On the Seventh Day She Ate a Lot of Pastries

This weekend my friend BB and I flew down to Seattle for the Annual Company Party. The bash has been held at various venues over the years, and this year, it was a place called The Palace Ballroom, a facility under the direction of chef Tom Douglas (a big whig in Seattle but utterly unknown to the likes of me).

Before the party, some locals had clued us into the crab cake. Apparently Tom's crab cakes were to die for and should be horded. BB and I arrived at the party, in search of the infamous crab cakes.

If there had been any doubt whether the Company had been having a rough year fiscally, the food at the Annual Party pretty much confirmed the state of the union. Although the party began at 6pm, there was no "sit-down" dinner, only appetizer stations with very tiny tiny plates. There was not enough real sitting for everyone attending, so one was forced to consume appetizers standing at high tables or worse, while balancing a drink.

But there was still an open bar, of course. You know things are really bad if the open bar is missing from The Company Holiday Party!

My opinion of the food aside, this year's bash was a decent affair. The venue was nicely decorated and inviting and there was also a respectably sized dance floor. Before the party really got rolling, I told BB that every year, it is the staff, not the attorneys, who monopolize the dance floor. Unlike the attorneys, who, for the most part, seem to prefer toting around cocktails, the staff really likes to cut loose on the floor.

At some point in the evening, it was clear that I had eaten enough food that it was only proper that I try to work it off. I descended upon the dance floor for what I thought would be a dance or two for the evening. But after two glasses of Cabernet and two glasses of whiskey, something happened. And thank goodness I wasn't sitting on the couch.

What happened was the Groove Came and Finally Set Me Free.

Coincidentally, I had spent the past week dutifully dancing every morning in my basement in Anchorage - all five days of the week, perhaps breaking my record. It was as if somewhere deep inside I knew that I needed to stay in motion and be ready for whatever might be out there. And sure enough, on the Sixth Day, an odd intersection of circumstances - the need to burn off the overconsumption of crab cakes, a little bit of alcohol, and a willing partner - made for the best three and a half hour block of dancing in my life.

There's something nice about being from a tiny satellite office and thus enjoying a certain degree of anonymity. My presence at the party was so unexplained that the bartender actually carded me, as if I had stumbled in off the street to crash the Annual Company Party. In similar manner, my presence on the dance floor was not questioned. Or at least no one directly questioned me.

The DJs played many of the same songs you hear at every company holiday party, but for whatever reason, I danced to many of them as if hearing them for the first time. My limbs seemed unhinged at the joints, and apparently no move was too daring to try. At some point in the evening, the only people left on the dance floor were BB and I. He took that moment to lean over and whisper,

"Madwoman, you're staff."

There was no escaping the truth. But I had long passed the point of no return. I felt free as a happy bird, an unusual feeling to have at The Annual Company Party.

Or maybe not.

The next morning, I had a few flashbacks to dancing at the party, and each caused me to hold my forehead. I recalled specifically that sometime in the last hour, I may have danced an entire song standing on one foot. Remarkably, notwithstanding the four drinks in my system, the high heels, and the severe dehydration going on, I did not stumble once at The Company Party.

On the Seventh Day, we rested amd did not dance. Instead, we hit the city to do some last-minute site-seeing before our flight. BB and I took a quick walk through Pike Market to scout a good place for breakfast for our group, which turned out to be an adventure in it of itself. (He and I ended up making two visits to the bakery within twenty minutes, and split seven pastries as part of an ill-advised Eat-To-The-Death Contest.)

We ended the day at the Experience Music Project (EMP) and Science Fiction Museum. There was a great interactive exhibit at the EMP which was a series of stations with instruments and programs teaching you how to play them. I learned the Root 6 power chords to Smells Like Teen Spirit and jammed with the computer. BB learned to play Louie Louie on the bass and also how to do reggae drumbeats. Like a couple of kids, we ran into the soundproof practice rooms to work on our "vocals" (when we left the room, BB said, "I'm really glad nobody heard that) and also to play with effects pedals and mixing boards in the Guitar Room. We tried our hand at DJing - mixing beats (giving me newfound apprecation for the DJ "bozos from the night before") and even scratching (but unfortunately the scratching part of the exhibit was broken).

After a couple of hours of banging on instruments, we headed to the adjoining Science Fiction Museum. I was disappointed that there was not even a single automated door - not even the normal kind you'd find at the airport! Everybody knows that any proper Science Fiction Museum needs at least one super cool self-opening door. The Science Fiction Museum was not interactive at all and at times, a bit boring, except that the first thing I saw upon entering was a set of tunics - a goldish green one worn by James T. Kirk (William Shatner) and a blue one worn by Mr. Spock himself (Leonard Nimoy)! I ran up to the glass and clasped my hands like a little kid. BB was less impressed.

Other highlights included a fine collection of science fiction weapons and armor, including a Klingon bat'leth, various disruptors and phasers. Like a true Trekker nerd, I laughed at the unwieldy size of the tricorders on display until I realized I was laughing at tricorders. Star Trek was not the only thing in the museum, of course. There were various Star Wars knick knacks, but they all looked like recent reproductions (I noted that Yoda looked much smaller in person). No doubt the really good Star Wars stuff has already been acquired by nerdy collectors.

Before exiting, I was treated to two more finds:
- Twiki, Buck Rogers' diminutive but shiny sidekick and
- Muffit, the robot-dog-like creature belonging to the son of Apollo on the original Battlestar Galactica!

I apologize that there are no photos of these treasures, but after all, I was in a museum and certainly didn't want my flash photography to degrade the archival quality of these one-of-a-kind items.

For $15 for both facilities, it was a decent Seattle afternoon. I'd recommend it to all those nerdy types who like making music and spacy stuff.

