Recently I caught my dear roommate James Yeh en route to the laundry mat 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 makes a tasty pork chop with scallions. You can read 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 20lbs of meat for him, meanwhile filling the air with Chinese parent love anxiety. In asides, she made slightly critical jokes and giggled. She reminded James to do things a lot. 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), drunkenly buy corn starch at an upscale Bedford Ave deli, and return home in a much nicer mood to a dinner patiently waiting for us.