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The Foodie

Earth food rules!

By Elizabeth BynumPublished 2 years ago 25 min read
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1.

There's been another car accident at the intersection up the street. I heard the shriek of hastily braking tires and the booming smash of metal on metal a few minutes ago as I was slicing a reddish-green heirloom tomato to put on my French-style open faced brie-on-sourdough breakfast sandwich. I don't want to let the toasted bread get cold, but I have to go see if anyone is hurt. So I throw on my fuzzy black coat and take my sandwich with me as I walk the half block to the north. A fair compromise, I think.

The scene is a mess. I was warned that this might happen when I rented the house for the "holiday season." There are big blocky industrial buildings on the northwest and southwest corners of the intersection that block drivers' vision as they are heading north or south on 51st Street, so car crashes frequently occur here. This time appears to have been no exception. It looks like the driver of the smaller car, a Toyota Camry, was trying to turn left onto J Street when she was hit by another Toyota, a Tacoma pickup truck, who was probably speeding East along J Street. These people with their "need for speed!" The Camry driver, a tan woman who looks to be in her mid-thirties, is sitting and crying about 65 feet away from her wrecked vehicle, on a bench, and is being comforted by an older lady with a dog. This driver must not be hurt badly if she was able to walk that far. On the opposite street corner, a tall middle aged man is speaking in an animated way to another man, making angry, defensive gestures. He does not appear to be hurt, either.

The front windshield of the truck is shattered, and there's some damage to the cab as well, but that's nothing compared to the other car. The right side of the Camry is completely smashed in from the rear passenger door to the trunk. The driver must have been well into her turn when the truck hit her, which makes me think I'm right about the other driver speeding. I'm glad she got that far, because a split second less and the truck would have hit the shotgun seat and likely caused death or serious injury. As it is, the impact of the crash sent the Camry skidding into the very middle of the busy four-lane road, while the truck now loiters on the south side of J Street close to the puddles of shattered glass. It's a little after eight in the morning, so a long line of irritated looking worker bees in their own little mobile metal boxes are creeping past the accident scene, each pausing for a few seconds to gawk at the spectacle. It is probably the most interesting thing they will see all day, so I don't really blame them.

The Camry driver will now have to rent a car for awhile, or take public transport. Maybe she will actually like taking the buses and the light rail. Sacramento's public transit system is not great, but it's not horrible either. You can definitely get around on it. Maybe she'll become an advocate for fewer cars and better public transport? One can always hope.

I leave when I hear the agitated wail of an ambulance in the distance. I hate that sound, and so many of the other sounds here. This place has way too many harsh noises. Hopefully they will get this scene cleaned up by lunchtime, since it's along the most convenient route to my planned lunch destination, THAI: The House of Authentic Ingredients on H and 47th Streets. I'm so looking forward to this restaurant! It will be my first Thai food, and my guide says that they import ingredients all the way from Thailand. It will be as close to real Thai food in Thailand as I'm probably going to get during this posting. Spicy Thai food for lunch, how exciting!

It's hard to believe that I had so little competition for this assignment. Sacramento is a fantastic food town, in a country that has great food in general, on a planet that has little else to recommend it. Sacramento also has some nice neighborhoods with unique architecture, including the one I am staying in, and a thriving public art scene that is quite inspirational. So many sides of buildings have been painted with colorful murals, and they hold a festival every year where more of these murals are created. The city therefore gets more colorful every year. There's even an alley stretching for an entire city block where all the buildings are completely covered in murals, some of them three dimensional. All of the dumpsters in the alley are painted, too! It is a must see destination here that I will check out when I do one of my tours of downtown, to eat fine locally sourced California cuisine at The Grange, or give local political bigwigs the slant-eye while eating the Chef's Three Course Special at The Firehouse.

I won't be heading downtown tonight, though. Today is December 2, which means that another tourist attraction will be coming online right here in East Sacramento: the Fabulous Forties gala holiday lights. Almost every resident from 39th to 47th Streets between J Street and Folsom decorates their front yard lavishly with strings of colored lights, blowup snowmen figures, and other cheerful Christmas accoutrements. The weather is going to be cool and clear. A long evening walk is in order.

But first, it's time for some Thai food.

It's a pleasant walk to the restaurant. All of the houses that I pass along the five blocks are different from each other. Some are huge Victorian-looking affairs, others are small brick homes, still others a combination of brick and faux-Tudor beams. And then there is a style, rarely seen outside of Sacramento, that I call a swish-roofed cottage, because one (and only one) side of the roof curves in a deep swish. There's another cool house style in this town called a high-water bungalow, so named because the first floor is elevated to help withstand the floods that used to plague Sacramento. I don't pass any of this last type on my way to lunch, though.

