I haven’t posted a self-portrait in a week or two. My vanity must be on the wane. No, that’s not true. You’re not vain when you know you’re the coolest man in China. A snarky blogger recently called The Stevo “tasty vittles.” I’ll take that as the ultimate compliment.

If you view this image large you may notice my ensemble. A purple plaid shirt and camouflage shorts is Stevo’s China Wear at its finest. My rationale is simple: I’m going to be stared at any way, I might as well be entertaining to look at. If you saw some of the clothes in Mrs. Stevo’s closet my above look would seem tame.

Clothes shopping, actually all shopping in China, is cheap. Instead of buying used clothing (as I did in Canada) I can now afford the ugliest of un-preowned shirts. I’ll take you shopping in China, if you visit, I know some place with reasonably attractive garments, and a great tailor.

Captured: July 23, 2008.

A alley in Yau Ma Tei, Hong Kong. The photo’s title of Hong Kong Alley is not be confused with Hong Kong Ally. That is someone different and unrelated, and worthy of a post of her own.

Captured: June 21, 2008.

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This is a little tale about cooking Chinese food.

Mr. and Mrs. Stevo work at the same school, live in the same apartment, but rarely see each other. Lunch is a big deal when they eat it together. A meal eaten together, not in a school cafeteria or restaurant setting, is a rare thing.

Back in those heady newlywed days of 2006, Mr. Stevo often cooked lunch for his lovely bride. This was before Mr. Stevo realized that being a department head required certain sacrifices, cooking a delicious daily lunch for his beloved being one of them.

A few weeks back Mr. Stevo decided to cook a delightful Sunday midday meal for his beautiful, yet snarky and occasionally demanding, wife. (No that’s not insulting, simply the truth. There’s nothing wrong with snark. Some of you reading this will whole-heartedly agree.)

At the market Mr. Stevo bought two kinds of mushrooms (he still doesn’t know what kind, exactly), pork, a fish, and Chinese cabbage. While his wife slaved away, tutoring students on a Sunday morning, he sliced ginger and garlic chives, chopped pork, tore cabbage, and washed the delicate fungi. Prep work is the most important part of cooking Chinese food.

Back when he cooked regularly, Mr. Stevo attacked his lack of knowledge of Chinese cuisine as he attacks most things, with a near-religious zeal (yet, he has no zeal for religion. Strange, no?). Read the full story

It’s that time of year: Time to say thank you to our fathers, or enjoy the day if we are fathers. I am not a father. Yet. (Please don’t email me if I am).

I’ve been fortunate in having three fathers. My first father passed away when I was a teen, but there are two other men in my life that took up those difficult reigns.

My step-father (what an ugly term) is a wonderful man. He is thousands of miles away, and I haven’t seen him since I started this Chinese adventure in 2005. To you, Scotty, Happy Father’s Day. Thanks for everything. Your support over the years means more than you know.

My Father-in-law, my Baba (below, left), is a generous-to-the-point-of-foolishness kind of man. He had never seen a real life foreigner (or had anyone in the village) before meeting me, except on TV. The man has made the vast cultural differences not so vast. He welcomed me into his family and treats me as one of his own.

So, the three of you: I’m not with you today, on this plane or any other, but I wish you a cold beer and a sunny afternoon.

Fruit vendor, Bao’an District, Shenzhen, China. Sorry Captain and Tennille, I could not find a pineapple song.

Captured: March 29, 2008.

An internet amigo wrote some months ago about wanting a golden shower. No, it’s not what you’re thinking. His golden shower was in fact a shower stall made of gold, not the practice some may be familiar with.

I’m a simple man, materialistically and intellect-wise. While a shower made of gold would be pretty I don’t know if conventional cleaning products would be able to assist in removing the soap scum from the walls. Do they make Mr. Clean Gold?

I digress.

I don’t want a golden shower, I want a cold shower. As simple as that. I would like to have my body assaulted by icy needles of H2O jetting from my showerhead. I want to shiver and wince, and smile, as polar water covers my body. I want my shower to be so cold that polar bears and penguins would be comfortable if I invited them to partake.

Why? The water in my shower, my whole apartment, is not cold. It’s a shade of cold. In a sub-tropical clime anything not refrigerated is hot. I can’t expect my shower water to be an icy blast when the mercury hovers around one hundred and the Humidex reading makes angels weep.

By the end of a hot day four wet shirts have taken up residence in my hamper. (I have yet to cross the mythical five shirt line. I think Nostradamus wrote something about the man who wears five shirts and a zombie apocalypse. I could be mistaken.) Do some errands, return to my apartment soaked. A walk home from school leaves me looking as if I’ve taken a dip in a pool.

With the change of shirt comes a shower, a lukewarm experience that does little to relieve my suffering. A cold shower would refresh. I dream of icebergs. Seeing Leonardo DiCaprio treading water at the end of Titanic makes me envious.

Some want golden showers, I wish for a cold one, blessed relief, however temporary.