When it comes to mooncakes, I’m Switzerland. As in, I neither loathe nor love them. But that’s before I did some “investigative research” (read: shoved 10 mooncakes down my throat within an eight-hour time span) for a mooncake article I was working on.
At a whopping 800 calories for a single 180-gram lotus seed paste and salted duck yolk hunk o’ of Mid-Autumn goodness, this brings my total caloric intake to a whopping 8,000 calories for the day. That’s not including the breakfast and dinner I had on top of everything.

A couple of things...
To preface, nothing brings me more happiness than giving my friends dining experiences that will damn well catapult them into glorious throes of gut-busting ecstasy. Er, that had more sexual connotations than I intended, but you get the picture. I like it when people I care about eat well, period.
But if one more person treats me like a personal concierge slash sugar daddy, be forewarned—I will cut you.

HERE’S A LITTLE SOMETHIN’ I THOUGHT WOULD WARRANT CAPITAL LETTERS AND A FEW GRAMMATICALLY UNNECESSARY EXCLAMATION POINTS!!!
The Coca Cola Super Chill. Available only in Hong Kong, at 30 strategically placed vending machines, for a limited time only. And no, Coke didn’t pay me to write this. They may want to dish out some money to buy my silence though. Read on...

There were 12 of us around the table—that was the first biblical parallel. But that may have been cancelled out by the 20 bottles of champagne, liquor, and wine we gorged down like Roman gladiators during the five-course meal at Union J.
But the morning after, puffy-eyed and still digesting, I realized that, like the Last Supper, we had indeed said goodbye to something that night. For these are the precious remaining days in our summer of 2009, when every lingering instant feels like a blessing. Have you gathered your strength to bid it farewell?

A wise man—OK, it was a character in a John Hughes movie—once said, “People don’t mature anymore. They stay jackasses all their lives.” I swear he was looking directly at me when he said it.

I had dinner last night with Cha Xiu Bao - the man, not the pork bun.
For those of you who haven’t seen the footage of Hong Kong’s most beloved food blogger getting bitched out by the lady at the fish ball stand in Anthony Bourdain’s “No Reservations”, you’re missing out. Go ahead and Google-stalk him.

If you happened to be at the Istanbul airport last week and noticed a moronic Asian girl blowing kisses goodbye at total strangers while stocking up on a lifetime supply of Turkish delights—you should’ve stopped me and said hello.
I would’ve asked you if I could borrow some of your extra luggage space for my Iznik ceramic bowl. But since you weren’t there, I had to drag my nearly exploding suitcase back all by myself.
This is out of character for me. Not the melodramatic exit or the gluttony part; but the extreme case of shopalicism.

I try to be a good wife, but hey, don’t take my word for it. Just look at my bento.
It was 8am when I heard the front door click shut. Here comes the countdown: T minus three hours to make my husband the ultimate aisai bento. That’s Japanese for “love wife lunchbox,” and its laborious assembly has been a time-honored tradition for blushing newlywed wives throughout Japan. In a culture where things are often left unspoken and messages are conveyed through subtle acts, nothing says those three words as sweetly as rice balls in the shape of hearts.

My brother once told me you could tell exactly how difficult someone was based on what drink they order at Starbucks. The longer the order, the worse the person. I usually get an iced tall, sugar-free vanilla, double, soy, chai tea latte. I guess that makes me an asshole.

Easy for her to say...she wasn’t the one dangling upside down on some medieval-torture device.
In all fairness, neither was I...but it sure felt like it at the time. The contraption I was hooked onto was a Gyrotonics machine, designed for a pilates/yoga-like workout that was much harder than it looked.