The rain let up this evening after steady soaking showers most of the day, the kind of rainfall a gardener loves. Most of the lighter weight outdoor furniture is crammed in the shed and I'm staring out the window at the metal chairs and glider, calculating the odds of watching them sail through our neighbor's kitchen window. Not that I want it to happen, but I'd hate to miss seeing it if it does.
Let's talk about something more interesting than the weather. Pictured at left is a Mooncake, a Chinese pastry traditionally eaten during the Zhongqiu (Mid-Autumn) Festival.
This festival is one of the three most important Chinese holidays. I think the date fluctuates every year to correspond with the Autumn Equinox. This year it happened to fall on October 3 when I was sitting at Berkey Field gazing at the moon with the other football moms. My friend and neighbor Kathy Tai, who made this mooncake, says a billion or so Chinese people were all admiring the moon that very same evening. Kathy celebrates Chinese holidays because she was born in Taiwan. Not that she needs an excuse, of course. Lots of people celebrate Cinco de Mayo who weren't born in Mexico and don't get me started on St. Patrick's Day.
Kathy handed me what looked like three balls of raw dough and told me to bake them in a 300 degree oven. She was halfway down the sidewalk when she apparently remembered what a moron I am because she turned around and came back to the house to explain the importance of pre-heating the oven. Which I was quite happy to do since, frankly, I was in no rush to put something called a mooncake in my mouth.
While the oven was pre-heating, I did some research on mooncakes. They are to the Mid-Autumn Festival what turkey is to Thanksgiving: indispensable (unless, of course, you're my mother). Friends and relatives offer them to each other as they admire the harvest moon. They are about the size of a Burger King single hamburger and are usually eaten in small wedges accompanied by Chinese tea. A thin crust surrounds a thick filling -- traditionally made from lotus seed paste but Kathy made a lemon-colored yellow bean paste.
My salivary glands did not react positively to the expression "yellow bean paste" but the oven was still pre-heating so I read on.
Mooncakes are considered a delicacy; production is labor-intensive and few people make them at home (emphasis mine)
. Most mooncakes are bought at Asian markets and bakeries. The price of mooncakes usually ranges from $10 to $50 (in US dollars) for a box of four although cheaper and more expensive mooncakes can also be found. Since sweet Kathy had gone to all that trouble, of course I had to eat at least one of those mooncakes. The flaky crust melted in my mouth and that bean paste was pretty darn tasty. Matt had one for breakfast and eschewed the dainty wedge approach. We'll split the third one at the height of Super Typhoon Melor, but maybe you'd better not mention this to Matt in case it goes missing between now and then.
Let's talk about something more interesting than the weather. Pictured at left is a Mooncake, a Chinese pastry traditionally eaten during the Zhongqiu (Mid-Autumn) Festival.
Kathy handed me what looked like three balls of raw dough and told me to bake them in a 300 degree oven. She was halfway down the sidewalk when she apparently remembered what a moron I am because she turned around and came back to the house to explain the importance of pre-heating the oven. Which I was quite happy to do since, frankly, I was in no rush to put something called a mooncake in my mouth.
My salivary glands did not react positively to the expression "yellow bean paste" but the oven was still pre-heating so I read on. Mooncakes are considered a delicacy; production is labor-intensive and few people make them at home (emphasis mine). Most mooncakes are bought at Asian markets and bakeries. The price of mooncakes usually ranges from $10 to $50 (in US dollars) for a box of four although cheaper and more expensive mooncakes can also be found. 
Your definition of "task" and mine are probably worlds apart but, after all, I'm the one writing this blog or, rather, not writing this blog, which is the point I was thinking of making when I got diverted by the juggling metaphor and hundreds of photographs of Japanese temari balls. In case you haven't noticed, the unpacking ball and the writing ball seem to be incompatible. Whenever I get a good grip on one, the other falls to the floor and rolls under my bed where it takes up long-term residence with all my other good intentions.
