“I used to play for silver. Now I play for laughs — (apologies to) Jack Straw

I used to write for a living. Then the man stopped paying me. So I quit that paragraph-factory scene. Every now and then though, the urge comes back. And so here we are, misquoting Jack Straw, playing for laughs. Behold the new soap box, such as it is, fueled by an attention-deficit-disorder brain, a website of scattershot topics.

— Jonathan Sidener

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In an unlikely turn of events, I’m a fish daddy.

I have a small tank, sort of a hospital tank for plants from the big tank that have been battered by the ravenous fat goldfish. It’s also a nursery for new plants hopefully growing strong roots for their turns vs. the fish.

Several types of snails crawl around the bottom and sides of the tank. When I send a plant to the hospital, the snails will fairly quickly find it and clean it of any traces of algae, kind of like the guys at a car wash who descend on clean cars to quickly wipe off any water droplets, not quite as fast as the car wash guys, but surprisingly quick for snails.

There are several baby snails newly hatched and I was checking them out the other night when I saw what I thought was insect larvae. Turns out they’re fish. Tiny fish, technically fry. Two that I know of.

There have been no adult fish in this tank for at least six months so it wasn’t obvious how the little guys got there. They don’t look like goldfish, more like minnows you might see in a small stream, mini minnows. I scratched my head and went to bed.

In the morning, the little fishies are still there. The only explanation I can think of is that some fertilized eggs attached to a plant and hitchhiked into the snail tank.

I got a strong light out and they look a little like goldfish. They have tiny butterfly split tails, a defining characteristic of “fancy” goldfish. Single tail goldfish sell for less than $1 in pet stores. Nice fat fancies can sell for more than $100.

It’s Spring and the house is warmer, so the water in the big fish tank is getting warmer, which triggers breeding behavior.

Female goldfish get a raw deal. They can’t release their eggs at will. If the eggs don’t get released mama can die. On the other hand, the natural alternative is that they get chased around by males who will express the eggs rudely, often violently, by banging the girls against rocks, plants or whatever. Females can die from this courtship, as well. In almost 10 years of keeping goldfish, I’ve never had a girl die.

I’ve also never had fry before.

Goldfish will eat anything, including newly fertilized eggs and any young ones that might get so far as to hatch.

I have no idea how many fertilized eggs made it into the snail tank. I assume snails enjoy fish eggs. All I know is that at least two got to the point of swimming around in a tank without predators. I have no idea what the chances are for them. Frankly it will be a hassle if they do survive. They will outgrow the snail tank long before they are ready for the ruckus of the big tank. Stay tuned.

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They laid a friend to rest today. A good friend.

As happens when a journalist passes, there are generally some remembrances penned. When a guy goes who pretty much had no enemies and was dedicated to his craft, the tributes rise to another level. There were several on Facebook. There was a lengthy obit in the Arizona Republic and another from the Asian American Journalist Association. I was given a chance to add something to the obit in the Arizona Republic, sharing an anecdote about what a decent fricking guy he was.

One common theme I saw in several of the various testimonials focused on food, specifically on how much Abe could eat. He was Chinese, born in Hong Kong, and he could eat impressive amounts without gaining weight. I don’t think it was mentioned, but one co-worker dubbed him the human tape worm for his ability to avoid weight gain.

The thing I saw missing, the thing I wish I’d added to my comments for his obit, was that he was not a quantity over quality guy. He was a gourmand. With Chinese food, with Italian food. Most any food, but particularly with Chinese food. A co-worker once said something about moo shu pork. “Peasant food,” Abe said.

Abe grew up working in his parents’ Chinese restaurant in Tucson and at at least one other restaurant. He was a bread winner in a migrant family at a young age. He moved here at the age of 9 and honed his English to the level of reporter, editor and opinion writer in what was at one time the 15th largest newspaper in the country.

Most of the food in the family restaurant he might have called peasant food. He knew Chinese cuisine from take out. The first time I went to dim sum with him I learned a little secret. Good Chinese restaurants, those popular with Chinese Americans, have secret Chinese menus with items not offered to us White Guys, unless we know how to read or speak Chinese. Abe spoke Cantonese, so he was able to order the real stuff.

