Saturday, March 31, 2012

Conversation over Butter Chicken Pizza

I made, for Junhong's pre-yoyo lunch, a pizza from last night's dinner of Butter Chicken and Aloo Matar (peas and potatoes). A butter chicken pizza is standard left-over lunch chez nous. But this time, because it was there and because I was inspired by potato toppings on pizzas,  I decided to add the aloo matar.
On store-bought naan, I smeared the mushed up aloo matar. I topped this with some torn-up butter chicken with just enough sauce to moisten the whole thing.
Then, some goat gouda.
In the oven, the butter from the aloo matar and butter chicken oozed out and coated the edges of the naan, turning it slightly crispy with a nutty buttery flavour. The goat gouda melted and bubbled. The whole thing was crispy, moist and gooey all at the same time.

Junhong, however, was not impressed. The aloo matar distracted from the butter chicken, his all-time favourite thing.
"But you're still a great cook", he assured me.
I tried it and insisted, "This is good enough to be in any restaurant!"
"Just because it is in a restaurant doesn't mean it is any good", he argued.
"Good point." I conceded.
"But just because I don't like it, doesn't mean it ISN'T good." Words to comfort me.

I gave him some money to buy food from the mall. In return, he looked at the Top Worst Album Covers of all time with me. Then he left, but not before leaving a few kisses on my cheek and saying that in his experience, I was the best mother in the world.

Thursday, March 29, 2012


If everything is merely an organization of time and space, the function of drama and conflict is merely to move space from one body to another.


Somewhere in my travels this past month, I realized, through a conversation with someone wiser than me,  or through something I read or saw, I no longer remember where exactly,  that ethics is embedded in aEsTHetICS.

Without ethics, aesthetics is just empty packaging.

Tuesday, March 27, 2012


I have been thinking lately that all form is merely an organization of space and time.
A leaf, a song, a painting.
A butterfly.

I was in the Butterfly Conservatory at the Museum of Natural History in New York City last week with my thirteen year-old son. The fluttering of the wings breaks down the space around you into fragmented units of time and space. Dancing with the beat of your own heart, the inhale and exhale of each breath. The fractured space begins to break through the perceived envelope of your body.

The butterfly dances you.