Sushi

I’m a bona fide sushi chef. Ok, maybe not, but after a 2 1/2 hour class last night I successfully made (and ate) three rolls all on my own. It’s actually not all that hard, especially when you have Sushi Simon (our teacher) doing all the prep work. Five year olds who have mastered Ants on a Log could probably progress to sushi rolling pretty successfully. It was still tons of fun, though, and I learned a bit of sushi trivia and history while at it. The word “sushi” actually means vinegared rice, for instance, and back in the day women were forbidden from becoming sushi chefs for a myriad of silly reasons that don’t hold up (the PH in our skin changes the taste of the fish, for instance).

I went to the class with two friends from work and between lessons and rolls we traded stories about the worst dates we’d ever been on. Mine was with a fairly rude actor who, from the film credits he mentioned over our one and only beer together, I believe was an extra in porn. One of my friends was set up by a woman who sounds like a matchmaker straight out of Fiddler on the Roof. The 40-year old guy still lived with his parents and when they ordered a brownie sundae to split for dessert he took his knife and cut it in half so there’d be no encroaching on each other’s portion. My other friend showed a lot more patience and perseverance and actually went out with her bad date three times. At the end of the third date he still hadn’t made a move but quizzed her on her sexual history and personal collection of adult toys. I say, good luck to those three guys: they really need it.