Pu'er Tea & 甘

Yesterday, I bought some pu'er tea. I haven't been able to find my original jar of pu'er since moving, and it had been too long. Pu'er is my favourite tea, of all teas. I may treat English Breakfast with milk as the default 'cuppa', but I actively adore pu'er.

I don't know if T2 can be said to purvey the finest specimens of this tea, but it's good enough for me. That lovely whole and upward-rising flavour, the beautiful clarity of the liquor; I love to disturb the water, and watch skeins of red tea rise up in the glass.

This led to me, unsurprisingly, reading the wikipedia article on pu'er. Pu'er is indeed a unique tea among all teas, and the measuring and production of it appears to be more complex than brewing of beer. Especially considering good pu'er is considered to be aged at least 10 years. Yunnan has always been high on my list of places to go, but after reading that article, oh. I want to visit the tea factories and the Six Great Tea Mountains of old, and see the 'feral tea plantations'.

As you can see, I was having a jolly good time educating myself on the basics of pu'er production, when I came to the following:

甘 is my family name. That is my family seal.

I have never, in 33 years of reading, learning, experiencing and communicating, never, not once, encountered our name beyond the scope of our family. The fact that I can't read Chinese contributes to that, regardless, I haven't even met anyone who shares our name in pinyin. 'Gān' is Mandarin; our name is Cantonese, or Hakka, but that is the character.

I forgot how to breathe, and then promptly broke down crying. I can't articulate why. I'd guess that, somewhere in the sub-levels of my subconscious, is a plaintive and desperate need to belong. To something. Let me stake a tiny claim in any culture that predates my own experience.

And it's tea terminology. It's something I love without obligation.

I'm crying again.

ETA: The lovely Charles Tan brought this site to my attention.  It provides examples of pronunciation and accent for 甘. The variations in regional accents and dialects is obvious, even without examples from all Chinese languages. 

In September, 13 Years

"This isn't brought on by any specific event," he said. "It's more a general reminder that we know a lot of the stuff that lands on our desks is confronting, to say the least, and if you don't want to work on something, then say no. That's okay, no one will have any issues with that. Along the same lines, if you feel that perhaps you need to talk to someone about dealing with the material, whatever that material may be, approach your team leader, a member of the leadership team, whoever you feel comfortable with, and we'll organise a counseling session for you."

:::

The photos I see and documents I read in a single day are more than most of you would be comfortable with even skimming. The confrontation is gone. It is all just so much paper now.

:::

"There is someone down at corporate reception wanting information on making an application, do you want to take it?"

No.
I went down.

He was in his eighties, with grey-blue eyes that were milky with age. He was a couple of days unshaven, with sparse white bristles on his jowls and hanging from the wattle at his throat. Hands that had been firm and strong, but had a little tremor in them now, the skin slack around his knuckles. His mouth always a little open, breathing being now task enough that the nose was not enough for his aging lungs. His mouth moved a certain way when he spoke. A hearing aid in his ear, so I was careful to speak clear steady.

They all want to share their life story, circling around and down until finally reaching the matter at hand. "I'll tell you this, back in Tasmania-" and I settled in with my best listening face, prepared to endure waffle.

He didn't waffle, or talk in circles. Events were explained in chronological order with cause and effect in place, until the end, where he was now, with a tangled mess of bureaucracy. Oral story-telling came naturally to him, with the right pauses and no stumbling over his words. He didn't over-dramatise, but didn't attempt to hide his emotional investment in the events either. The mind was well sharp, perhaps lost in the events around him, but sharp.

It took a little teasing on my part to pluck out exactly what he sought, most of which was not in our possession. Still, I called the other organisation and got enough information to set him on the right course, and figured out what we could do for him.

I let him wander afterward. The story he had told me was a sad one. Those old eyes had brimmed more than a few times, although he never broke down. I would not stop him from indulging in happier reminiscences. It was never just a smile or grin, he could do no less than chuckle when mirth took him. His eyes near disappeared the few times this happened, as his sagging cheeks rose with cheer.

"Thank you," he said, an hour and a half later. "You've been incredibly helpful, and I've taken so much of your time."

