Spicy Ahi Poke
I left behind a fist full of follies and many tawdry secrets at my old place on Sycamore Street, oh, and my grandmother’s lamp, too.
It’s a Tiffany lamp. Not really. But it is quite pretty with traditional, hand cut stained glass and a handsome bronze stem. When I was 8 my grandma had it refurbished by this dude who lived way far out in the country, more than an hour’s drive away. We stopped at a coffee shop and ordered one huge pancake big enough for us to share. Ruth and I were very close.
My old place in SF, where this lamp has been left behind, is a partially dilapidated Victorian flat nestled between families of Samoans, Yucatanos, white punk rockers who love slamming heroin, and wealthy Xennials. The interior is clean enough and most of the electrical outlets work A-OK.
I really like my old roommates. One keeps an epic crab costume on-hand for special occasions and the other tends farm animals every Sunday at the SF Zoo.
Considering all the stuff left behind by queer bachelors who moved in and out ages before I ever knew their address, and with rent control all but guaranteeing that my old roommates will stay put forever, I’ve ignored my mother’s concern that I may have lost Ruth’s lamp. Ruth’s Tiffany lamp.
In my defense, the lamp’s location can’t possibly be of any consequence to my grandma, given that she’s dead. So who gives a shit? It’s just a lamp. Sure, I miss her but I’ve also moved on.
When I burrow past the topsoil where I live now, past the lava rock and Pele’s hidden tunnels, past where Kilauea touches the ocean floor, down to the core of all meaning, I begin to dismiss and detach from everything. Heirlooms, pffft. Let it all go. Burn everything.
Today I live “in community” with about seventy-plus other people. We share common spaces and amenities: showers, a pool deck, a laundry area...
Be sure not to leave your shit in the laundry area overnight or it’ll be donated to the “Free Boutique.” Bye. Farewell. We are no longer at that apartment on Sycamore Street.
I recently left two of my favorite blankets in the dryer during a late-night laundry session. Ugh. Idiot!
One of the blankets was a handmade gift from my godmother. FUCK.
It’s OK. It’s been too long since I’ve seen, called, or even messaged my godmother. Maybe now is the time to do so. Maybe in the face of autumn, and soon winter, I ought to bid her “aloha,” catch up about the things we don’t post on Facebook, and ask her for a new blanket.
Maybe my subconscious self is abandoning the things that I’m otherwise reluctant to let go of, old things that don’t allow room for new things. I thought I did a good job of this already, narrowing all of my belongings to fit into just four boxes when I left California (and yet the cost of shipping was still obscene). The space under my bed, the only storage I have, holds two loosely packed bins, a hiking backpack, and a Christmas tree someone here gave me. That’s it.
When I purge, I fucking purge.
My godmother said to me, “I know some people in your life don’t acknowledge that [your husband] exists but I do, so one of these blankets is for you and one is for him.” This was a while ago. I kept both blankets when Mister and I split up.
And now one of those blankets is gone.
I mentioned losing two blankets. The other one was a gift from my former mother-in-law, Mister’s mom. I miss his folks. I tried sending them a Christmas card last year but it was returned, I fudged the address.
The blanket she gave me had my initials embroidered in one corner. It’s the first (and only) monogrammed article of anything that I’ve ever had.
I’ve been having erotic dreams about all of my ex’s. Well, not all of them. Actually, I’ve been having erotic dreams about one ex in particular. It’s weirding me out. Dear erotic dreams: let go of the past! Use a recent memory; it’s not like we’re short on new material.
There’s also been a recurring nightmare where I’ve taken an office job; it’s my first day and I have no clue what I’m doing.
During one breakup a long time ago, when I used to ride my bike from Silverlake to Westwood for a super dumb “digital marketing” job with a super dumb “digital marketing” company, my sex-positive 50ish hetero lady therapist advised:
“The best way to get over somebody is to get under somebody else.”
Believe you me: I filled that prescription. I filled it with so many people. When one bottle dried up, I opened another. Everyone became my pharmacist. And it worked.
That was back when condoms were a thing. Like, a compulsory thing. Pre PrEP. Pre apps. Back when the Hollywood Spa was still open. I witnessed and may-or-may-not-have participated in wonders at that place. I also may-or-may-not-have purchased one of their shitty hot dogs at 3:00 AM because I am always hungry.
Condoms are still a thing here on the Big Island. My doctor (sorry, I mean my infectious disease specialist, because my primary care physician isn’t allowed to address my sexual health for whatever asinine reason) lives five islands away on Oahu and only comes to Hilo monthly. For a day. Not even overnight.
Condoms are why I’m not riding AIDS/LifeCycle in 2018. Hear me out. Everyone wears condoms here, understandably so, because sexual health services are all but non-existent on the Big Island especially where I live in Lower Puna.