The restaurant is almost packed with a Wednesday lunchtime crowd. It is loud inside; the room has echoing acoustics. I would have preferred to sit outside on their terrace, but the light rain outdoors does not permit it. Decor in the restaurant is minimal, with a portion of one wall textured in a three dimensional white frieze of elongated rectangles and triangles. Another wall has a few hanging plants, and that's about it. It's pretty plain to look at.

But the smell! And the menu! How am I ever going to choose what to eat? Should I pick the famous sweet fried noodle dish Pad Thai? No, if I am going to eat Thai food, I want it to be spicy. Look at all these great sounding noodle soups and stir fries! Or maybe a curry? Here's a green curry that contains Thai eggplant, a unique ingredient. It is also moderately spicy. Kang Kiew Wan. That's the one! Now, I need one of their Asian-inspired specialty cocktails. Which one is likely to be strongest? Probably the Chiang Mai Tai, which has two different kinds of rum in it, along with several different fruit juices. My order is complete!

I drink a lot of alcohol in this place. I need it! Being stressed out, as one inevitably gets when spending time on Earth, is an unnatural state that is to be avoided whenever possible. I find alcohol to be very useful in calming my mind and clarifying my thinking. On my way home, I'll pick up something to drink from the drugstore. I think a nice bottle of tequila, chilled in the freezer for a few hours, will be just perfect tonight. Usually I will consume about half a liter of hard alcohol during a night when this is my drink of choice. I have a much higher tolerance for alcohol than an average human. If I choose wine instead, I usually go through two bottles in a night. If beer, just a six pack, because it is so filling. I always buy double IPAs because of the higher alcohol content. There's a great locally brewed brand here called Track Seven, with a 8.5% alcohol by volume. That's the beer I choose the most.

My cocktail arrives, very pretty with its ombre effect: a cloud of dark liquor at the top, fading to a golden color lower down. I admire the drink for a minute before giving it a stir and enjoying the blended flavors of light and dark rum, pineapple juice, and a touch of lime. Then my food arrives, elegant and colorful. There's a medium-sized bowl with slices of red bell pepper, white meat chicken, and the various greens of basil leaves, eggplant, and the curry broth itself. In a smaller bowl there is a mound of sticky rice. I'm about to eat sticky rice!

The sweet and spicy curry is everything I hoped for. I especially love the flavor of the coconut milk shining through in the broth. Thai eggplant is indeed an interesting ingredient. It has a very mild flavor itself, but is a wonderfully absorbent vehicle for the complex flavors of the curry. I cannot eat the whole thing in one sitting. Portions at American restaurants are notorious for being crazy large. But I do make sure to drink my entire cocktail.

Back at my home away from home, I have some work to do before I can go on my walk. First, I write an email to a very famous man informing him that the MERS 2.0 epidemic originally scheduled for 2024 will not be taking place as planned. Nor will he have time to perfect and implement a scheme of inserting microchips into a vaccine. I make a cursory apology for this, but explain that shutting down these shenanigans was kind of a job requirement. He should be able to understand that reasoning, being one of the biggest cheerleaders for the Cult of Careerism that is so popular in this country and elsewhere.

Next, I work on my letter to the Dalai Lama. It's already eighteen pages long, and I think I'm almost done, but I still need to finish the part about everything that's wrong with China, the most evil of the four evil empires. I really want to get that part right, because he is likely to appreciate that section most of all. I've already written in detail about all of the flaws in the world's major religions, and also their good aspects. I hope he will take seriously the admonition to stop declaring all of the major religions a "failure." None of them are perfect, but all can be good starting points if practiced with the right intentions. Also, is it true that Buddhists believe that the end goal of people's time on Earth is the mere cessation of suffering? That is not a good thing to be telling people. It is both untrue and demotivating. But otherwise, the Dalai Lama is among the best of the best humans, and he is someone we'd really like to have join us someday, so it is important to educate him about reality.

I still feel a bit blocked, so I make a bullet point list of nine of China's worst aspects--crimes, really. I put an asterisk in the notebook as a placeholder, then go ahead and manifest finishing this opus by signing my official Earth name, both the English and Chinese versions. Below it, I add my official Earth title: Bodhisattva. It's now almost 6pm. I think I've done enough work for one day. Maybe I can finish the letter tomorrow. A trip to one of the neighborhood's independent coffeehouses, either Tupelo or Chocolate Fish, might help.

