It's a social visit. My neurologist and me. An annual tradition. This man who has known me since early adolescence, I go and see him ever twelve months. I take an afternoon off work, pay an insane amount for metered parking by the hospital (Twice as much as anywhere else in the city? These people should be shot.). I sit in his waiting room - perhaps five minutes, perhaps forty-five. He collects me and we head to his examination room, where, every year, a new resident doctor waits, anxious to see such a rare, nameless case. They're always quite lovely, a sharp contrast to him. Tall, wiry, sort of hideous, from a colonial nation - I'm convinced his entire family line did horrible things. He's brilliant, if a horrible human being. Cold, removed, occasionally droning on about hospital bureaucracy or making vague political remarks that are completely inappropriate coming from an MD. I don't care. I'm not here for any real reason.

He pokes. He prods. He pricks me with safety pins and touches a vibrating mechanism to my skin to see if I can feel it. Sometimes he attempts to fool me by making the sound of hitting the vibration device but stopping it before it reaches my skin. I always look away as though to show that I'm being a good sport, but I can tell. It sounds different when he stops the vibration.

He speak to the resident, using medical jargon he doesn't bother to explain to me. It doesn't matter. He tells the intern I'm a musician. They ask me how the deterioration affects my profession. He then takes the opportunity to prattle on about his childhood relationship to the recorder or how much his wife hates the bassoon.

He concludes by saying he has nothing more to say. He has other patients in far worse shape. He tells us one or two stories about them. He states that my numbers are good, commenting on my broad shoulders (lol), though in a rare moment of humanity he does acknowledge that good numbers in no way negates the functional deterioration I report. He then asks if I wish to see him again next year. This is a farcically meaningless question because we both know I have to. Not for him, of course. He's completely useless to me. But my insurer will have too many questions if I stop this annual pilgrimage, so I agree. He'll get to share me with his latest resident, and, in turn, I won't lose my livelihood. Not a bad trade, actually.

Maybe next year I'll bring a picnic,

 I loved the Bon Appetite YouTube...you know, before the whole we're-racist-pieces-of-shit thing.

One of my favourite contributors was Carla. Jews and Italians, you know? We just kind of get each other. Connection to family, connection to food, connection to feeling like the world is out to get us...very sympatico. And when she starts her own channel, the algorithm is all in. It's not fancy. Mostly weeknight recipes, nothing complex, but usually food I wouldn't make on my own. Fine. I barely watch, but it's nice to see the thumbnails.

And then the beans. Crispy tofu and green beans, no less (I'm a vegetarian now. Mostly.). Sounds incredible. Asian inspired. Mirin, soy, black vinegar. As if I've ever seen black vinegar. For weeks I think about making it, but the fucking black vinegar. Sure, there are specialty stores, but I'm just not going to make a special trip.

Tonight. A little toke. A little (lot) of vodka. So I order from a local dim sum place because one of the side effects of pandemic depression is that despite years honing culinary skills, delivery is more commonplace. To add insult to my injured Jewish guilt are four shrimp spring rolls. MSG, fuck me slowly, sideways, and upside down. They are incredible. The black vinegar they come with, not so much.

Black vinegar. I've been thinking of it for weeks, and though the spring rolls doused in chili sauce are long gone, I am left with a couple tablespoons of the stuff, enough to make this recipe.

Joy is not an easily found commodity these days. I think the last time I was happy was 2008. But I get the teensiest serotonin rush at the idea of cooking with this serendipitous liquid currently inhabiting a a plastic thimble. I carry my dish to the sink, reach for the lid and lift the container to put it on.

A soundless thud as it hits the counter, black gold spilling everywhere. My fingers, numb, hang in mid-air. 

It has been nearly four years since my body began decaying. It's never been great (see Not-So-Tiny Tim tag), but the overnight symptoms on April 7, 2008 and subsequent decline have ravaged a once joyful soul. I have fought. For security, for longevity, for companionship. I have won many of these battles (not the companionship), having a developed a sense of self-advocacy rarely seen apart from certain Family Ties alumni. I complain about snow in handicap parking spaces. I go on local radio to talk about discrimination faced at a neighbourhood establishment. I order wicked fuckin' cool canes on amazon dot com. In short, I take care of my shit.

And then a tiny container of black vinegar spills. It pools towards the sink, almost reaching but not quite, so small is its quantity. It forecasts my future, swirling on the granite like mist in a crystal ball. This is the best you will ever have it. Prepare to run, tumble, fall downhill towards...what? I have no idea. But the fingers are worse each month. Then each week. I've planned so much, fought so hard, but the reality slaps me in the mouth. This is the best you will ever have it. You can give up things you love. You can fight corporations. You can order shrimp spring rolls every night of the week without significant impact to your resources. But the one resource that is depleting exponentially faster before your very eyes is you. This is the best you will ever have it.

Hello, old friends.