Umami for the Rocky Road

I can't believe I haven't put the two together before tonight: shredded, sweetened coconut folded into rocky road ice-cream makes for a scrumptious, texture-laden chocolate experience. Mmm. This definitely has umami. You know, umami, the fifth taste recently identified by food experts. Other foods with umami include soy sauce, ripe tomatoes and Parmesan cheese. From what I can gather, umami is a rich, salty, savory taste first discovered by a Japanese chemist; no English equivalent exists, which may say something about the limitations of the standard American palate. (Or the craziness of the Japanese, for which there exists ample evidence, mostly located in the video game arcades and oxygen bars of contemporary Tokyo.)

Unsubstantiated Asia barbs aside, I've been trying to convince T-money (his chosen moniker; apparently "T-man" is silly) to consider a honeymoon in Japan. I'd like to experience the sensory over-stimulation of urban Japan, and then spend a lot of time in the mountains. I imagine exquisitely detailed B&Bs in quiet, blossom-heavy gardens, with no company but the glassy-eyed coy and some diminutive old couple always pressing tea on us.

Note to the excessively PC: I understand the sociopolitical implications of imposing a Western-centric, bucolic vision on rural Japan, but luckily reality plays no role in my fantasy life. Reality would really put a damper on my imaginary affairs with the Naked Chef, as well as my flourishing careers as a harpist, Oscar-winner, Nobel Peace Prize recipient, and novelist.

Other honeymoon options are: the Caribbean; Hawaii; Big Sur; some little island in the South Pacific. The options are somewhat limited given our finances and schedules, but I like the South Pacific idea. Go somewhere with roast pig and pineapple for breakfast. Hard hot rains at 4pm; lots of crabs. (Of the edible variety, sicko.) I'm having a yen for adventure, and the honeymoon's going to be as close as we get to foreign travel for a while. I think T-money just wants to recline on the beach with a cocktail flag, so I might have to reign in the desire for far-off places and content myself with bikinis and mai tais. Yes, marriage is about compromise; though I think his desire for inactivity may stem from a particularly grueling Guatemalan volcano climb I initiated five years ago. Or that bike ride dodging chicken buses on Central American roads, to a lukewarm hot spring that gave us diarrhea. Or the 16-mile trek through the Gorge, which was so not my fault.

Oh, T-money, how you suffer the injustice of a hyperactive bride.

And that, sweet Anonymi, is where tonight's story ends. I'm sleepy and drained from student-teacher conferences and working for the man. Battlestar is calling my name, and so is bed, and evil kitty, and the moon.