Outside, the temperature is in the high forties. It has stopped raining. I stroll over to 47th street, where the neighbors have color coordinated their Christmas decorations. Most of the trees near the sidewalks, mainly large old sycamores and other shade trees, are wrapped from bottom to mid-trunk with strings of green and white glowing lights. Two blocks later, on 45th Street, the neighbors have agreed on a red and white color scheme, and their trees are wrapped accordingly. From time to time a horse drawn carriage full of Christmas light fanciers clops by in the street next to me. I can see why this spectacle of holiday cheer is so popular. It is nice to see wealthy people create something that less fortunate people can also come and enjoy.

As I stroll around, I ask myself the burning question: what am I going to eat tomorrow? I've been wanting to make the trip to South Land Park to Oto's Japanese Market. If the weather's nice tomorrow, maybe I'll head out there and buy the ingredients for a dish I've wanted to try making, Tonkatsu Ramen. I'll need fresh noodles, thin mushrooms--maybe goldens?--scallions and one other green vegetable, good quality pork loin, Panko breadcrumbs, and broth ingredients. I already have eggs. I'd better soft boil them and marinate them overnight if I want best results. Or I could just fry or poach them if I'm feeling lazy. Yes, let's make tomorrow a ramen day!

2.

Five days later, the weather has gotten noticeably colder. There has been a lot of rain lately, which this drought-seared place really needs. I have finished my letter to the Dalai Lama. Now I have to await instructions on when and how I should send it. I have made pretty remarkable progress with my French lessons and Flamenco dancing technique, getting better at both every day. To keep my mind sharp, I invented a new language. It is a bird-human hybrid language derived from the kookaburra. I call it Ouakakan. It's very expressive, and I am quite fond of it. Each night I also do free-style dancing for at least a half hour, to generate beneficial energies and blow off some of the frustration that comes with inhabiting this backward place.

Tonight, instead of dancing in the spare room that I've turned into a studio, I am going to make my first public dancing appearance. It's kind of an important night. This will be the most crucial segment of my assignment. I've practiced dancing while twirling a broom, and it's not that hard at all. Now I have to go to the store and buy a new mop. The Rite Aide around the corner has a nice one with a dark green handle for less than fifteen dollars, which I purchase. The head of the mop is retractable, which might make for some interesting effects while dancing.

At seven o'clock, my mop and I begin the fifteen minute walk to the light rail station, where I catch the train bound for downtown. I am relieved that no one in the car I enter is ranting loudly or engaging in other aggressive behavior. Everyone is on their phone, or zoning out with music streaming through earbuds into their heads. I myself sit quietly and observe my fellow passengers during the uneventful twenty minute ride.

The train stops at Eighth and K Streets, a few blocks East of my destination. I stroll past the shops and restaurants of Downtown Commons at a leisurely pace, enjoying the relatively happy expressions on the faces of most of the pedestrians. The concert won't start for a little while yet. I happen to love the band that is playing tonight, and I wish I could go into DOCO Arena to hear them, but then I might lose my mop. I will have to be satisfied with hearing what I can from outside of the stadium.

It really does sound like a terrific concert, even through the thick steel walls of DOCO Arena. Now all the concertgoers are spilling out of the building. A few of them come up to me and ask for cigarettes when they see me smoking on the bench in front of an expanse of astroturf. I happily provide them with smokes, my preferred Natural American Spirits, and also with lights when needed. It's ridiculous to deprive oneself of the pleasure of smoking when the Earth will be overheated beyond recognition in just a decade or so. And yet, anti-smoking propaganda is everywhere, while the same propagandists continue to drive vehicles that contribute to atmospheric warming, utilize single-use plastic cutlery, engage in labor that mainly benefits wanna-be global overlords, and do many other dysfunctional things. Can they not put two and two together? Dumb Americans. Just go ahead and smoke, like the French do!

When all of the concertgoers have cleared out, gone to their cars or buses or light rail lines, I take out my phone and call up my song of choice on YouTube. I have chosen a song called Waiting on a War, which is one of the tunes I could dimly hear playing inside the stadium an hour ago. I am not required to perform my dance in front of a large live audience; I only have to do it outdoors and in a public place. I will have an audience anyway, if only an audience of security guards, because there are hidden and not so hidden cameras everywhere in this area. Being pretty shy, I'd rather not have the public right in my face.