I’ve been to China a few times. There’s a game the locals play that could be called Stump The White Guy, which involves ordering crazy food to see if said White Guy (or girl) will eat it. I think Abe played a version at that first dim sum. The one I remember most vividly was the beef tendons. It sounds horrible, but it’s the most tasty, tender “meat” ever. We ate a lot, standard dim sum fare and others designed to test my limits. And we had a few beers. And then we went out in the Arizona mid-day sun to try and play basketball.

It was the beginning of a friendship based on food snobbery and many beers.

Years later, Abe’s mom had a stroke. She ended up with a feeding tube. Abe said not being able to taste food was the worst fate for a Chinese woman. There were times when she came to Phoenix to visit. We would go out to eat. Sometimes Abe would give her a taste of the sauces. She could have a little liquid, but would aspirate anything solid.

Roughly 18 months ago, Abe had a stroke. He ended up on a feeding tube. His ability to communicate was impaired. It was a cruel fate, a double whammy, for a journalist who loved food.

This morning I told a mutual friend that I would do something food oriented to mark the loss. Over the years Abe and I, along with Bill Goodykoontz and others, consumed a lot of wings. Abe and I each ate 43 wings in a competition once.

I said I was thinking of a wing and a prayer farewell.

She suggested I eat a fish head. Many Chinese consider the fish cheek to be the best of the fish. There have been Chinese New Years feasts where Abe and his brothers would offer the fish cheek to their father. It’s a sign of respect and honor. I’m told there are rich in China who will order a whole steamed fish just to eat the cheek. I’ve known Abe to eat the cheek from the whole, steamed fish on the table.

And I’ve been at banquets in China where the visiting white guy was offered the cheek. It was in fact delicious.

So this afternoon, with heavy heart, I set out to the closest Asian grocery to see what I could find. The basic requirement was that it had to be too much. I came home with frozen pork and veggie dumplings, beef shumai, Chinese eggplant, and pork neck. I didn’t get a fish head. I picked up a bottle of red wine. Abe enjoyed a big hearty red. He once saved a bottle of cabernet from California wine country for my next visit to Arizona. We drank it New Years day 2020. It was great. We were both throat cancer survivors and discouraged from drinking. But damn that was good wine. I considered getting a bit of Irish whiskey, another beloved libation. But I’d told my doctor I’d lay off the hard stuff.

Abe left behind a wife, two daughters, two brothers and a shit ton of friends. In one of the last conversations I had with him I told him I’d see him on the other side. His cancer had come back and he was in hospice. God speed Abe Kwok. I will see you on the other side. I have eaten enough tonight to make you proud. If I eat all this pork, I may see you sooner than I’d planned. I regret not getting the Irish whiskey. Ve con Dios mi hermano.

Addendum: The above was written on the day of his funeral and posted on Facebook.

Several friends commented about Chinese New Years feasts at the family restaurant. I had forgotten how many people made the trek to Tucson over the few years before Abe’s mom had her stroke. It touched a lot of people. In the years after, there were celebrations with the family at Phoenix restaurants, but there was something exceptional about Chinese New Years in Tucson.

Before I moved to Arizona, I would say I knew next to nothing about Chinese New Year, Asian New Year or the lunar New Year. It was up there with Cinco de Mayo in terms of my cultural illiteracy, the difference being that Big Beer/Big Liquor found Drinko de Mayo far more marketable.

In the first months I worked with Abe, I had a Friday interview at the University of Arizona in Tucson. Abe was headed back to the family for the weekend. He suggested we grab a beer somewhere before I headed back. We did. It turned out to be his mother’s birthday and he invited me to join. In my family, Mom’s birthday wasn’t something anyone crashed. I was reluctant. I was talked into it. It turned out to be a glimpse of Chinese New Years to come.

