These are courtesy of HY’s mom (L to R): Salted vegetables, preserved plums, fried shallots in oil, ginger, chili, tomato, and some coriander.
Absent from the photo: one fish tail, one fish steak.
The Space Between The Park And…
I click on the small AM/FM radio as I walk home past the park. I notice parks like it’s second nature. A tinge of green amongst bricks seems God-given; the second nature is when a closer look at one brick turns out to be fresh mould. The park is the only circle in endless square blocks of alleys and no through roads. A row and a turn and it goes on like this, of houses and home offices and that space with two swings and a woody bench which strikes me this could be a playground. But this particular space, which could be a little playground but not a park is so for many reasons, one being the patch of grass in this stolen square receives no sun. The light here is indirect, surrounded by walls on either side. That makes the shade a borrowed one. And it shows because people bring their dogs here but not their children. Their business is one of shade or shadow I can’t be sure, and they couldn’t care less. This patch of grass is cut whenever the cutters come to take care of the big park.
Yet the grass here in this space is a green deeper than grasses elsewhere. A full square patch of lush green grass not patchwork green as in the big circle park. Dog shit? One day the cutters changed, the big yellow truck with its adjoin ladder to snip off tall branches was not parked at its usual place, two wheels up the kerb. The new cutters are small-boned and fair, a husband-and-wife team. Theirs is a family car, a Honda, with a good size to fit in the utility cutter and for interstate trips – for work and play. I saw them again one day when we were steps away from the square patch. The town council must have changed the providers for good; they have the business now. It was before the cutting began. The wife cut me with her eyes. In my Brooks trainers and through my Oakleys I must cut a figure for her.