I'm actually celebrating the end of the war with my dance. Having the word "war" in the title of the song is evocative. I turn on the music. Once it starts, everything just flows. I combine two handed spins of the mop on either side with swishes and twirls, then some overhead spinning while facing upward to honor our Creator, then leaping and more twirling in alternating slow and fast movement intervals. The whole thing is over in what seems like no time. Only three people pass me during the entire performance, looking busy and bemused as they continue on their way to wherever. I guess they don't think a hippie-ish woman dancing barefoot on a carpet of astroturf, in the dead of winter, with a mop, is anything too remarkable. Maybe it isn't.

I feel great after my dance. Before starting the long walk back to my place, I put my shoes back on, sit on the bench and cool down with another cigarette. It's almost midnight now. It will be the wee hours of the morning by the time I make it to my rental house.

I throw the mop over my shoulder and start marching East, like a Civil War soldier returning home from battle a century and a half ago. Just outside of Downtown Commons, there's a group of young men, some of whom are wearing cowboy hats, milling around as if trying to decide what to do next. I'll bet they were just at the concert. Could these be my witnesses? I stop, smile at them, and say "You're not from around here, are you?"

One of them laughs and replies, "Nope! We're from Alabama." I immediately start telling them about the murals, the brewpubs, the great restaurants, and other fun features of Sacramento. Soon, as I knew they would, one of them asks, "What's with the mop?"

"It symbolizes that we are now in the cleanup phase in the universal war between good and evil." After breaking the good news, I immediately start babbling again about the highlights of Sacramento, and about how good the concert was. I do this until there is a natural stopping point, and then make a hasty departure before they have time to formulate any questions that would be inadvisable for me to answer.

Two blocks later, on K Street, there is a place called Dive Bar with a lovely painting of a mermaid on the front wall. It looks like the bar features actors and actresses in mermaid costumes, swimming around in a tank to entertain the patrons. As I stop to admire both the painting and the concept, two men standing nearby try to engage me in dialogue.

"What are you going to do with that mop?" says one. "You could beat up that elf," says the other, gesturing to a young man in an elf costume who is writing something on the bar's outdoor whiteboard sign. "Why would I want to beat him up?" I ask. "He's just being an elf."

"Thank you!" says the elf man, vehemently. I suspect the other men have been teasing or harassing him. "Leave the elf alone, or I will fuck you up!" I yell at the two in my best Mr. T voice. Then, while they are standing there looking startled, I march onward.

At Sixteenth and J Streets, an older homeless man is reading a copy of The Sacramento Bee over a covered garbage can. Since I read the paper thoroughly this morning, as usual, I stop and discuss some of the day's local and global events with the man, whose name is Michael. Like most people who have dropped out of the global machine to live "off the grid," he has definite and mostly informed opinions on what is going on in the world. It's always refreshing to speak with sensible people like him.

Things are mostly quiet through Midtown. But when I'm almost to Alhambra, I pass a bar that is still open and has a crowd of people outside on the sidewalk. All men. I wonder what makes this bar so popular. As I'm peering inside, one of them makes a friendly remark to me. He has an accent, which always makes me curious. "Where are you from?" I ask him. "Brazil," he replies.

I've read about Brazil, and I would love to go there someday. The food is not ranked among the great cuisines of this world, except for the artfully grilled and roasted red meat and the fresh and abundant fruit, but it would be fantastic to see the Amazon rain forest and the Pantanal. We chat for several minutes about America, Brazil, and the differences between the two places. Then I dare to ask him the question that always occurs to me whenever I think of his home country: "Why are the Brazilian people allowing the rain forest to be cut down?"

He is taken aback. "That's not really happening," he claims. "You don't have to believe what you read about that." Not really happening? I don't buy that at all. But I'll leave Brazil's problems to the family member who is posted there. It isn't my assignment to educate and motivate the Brazilians. I have enough on my hands with this place, and with some of the bigger global issues.

I cross Alhambra, and I'm finally back in East Sacramento. Just twenty more blocks to go, in familiar territory. There's not much going on at this hour. The Turnverein, a strange bastion of German culture on 33rd Street in the midst of the American West, is nicely decorated with Christmas lights. There's another homeless man sleeping in the doorway of the Methodist church on 36th Street. Mercy General Hospital at 40th Street has a mostly full parking lot, probably due to COVID's rapidly spreading Delta strain.

Just past Mercy General, a tall Black man approaches me on the sidewalk. He seems to need something, so I stop. "Do you know how I can get to Natomas from here?" he asks.

