Kate's Ink: Is This Thing On?

Paul and I got the bright idea in 2006 to drive from Memphis to Manhattan to see Avenue Q. Seriously, we took a 19-plus-hour drive with the sole purpose of seeing one off-Broadway show. But it was pretty cool — we unintentionally attended a show followed by a few zeros (maybe the 2,000th show?), so a couple of the producers were in attendance and everyone in the audience got a special Q cupcake.

We also managed to make it to Spamalot and a few other NYC mainstays (MOMA, 30 Rock, the Museum of Natural History …) and had a fantastic time. We also stumbled into Rice to Riches and had the best rice pudding I’ve ever put in my mouth.

But I was kind of on a quest, as well — I wanted to visit the famed Ten Ren tea in Chinatown. So the night we drove in, we took a $40 cab ride to Chinatown (this was before we realized the subway was just as easy and way more economical) and trekked our way to Ten Ren. If I hadn’t been looking, we would’ve walked right past it. I was expecting something flashy; flashy it was not.

I walked away with some jasmine pearls and a couple packs of Eight Treasures tea.

Many tea houses and importers have their own version of Eight Treasures. I bought mine at the well-known (but small and very unassuming) Ten Ren in NYC's Chinatown.

Ten Ren’s Eight Treasures blend includes chrysanthemums, green tea, jujubes, Chinese wolfberries, longan, rock sugar, raisins and tremella. (Yeah, I bought it before I realized one of the ingredients is “Yellow Brain Fungus.”)

If you’ve never tried a chrysanthemum-based tea (my gosh, I’m sick of typing chrysanthemum), I’d suggest it — even without all the other stuff added. But this version of Eight Treasures is really quite good, and since it’s sealed up in little packs, I don’t have to hurry to enjoy each cup.

And because I can now buy it online, I don’t have to drive to NYC to buy more. But in a perfect world — a world where we were rich and had a bunch of free time — we would drive back to New York, this time to see American Idiot and Memphis. The trip’s practically planning itself: I have double the reason to go.

My brother-in-law is allergic to peanuts, which really blows for him because he’ll never relish the taste of pad Thai. … Also Chick-Fil-A nuggets. But mostly pad Thai.

I’m kind of into noodle shops and really enjoyed exploring them when Paul and I went to New York a few years ago. That was the most fun road trip I’ve ever taken, so noodles were just icing on the cake. … OK, that’s a rather unappetizing culinary metaphor. Suck it. (Like noodles!)

If I had to guess, the number of noodle shops in NYC is roughly equivalent to the number of places in Chas where you can get shrimp ‘n’ grits. (So … pretty much everywhere. Every restaurant has its own take on the dish.)

I cooked a big bowl of noodles for lunch. The place where I used to get steaming bowls of pad Thai closed while we were in Memphis last summer.

Since my noodle place in Chas closed while were in Memphis (ha! I knew Paul and I ate there enough to keep the lights on!), I’ve started buying packages of noodles to cook at home. It’s not the real thing (read: You can’t package greatness), but it’s inexpensive, tasty and nearly effortless to cook. It’s like ramen on steroids. No, not really.

Last night, I got a diet newsletter e-mail from Diet Detective. (Didn’t I unsubscribe to that long ago?) The main article listed how much exercise you’d have to do to burn off pad Thai. Through the magic of the Internet and inexplicable calorie-counting juju, they determined this will work off (an unlisted amount of) pad Thai:

• Walking: 153 minutes
• Running: 51 minutes
• Swimming: 97 minutes
• Bicycling: 73 minutes

I’m pretty sure I could walk to the now-closed noodle shop and back home in 153 minutes. If I had to guess, I could probably find another, maybe even better noodle shop within a 153-minute-walk radius.

How many miles is that, anyway?

For the entire duration of our marriage, Paul’s computer has lived on (and under) a rickety, white, particle-board desk we bought on sale long ago. It’s so rickety that we had to sign a waiver with the moving company absolving them from blame if the damn thing fell apart between Memphis and Charleston.

It didn’t. Poor Paul. But we’re going to buy him a new one soon. We will pick it out, we will pay for it, and it will be completely, totally, 100 percent our purchase.

Our families really love us, and nearly everything in our apartment — from the TV trays to the La-Z-Boy (Memphis, Charleston) — has been a thoughtful gift from our relatives. Most of those gifts came when we were young marrieds, living off one salary while Paul worked his way through grad school.

