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Fondon't

If you know me well enough to sit down at the table with me, then you know that I'm picky.  My best friend reminded me of that this weekend by triumphantly declaring that she had celebrated National Doughnut Day.  "Yuck," I cringed.

"Next week is Jelly-filled Doughnut Day," she sang, no doubt still high on all that powdered sugar.

"Oh God," I prayed, "Why isn't there a something-that's-not-disgusting day?"


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One of the things I'm not overly fond of is fondue.  This wouldn't really be that strange, except that I own a fondue pot.  Actually, I think at one point I owned two fondue pots.  Now before you get angry at me for owning something impractical that is used for something I hate, lean in a little closer.

Closer . . .

Let me whisper in your ear . . .

 Sukiyaki.   Shabu Shabu.  Hot Pot.  One pot soups . . .
Shabu Plus

I honestly had never had anything other than the traditional Chinese Hot Pot, when a major life changing event happened.  Okay, so I just had some spare time on my hands and started watching a lot of cartoons.


Saiyuki, of course. Source

Besides making it myself, here's a run down of some of my favorite places to get one pot soup in Seattle:

  • Shabu Plus serves traditional Japanese one pot soup.  
  • Sichuanese Cuisine serves the first hot pot I ever had and still my favorite.
  • Style Hot Pot is also Sichuanese style.  It's in North Seattle instead of the International District.

So there you go, everyone mark your calendar for November 7.  It's Hot Pot Day and I'm celebrating this one.

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This week's poem is Perseverate.  I kind of forgot about that word until someone reminded me of it by using it in a sentence.  What a great word, and fitting in spite of its negative connotations.

Anyhow, this week's chapter of Egregious is up and running, with all appropriate content warnings (sorry).  So here's a little teaser that would be overly sappy, except like most love songs, it's about a break-up:
He picked up his fiddle and tuned it.  The least he could do was to play one last song for Amber; about the way she made him feel, about that cunning smile and boundless energy, that hidden gentleness and visible strength.  She had loved for who he was now, not for some memory of a comely young man or some hope that he might transform, no, Amber had loved Tate the wolf man.
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