A Pittsburgh Summer

I'm back in Pittsburgh--where the strangers are nicer, the streets are never straight, and the weather is ever so dreadful--for the summer. When I got off the plane at 6 AM yesterday and walked through the silent airport, I had the strange warm settled feeling in my heart, you know, the kind that you feel when you've returned home from a long trip. The funny thing is, I didn't feel like this returning to Hangzhou; I didn't feel like this when I returned from China to SoPas; yet, I feel like this when I return to school...? Never in a million years would I imagine myself really attached to this place. But here I am.

***

Today, a friend and I went to Big Mama's House of Soul, which I finally decided to venture into after reading a top chef's recommendation in a travel mag. For those who don't know, it's a ridiculously tiny one room bright golden yellow building in the strip district that serves the best soul food around. Inside, every inch of wall space is lined with Steeler posters and paraphernalia, declaring that you're entering STEEELER NATION now. Behind the counter, there are only two people working, but by the smell of it, they're cooking up something absolutely delicious. We ordered four pulled pork sandwiches: two for ourselves and two for other friends who have requested us to bring those infamous creations back for them. While the guy started preparing our order, he struck up a conversation with me about "his girl"--namely, his frustrations with the confusing nature of a particular woman. I guess he figured that since it takes a woman to know women, he'd ask me for my opinion. Twenty-odd minutes and a string of crazy relationship stories later, I was finally allowed out of the door with my sandwiches. I was thoroughly amused by the encounter but longed to statisfy my growling stomach. Later, I found out that the initial delay only made the sandwich--stuffed with pulled pork and dripping with barbeque sauce--well worth the time spent chatting with a stranger. What a delicious afternoon...

different names for the same thing

uh oh

i had a caffeine headache today.
i think i'm addicted to coffee bean. crap.

the juice is worth the squeeze

Since the start of this humble blog not so long ago, I've never mentioned the inspiration that led me to bestow the name of "Hope&Pomegranate". And even though you lovely readers out there have failed to ever inquire upon the subject, I am nonetheless here to offer a response.

I am a huge fan of exotic fruits. When I was a kid, my favorite fruits usually turned out to be the most expensive and hard-to-get fruits on the market. Starfruit, lychee, sugar cane, pomegranate, dragonfruit...loved 'em all. Apples, bananas, grapes were good, but they were just so ordinary and prevalent. I, being the little brat that I was, always wanted the off-season or imported fruits that sold in limited quantities for outrageous prices. As I grew older, my parents stopped showering me with gifts of exotic fruits and opted for simpler everyday ones. I didn't mind; I had more important things to worry about.

However, a little while back, my mother came home with a pomegranate, a fruit I hadn't remembered eating since my childhood. It was a gift from her co-worker and looked absolutely gorgeous. After dinner that night, my mother asked me if I wanted to have it for dessert along with some ice cream perhaps. Although my first inclination was to say yes, I paused and considered the consequences of my would-be decision. If I were to eat the pomegranate, I would first have to go through a series of tedious steps of cutting it open and wading through all the pulp in order to extract the seeds, only to find myself enjoying a few teaspoons of juice for a duration of seconds before having to spit out the seeds. I decided that it wasn't worth it and declined the offer.

For the next few days, that lonely pomegranate sat ignored in the fridge. I saw it every time I opened the the fridge, always glancing hungrily at it, but always too lazy to put in the effort. Poor pomegranate.

Finally, one afternoon I was absolutely dying for something sweet and juicy. My mother was running late from work and I was getting restless and hungry at home. I flung open the fridge door and without thinking, grabbed the long-abandoned fruit. I tore it open and began my long excavation of the plump, red seeds. Five minutes later, I had about 40 out of the approximate 600 tiny seeds extracted. ONLY FORTY! I could have engulfed an entire fuji apple already! Boy, was I frustrated!

But then I figured that since I had come so far, I might as well at least finish extracting the seeds for half of the fruit, saving the other half for later (or whoever else that may have the patience for such labor). So thirty minutes later, I had filled a bowl half-full with plump little red pomegranate seeds ready for the eating. I plunged my spoon into the bowl, scooped a spoonful and shoved it in my mouth. Immediately, the sweetest, most delectable juice I've ever tasted filled my mouth. My taste buds were in heaven, absolute heaven. I stared at the rest of my hard work sitting in the bowl, amazed. The juice was definitely worth the squeeze.

I have found that my walk with Christ and the process of acquiring Faith intrinsically parallels my incident with the pomegranate. The notion of having Faith was so appealing. I knew on a superficial, textbook level that having Faith in Him would do wonders in my life but at the same time, I didn't really want to commit and work hard at digging for things deep inside of me. I wanted the seeds to magically pop right out of the pomegranate and be mine for the taking. But somehow during these past few years, the people and situations that God has placed around me have really inspired me to dig for those seeds, spending frustrating days and weeks struggling with myself. And I can tell you, without knowing what's in store for me in the future, that the juice has already been worth the squeeze.

With more pomegranates in my fridge and increasing hope for the future, I write.

poetic solitary dinner

Today I ate by myself at a restaurant for the first time ever.

Snuggled up in a dim corner of Little Asia, I ordered just about the most unoriginal meal of sesame chicken, spring rolls, and hot and sour soup. For lack of anything to do and not wanting to be at risk for staring loser-ishly off into space, I pretentiously took out some history reading while I waited for my food. To my amusement, I discovered that our reading for this week included a collection of World War I inspired poems. I sat there pretending to be deeply engrossed in my material all the while wishing I had ordered take-out so that I could be eating at home in front of my computer instead. Unable to bear the onslaught of more loser-ish thoughts, I actually began reading the poems...really reading them.

By the time my food arrived, I had finished about half of my reading. I felt slightly annoyed; one, for the food that interrupted my fascinating read, and two, for the eventual analysis I would have to write for these poems.

What's worse than writing poetry analysis papers? The mind-numbing task of having to read your own pretentious work afterward.

Poetry is poetry because of the emotions the elicit from the human heart. Describing what I feel or how someone is supposed to feel render the poem worthless in my eyes. Add onto that judgment, arrogance, and some bs about the quality of imagery and tone...it just makes me want to barf. Oh, the agony!

Just read the damn poem.

early morning discovery

I never had a thing for CocoPuffs but my roommate loves them so we have a box sitting atop our fridge. This morning I decided to try my luck. I'd say they were a 7 out of 10 on my cereal scale. But you know what's the coolest part about CocoPuffs? After you're done eating the puffs, you're left with CHOCOLATE MILK!
Perhaps it's a simple and predictable enough concept for you, but I was pleasantly surprised when I saw that this morning at 7 AM.