I trust Martin Yan. The apron, the wok-related aphorisms, the unflagging enthusiasm. He's lovable. He's approachable. He's like the Bob Ross of instructional Chinese food public television programming. Happy little Peking duck. Happy little scallion pancakes.
Granted, instructional Chinese food public television programming is a bit of a niche market, so that's kinda like calling my only brother my favorite brother, but it does not diminish the warm fuzzies he inspires. (Martin Yan, I mean. My brother does not generally inspire the warm fuzzies, although he does remain my favorite brother. I mean it.)
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Clearly, although my medications seem to be working and I'm a functional human being, things are not 100% normal, or else I would not be feeling the irrational hatred of Comcast, NetGear, BlueHost, Firefox, Apple, WordPress 2.5.1 and every other technological entity that has erected a barrier between me and this post: flames, flames on the side of my face. It's an unholy hatred, one that makes me want to throw a cast-iron skillet at the iMac. Which I will refrain from doing only for the skillet's sake, because it's seasoned really nicely and I'd hate to have to ...
When will smackdown get better?*
It's sad, really, because any dinner was bound to be a let down after last night's tomatogasm. I'm still reeling a little, and I spent the whole day cornering co-workers and forcing them to listen to me monologue about tomatoes as they nodded politely (the co-workers, not the tomatoes). Still, this dinner, taken from The New Best Recipe, challenged another one of my food prejudices: pad Thai.
It also made most of my block smell like fermented shrimp because I had all the windows open while I cooked, and for that I'm truly sorry.
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