Yelp suggested this restaurant and as you glance over the food mentioned, you think, this is what I want. Right now. As you walk in, you’re oblivious to the fact that a reservation is probably recommended. After all, there wasn’t anybody standing outside in line or a clipboard with hastily written names. The hostess smiles at you and says, “I’ll be right with you.”

In the pause, you and your companion glance around the space, taking in the rustic wood decor and the controlled chaos in the open kitchen. “A table is opening up soon, but if you would like a seat at the counter, it is available immediately,” she returns and says.

You and your companion exchange glances. You think that you see hesitation in the hostess’ eyes. And a momentary thought crosses your mind that she is stressed out right now and would appreciate people eating slower, people coming in slower. But that mind is dropped as you and your companion say, “The counter, please.”

You jump onto the stool and study the menu. French toast it is. Donuts. The highlight dish. You and your companion turn sideways so that you can peer into the open kitchen. You think that it’s funny that the counter faces the wall instead of the open kitchen. “This is a pop-up space!” you say to your companion. “They served ramen here awhile ago.”

And you think that the pop-up didn’t have a choice in how to design the space so you take advantage of it. “Can you tell that there are a lot of newbies in the kitchen?” your companion says. “The guy with the blue apron is fixing all the dishes as they go out and whispering aloud, ‘Table 1’ ‘Table 2 with the kale salad on the side'”

You think again the reasons you didn’t want to work in food. Or even running a business. But you’re hungry and you stare at the dishes as they rush by. The server comes by to pour water and the order is taken. Your companion helpfully orders everything. And you observe the kitchen again, watching the chef fix things, moving his spatula to adjust food. Sometimes he takes a spoon of sauce and spreads it with the back of the spoon in a fancy swirl. You breath in the potential food. The flavors that you love and hope that it’s the case.

The donuts arrive. The server says, “Here let me get you sharing plates.”

A fancy mixed soda arrives. Cream tops the soda. A slice of apple is dusted with cinnamon.

You each take your knife and slice the donuts in half and swish it around the sweet sauce as it melds with the sugar and cinnamon and then melting into the warm fried dough. After you finish, you want more, but the dishes are coming. The french toast arrives and you adjust your plates for the server. She is carrying a bottle and sprays coconut foam in a controlled manner onto the plate. The french toast is not too sweet, delicate, balanced with the crispy bacon. The savory dish arrives and you nearly faint at the delicious combination of meat, rice, and egg.

In moments, you’re satisfied and happy. You switch the plates with your companion so that he can have some of your french toast. Then the plates are cleaned. And you swing around sideways to glance at the kitchen, while sipping your mixed soda. A server comes up to you suddenly and asks, “Do you need anything else?”

“No, we’re done,” your companion says.

You wait patiently, because the place seems chaotic. Two young girls arrive and they are chatting up the chef. The chef asks what they like eating. Bacon? Rice? Eggs? Yes, maybe. Do you want to help, the chef asks. Yes! The girls chorus. He tells them that they should help eat the good food. The girls nod furiously. They can do that. The mother quiets the girls down. I hear whispers as the older girl stands back in awe of the chef and says, “When I grow up, I want to be a chef.”

My companion makes eye contact with the chef. “Oh! Need anything?” he says.

“The check?” my companion says.

It arrives, and we pay. As we get up to go, the chef calls out, “Please wait, we have a gift for you.”

I am excited. Maybe one of those little candies? But in moments, he walks over to this with a box. “The donuts,” he says. “We apologize for you waiting.”

I’ll admit it. Like many San Franciscans, I relish in creativity, especially when it comes to dressing up. I love themes. And in the past few years, I love making food to follow a theme. Zombies. Vampires. Ghosts. Scary stuff.

And yet.

Cinco de mayo. And no, it’s not to celebrate Mexican Independence Day (that’s in September). Officially, it’s to celebrate Mexican army’s unlikely victory over French forces at the Battle of Puebla.