I gave him a smile and told him to go get a cup of tea.

:::

It's all just so much paper, except when it isn't.

:::

Fencing with red tape, paper, bureaucracy and legalese is tough if you're not already familiar with the illogical, seemingly-petty and idiosyncratic rules of this alternate but co-habited dimension. He was frustrated with the brick walls he'd run against, and although he was far from settled, having someone actually listen to him brought some calmness about him.

It isn't the first time I've snuck in some ninja therapy on a member of the public. Just to be listened to is all a lot of stricken hearts need to rest themselves enough, just enough. It is no great tax, although time that I'm sure my boss would rather I put to better use. All it requires is patience.

:::

It isn't the content that gets beneath my skin. These years of exposure have led to a forced evolution. I have an empathy-off switch, and a different perspective on humanity.

:::

I couldn't not listen to this man, and I couldn't not empathise with him.

He reminded me of my grandfather.

Even smelt like him.

Food. Food. And, also? Food.

Flavour Enhancer 621

Since Mum's ordeal with bowel cancer, I've become understandably thingy about food. Not in any sort of rational or consistent fashion, I'll admit. I'll look at the ingredients list on a packet, and if there are too many numbers or items in there that I don't recognise, I'll put it back on the shelf. (Of course, if I have cravings or am simply not in the mood to fight with the grocery shopping, I'll just not look and willfully indulge in ignorance.)

My latest illogical decision was against MSG.

Now, I have no problem with MSG. No reaction to it at all. I was practically raised on the stuff, and if I stop eating it I'll probably go into some sort of withdrawal. This decision was not based on all the bad hype surrounding it, but rather, the fact that it is commonly listed in ingredients as 'Flavour Enhancer 621'. It's a number, so it has to go.

Unfortunately, once I decided on this, I discovered it's EVERYWHERE.

And by everywhere, I mean, everywhere. How am I going to live without noodles when all sauces and soup bases contain MSG? Augh?

I found some miso soup in the organic shop around the corner that is lacking, thankfully. It's going to be a slow hunt to find more alternate soup bases.

Stupid neurosis.



Butter

After a successful(ish) writing date yesterday, my fellow tortured artists and I tried out a new feeding hole. I'd noticed "WAFFLES!!!" in huge letters on a window in Melbourne Central earlier in the week. That jedi mind trick clearly works well.

Raganeau Crepes. I don't remember seeing any crepes on the menu, but there were certainly waffles. One of them was soaked in melted butter. Far too much melted butter. To the point where it floated, as butter does, and collected at the top of my skull and gave me a butter headache. A butter hangover, to be precise. I'm surprised it didn't ooze out my tear ducts.

It was a mistake, a glorious mistake. When enough time has passed and I've forgotten what a mistake it was, I'll go make that mistake again.



Communal

Dad decided he wanted to go out for dinner. Specifically, to a Japanese restaurant. I told Mum that was not an entirely wise idea. Dad is firmly grounded in the methods of communal Chinese eating: a variety of meat, vegie, soup and tofu dishes in the middle of the table, everyone getting what they want, when they want as the meal progresses. No serving spoons, just double-triple-quadruple dipped chopsticks (this is probably why my immune system is so ridiculously overpowered). And rice. Rice for everyone. Rice without saying. Rice is the foundation upon which all other food rests, it brings meaning to the meal, it doesn't even get mentioned in preparation because rice is rice is assumed is rice.

Japanese cooking can work like that, but generally doesn't. There's a different methodology to the preparation and presentation. While multiple dishes still feature, each person is generally granted their own portion. All meals are insular. There will be no fights for the last piece of chicken.

It doesn't matter how many times Dad encounters this, he is still surprised when the dishes don't come out prepared for sharing, and rice is not automatically served. He does not approve of this, not at all, and then confuses all the serving staff with his attempts to turn a Japanese meal into a Chinese meal featuring Japanese cooking.

In light of all the cultural hooha I've blogged about recently, I feel I should mention this. There are some cultural differences that are irreconcilable. Heh.

oh, she found a hangover to hide under

Letters from India: Serving the Goddess looks at the lives of current day devadasi, a class of sacred sex workers who ply their trade in the name of Yellamma. It is devastating, the lack of choice many of the women who become devadasi had, and then heartening, the way some of them use their position to their advantage and improve things not just in their own lives, but that of friends and family, and then devastating again, because no matter how they try, it can only end badly.

