We Wish You A Melly Chlistmas

I was driving down the road on my way to work. I was shrieking along to Carol of the Bells while brutally conducting Metallica and the Trans Siberian Orchestra in perfect, deadly syncopation. I was wondering what to get She Who Must Not Be Named for Christmas. A ball-gag the size of a football was tempting, but not entirely appropriate, although it would convey a certain amount of Goodwill towards Men. No. NO. Inappropriate.

Then I had an epiphany. The Asian Mall. When you buy something ordinary then throw in a pair of chopsticks, the recipient will think that you think they are cultured and refined. And what better gift to give someone than the idea that they are cultured and refined?

Besides. While there, Jethro and I could get this soup that we crave regularly but is not common to the Vietnamese restaurants in our vicinity. This soup is the reason that I will try anything once. Chicken feet, tripe, congealed pigs blood, the yolk part of fertilized eggs both duck and chicken (I haven't been able to bring myself to eat the embryonic ducklings and chicks yet).

This soup consists of a clear broth and contains tomatoes, various herbs, noodles, fish components in a paste that is the consistency of scrambled eggs, and snails. To add insult to what must seem a most injurious meal, you mix the most unpleasant smelling sauce in it. On it's own, the paste looks, tastes, and smells like something belched up from the most foul regions of Hell. In the soup it adds just the right amount of salty, spicy pungency.

The Asian Mall is just like a regular mall except that everything is translated into very poor English. Every entrance has wording on it that says:

No guns
No weapon
No firecracker
No pop pop
No skateboard
Allow in this building

Or something to that effect.

Upon walking into the mall, I noticed that they had finally taken down the Christmas wreaths (that had been decking the halls every day for years) just in time for...uh...Christmas.

We walked to the food court which is just like any other food court except that everything is translated into very poor English. I have to rely on Jethro for all my information and he makes me carry the bags and walk a foot behind him. It's kind of sexy.

Jethro ordered Pho (a less exotic beef noodle soup) for Gwennie and Emma and two bowls of snail soup for us. The ladybehind the counter couldn't believe I was going to eat it. When she brought it out, she just stood there smiling at us. I could hear her thoughts: "Go White-Girl, Go White-Girl, You Can Do It, It's Almost The Birthday Of Your Lord and Savior"

Jethro said it was actually a huge compliment that I would order and eat it. It meant that it was so good, it's reputation had spread beyond the usual customers. That made me happy.