vegas, we'd stopped by Whiskey Pete's Resort & Casino in Primm, Nevada. The only eatery that had been open was the Mega Café. Now we would be eating at the Jumbo Rocks. Two big things in as many days. So we both agreed to try and keep the big theme going if we had a chance. We found a nice spot amid the rocks, out of the wind, and relatively free of dive-bombing crows, and ate our sandwiches, talking of this and that. Things couldn't have been going better, in my opinion. The weather was beautiful, I hadn't committed any massive mistakes (navigation-related or otherwise), and I had a lovely woman and an old friend sitting next to me, in the midst of one of the most gorgeous bits of Mother Earth to be found. Life was pure-D wonderful. And so we finished lunch, got back inside Roger, and headed out. Oh yes, Roger! How could I forget? Allison helped me name my Jeep. Now, normally I don't name cars. Most guys don't. Statistically speaking, women are more likely to name cars than men. Just another notch in my metrosexual belt, I guess. I don't mind. My '96 Ford Taurus was named "Chester" and I never saw any reason to change that. Now that I had acquired a '95 Jeep Cherokee, my naming skills had vanished in a puff of exhaust. Not that I was consciously trying to name the Jeep, mind you. But whenever the idea of naming it popped into my head, my subconscious couldn't help but start simmering away, mulling over possible monikers. I was stuck in that respect. All of the names that had popped into my head were nouns. Moreover, they were the names of other SUVs, already taken: Ranger, Rover, Explorer, and so on. That simply wouldn't do. So, imagine my surprise when, lo and behold, Allison turns to me moments after we pull onto the I-15 going away from Las Vegas and says: "So, have you thought up a name for your car yet?" I allowed I hadn't. She said, "That's okay. Leave it to me. I'm pretty good at naming things." She wasn't kidding, either. Her previous car was named "Sophie." So, as we pulled away from the Jumbo Rocks that bright fall morning in Joshua Tree, and the Jeep was grumbling and growling up a hill, it seemed as though a word of encouragement was in order. But I couldn't just say, "Come on, Jeep!" I needed a name. So I turned to Allison and said, "Any luck coming up with a name for this thing?" "Oh yeah!" she cried, remembering. "Hmmm..." She thought for just a second or two. "Roger," she pronounced. I liked it. Never met a Roger I hadn't liked. "Jolly Roger" was the collective name bloodthirsty pirates once bestowed on their sinister black flags. "Gold Roger" was the name of an infamous buccaneer in my favorite Japanese comic book, One Piece. "Roger" is the name of Pongo's owner in Disney's 101 Dalmatians. I also mistakenly believed that Roger was the first name (?) of John C. Frémont, the famed U.S. explorer and politician. Circumstances seemed to favor that name. So I said heck yes, and the rest came easily. "Come on, Roger!" I encouraged. Roger grumbled and growled a little more, then hoisted us to the top of the hill. Christen accomplished. We drove down, down, down, and came out through the northeast park exit, in 29 Palms. We drove back through Joshua Tree on the CA-62, got back on the 247 and headed home. The original plan had been to go out on the town with the family that night. But Allison and I were both so tired from getting up early and driving all day that we just decided to stay in. Once again, Alli proved what a good guest and honorable friend she was. She offered to cook dinner, and suggested I invite some of my friends over for her to meet. So I called up John and Chris. Mom and Dad excused themselves for the evening, heading down to Las Brisas (a groovy Mexican restaurant on the outskirts of town). Harlan, Chris, John, Alli and I had a pretty darn good dinner party. Alli made enchilasagna, enchiladas made lasagna-style (without rolling the tortillas). It was A-B-S-O-L-U-T-E-L-Y G-O-R-G-E-O-U-S. With a capital "A" and "G." And a capital "B," "S," "O," "L"...well, you get the picture. Man, Alli's a good cook. The enchilasagna was a layer cake of flour tortillas, ground beef, onions, four different kinds of cheese, and both green AND red sauce. It was so delicious that it disappeared. Between the five of us, we killed it. Couldn't resist. Everybody had thirds. We were hooked on the stuff. There followed about an hour's worth of some of the raunchiest conversation I have ever been involved in, courtesy of John and Chris. Both of 'em are dirty-minded enough on their own, but when they get together, oh mother do they get blue. They'd have made Tiger Woods's porn star mistress blush, I reckon. (Even so, not even the two of them together could equal Wade, the head teacher at my bartender's school in Riverside...funny how we always start out talking about alcoholic beverages and wind up talking about perverted homosexual practices.) Alli was a champ. Despite being a good Lutheran girl from straight-laced North Dakota, she never once got offended. On the contrary, she was laughing and giggling and giving it back. I was impressed. Not that I expected any less of her, but damn, that girl just keeps impressing me right and left. She sure is something. Finally the party broke up. John and Chris went home, I cleaned up the kitchen, and then Harlan and Alli and I had a few rousing games of Bananagrams. For those unlucky people in the audience who don't know what this game is, boy have you been missing out. Imagine a crossword puzzle without the board. You get a bunch of lettered tiles, like you would in Scrabble, only you have to race to put together words with them (without having any left over) before your opponents do. You have a big pile in the middle and as soon as you get finished making all of your words, you yell "PEEL" and everybody has to take another tile and then keep making words. It's a challenge, but a zealously fun challenge for would-be wordsmiths like yours truly. We played for a good long while, and then went to bed: Alli in her room and I on my cot. My head whirred with what I'd seen and done that day. And I knew it was just going to get better. For tomorrow, we would brave smog and crowds and highways and danger in our determined quest for... ...UNIVERSAL STUDIOS, HOLLYWOOD! Stay tuned.