On a Wednesday Night

Each text message I receive is a Big Event, as they're as rare as rocking horse shit. This text message is from my mother, and it reads "So this is what the inside of a black hole is like. Looks familiar".

I stare at this message for a very long time. My mum just sent me the most depressing text in the history of history. I don't know what to do. Should I go home? Today was her chemo-on day, maybe she's having a bad time.

No, this isn't mum's style, not her style at all. I have no idea what she's talking about. But what if she's flipped out, like really flipped out so much she'd send out of character and emo as all fuck text messages? This is serious. Should I go home?

No, really, no that can't be it.

But-

Wait.

"are you talking about that collider thing in France?

"Yes. It happened about 2 hours ago."

Ah.

A Yankee In London: From Hell Chapter Four Walking And Riding Tour is the report of one person following the steps of Sir William Gull and his driver Netley as they trot about London and Gull freaks poor Netley out with his vast conspiracy and ritual talk. It goes through many churches and sites of significant cultural, historical, and religious events, and on reading the chapter it is hard not to believe the whole shebang. Taking the tour today sounds slightly less magnificent than when Gull and Netley did so, but it remains an interesting read. That particular chapter of From Hell is my favourite, seeing it mapped out in photos is a treat.

On A Saturday Morning

I spend two minutes of my life waiting for the kettle to boil, and that is all those two minutes contain. The kettle clicks. I put the teabag in the cup, and pour boiling water, and little black shapes come whirling up in the currents.

At first I assume they're escaped tea leaves, but on closer inspection they turn out to be ants. Boiled alive. Six of them.

There are no ants in the tea box when I check it, and there were none in the cup. They must have been in the kettle. That could mean the insecticide I sprayed about got in the kettle as well.

I spend another minute of my life considering whether or not to drink this cup of tea, six dead ants and insecticide, and that is all that one minute contains.

As far as merchandise goes, I would love to have this t-shirt. Although the lack of visible collars bothers me. Ties without collars just don't work.

In the Sunday Smallhours

There's blood all over the toilet paper.

Ah.

Surprise blood isn't that surprising any more. There's plenty of reasons to start randomly bleeding from the vagina. This blood isn't the colour of menstrual blood, it's brighter.

Maybe going off the pill brought it on. Maybe stress brought it on. Maybe a night full of alcohol brought it on.

Let's be honest, it's probably all three.

Let's be even more honest, I don't care.

NIN Dazzles With Lasers, LEDs and Stealth Screens looks at the light and video set up involved in the current Nine Inch Nails tour. The amount of interaction between performers and stage set up is brilliant, to the point where they're not just playing instruments, they're playing the whole stage. There's a video included, showcasing some of the incredibly nifty stuff they've pulled off. One thing the video demonstrates is the sort of crowd that goes to these concerts. The dull roar of people not paying attention to the quieter pieces, who are impatient with the soft piano and just wanted to bang their heads up and down, this vexes me. They show no respect to the music. I love those pieces most of all. Were Trent Reznor to tour alone, playing only the piano at tiny little venues, there'd be no upper price on what I'd pay for a ticket.

On a Sunday Afternoon

I put the tea bag in the cup, and pour boiling water. One dead ant swirls in the currents. I watch it sink to the bottom.

I actually have tomorrow off (it's my parole day), and for the first time in, I don't know, years and years and years, I'm going to see the lion dances and Dai Loong, the Southern Hemisphere's biggest dragon (imaginatively named 'big dragon').

Strictly speaking, I shouldn't be celebrating Chinese New Year, what with observing 100 days of mourning for Ayeh. Not that wandering around with a camera really counts as celebrating. But, our relationship was always one of opposition, so I think it's in keeping with that. In his honour though, and because he always disapproved of how not girly I was, I shall do so in a dress. Weather permitting.

Weather not permitting, I'll just have to deal with the fact that I'm a bad granddaughter.

Family, eh? Whose bright idea was that?