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Dec. 19th, 2005 16:51![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
mapsedgeIt's a hard realization, and even harder to confess to your friends. You always wonder how your friends and loved ones will react, and you ask yourself, knowing better but still afraid, "Will they still love me when they know the truth? Can they accept me for what I am, when I take off the mask and show them the face beneath?"
Michelle and I share an addiction. It makes going to sleep at night difficult, and the late nights affect our abilities to function during the day. We find ourselves looking for that next "hit", and are left disappointed and even a little frustrated when it doesn't come.
It creeps into our conversations, our dealings with friends and coworkers who don't "get it." Since the first time we encountered it, it quickly took over our lives, and we struggle with it almost every day.
Iron Chef.
No, not the pansy-assed American version. Noooo, the Japanese version, dubbed badly and subtitled worse. We live for the theme ingredient, the inane chatter of the (usually) empty-headed Japanese actors who come on as "tasters", the exceptionally bad costumes worn by Chairman Kaga. We sit on the edge of the bed, rooting for Chen Kenichi and Hiroyuki Sakai, cursing the challengers.
The making of supper has always been a rather sedate affair of peeling potatos and heating our skillet over gentle warmth. Now we peel our vegetables, broccoli and bokchoy and daikon, in a homicidal frenzy of whirling knives. Hamburger has been replaced with "fatty tuna", ketchup with hoi sin and rice wine. We've talked seriously of purchasing an ice cream machine and a supply of codfish roe. If the cooking fire doesn't reach the ceiling, we cut down another tree for fuel.
We no longer say grace over our food: the prayer of thanksgiving for the lord's bounty has been replaced with the strident cry, "ALLEZ CUISINE!"
God help us.
Michelle and I share an addiction. It makes going to sleep at night difficult, and the late nights affect our abilities to function during the day. We find ourselves looking for that next "hit", and are left disappointed and even a little frustrated when it doesn't come.
It creeps into our conversations, our dealings with friends and coworkers who don't "get it." Since the first time we encountered it, it quickly took over our lives, and we struggle with it almost every day.
Iron Chef.
No, not the pansy-assed American version. Noooo, the Japanese version, dubbed badly and subtitled worse. We live for the theme ingredient, the inane chatter of the (usually) empty-headed Japanese actors who come on as "tasters", the exceptionally bad costumes worn by Chairman Kaga. We sit on the edge of the bed, rooting for Chen Kenichi and Hiroyuki Sakai, cursing the challengers.
The making of supper has always been a rather sedate affair of peeling potatos and heating our skillet over gentle warmth. Now we peel our vegetables, broccoli and bokchoy and daikon, in a homicidal frenzy of whirling knives. Hamburger has been replaced with "fatty tuna", ketchup with hoi sin and rice wine. We've talked seriously of purchasing an ice cream machine and a supply of codfish roe. If the cooking fire doesn't reach the ceiling, we cut down another tree for fuel.
We no longer say grace over our food: the prayer of thanksgiving for the lord's bounty has been replaced with the strident cry, "ALLEZ CUISINE!"
God help us.