Two years ago, facing a diagnosis of “your internal organs are going to explode,” the Captain lost enough weight that he could send some to underdeveloped countries, such as Japan, where no one is ever overweight except Sumo wrestlers, the people who wear the least clothes.
Come to think of it, it’s that way at the beach, too. And, of course, Wal-Mart. Why is it that people with the most to show wear the least to cover it up? I’m certainly not the poster child for the “Feed the Runway Models” campaign, but I sure don’t want to have the seat behind the Sumo guy when he does his warm-up stretches.
Anyway, Cap also practically emptied his blood stream of triglycerides, a medical term that means “the fuse to the bomb that will make your internal organs explode.”
He did this all by himself. While he was very busy with the sort of advanced mathematics that deals with less than, greater than, and the sort of cholesterol level that voids whole sets of fat grams, I busied myself roasting turkeys, steaming vegetables, and skimming fat from by-products.
Eventually the Captain’s math resulted in the need for a belt to hold his pants up, and life returned to normal on the poop deck.
Until yesterday. One simple stretch and the button popped off his pants with enough force to put another hole in the ozone layer. Either his pancreas exploded or his body is rejecting artificial fasteners.
That little button also blew a hole in my holiday planning calendar for the next few months. I’m back to skimming, steaming, and roasting.
Luckily, my house is full of turkeys.
Laugh
Showing posts with label Japanese. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Japanese. Show all posts
Saturday, October 8, 2011
Monday, August 2, 2010
Sushi Night
In an attempt at a successful catch and release program, the Captain and I went out for sushi last night. I don’t mind telling you that the release came quite soon after the catch and was, by itself, a splendid success.
We’d been whiling away the afternoon watching the local canines compete for obedience honors at the city dog show. It’s amazing what a human will do with a liver treat to coerce three pounds of fluff and drool to run after a glove they’d give mad chase for at home getting ready for an evening out.
Such a display of sterling cooperation between man and beastie is hungry work, so we stopped afterwards at the nearest restaurant, whose façade smacked of Japanese food of the non-slimy kind.
The menu came—I am not kidding—in a three ring binder. I didn’t know whether to order dinner or study for a test on rice. I made notes of several key items on the palm of my hand in soy sauce in case I was quizzed on condiments later in the evening.
I’d never come across any of the notebooks’s offerings at church potlucks, but I found an annotated item at the bottom of page three that mentioned ingredients I had heard of previously. I selected the annotated chicken teriyaki on the theory that at least chickens draw heat from global warming. All of the rest of the selections looked to be bottom dwellers.
The Captain of my heart and Master of the bill gestured boldly at an item that began with the letter N. N apparently stands for “Nothing I Would Let the Children Eat.” Or perhaps, “Never mind, just bring the check.”
In a land where we deep fry dessert items to make sure the shortbread is not capable of brandishing a butcher knife behind our back, a plate full of uncooked sea creatures the color of sunburn on parts that should never see daylight can be a bit unsettling. Each piece perched on a small hill of rice, resembling an anthill when the worker types are trying to fit a juicy earthworm down the chimney. One morsel looked alarmingly like a flesh wound.
Finding no weaponry but a damp napkin and a pair of wooden stakes, the Captain gave a fairly convincing impression of a man about to eat dinner. If I had the savoir faire he has, I could eat in a dozen languages.
“Are you going to eat that?”
“No, I’m going to hold it over the candle until it gives me its name, rank, and expected date of demise.”
I watched in shock and awe as he dipped a shrimp fillet in a lovely green dip known to sushi professionals as “Wasabi”.
A secret among sushi professionals is that “Wasabi” is a Japanese word meaning “the devil is dancing the hotfoot rumba in your underpants.”
“I guess it’s hot.”
“What makes you think so?”
You drained the wishing well in the lobby.
“You’re exaggerating,” he retorted, spitting out a quarter.
“If you sneeze, we’ll have enough for the tip.”
While the Captain fished for minnows, I consumed a lovely helping of teriyaki chicken. Teriyaki is a Japanese word that means “not eating bait.”
The waiter appeared at the table. “Would you care for dessert?”
“I guess not,” I said, surreptitiously checking my palm for data. “I passed the test. I'm afraid to try for extra credit.”
We’d been whiling away the afternoon watching the local canines compete for obedience honors at the city dog show. It’s amazing what a human will do with a liver treat to coerce three pounds of fluff and drool to run after a glove they’d give mad chase for at home getting ready for an evening out.
Such a display of sterling cooperation between man and beastie is hungry work, so we stopped afterwards at the nearest restaurant, whose façade smacked of Japanese food of the non-slimy kind.
The menu came—I am not kidding—in a three ring binder. I didn’t know whether to order dinner or study for a test on rice. I made notes of several key items on the palm of my hand in soy sauce in case I was quizzed on condiments later in the evening.
I’d never come across any of the notebooks’s offerings at church potlucks, but I found an annotated item at the bottom of page three that mentioned ingredients I had heard of previously. I selected the annotated chicken teriyaki on the theory that at least chickens draw heat from global warming. All of the rest of the selections looked to be bottom dwellers.
The Captain of my heart and Master of the bill gestured boldly at an item that began with the letter N. N apparently stands for “Nothing I Would Let the Children Eat.” Or perhaps, “Never mind, just bring the check.”
In a land where we deep fry dessert items to make sure the shortbread is not capable of brandishing a butcher knife behind our back, a plate full of uncooked sea creatures the color of sunburn on parts that should never see daylight can be a bit unsettling. Each piece perched on a small hill of rice, resembling an anthill when the worker types are trying to fit a juicy earthworm down the chimney. One morsel looked alarmingly like a flesh wound.
Finding no weaponry but a damp napkin and a pair of wooden stakes, the Captain gave a fairly convincing impression of a man about to eat dinner. If I had the savoir faire he has, I could eat in a dozen languages.
“Are you going to eat that?”
“No, I’m going to hold it over the candle until it gives me its name, rank, and expected date of demise.”
I watched in shock and awe as he dipped a shrimp fillet in a lovely green dip known to sushi professionals as “Wasabi”.
A secret among sushi professionals is that “Wasabi” is a Japanese word meaning “the devil is dancing the hotfoot rumba in your underpants.”
“I guess it’s hot.”
“What makes you think so?”
You drained the wishing well in the lobby.
“You’re exaggerating,” he retorted, spitting out a quarter.
“If you sneeze, we’ll have enough for the tip.”
While the Captain fished for minnows, I consumed a lovely helping of teriyaki chicken. Teriyaki is a Japanese word that means “not eating bait.”
The waiter appeared at the table. “Would you care for dessert?”
“I guess not,” I said, surreptitiously checking my palm for data. “I passed the test. I'm afraid to try for extra credit.”
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