Mom and Dad's home cookin'

I didn't wholly realize how much I'd missed it, however much I'd cogitated on it back in my studio apartment in Korea. To date, since I've been home, I've been treated to:

• Mom's spinach dip
• Rice Krispie treats
• magic cookie bars*
• spaghetti
• nachos
• quesadillas
• pickles 'n' meat**
• fried tilapia
• Dad's salsa
• Mom's hummus

And man, hasn't it all been delicious! In addition to these gems, there've been a few store-bought foods I've very much enjoyed having again, such as:

• root beer (Mug)
• Wheat Thins
• Kettle Chips
• real hot dogs (beef)
• Mexican food
• Drambuie
• Swiss cheese
• good beer

Might seem weird to you that I missed these, but I sure did. All of them were impossible to get in Korea, or else were extremely expensive. The hot dogs there were only shadowy reflections of real hot dogs, hence my emphasis on that adjective. The two popular home-brewed beer brands, Hite and Cass, wouldn't even stand up to Budweiser, which just goes to show how bad they were. We encountered some Mexican food in Western bars and clubs in large cities, but even this was strange (see my entry about the El Paso Restaurant in Jeju: Day Eight to learn more). You couldn't find a good potato chip to save your soul. As for the home-cooked food, it just tastes American, if you know what I mean. Anyone who's had Koreanized spaghetti won't hesitate to say that it's pretty good; it just doesn't taste like what you're used to. It's truly invaluable to be back on my home turf and have spaghetti that tastes familiar again. * These are simple to make: melt some butter in a large oven-safe dish, add some crumbled-up graham cracker crumbs, cover with a layer of sweetened condensed milk, embed an entire package of milk chocolate chips into that, then sprinkle a protective layer of shredded coconut over the top of that, and bake for 25 minutes. The butter soaks into the cracker crumbs and makes a delicious firm underlayer; the chocolate chips melt into the condensed milk; and the coconut browns just slightly, creating a truly mind-blasting and sweet dessert. ** This is an old German dish passed down in my family from generation to generation. Simply grind up some bread-and-butter pickles and some balogna, mix that with enough mayonnaise (I prefer Miracle Whip) to make a paste out of it, and spread it thick between two pieces of bread. Most awesome sandwich known to humanity, right there.

on the consumption of live octopus

You have not misread the title.

