Between the vagaries of my web development work and daily life — “minor” updates to glade.ca that turned so easily into a complete three-week site overhaul, that challenging Levi’s “Go Forth” campaign, endless TD Canada Trust banners, assorted Purolator stuff, birthdays, and a visit to Canada’s Wonderland (Behemoth is pretty kick-ass, I must say ), I’ve hardly had room to swing a cat through my schedule.

Just as well – Ollie probably wouldn’t have taken well to it.

I finally managed to convince one of the agencies I work with that the term “independent contractor” isn’t merely a figure of speech (that and the liberal use of the term “employee” – why do I keep running into this?!), so I was looking forward to doing some work from home and mixing in healthy doses of blogging. But fate, being the filthy whore she is, pulled another steamy week out of her ass.

That window fan I’ve had going non-stop for about three months now has simply been circulating oven-like heat throughout my living room, over the exposed chassis of my computer and two surprisingly warm monitors (programming with just one monitor is a sort of punishment), and right back at my puffy, bloated face. Oh yeah, and it’s allergy season again.

Anyhow, I finally ran out of excuses tonight and took it to the streets.

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Honestly, I preferred this year’s streetfest in the Beaches – it had a lively more exciting vibe for me. The energy just didn’t seem to be there in the people I walked amongst the day I attended the Taste of the Danforth. To be fair, it was the last day of the event, the weather had been all over the place — I’ll give it another chance next year.

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In roughly ten to twenty years from now, crossing over the Bloor viaduct, you’ll probably be able to wander into any establishment and order a classic Torontonian Greasy Danfurd — or something of that nature.

Oh, we already have the Greasy Danfurd now, in case you didn’t know, and it’s already something of a classic. It has hairy bare chests, gold medallions, girls names Roula / Toula / Voula / Koula / etc.-oula, and small, innocuous-looking elderly men that you just know are mob leaders of some sort.

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In the past few days anyone stepping off a plane for the first time at Pearson or City Centre Airport probably got a bit of a rude awakening to the real Toronto.

I do my best to try to warn people that, no really, it gets pretty fucking hot here in the summers, but usually I just get an incredulous expression in response. When I compare recent Toronto temperatures (31 Celcius  / 88 Fahrenheit) to, say, The Bahamas (30 Celcius / 86 Fahrenheit), they just kind of look at me funny, like maybe I’ve been spending too much time in the igloo or something.

It’s a bit warm for May, granted, but not by much.

“Yeah, but it’s not a humid heat like they get on the islands”, is often the next follow-up. Once again, spoken by someone who hasn’t been to Toronto in the summer. No, it really is. It can get as soupy here as it does in Hong Kong or Jamaica. I mean, did you ever wonder how south Asians, East Indians, West Indians, and people from similar countries could manage to live in Toronto if it’s some dreary northern podunk town? That’s because it’s not so foreign to them. In the winter they’re usually a miserable bunch, but in the summer they’re right at home. Right from the horse’s mouth that.

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Aha! I finally figured out why the smell of frying food conjures up such strong feelings of summer. And it isn’t all funnel cakes either.

The whole synesthetic experience must’ve started when I was still doing my ex-pat thing overseas. It was on the tropical island of Taiwan where winter temperatures hardly dipped below 10 Celsius (50 Fahrenheit), and the summers we non-stop steam baths regularly hitting 40 Celsius (104 Fahrenheit), that I  first made the association. After a few years of that, the link between summer heat and fried food musta just burned into my brain, I guess.

The fried food part of the equation is my favourite Taiwanese breakfast, usually eaten in small roadside shops surrounded by greasy steam and greasier customers.

The three most common meals at such establishment are, as I recall, lobogau, diced fried daikon (giant white radish), congee, a cold soup consisting of rice, some kind of shredded meat, and a variety of veggie / nut toppings, and dan bing, which I’ll be discussing here and the only thing that I actually enjoyed in the mornings. (Fried radish — gross!)

The name dan bing comes from the Mandarin words “ji dan” (chicken eggs), and “bing” (platter or plate – or ice if mispronounced). It’s usually accompanied by “nai cha”, literally “milk tea”, but with whitener being used instead of real milk — for a variety of reasons. Incidentally, this is also the secret ingredient in Tea Shop 168’s milk teas, unsurprisingly since this is also a Taiwanese company. (With tapioca in the milk tea –  buble milk tea — it’s called “jinju nai cha”.)

Dan bing is super easy to make:

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Zach’s post about the G20 kinda freaked me out a bit. Not about the clampdown on the city or anything, I think that’ll be a riot. My main concern is the volume of simultaneous stuff that’ll be happening, and the lack of bodies to attend. Last year I got a request to cover Caribana so I spent the whole day wriggling through a million people in the blistering heat. I had to miss about three other things that day, three things within my highly limited scope of “what’s happening”.

This year the city’s shipping in Euro-crazies for the summer, doing a mayoral throw-down, plus all the other usual seasonal stuff that’s supposed to happen. It’s all a bit overwhelming.

One day at a time.

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