So ironic, it’s not.
July 10, 2012
Here’s my dear roommate James Yeh en route to the laundromat in a moment of excellent Chinese bike schlepping form. James is the ultimate Azn American partner in crime, a self-proclaimed “Brooklyn man” and successful indie writer. He was raised in South Carolina by Taiwanese immigrant parents and can make a tasty pork chop with scallions. Check out his blog here.
I’ll always remember the week James’s mom came to stay. She folded the unruly mess of plastic bags in our apartment into small bundles, and cooked about 20 pounds of meat, meanwhile infecting the air with Chinese parent love-anxiety. In asides, she made slightly critical jokes and giggled. One night, in an act of solidarity, we escaped a tutorial on asparagus preparation to drink beer (at a Brooklyn Brewery event to which J had a press invite, no less). We returned home—in a much nicer mood—to a dinner patiently waiting for us.
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