I do know, of course. I "downloaded" (I guess you might say) both a map of the greater Sacramento area and its public transportation routes to my mind before coming here. Unfortunately for him, it's not an easy trip. The light rail doesn't go to Natomas. He'll have to take a bus downtown first, then transfer to at least one and probably two other bus routes, depending on where in the area he's trying to go. Moreover, the buses won't start running again for several hours. I happen to have an envelope in my purse, so I write the numbers of the bus lines and where he will need to catch them on the back side, then tear it off and give it to him. Good luck sir!

Before moving on, I pull a five dollar bill out of my wallet and give it to him for the bus fare. I suppose the bill is what one would call counterfeit, but I don't care. Stupid money and the stupid monetary system. They both need to go, eventually. Humans are somewhat familiar with the concept of "What goes around, comes around," but somehow they can't manage to apply this proverb to exchanges of goods and services. That's because they are not transparent like we are. They are secretive and think they are so slick, constantly saying things they don't really mean and portraying themselves as other than they are. How are they going to react when they find out that we have heard every thought that every one of them has ever had, duly recorded for karma and posterity? Badly, I suspect.

It is indeed the early morning when I finally make it back. Just past 3:00am. My feet hurt. I feel very proud of myself and what I have accomplished tonight.

3.

The next morning, I wake up just in time to get ready for lunch. Today is going to be a day of truly fine dining, both for lunch and dinner. I have been saving a few carefully researched restaurants for this very occasion, this day when I get to mark the completion of my first public performance and oral testimony. I know where I'm going to have dinner for certain. Lunch is a bit more difficult. I'm having a hard time choosing between the hearty Hungarian goulash at La Trattoria Bohemia and the deluxe Chirashi bowl at Kru. Kru is probably the better option, since the meal will be lighter, and I want to have plenty of room for dinner.

An hour later, I'm feasting on fifteen pieces of the freshest raw fish, on a bed of perfectly steamed Japanese rice. This goodness is served with a varied array of colorful condiments, including house-made wasabi. The food is exquisite, and I even get to sit outside, since it is sunny today and unseasonably warm. I take this as a good omen, and maybe also a small reward for my good work.

For the rest of the afternoon, I lie upstairs in bed and watch music videos. I deserve a day off!

After dark, when I start to get hungry, I put on my coat again and walk four blocks South and West. To Allora. I have heard absolute raves about this place, and I can't wait to try it. Allora considers itself an Italian seafood restaurant, but it is really California-Italian fusion cuisine, made mostly from ingredients grown and raised here in the Sacramento area. The menu, which changes seasonally, is prix fixe. You can select a three, four, or five course meal from their limited but wonderful menu. I'm going to have a four course meal, skipping the pasta course, because I know my limits and make some pretty amazing pasta dishes myself. It's easy to do when you have the Corti Brothers specialty Italian grocery store within walking distance.

Once seated in the restaurant's tranquil, heated semi-outdoor patio area, I order oysters with the house hot sauce, lemon, and mignonette for my crudi course. It is nice and light, and who can argue with fresh oysters? My antipasti course is Zuppa di Granchio, made with Dungeness crab, cauliflower, leek, and potato. A splash of sherry gives the broth a pleasant zing. For an entree, I have the Pork Osso Bucco, which comes with a rye spatzle, chestnut gremolata, and sauteed kale. Everything is cooked and flavored to perfection. When it's time for dessert, I punt and order the Spumoni Bombe rather than the more appealing sounding and seasonally appropriate Persimmon Spice Cake. I'm just too full for cake!

On the walk home, I wonder what I will be required to do next. The current estimate is that about twelve percent of humans will be able to join us in the real world. It would be great to get the percentage up to at least fifteen percent, and even better if we can nudge it up closer to twenty. My dancing alone should be enough to steer at least a handful of them in the right direction. If I am good enough at what I do, I'll probably be stuck here longer. I don't love that idea, but I am willing to hang around and work hard anyway.

No one knows exactly how we are going to save the eligible ones yet, if the humans can't turn things around with global warming. As usual, Father will make his decision at the last minute. He will probably make tentative plans and then change his mind dozens of times before the End Days arrive. We might use a Rapture method and transport them to a duplicate or similar planet, or we might summon them all to the ocean, where they will dive in and become mer-people until the planet cools down. Or we might do something entirely different.

In the meantime, the eating sure is good here in Hell's Kitchen!

Humanity
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About the Creator

Elizabeth Bynum

My fiction is informed by the wide variety of life experiences that I have had, people I have met, and places I have been. I have lived in five different countries and traveled to dozens more, including some on all but one continent.

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