To be honest, I haven’t been invited to a cinco de mayo party yet. But after thinking about who I want to be, I now detest the theme. A bunch of white people drinking margaritas when there is not a single Mexican present? A reason to have guacamole and chips. Don’t get me wrong, I love avocado and would spring up for any occasion for that food. But there’s something that doesn’t feel right about Cinco de Mayo, if it’s only an excuse to eat Mexcian food and drink “Mexican” bebidas. And if a company is willing to comp me free food for that day, I’ll take the bait. But I’ll feel uncomfortable with the whole thing.

And what about the parties throughout this area with a flimsy theme? Mini party? Sure, that’s cool. Mini hotdogs, mini skirts, and mini cocktails. A white party? Yeah, cool. Ugly sweater party? Yeah! I still have my ugly sweater vest in my closet. Glow in the dark party? Yeah, my roommate and I did that in our early twenties even though it sounds so ridiculous and aimless now. But then when it comes to a Homeless Party, Geishas and Businessmen Party, or Nazi Party…that’s just bad taste.

Now I am not saying, don’t do it. It’s not satire. It’s missing the whole point to get people thinking. Rather it’s a thinly veiled reason to drink. And thinly disguised sexism and racism. Plus it’s not a good idea to have a party theme that involved a lot of people dying.

What was the best moment that could serve as proof that everything is going to be alright? And how will you incorporate that discovery into the year ahead?

In 2013, it was when light shone in the face of despair. In 2012, it was when I stood up for myself. In 2011, it was a moment of clarity, sincere belief and friendship. In 2010, it was an action of commitment.

At first, I wanted to talk about how my confidence returned in mid-summer when I heard: “I emailed you, because you’re the best.” A short sentence that provided validation that I hadn’t fallen off the deep end into incompetence.

But it wasn’t that. On the last day of the writing workshop in Maine, we were given an assignment to write in a point of view that we didn’t use regularly and a character different from our natural selves.

For the past few days, and really the past few months, I felt my writing shriek awkwardly across the page. I constantly repeated the same stereotypes and leaned heavily on cliches. The words felt stoney cold and not the warm ooze of comfort that came when the words seem to fall perfectly on the page.

That day on the windjammer sitting on a finished wooden bench, I poised my pen above my notebook and began writing. I was underneath the deck and huddled with my notebook and pen. Despite the cold and shivering in front of the small heated lamp, my ideas suddenly flowed easily. I had a narrative arc that poured out of me. And as I weaved a story from a small moment to another small moment, I felt the ease that I had. I felt the life that I had written and the vulnerability revealed. A gentleness that I sought.

My ability to write returned full force. It had never left me. Because in fact, all it needed was a little bit of coaxing.

No references to previous years, except this decade-long one. And this includes only things I experienced this year!

The top five for each category in no particular order and with little exposition…

Movies I Saw

TV Shows I Watched

Books I Read

Ways to Pass the Time

Technology

What was the last thing you made? What materials did you use? Is there something you want to make, but you need to clear some time for it?

In 2010, I made xmas photo. In 2011, I made metaphorical things—that were intentionally symbolic of relationships and history. In 2012, I made ice cream. In 2013, I made design.

In the most boring thing ever, I made my room. That is, I cleaned it. Not my bed.

I would have liked to say food, since in 2014, I hosted various events with Chris and made food from scratch. I would love to say that—to brag about the dinner and 2 breakfasts that I made for my parents’ anniversary weekend on a farm, the themed parties, the way I use buttermilk in biscuits and ice cream, and how I finally figured out how to juice as much possible out of all the scraps that I have.

But the last thing that I “made” as my room. This morning, as I was departing to meet a (new) friend for brunch, I frantically searched for my timbuk2 bag. A black bag with a bright blue trim that stored my bike’s lock and cable. In a fury, I tossed up my pile of bags. The Crumpler messenger bag from La Cocina that I won during an auction. The vertical computer laptop. All the various canvas bags from startups like Gilt and Airbnb. In a moment of brilliance, I remembered that I had moved the timbuk2 bag out of respect for my sister and her boyfriend. In my closet, I found the bag on top of my duffel bag. Running late, I left the disaster in my room that filled every inch of the ground.