No, you're not going blind.

Yes, they eat live octopus in Korea.

Charles tells me it's the number-one surefire gross-out food for most foreigners. Most people can't stand the sight of it. For me, it's a dream come true. I like octopus; why bother to waste the time cooking it, or even waiting for it to mature? Just take some baby octopi, slice 'em up into bite-size chunks, then grab some chopsticks and some sesame oil and eat them, still wriggling.

That's sannakji: live baby octopus.

As soon as we learned of this delicacy, Adam, Jeff and I knew we had to try it. Come on: how many times in your life are you going to get an opportunity as bizarre as this?

I'd like to restate the principle of the thing for those of you who might be skimming this article in search of the juicy bits: sannakji is

LIVE BABY OCTOPUS,
EATEN WHILE IT'S STILL WRIGGLING.

Is that clear? Splendid. Let there be no further speculation on it.

Sannakji was on the "must-try" list for Korea. However, being Newbies, we were unsure where to go to obtain some. So we asked Charles, who, being Korean himself, was our resident expert on all things Korea-related, especially food. He said he'd look around. His first recommendation was just to waltz into any seafood- or fish-related restaurant and order up. We heard rumors about a full plate of bulgogi and sannakji served up at some eatery over in Deoksan, a burg somewhere between Gohyeon and Okpo, but didn't act on it.


Then Charles found something more material: sannakji being sold out in the local sijang (market). After some scheduling mishaps (Jeff, the poor sap, is being "rented out" to kindergarten by his employer; his mornings are taken up with teaching now as well as his afternoons), we managed to set a meeting time: Wednesday noon across from the market, outside Lotteria.
I awoke that morning agog with expectation, and everything I turned my hand to seemed charmed. It was certainly charming weather, a warm and sunny spring day with a breath of cool breeze to tone down the blossoming sunlight. I donned my most gaudy Hawaiian shirt and sunglasses, took a long walk, then went back to the apartment to fetch the camera. As I rounded the corner of the block the market sits on, I descried Adam standing in front of Lotteria, in shorts and a short-sleeved shirt, his cap pulled low over his eyes, smoking a cigarette and surveying the market in front of him. Both of us acknowledged that we might need some water to wash some enterprising octopus down our throats, so we went in search of a convenience store. We'd heard that sannakji can be tenacious, wrapping their tentacles around your teeth or attaching themselves to your gums with their suckers. Adam's drink-sniffing nose led us to a shop just a minute or so up the street; we nabbed a couple of water bottles and nipped back to the rendezvous, where Jeff had arrived in the meantime. Soon Charles rolled up on his bicycle, and the three of us walked across the street to the market. We located our quarry after only three steps.

Charles, ever watchful for an opportunity for me to practice my Korean in a practical setting, called on me to conduct the transaction.
"Sannakji eolmayeyo?" I asked.
The woman held up four fingers (swathed in pink rubber gloves).
"Nemari man won," she replied. Four octopi for ten grand. We took out our billfolds and started up a collection for the Mollusk Consumption Foundation. Without further ado, the woman snatched four wriggling baby octopi out of the basket, sliced them into chunks, put them in a bag, and handed it to us with a container of wasabi. As we left the market and strode back to where Charles had parked his bicycle he suggested we adjourn to his place; he could procure some sesame oil and we could eat in comfort and peace. This we did. We installed ourselves and our precious haul of raw mollusk under a pavilion in a playground next to Charles's apartment (the same ill-fated playground in which I'd lost my wristwatch during a drunken dive out of a swingset after the housewarming party).

Charles dumped his stuff off in his apartment and reemerged with paper cups of sesame oil and chopsticks. Then we opened up the container and went to work. Inside was a moist, gelatinous mass of tentacles and amorphous chunks of octopus, the color of brain matter. Most of it was still writhing. Lesser men would have balked at the mere idea, to say nothing of the sight; but we set our teeth and went into the breach.

