A Clash of Steel: A Treasure Island Remix (Remixed Classics)
Rate it:
Open Preview
Kindle Notes & Highlights
20%
Flag icon
watch with fascination as one woman piles dried rice noodles onto the sizzling hot wok and ladles water directly on top; steam rises in thick clouds as the noodles cook instantly. My mouth waters as the other woman cracks eggs directly onto the hot surface, whipping them quickly into a delicate yellow froth. A thick red sauce is poured over everything and the cooked eggs and noodles are stirred together with bean sprouts and fine strips of cabbage. Everything turns a delightful shade of orange. It smells at once both sweet and savory, and I watch as the fat prawns they add quickly turn white ...more
21%
Flag icon
Every mouthful is delicious, from the sweet and savory sauce, to the perfectly cooked prawns, eggs, and vegetables, to the hint of crushed peanuts.
21%
Flag icon
There are piles of round flatbreads baked directly on a hot stone, sold by a man with kind eyes, a thick, curly beard, and an intricately wrapped turban. There are giant baos the size of my palm, stacked impossibly high in baskets as women yell out their various fillings. One stall is overladen with rich-looking sweets, like dates dripping with honey, and some confections I’ve only seen during festivals and the new year—rice cakes smothered in sweet syrup and long strips of sugar cake, glistening sticky-sweet as they are pan fried or smothered with red bean paste and baked into sweet baos. At ...more
21%
Flag icon
Then there’s something else—sweet, almost cloying. Children laugh as they race past me, eyes wide with wonder and delight. At first it’s a blur, but as I approach the stall I can see the sugary confections more clearly—melted sugar spun into fanciful designs: a long, winding dragon with wise whiskers; a leaping fish; a graceful rooster; a blooming lotus flower. The man carefully drips a sugar mixture with a ladle onto a board lined with sticks. The syrup is oozing a warm golden brown as he flicks his wrist deftly, creating strands of sugar in long arcs, and I watch as a crane appears to take ...more
24%
Flag icon
only know about Việt Nam from the stories and poetry I’ve read.” I smile, thinking of one of my favorites as I cite, “The water flows, yet grief won’t wash away. The grass smells sweet, yet hearts won’t feel assuaged … we turn and look, but all has come between—green mountains and blue clouds roll on and on.”
25%
Flag icon
take another gulp of rice wine; our plates are scraped clean and the tiny table bears the greasy remnants of the dishes we’ve eaten, braised pork belly and fragrant steamed rice and spicy garlic-chives-and-scallion pancakes.
46%
Flag icon
I stir the rice and chop the vegetables roughly, tossing them in the wok until Mianmian comes back and shows me how to gut and clean the fish. “There’s only one wok and one pot, so no need to get fancy, as long as everyone gets fed. Here, you can steam it on top of the vegetables.” She nods in approval as I heave the whole fish into the wok and ladle soy sauce and freshly chopped scallions atop it, adding fresh water before I place the lid on.
46%
Flag icon
“I saved a piece of fish for you.” I ladle her the piece I set aside, a slice of the fish’s belly, soft and tender with fat.
47%
Flag icon
I wake early every morning to boil a huge pot of hot congee. Dinner is the only meal we tend to all eat together up on the deck; during the day everyone is on different shifts and taking their meals when they can. I can barely remember the way I would eat breakfast at home, quietly eating the congee plain or with a slight sprinkle of spring onions or soy sauce. Here we fry up mounds of glistening youtiao to go with it, and the crew laughs as they break off pieces to dip in their bowls, dunking it clumsily and bringing it to their mouths, speaking as they go.
47%
Flag icon
“I don’t know if I could miss something I couldn’t fathom,” I say, my eyes on the sea. “I knew the ocean existed, but when all your life has been rivers and mountains, this—this—” I gesture at the broad expanse and turn around toward the other side of the ship, where the horizon extends to infinite possibilities.
48%
Flag icon
“Everyone should be afraid of those who can embroider. We have the patience to keep stabbing the same thing over and over again.”
96%
Flag icon
As a storyteller, I want readers to question history, question why a classic is a classic, and who gets to determine what stories are told and what stories are deemed important. Who determines why a story is valuable? Who determines what becomes a legacy?