and she’s purtier and easier.
It’s makeover day, which means I have a new header and domain, which is: mybfturnedmelesbo.com (faster to type than with that wordpress thing in the middle).
This domain is mine…hooray. Y’all are really fucking sweet and encouraging so I thought, hell, might as well own this for real. So let’s see what kind of trouble and embarrassment I can recollect and get into over the next 12 months. I guarantee shenanigans that meet various degrees of disapproval, foreign discomfort, some more emotional paralysis (and growth) and some plain dumb shit because I have a knack of doing some really dumb shit.
It’s hot here. Really fucking hot. It’s the equivalent of 95+°F, I haven’t stopped sweating for 13 days (and counting) and the oppressive heat is literally suffocating me (I crane my neck upwards on the sardine trains to catch air- not exaggerating) and killing old people. Which is why weather-appropriate food is de rigueur here.
Cold-on-cold foods like cool soba or somen dipped in refreshingly chilled broth (freshly grated ginger is an especially nice addition) is typical summertime grub. Noodles here are seriously delicious; the texture is amazing and Japan has probably destroyed my standards for the rest of the world.
So my friend and I are moaning about the heat, looking for a place to eat…
My friend: Oh, look at this.
Me: Oooh…pork shabu-shabu?! I’ve never had that…
MF: Well, that decides it then.
I am so excited. I’ve had beef shabu but not pork because America is scared of serving beautiful, paper-thin slices of raw pork cooked tableside in a vat of boiling water with herbaceous veggies and tofu.
We sit, order beers and my friend’s body temp has mysteriously risen for being inside. Strange. He immediately asks the server to turn down the AC; I can tell from the eyes that are cut that it’s not going to happen. I feel bad because he’s dressed all Tokyo proper from fancy-pants work meetings.
And we are stupid. Because shabu-shabu entails sitting nano-inches away from a steaming hot-pot where we boil meat for hours. Wait, that sounded weird. The meal takes hours (and the veggies are simmering the entire time) but the individual slices of pork-cook only lasts a few seconds because the gorgeous cuts are sliced so pretty-skinny. Once it’s cooked to your preferred doneness, get you some delicate greens and dip in yum sauce/broth. Basically, shabu is quality ingredients at their best…mmm.
My friend asks the server to turn down the AC again and annoyed dude is looking at us like, are you for real? You’re eating cold weather food in the middle of a heat wave and we’re still in energy-conservation mode from the earthquake, fuckers. He is so not turning the shit down. I point out the words I see in server’s head and my friend is like, right…we’re the ijiots who have chosen to subject ourselves to a pork steambath.
Yes we are.
But these are my people: damn fools who, in their excitement to share a new experience with me, abandon foresight and suffer sweating balls for hours.
I love when I find my people as they are the best. Like y’all.
Seriously, thank you for the love and support.