It was interesting eating. Uncooked octopus tastes and feels a tad rubbery, but regardless I believe that intoxicating oceanic flavor that pervades seafood (especially mollusks) was still present, and appreciable. My first bite wasn't moving perceptibly, either. So I made sure to nab a motile tentacle the next time around. This is most visible in the video.

The feel of a tentacle writhing away in my mouth, scraping roughly against my tongue, teeth and cheeks, is a feeling not soon to be equaled in this lifetime or the next. I strongly suggest you try it, if only once. I wound up eating a load of the stuff. Jeff took a huge bite the first time out and the magic sort of went out of it for him; Adam's views on the subject are perhaps best summarized by this picture, taken shortly after the one above.


Nonetheless we all continued to pick at the stuff. We'd come this far. By now, at least, it had stopped moving. Finally everyone declared they'd had their fill and I was left to finish the remainder.

I'm known as something of a walking garbage disposal in these parts. Jeff is the accomplished master in dealing with leftovers; it is my lot to eat any and all strange, odd, unusual, revolting or disturbing foods. Put us together and we'll eat anybody, anywhere out of house and home.

So ended the Trial of the Octopus. We came, we saw, we sampled. For us all, it was the realization of a dream; we'd finally gotten our chance to challenge and master sannakji and the principle of stuffing still-moving food into our gullets. For me, moreover, it marked the first steps toward the completion of a pet ambition (sample the weirdest food of every country I visit, and then write a compendium).

We said a hearty thank-you to Charles, our guide, teacher and minister, then departed for our respective apartments.

We can now all die happy men.

a rain of strawberry leaves

In recognition of the fact that I am a gosh darn coward and have been rationalizing like a bloody fool about not buying something at Gohyeon Sijang (the open-air market in the northwest-central part of town), I decided to cut the Gordian knot, take the bull by the horns, carpe diem and all those other turns of phrase and do it. I also decided to get some pictures; I haven't been to many open-air markets in foreign countries, but Gohyeon's strikes me as a charming sort of place, and iconic in its way. Some of the Asian markets I've seen on documentaries (be they Japanese, Chinese, Malaysian or otherwise) all seem to have some common themes: narrow lanes, overhanging awnings and umbrellas, goods and wares arranged in an orderly fashion every which-way, exploding out of the shops and onto the walkway, and crowds and crowds of people milling around, haggling, buying this and that, while vendors hawk their wares or busily prepare them.

Gohyeon Sijang embodies that ideal and manifests those attributes. So I decided to get some pictures and buy some stuff. Any stuff. Just to prove to myself that could do it.

It worked.

Sunday had been a semi-big day already. I woke up at nine, got some milk at the corner store, then came back and made some pancakes. It's true I made them from a mix, but hey, they were recognizably pancakes. I burnt 'em a bit but they still tasted great. I cooked up some bacon, too, and poured the generic Korean brand of maple syrup (still recognizably maple syrup) all over everything. Delicious, I'd forgotten how much I'd missed it. Back home in my folks' house there's a big pancake breakfast every Sunday; it got to be a tradition, like homemade pizzas on Wednesday nights.

Anyway, that was that. Then, after doing my exercises (over the span of an hour; I can't be bothered to really push myself), I put on my camera, grabbed Michael Palin's book Hemingway Adventure (on loan from Jeff) and strode out. First I thought I'd return Jeff's book, but either he wasn't in or he was still asleep. Then I walked up to Adam and Elaine's and knocked on their door. I wanted to get some pictures of Bo Jenkins to send to the relations. While I was there, Adam and I thought we'd finally attempt to trim the rabbit's claws; they were monstrously, hideously long. Either its previous owners had neglected it or it had been on its own for a long time. Bo Jenkins did well on his left anterior paw, but when we switched to his right he became somewhat skittish and darted back into his cage. We decided to leave his remaining two limbs for later. I was beginning to sneeze from the alfalfa anyway.

