Call me Cinnamon Buns!

Friday

After the usual lengthy debate over where and what to have for dinner, I suggested we trek to Ashfield to kill two birds with one stone, since we wanted to take a walk anyway.

There was a little Shang eatery next to the fruit market that opened recently. Last time we passed by it was packed. And now, after deciding to dine there, we really wonder why.

We ordered pumpkin pancakes, hot and sour soup and traditional Shanghainese mini pork buns.

The pumpkin pancakes, it seemed, were identical in appearance to another number off the menu - red bean buns. Stupid, really, that we forced down unnecessarily huge servings of revolting and presumably cheap red bean paste before realising that they probably served us the wrong dish. In fact, we pretty much polished off the whole plate (I managed one and Jez nomnom'd three), wrinkling our noses in distaste. Of course miserly Chinese restauranteers would sooner swallow their woks than refund an already-devoured meal.

The mini pork buns looked and tasted pre-packaged-pre-frozen. On top of that they were laughably small. Fail.

Soup was average. Contained a lot of tofu, of which I'm not particularly fond. Jez would probably rather eat a soiled band-aid.

For the past week I had a distinct feeling that whatever little warmness Jez's parents had felt for me had cooled down to Russian winter. It's almost completely out of my control, but I create such strong awkwardness that sometimes even Griffindor's sword would get owned trying to cut the tension.

This is what happens on a typical visit:

1. Walk down the hallway. Stick my head and just my head into the living room sheepishly. Say hello uncle. Hello auntie. Disappear into Jez's room.
2. Re-emerge for dinner, toilet.
3. Upon leaving, stick my head into the living room sheepishly. Say bye-bye uncle. Bye-bye auntie.
4. Leave.

Further interactions take place approximately once every fortnight.

I can't stand myself.

For someone who hardly has any D&Ms with her own parents, it isn't easy to gel well with the boyfriend's folks. I have little trouble with adults in general. It's not a matter of age. It's a matter of status. Say if there was a scale of comfort, from the most comfortable relationship to least, the list goes (and most of the following are from the pharmacy, as I rarely interact with adults outside of work):

1. Glenda, whose head and arse I have no qualms over hitting with a rolled-up magazine.
2. Eugene, for whom I have an inkling of respect, but little enough to feel perfectly comfortable with calling him mentally disabled for awful power-sliding.
3. Jason, who as a much more professional albeit young pharmacist ranks higher than Eugene.
4. Renata, who ranks higher than the above due mainly to her age and the fact that we communicate pretty much only on a weekly basis via the Kirribilli dispensary notepad.
5. Sally, who is incredibly pretty. I still don't know her age but she doesn't look a day over 30, though having graduated in '95 must be a fair few years past it.
6. Mirjana, who holds incredible authority over me by being able to summon me to the dispensary from pandemonium in the shop-front for just one script.
7. John, who though habitually and pointedly ignores all of us when in the wrong mood, is still easier to joke around than his fast-talking partner.
8. Jim, who I remember saying gave off the unmistakable air of the big piss-me-off-and-suffer-my-wrath boss initially, is still intimidating albeit professionally friendly. Still calls me "girl". Still fights with Harsha like a pair of old marrieds. Differs from John in that while I joke with John, my comfort zone only permits me to laugh at Jim's jokes. Extremely sycophantically.
9. To top even John and Jim are Mr and Mrs Cheng. The former pair are the bosses at work but the latter are the bosses of life.

My parents are, of course, not included. Because despite the little time we spend together, they're parents. Only parents give you hell for leaving your room in semi-chaos, pick you up from the station to save you a six-minute walk in the dark, and tells you to pee after sex to avoid urinary tract infections.

Anyway, I was amused to find myself desperately clinging to the faintest signs that Jez's parents don't disapprove of me. Oh look, she said hello to me. If she didn't like me she wouldn't have said hi. Right? Right? Hmm, he asked when I'm supposed to start uni. If he didn't like me he wouldn't have said that. Right? Right?

When I sheepishly stuck my head into the living room to say bye to Jez's dad, he asked whether Jez was driving me, and when I said no, told me to be careful on the way home. I took it as a somewhat positive sign. Desperate times call for desperate ways of thinking.

Saturday

I came home with ingredients for cinnamon buns. They were childishly easy to make, provided a bread machine is available. After observing the astronomical amounts of butter, margarine (yes, both!) and sugar that were used in this sweet and twirly creation, I swore to never snack on the seemingly innocent Baker's Delight cinnamon rolls again.

If I do say so myself, they aren't bad. My health-conscious parents found the richness a little unsettling but my grandparents loved them. Tomorrow Eugene and Jez will be subjected to my amateurism.

I was speaking to Victor earlier. The guy is completely in love with Jen and asked me for gift ideas. I thought the two of us were quite similar, but quite apart from coming up with stuff that Jen likes I couldn't even think of what I like. I said Miu Miu. He said what's Miu Miu. I said don't worry, she's so smitted with you I'm sure she'll like anything you buy. He said what's smitten. I said ... .