I Dream of Springrolls

I can sometimes be overly practical; blame my New England sensibilities! Even my desire to uproot and move across the water to Berlin is steeped in the work-mode desire to immerse myself into the go-go world of start-ups and innovation and Helmut Lang. I have zero dreams to backpack across Europe or live off the land. I very much crave a sense of security.

However, part of me is hoping that, after a sizable amount of my loans are paid off, I have this identity crisis and have to go lose myself in Asia. Maybe I do odd jobs here and there, but mostly I spend my days in dim sum shops and at street vendors eating dumplings, fried meats, fresh produce—even the stinky Durian—as my waist line gets larger and larger until I resemble a dumpling! Perhaps I start a relationship with a quiet Thai boy who thinks my American yoga is silly, and berates me, and I let him because he cooks me real Thai food. You know, something along those things.

Until then, I will toil away in my kitchen, making bastardize versions of Asian staples and the loosey-goosiest of spring rolls that only a novice roller could love and my imaginary Thai boyfriend would likely hate.



Say what you must, I was extremely proud

Say what you must, I was extremely proud


Room for improvement

Room for improvement


I took a ten minute shower and when I came back I found this nibbling away at my half eaten roll from the night before.  I didn’t have the heart to take it away, as its been months since I cooked for someone.

I admire mire her (his?) ambition.

I admire mire her (his?) ambition.


A sticky get away.

A sticky get away.  I’m sure she (he?) told great stories of the clear sticky roll filled with greens on the ledge up high.


The baked rolls blistered in the oven, but a stomach cannot tell the difference between misshapen and perfection. Which is good, or else my stomach who be quite upset a good amount of the time.








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