With all the HTML hysteria and rebranding brouhaha safely behind me, I can now return to the serious business of recording in minute yet invigorating detail the progress of the war on wheat a chez Fractured Amy. Campers, what a busy time these last several weeks have been! They've seen several new cheeses go into the cave for percolation; the purchase of two exciting pieces of kitchen paraphernalia; the discovery of an untried variety of cake mix from the good folks at King Arthur Flour; a bumper butternut squash harvest; and the news that the ninth season of Top Chef debuts tonight (in Texas, of all places, which I assume means we will be treated to the titillating spectacle of Pads in a ten-gallon hat and alligator-skin roper boots). It is all too thrilling for words.
But first, news of Sir, who went jetting off to Shanghai without me a few weeks ago and has recently returned with tales to tell and cadeaux for all. Now, I confess that I was initially more than a bit miffed that Sir had forsaken me in this way. Shanghai has always held a particular allure in my imagination - I suspect too many movies are to blame for my romantic image of the Paris of the East. I always envisioned the city as being preserved in the aspic of the 1930's, with Marlene Dietrich or Ralph Fiennes lounging in the dark corners of smoke-filled rooms, wearing Chinese silk and white linen respectively whilst plotting international intrigues and looking suitably angst-ridden and mysterious.
So it was with great dismay that I waved good-bye to Sir with my tear-soaked handkerchief, disconsolate that laboratory duties and the Squid's pesky school schedule had colluded to prevent my first-ever journey to China.
In the end, it was reported to me that Shanghai possesses very little romance these days, or at least very little that is discernible to the average harried business traveller. When I first heard this regrettable news, I was prepared at once to forgive Sir for his desertion. When he further described the city's deficiencies, I was positively gleeful I had not made the trip.
It turns out that Shanghai is full of gluten!
Who knew? Not me, that's for sure, my knowledge of the Yangtze River Delta being woefully inadequate. I have since come to discover that the area's cuisine relies heavily on noodles, dumplings, and soy sauce (although loyal readers will recall that I have decided soy sauce is gluten-free). Breakfast is a total nightmare, often featuring youtiao, which as far as I can gather is a double insult consisting of deep-fried dough wrapped in a pancake. A pancake! Of the French Concession, the less said the better: Sir confided sadly that croissants are everywhere prominently displayed in piles the size of Huangshan the Yellow Mountain. There is seafood, of course, which is usually safely cereal-less, although Sir feels the local delicacy of mitten crabs (in season in October and therefore practically obligatory at every meal) are overrated.
It is a great irony, then, that in the midst of all this grain-filled bounty Sir should have presented himself (for souvenir-scouting purposes) at a tourist shoppe known as Madame Mao's Dowry, hoping to find revolutionary accoutrements to offer as a sop to the disgruntled family when he got home. He hit pay dirt with a vintage poster from 1973, which my rather hazy knowledge of modern Chinese history tells me was at the end of the Cultural Revolution:
The accompanying blurb claims the heroical text goes something like 'Collect Grain to Prepare for War' - and although the identity of the enemy is unclear, I think I know what it is talking about. Those Gluten Guardsmen so cheerily depicted on their red battlefield had finally had enough of Shanghai's shengjian mantou and xiao long bao and declared themselves Ready For The Fight.
And as I embark on my second year of gluten freedom, I can say with some satisfaction that I know just how they felt.
No comments:
Post a Comment