There were a few customers in the restaurant when I got there. There was a big, round table towards the back where I sat with Abe and his two brothers, Jackson and Jon. The parents were in the back, working hard. It seemed an odd way to celebrate her birthday. We ate an inordinate amount of food. It was all exceptional. Eventually the straggling customers were gone. Abe’s parents finally sat down to eat. It was a little awkward, with the parents working so hard.

It was the same at Chinese New Years months later, just on a larger scale. Everyone felt a little awkward being waited on, celebrating their holiday while the family worked to crank out dish after dish. The parents’ English was rough, so it was hard for us to express gratitude. But the food bridged the divide. There were no peasant dishes on the menu, just legitimate Chinese banquet cuisine. Crab legs with lobster sauce, whole steamed fish, lots of Chinese vegetables. Chicken. No doubt duck.

Abe was essentially first generation American. Most of his grade school and high school years were here. He embraced American sports, music, movies. But he also kept his Chinese family values. After working a full week as a journalist, he’d go back to Tucson a few weekends each month to help out in the restaurant.

In retrospect, I guess Chinese New Years gave Abe a chance for his two worlds to coexist, overlap a little. He could be American in front of his family without disrespect. He could be Chinese in front of his American friends without repercussions. And it gave him a chance to show off his parents’ cooking.

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It’s St. Patrick’s Day. Like any good American of marginal Irish descent, I have corned beef in the cooker and cabbage in the fridge. I love corned beef. It’s kind of a fake Irish dish, but American style St. Patty’s Day is kind of a fake holiday.

Every year the stores have corned beef at ridiculously low prices and so I buy some. It’s full of toxic, nitrates etc., and I’ve cut back on processed meats, and red meat in general, since I had cancer. But it tastes great, tastes even better when you rarely have it. And every year, St. Patrick’s Day takes me back to my time in Ireland, part of my self-managed semester abroad in Europe that helped me stumble into journalism.

I think about a pub owner, John Maloney in some tiny town, name forgotten, that had a youth hostel. A youth hostel and two pubs and not much more. I was there for a day that turned into a few days and then more than a week. There’s something about a quiet Irish countryside that’s good for the soul. On rainy days, I would go to Maloney’s pub, once before it was officially open, where I could chat with John while he set up for the day. He had been to the US. When I told him I was from New Jersey, he was happy to tell me that he had seen Jersey from across the water in New York.

If I had stayed longer, I think I would have become an apprentice publican. I learned how to make Irish coffee and hot Irish whiskey. I learned the proper way to pour a Guiness. John had a picture of Kennedy behind the bar. We’re so proud of him, he said, speaking for the entire country. This was during the Reagan years. We don’t want to talk about the other guy, he said.

We talked about St. Patrick’s Day in the U.S., with the parades and green beer. It’s not that big of a holiday in Ireland, John said. But we watch the American parades on TV. It was like an uncle talking about some crazy stuff his nephews were up to. Scratching his head maybe, but kind of quietly proud of their antics.

There are more Irish in America than in Ireland, he said. The way he said it sounded like he felt practically American, which I guess made me practically Irish.

We didn’t talk about corned beef, which is what I started to talk about. I grew up in a culturally deprived home. We never had hot sauce. My mother had a tiny jar of cayenne pepper for those recipes that called for a pinch. That same jar lasted her through my childhood and adolescent years. And we never had corned beef. I was in high school the first time I had corned beef. My girlfriend was in the hospital with a toe problem stemming from ballet lessons. There was a possibility of losing the toe. I was with her for most of the day. Her parents came by at one point. I was afraid of her dad, a Philly longshoreman named Stosh, who moved his family across the river to Jersey. Stosh didn’t seem to like me. How many fathers like their daughter’s high school boyfriend? After a bit, he went out to get food. He got sandwiches for everyone from a nearby deli. He got me corned beef. I guess I got some points for showing up and being supportive. To say the sandwich was life altering might be excessive, but wow it was good. I have no idea how much corned beef I’ve eaten since then. A lot, although these days it’s mainly once or twice a year.

The final part of my St. Patrick’s tradition of sorts involves regret for not brining my own brisket to avoid the nitrates. I did it once. It’s not that hard. So, as I say every year, maybe next year.

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