Trail of Ants

My mother always said vegetables were good for me, so for 21 years I munched my way through her gloomy carrots, astringent runner beans and even the odd heap of pungent spinach. Then I cut the apron strings, and phoned her weekly, for 4 years, to ask her how to recreate the sloppy, lifeless clumps of sentiment. It was with a combination of this deep-rooted craving and my slow retreat from Chinese flesh-based sustenance that I found myself sitting in a Jinghong vegetarian restaurant, across from Reb, my recurring itch of an accomplice. Along with a feast of imitation crispy duck, sweet and sour meatballs, chinese cabbage and seaweed in flour came a vibrant 33 year old, called Joe the Bridge. Continue reading ‘Bee for ‘Banna’