Rather than haul myself halfway across the Pacific Ocean to raise money for sexual health services in another state, I’m going to do something local instead. Gonna focus on my current chapter here in Hawai’i, not yesterpage California. I already have an idea involving a kayak and stupidity.
Someone who knows me too well recently expressed his “suspicion” (more like his conclusion if you consider the tone he carried) that I’m still clinging on to yesterpage. He warns that participating in AIDS/LifeCycle 2018 would be unhealthy for me, even pathetic. He’ll be happy to read about my decision to stay put.
To be clear, although I wholeheartedly disagree with my friend’s assessment, I can’t help but consider what’s stirring in the nethers of my mind regarding those fucking blankets that I lost. Why can’t I let them go? Not that it really matters; the coldest it gets here is 60°F. I’ll live.
But then what about those weird fucking dreams with my ex? And my reluctance to deal with the lamp? I talk a big game with “let it all go, burn everything” but the lamp issue clearly gnaws at my conscience. It’d be so easy to resolve with a couple quick emails. Is this some sort of psychotic, elaborate scheme to stay connected with my old place on Sycamore?
Maybe I am holding on to more than four boxes worth of stuff. Where is that wackadoodle therapist who gave me such great advice?
KEWPIE
Oh, right. I wanted to talk about Poke. Spicy Ahi Poke. Plus, I’m done discussing my neurosis for now.
Spicy Ahi Poke is raw... but dressed with tamari, cider vinegar, dashi, Sriracha, fixings, and Japanese mayonnaise also known as kewpie.
Kewpie: Japanese Mayo
I do enjoy mayonnaise. Honestly, I find something perversely erotic about it, about any emulsion sauce really. Please don’t ask why, because I don’t have an answer.
Ingredients
2 ½ Tbl cider vinegar
2 ½ Tbl dashi
1 Tbl + 1 tsp dijon
10 egg yolks
2 ½ cups neutral-flavored oil
1 Tbl + 2 tsp sugar, the least processed you can find
1 ½ Tbl sea salt
Method
In a small saucepan reduce cider vinegar and dashi by half. This shouldn’t take long because you’re starting out with such a small amount of liquid. If you like funk and umami flavors, start out your reduction with more of each liquid. As long as you end up with 2 ½ Tbl you’ll be fine.
Into the blender it goes along with the mustard and egg yolks. Vroom, vroom! It should emulsify.
Slowly pour the oil into the blender.
BTW this is the same method for making American mayo. Aioli, too. Finish with sugar and salt. You done. Go rub it all over yourself. Another option is to make…
SPICY POKE SAUCE
Mix kewpie with equal parts Sriracha sauce (or your favorite Asian inspired sweet chili vinegar garlic sauce). Finish with:
⅓ part toasted sesame oil
⅓ part tamari, or as much needed to achieve your desired consistency and taste
SPICY AHI POKE
Sidebar: Let go of what you think poke must be. You don’t need fish for a great poke. The word “poke” literally means “sliced” or “to cut crosswise,” not “cubed yellowfin.”
You can use golden beets, purple beets, fresh pineapple, fresh ohi’a ‘ai (mountain apple), all sorts of things. Experiment. LMK what you discover.
Sure, ahi is best for this poke sauce. I just want to make a point about what is possible if we let go of preconceptions about what poke must include.
Don’t stay married to any rule about food, period. Divorce! Or at least open things up. Experiment. Share what you find. We’ll all become stronger cooks this way.
Note: I cook for 100+ people at a time. Use math to convert the following for smaller yields.
Ingredients
20 lbs sashimi-grade local yellowtail ahi
5 cups Spicy Poke Sauce
4 red onions, thinly sliced
All the scallions in the world (or to your taste)
Method
Marinade your sashimi-grade yellowtail ahi (or whatever you’re using) in tamari for an hour-ish. Maybe longer.
If you do decide to use something other than fish, I’d recommend golden beets. Either way be sure to strain the tamari before proceeding.
Once strained, toss everything together. Now go rub it all over yourself.
I’m not daft. I know that my rejection of material items is a convenient way to pretend that I’ve processed feelings and moved onto new pastures, green and tropical and loaded with rainbows. There’s a reason poke triggered, of all topics to explore, thoughts about letting go. About seeing myself in a new light. About endless potential if I swap the ahi for them golden beets. Or even just knowing that that’s an option.
Luckily I’m too much of a jackass to stew in these truths for too long. Thank Lono I’m a perv (poke also reminds me of condomless lovin’). And good thing I’m funny. I mean, I think I’m funny. Shwew.
I’m a lucky guy. But luck isn’t going to cut my demons free. Only time and honesty can do that.
I better makes some calls soon. First to my godmother, to fess up about losing that blanket she gave me (and to ask for another one). Then to my old roommates to see if that lamp is still around. And then to my mom… depending on what the old roommates tell me, of course.