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If my husband had his way, he’d probably live in a vacuum. How many times have I come home to an airless home—windows, glass doors shut, no air-con on, not even the fan, and he’s sound asleep on the couch, hugging his guitar as though it were a soft pillow, breathing in the same carbon dioxide he breathes out.
For years the patis bought off supermarket shelves was fairly homogenous: various brands of dark-brown liquor that was quite salty and packed a polite punch. My generation, at least, grew up thinking that this was the only taste possible for fish sauce.