I knew that upon return, I would need to muster the energy. Nearly 8 hours later, I did so. Yet, as I picked through the mess, a biodegradable bag from a grocery store, stuffed at the bottom of a canvas bag, spilled into pieces. Now, I mean pieces. Standing true to its nature, the bag had started “decomposing” in my room and shards of white confetti spilled across my rug.

With some organization, I folded the bags together. The loose canvas bags into a large convas bags. The messenger bags underneath my dresser. The coveted “purses” to either side. Then I vacuumed the remaining mess, sucking away the white confetti, my hair, dust, and random dots of remnants.

That’s what I made.

If I had more time, I would make my book. I would pour my energy into truly fixing it. And I think that perhaps I have that feeling right now.

“No,” I repeated every time my parents suggested a family vacation.

Years of traveling with my parents and the realization of my adulthood (aka I can make decisions on my own now) turned my shaky okays in college to a firm no. For years, I resisted the cruise ship invitations and the possibility of traveling with them on a package tour across Europe. By then, I had discovered the millenial way of traveling—the DIY style of seeking out passions, planning via online reviews and blogs, and the joy of figuring it out all on your own. Falling into snobbery, I could not stand the idea of following a tour guide holding a red flag from attraction to attraction lamely nodding my head to a voice in Chinese as my eyes drifted and my stomach growled.

Besides the occasional trip for a family wedding, I avoided family vacation for more than a decade.

But for my parents’ 35th anniversary, I relented knowing how much they craved family time. My sister and I planned a trip to a farm surrounded by our cooking. In doing so, we remember why family vacations are not our preferred way of spending time together. It’s not that we don’t get along. It’s that my parents vs. my sister and me have grown in separate ways. Our identities have separated and the way of living is so different. The expectations of when I was young is different. I have more worldy experience than my parents and catch the vocabulary. But that certainly doesn’t make me better. Being a child and being a parent is different when the children are in their early 30s. And vice versa, the parents who used to take care of everything now are slower and weaker.

And yet, it’s not only that. It’s the moments and how we want to spend those moments, we can’t appreciate each other in those moments where we believe in relaxing. Instead, they are soaked in the decisions and memories of decades. But I admired my parents as they sang invited by our farm host. Their voices offtune and filled with Chinese accents still spiraled out Christmas songs.

And yet, if we were strangers, I would smile across the dining room table and say, “That was delicious, wasn’t it?”

My mom or my dad as a stranger would nod and say, “Why, yes it is.”

Let’s be honest.

If Chris wasn’t at a General Assembly class (that was booked months ago) and if I wasn’t having a case of anti tag and bag (aka take everyone’s electronic devices and have them unsecurely checked in outside the theater), I would have been at the Metreon in line to see The Interview.

I am not the first one to admit that from the trailers which I have seen on multiple occasions that I was unimpressed. Fart jokes. And more unseemingly jokes. Sexist and racist jokes. And a mcguffin that seemed preposterous. Yes, it wouldn’t be a movie that I would go out of my way to see.

But you see, the topic. North Korea. Sometimes I do admire Seth Rogen and James Franco. And even with her bit part, Lizzy Caplan, why not? And fellow Asians, well why not?

But then I started hearing news of potential terrorist attacks. I declared that I did not want to die at a movie like this. I didn’t want to go down in history as a victim of someone who went to see a movie that was about people who were making idiotic jokes. And more.

Then stuff happened. And I was just so close.

…for the second time in 11 years. I discovered that there’s NaBloPoMo.

Here’s the funny thing. Until the last few years, I used to blog everyday. I used to write anything that came to mind in a post. Usually a theme, a scene, a moment. That was so easy for me (obviously evidenced by the more than 10 years in the right column). I am shameless in blogging. In this blog. It’s easy to write short form and I have practiced it for so many years.