The antique brass bed in our guest room belonged to my parents. So did the dining room set, which they got through layaway in the 1970s. Our bedframe, couches and entertainment center (which is now storage for my china and crystal stemware) were wedding gifts. The ginormous TV that now acts as TV stand to our flatscreen was a hand-me-down from Paul’s parents. The lamp next to that TV belonged to my grandmother. Washer and dryer? My parents. Side table? Paul’s parents.

We own three dressers — all inherited and all in the same room — and all three are full of T-shirts we love too much to give away.

My computer chair was reclaimed from the trash pile at the newspaper office in college. Mom re-covered it in an absolutely awesome, neon green fabric. I reclaimed another chair from that pile, and my mom-in-law re-covered it. It sort of belongs to Fred now:

Fred-Kitty is a cat I rescued from life with an annoying tween and an even more annoying yappy dog. Fred is sitting on a chair I rescued from the trash outside my newspaper office in college; that chair was re-covered by my mother-in-law.

We’ve been fortunate (and in the right place at the right time) that most of our furniture came gratis; grad students don’t have a furniture allowance built into their tiny stipends. It’s also pretty nice that everything is a little broken-in and comfortable; Paul and I are all about the comfortable.

… Oh, we bought a microwave when ours shorted out. Is a microwave considered furniture? Or the cats’ scratching post? I guess not. But we did buy them ourselves.

A decade ago, about halfway through my college days, a friend of Paul’s let me borrow a few volumes of The Sandman, a series of graphic novels written by Neil Gaiman. Gaiman is quite possibly my favorite author. (Sandman was the icebreaker, but Good Omens left me smitten.)

If you’ve never heard of him, one, shame on you, and two, he’s the guy who wrote Coraline. And if you haven’t read the book or seen the movie Coraline, one, shame on you, and two, climb out from under your rock.

The Sandman series revolves, more or less, around The Endless — anthropomorphic personifications of Death, Dream, Destiny, Destruction, Desire, Despair and Delirium (formerly Delight). Wow, I named them all from memory! My favorite of these is Death — not because I have a morbid obsession with the afterlife, but rather because she’s likable — empathetic and understanding in her job. She’s got this “I’m gonna be there for you” big sister thing goin’ on.

I found this Death candle in a comics shop soon after I started reading the series:

This is my Death candle. Death (the character) has always made death (the event) seem a little less scary, like it's just another effortless step on the journey.

The back of the candle reads:

“When the first living thing existed, I was there waiting. When the last living thing dies, my job will be finished. I’ll put the chairs on the tables, turn out the lights, and lock the universe behind me as I leave.” — Death

I could make this post drag on forever. There’s much to be said about the art, the minor characters and how it all came together in a poignant way during a rough point in my life. … I could also give a shout-out to Frank for letting me borrow his graphic novels. (I still have your copy of Death: The High Cost of Living. … Oops?)

Instead, I’m signing off now to go write. I’m happy for myself; I haven’t written anything except blog posts since we moved to Charleston nearly two years ago. Nothing. That’s (one reason) why I have so many blank books. I’m used to long dry spells; I usually only write when my mind can’t calm down on its own. But when I went through a really tough patch last year, it was fixed with medication instead of a little mind-probing self-therapy. It wasn’t until recently that I realized how strange of a situation that was for me. Then I put pen to paper and slowly, (oh so) slowly, (almost too) slowly began to write.

The problem is that I find it easiest to write at night when it’s quiet and my brain’s firing a little differently. I didn’t intend for it to happen this way, but I started staying up later … and later … writing and having e-mail conversations with a night-owl friend. And now my schedule is completely off; I was barely able to hold myself up this morning, but I stayed up till Paul left for school at about 8 a.m.

… This can’t last forever. The semester is flying by. But for now, it’s nice to be finding my voice again — even if it’s coming back to me slowly and with many misfires.

I’m going to leave you with one last Death quote. Actually, I’m pretty sure I’ve got it slightly wrong, but what matters is the sentiment behind it:

You get what anyone gets; you get a lifetime. — Death

Oh my! Am I going to be able to get this up before midnight? It’s a race against the clock. How fast can Kate type? How fast? Oh, the pressure! Oh, the humanity!

Paul and I went to Cinebarre for a celebratory, late V-day, super-special night. I sent a ninja text to Grrface and Lazer during the movie. ^_^

Cinebarre is an awesome place (much better than the picture I took!). We ate fancy-schmancy burgers; Paul drank a beer. Then we rushed home and played a relatively quiet (but enjoyable!) game of XBL Uno! with Grrface and Lazer. Man, we kicked the asses of Purple Player and Yellow Player! … And those other people who tried to play with us, too.

Next stop: Castle Crashers!