Genes by venitha

If tastes are any indication, I don't need The Genographic Project to determine that I am not Chinese.

I took a bunch these Chinese "cookies", purchased at great bodily risk amongst the CNY hordes in Chinatown, to work to pawn off on share with my co-workers. Given that they lasted for more than a week in my apartment, you can infer my opinion of them. They're kind of gooey in the soft fluffy way of a piece of Bubblicious that you've chewed for about 20 seconds and blown several very large bubbles with.
I left them in the "pantry", which I would call a break room, and they disappeared in no time flat, while the chocolate fingers (crunchy cookies covered with chocolate) beside them, of which I could easily eat about, oh, 100, sat virtually untouched. The chocolate fingers may even have been left over from the day before.

Universally popular pantry treats: a million different varieties of pineapple sugar cookies. Universally unpopular pantry treats: chalk cookies. There was no label on the container, so no name and no list of ingredients, and I therefore couldn't fully verify the presence of chalk, but really, these are unbelievably bad.

Okay, so Chinese genes are right out. How about Indian? I have a penchant for the food and great admiration for the lovely and colorful saris; but no, this, too, is inconceivable. Just look at my parents. I share my coloring with my mother: red hair, pale skin, freckles, blue eyes. No Indian there. My father claims the very smell of curry makes him ill, and he's left more than one roadside "potel" (Patel + motel) because of the aromas wafting from behind the check-in counter. No Indian there.

Then again, they did name me...

venitha