I almost laughed out loud. But then I realized that I had always done it, so it comes so naturally to me. All I had to do was build time for it, which by now, had become part of my daily routine.

But to write longform? To write an entire story where I had to set the scene, build the tension, build characters, carry the story with short moments, then long moments, then the arc, and the character transformation? That, my readers, is hard.

In doing all of this, it seems easy because you haven’t experienced it. The consumption part is the easy part. The actual creation part, people think, is easy, because it was so easy to consume. It’s like how people think a company name is easy. It’s how people think designing an mobile app or logo is so easy (look! you can just do it with just a single pen stroke!). It’s how people think that deciding the right color and font face is easy. It may be, but then that person is just very lucky.

It’s not easy until you have experienced it. Then it becomes easy because you have done so often. That you have built a thick skin and have established your body to expect these moments…that it seems easy.

I envy school shutdowns.

The recent storm closed schools in San Francisco and Oakland. Because of the dangerous rainstorm. Now it’s not the rain that caused the danger, it’s the old infrastructure (like in an earthquake) that causes the danger.

When I was in Pittsburgh briefly, I hoped that I would experience a snow day. A glorious day where the snow piles are so high that the only thing to do is huddle inside around a nice fire. No such thing has ever happened in my existence.

Nor has work ever told me to stay at home (except of course of illness). Today was an off day, so I spent it as I would have at home. Huddled around my computer, writing and getting distracted by the Internet. With the exception of strong winds, nothing was amiss.

The only thing that I can think of while the water drips all over the Bay Area, while people moan about poor city storm drains, the floods blocking multiple lanes on the freeways, and the downed power lines caused by wind gusts is…will my favorite fruit be better this summer?

I hope so.

Americans hate being fooled. When box of butter has a picture of a redfarmhouse and a happy cow, the butter better be made in a red farmhouse with a ebullient cow standing outside in a grand bucolic environment. When a Youtube video says that it’s going to show the entire movie, it better show the entire movie even if it has 1000 views and 90% downvoted. When a sign says “Do not park here”, Americans certainly have a right to be angry when a car parks in that very spot.

So that brings us to the super fascinating show that promises that a man will be eaten alive by the Amazonian predator the ANACONADA.

Let me be honest here: I am an intellectual. The idea of forcing an animal to consume a person as a stunt is ludicrous and a waste of money. But the idea of going inside? YEAH. And there’s that itch that comes up for every American—I love seeing spectacle. It’s practically part of my blood. It’s partly why I take a quick look when I see a car accident (yes, my heart also goes out for the injured) or listen to arguments taking place in front of my apartment.

So I settled in to watch the special with Chris. In 15 minutes, I fell asleep due to the repeated declaration that a man has decided that he wanted to be consumed by an anaconda. Now, I have seen one man CG consumed by an anaconda and that was Jon Voight in the so-so movie of Anaconda. He winked.

But! Fortunately, my internal alarm is quite accurate and I woke up to find that the man was completely in the anaconda’s grip. Then he suddenly calls for help. Then he says he’s too tired now and that he will continue to find the biggest anaconda in the world. Apparently, he insisted that the armor on his arms and legs be removed. And that’s where the anaconda coiled its powerful body around and nearly broke his bones. Then it ends.

WHAT! What happened to the #eatenalive?

PETA is quite right in being angry for the treatment of the anaconda. But they also are very right in that the anaconda was deceived of its meal. That’s cruelty. Sometimes if you give me a plate of spaghetti and meatballs. My eyes tells my stomach, mmmmm….yummy foodie going into my tummy! The tummy roars in delight and then to have that suddenly taken away, that’s painful. That hurts. I will go into a rage, but because I am a small non-physical person, all I can do is pretty much whine and complain.

So I can say is that Stephen Colbert is right. It’s cruel and unusual. For Americans, we were deceived like the anaconda. Instead of #eatenalive, we got #cuddledalive (#squeezedalive).