It happened that A & E were on their way to Homeplus to do some weekend food shopping as well as restock on rabbit supplies, and I was headed that way myself to attain some gifts for my grandparents. I'm sending some acacia honey, a Korean specialty, to my grandfather, some coffee mugs, some red ginseng tea for Grandma, and some assorted snacks such as they always kindly send me: nuts, cookies, and the like. I'm sending that off tomorrow with my brother Harlan's twenty-first (yikes!) birthday card. I also wanted to secure a high-capacity USB drive; I realized that my laptop is aging rapidly and if it goes I'll lose all of the high-definition photos I've taken while I've been here. So we all strode down to Homeplus together. We stopped to check out a couple of pet stores along the way, but they were devoid of rabbit-related products.

Adam was starving, so we dropped in at Lotteria (the Korean fast-food joint) and ordered up. I thought it was high time I tried a bulgogi burger. I got it and found it rather good, actually. It tasted like a regular burger with bulgogi sauce, but bulgogi sauce ain't bad: kind of like a sweetish, tasty barbecue sauce. Elaine decided she didn't like her chicken sandwich, so Adam and I split it. It was soggy but palatable. Adam and Elaine pronounced themselves more satisified with their Lotteria experience this time around; last time they'd complained of small, soggy, old, stale burgers, some of the worst quality they'd had. This time around was better. Perhaps it's best to go later in the day when the staff have had time to clear out the day-old stock.

After a few more detours to appliance stores and ATMs for camera pricing and cash (respectively) we arrived at Homeplus and did our shopping. Then we returned in a cab, and I came back down to my place, dumped off my USB drive (four gigs) and my other shopping, then hauled my camera back on, got some cash out of an ATM, then went to the market to impulse photograph/buy. I'm still a coward. I didn't take nearly as many photos as I could or should have, simply because I was scared of ticking off the vendors or shopkeepers. Heck, I'm going to be gone in a few months anyway. What are they going to do, lynch me?

Still, the shots I did get were good. Have a look:

In the meantime, I also did some impulse buying. A few days earlier I'd seen a hat I'd liked at a clothing stall for 8,000 won. I jumped at that one first. I bought it up and couldn't be happier about it. I'll get a picture of myself wearing it up here soon.

Then I thought I needed some food. I wanted to buy a stingray right then and there; the catalyst for this new expatriate inadequacy complex of mine was the fact that I'd considered buying fish from the fish market. Adam suggested I just look up a recipe on the Internet, buy a fish and take my chances. That was such an astonishingly good and simple idea that my insecure brain immediately collapsed into a miasma of self-deprecation and reproach. Hence this whole trip to the market. I was having salad that night, and my freezer was already stuffed with a couple of left-over gray mullet, otherwise I would've purchased the strangest fish I could find, no matter the cost.

Given the circumstances, though, I settled for strawberries. I was walking along the main street and saw an elderly lady vendor offering strawberries. I asked the price: 14,000. That was stiff, but I went for it. I didn't realize I was supposed to haggle. I didn't realize I'd get a whole basketful of them, either, along with two plastic bowls for carrying. The whole affair was loaded into a plastic bag and I, overwhelmed but nonetheless elated at my achievements, took the load and soldiered on. I made a loop around the outside of the market, doubled back through the fish vendors, and wound up back at my starting point by the clothing stalls. This time I noticed some cargo pants that looked like they'd fit me. I was starting to get low on usable pants, so I purchased them for 11,900 won.

Thus laden, I snapped a few more pics and vamoosed. I got back to my room, took a shower, washed up the strawberries, took them up to the roof with my copy of 50 Great Short Stories, then sat, read and munched in the evening light. The put the strawberries in my mouth, tore off the leaves with my hand, and sent them fluttering in the breeze down to the street four stories below. There was a veritable rain of strawberry leaves falling on that street this evening.

Now I'm blogging, cutting up a tomato for my salad, listening to Herbert von Karajan conducting Beethoven's Eighth Symphony in F Major (whaddya know, YouTube is good for something), and will soon load up another dubbed episode of One Piece to enjoy before I go down to the pub with Brian at eleven.

Oh yeah, I need to look up some fish recipes too.