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Have You Seen This Meat Platter??

LOST:
One shiny meat platter, about two feet long. Meat not included. Sentimental value. Please call if found.

Like people, sometimes food needs an accessory or two. This morning, when I reached for my trusty shiny meat platter to serve as the presentation dish for an office birthday cake, it was not in its normal storage spot in the cabinet. I then proceeded to turn the kitchen upside down looking for my shiny friend.

If I concentrate really hard, I realize that I have no idea whatsoever when was the last time I saw my meat platter. It was often used this summer at barbecues, and occasionally gets trotted out for receptions, but no recent memory of its being comes to mind. At the same time, at two feet, it is hard to misplace.

So my theory is that Mrs. Chao has taken my meat platter. The story of Mrs. Chao started over fifteen years ago, when my mom was running a steamed bun business out of our kitchen. Word got around that she was commercializing and soon, the orders started pouring in. My dad and I did our best to help out, mostly by eating Red Bean Buns that had failed to rise properly. But it soon became clear that my mom needed extra help - real help.

Perhaps tapping her Amway experience, my mom decided to get a friend involved, Mrs. Chao. Mrs. Chao was apparently a horrible cook, but sometimes those who are clueless in the kitchen can be good assistants as they will do exactly as you say. Looking back on this, perhaps my mom enlisted Mrs. Chao because she was less of an espionage risk. Whatever she learned in my mom's kitchen, it seemed doubtful Mrs. Chao could replicate it herself elsewhere.

One day, my mom was doing inventory (which was stored crammed into our family freezer) and noticed that she was short one hundred dumplings. How my mom could so precisely account for her dumplings, I don't know. She turned the kitchen inside and out looking for dumplings. I mean, a bag of one hundred dumplings does not just get up and walk out of the kitchen.

Or does it?

As they day wore on and dumplings remained MIA, my mom settled on a suspect - Mrs. Chao. Mrs. Chao had stolen her dumplings! One hundred of them! An inside embezzlement job -- a shrewdly calculated crime.

I personally wondered why Mrs. Chao would steal one hundred dumplings. I can't remember how my mom paid her for her help but certainly an arrangement could have been struck using dumplings as currency. (They are, after all, modeled after Chinese currency from the old days.) But my mom was sure - Mrs. Chao had stolen the dumplings, betraying her in a way she never thought a friend could. This was not the Amway way.

The next day, my mom found the dumplings. She had miscounted. Mrs. Chao was exonerated, but there must have been some kind of confrontation because I never saw Mrs. Chao after that. Shortly thereafter, the steamed bun business folded, and the kitchen was thankfully returned to ordinary family use.

To this day, the family often jokes about Mrs. Chao when we can't seem to find something.

"Where's the vacuum cleaner?"

"Maybe Mrs. Chao took it."

"Have you seen my favorite jacket?"

"I think Mrs. Chao is wearing it."

"Mrs. Chao has been stealing the socks out of the dryer again!"

Mrs. Chao was and still is everywhere. In fact, she followed me from LA when I moved to Alaska. My first year in the Little Yellow House, when our snow shovel disappeared, I cursed Mrs. Chao, waving my empty hands at the piles of snow.

"MRS. CHAAAOOO!"

I know that Mrs. Chao has my meat platter. Who can blame her given its wonderful size and shiny, mirror-like surface? If there is a platter to be coveted, it would be My Beloved Meat Platter. That Mrs. Chao is no fool.

Regardless, Mrs. Chao, if you're reading this, please give my meat platter back! I'll trade you a bag of dumplings.

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Confessions of a Madwoman

I got a call from my mother the other night, concerned that I've been going around the Internet referring to myself as "the Madwoman."

"You're not really mad, are you?" she asked anxiously. "Won't people think you're crazy?"

Something about the tone in her voice made me think what she really meant was, will eligible bachelors in cyberspace think that you are crazy?

Let's hope so.

When I first started blogging months ago, I told my parents about it, never thinking they'd ever take the time to read any of my blog. Sure, I figured they'd be interested in a couple of the photos (the shot of the reindeer against the fence was actually taken my mom who has a gift for capturing animals at their most absurd), but why would they take the time to wade through all of that English, all of those long tortuous sentences?

I imagine that she has been reading my blog slowly, looking up every other word on her little computerized English-Chinese dictionary, typing in the word, "madwoman," her eyes growing big... she picks up the phone....

So for my mother's sake, I'll say it right now. I'm not crazy. Not really crazy. Not crazy enough for anyone to chase me around my house with a net. Not crazy enough to need rubber walls. At least not nowadays. On occasion, I may carry salsa in my purse, imitate moose by chewing on my apple trees, and sprinkle sugar on my lawn to get rid of dandelions, but let's be honest: I'm not crazy!

Regardless, it appears that my mother is intent on continuing to read my blog. I got yet another call asking me what is up with the photo of myself I posted on my food blog. I recently used Microsoft Paint to draw in a mask over my face, so as to protect my identity. After all, this is the Internet, you know.

"Why did you do that? What are you trying to do - Batman?"

Every once in a while, my English-Chinese-dictionary-toting mom surprises me with her knowledge of pop culture. Personally, I was going more for a Zorro look.

She lamented the loss of the undoctored image - which, if I understood her Chinese correctly - depicted some degree of "gentleness" and "naivete" that my Batman photo lacked and that, I might add, my real self probably lacks.

It was then I understood that perhaps my mother has been directing would-be suitors to my blogs, an ill-advised attempt to get to know her only daughter living in The Great Frigid North. Foolish indeed!

So once again, for my mother's sake, I am not crazy. I am not Batman. Anybody who knows the Madwoman understands that I would much prefer the shimmery purple vinyl of Catwoman.

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