SKIRT at W Hotel

The man had heard loads about SKIRT at W Hotel in Sentosa Cove, and was most curious about its steaks. I rarely do steak dinners, so kinda ignored him for months till now. Birthday boy wat. All right, to SKIRT we went. Another option is needed besides our usual Bedrock and CUT. Since I was buying dinner, I was pleasantly surprised at the end of the meal to realize that we had a 15% discount courtesy of SPG program benefits. Heeheeee.

The man was thrilled to see a 250g cut of skirt on the menu. Even though it was from a Full Blood Wagyu Grain-Fed, Blackmore MS9+, it meant nothing to us. We aren't fans of wagyu at all. However, skirt can be tough, but because it was wagyu, it should be okay. The fats would render the skirt almost tender without much effort. He immediately ordered that done medium. He really enjoyed it. For me, it's the same- no wagyu, no sirloin, no striploin, no T-bone. I stick to flank, flap, rump, skirt, tenderloin and at most rib-eye. At this dinner, I picked the 250g of tenderloin from Hereford Grass Fed, John Stone Longford, Ireland. Done medium-rare, the result was just as pleasing.

The meats were accompanied by salt (beef jerky, rosemary and garlic) and blobs of mustard and du Puy lentils. The lentils were stunning. It was really fun to have a apple-bourbon palate cleanser for the mains. Unfortunately for me, it was more sweet than alcoholic. Didn't quite fancy the ratio of alcohol to apples. Haha. Love love love the wood-grain patterns on the meat cutlery. When it came onto the table, we grinned. Looked like it came straight of a you-know-which-tv-series film set. Service too, was warm, efficient and prompt. However, the selection of beer was extremely unexciting.

As much as the bread basket of focaccia with artichoke hummus and chorizo oil was awesome, I like to have greens and something citrus to cut across the rich mains. Asked for the yellowfin tuna tartare on avocado and wasabi to come with the meats. It was good. Also had carabinero prawns. Winner! You can't share this appetizer. No way. One prawn each. Lightly grilled. My gawwwd. LOVE. The juice from the heads over the meat and the itty bitty strands of tagliatelle below. Next time, I'm going to order three or four of those prawns and have them sit on more pasta. It would be a dish off the menu, but totally do-able if the kitchen doesn't mind. That would make a great meal for me.

Following Edie Banister

Read Nick Harkaway's 2012 'Edie Investigates' at the hairdresser's. (He's really Nicholas Cornwell.) When I got to the end, I yelped. So short?! That shriek of consternation was loud enough for the lady in the next seat to turn and ask if I was okay. Grrrr.

To finish a book even before a 20-minute hair treatment was completed?! I felt cheated. It stated 'eShort'. But still???! Wasn't expecting the ending to be so abrupt. What a brilliant publishing strategy. How could it just end like that??!! I want to know what happens after, not just to now-octogenarian super spy Commander RN Retired Edith J. Banister, or now just Edie Banister, but also to Tom Rice, a young junior intelligence officer.

Luckily I had 'Angelmaker' right on the Kindle and could start on it straightaway and finish it over a beer while waiting for the friends for a late dinner. Hmmmph. It's not a continuation of 'Edie Investigates'. This follows the life story of a not-that-much younger Edie Banister in action, and introduces new characters like Joshua Joseph 'Joe' Spork, the son of infamous London crime boss Matthew 'Tommy Gun' Spork. Joe doesn't like that fact made known, preferring to spend his days quietly fixing antique clocks, a skill he acquired from his grandfather. (Reviews here, here and here.)

Joe Spork's quiet days dissipated after he was 'recruited', unknowingly by a seemingly harmless old lady who asked him to fix a complicated antique clock. That was Edie Banister, a now-retired international secret agent. He somehow activated a mechanism that triggered a countdown. The doomsday countdown began dictated by this 1950s doomsday clock. Here began Joe and Edie's separate crazy escapes from evil monks called 'Ruskinites', a big-ass villain named Shem-Shem Tsien, East End villains, and basically every bad guy in the world. The names are hilarious, succeeding in that deadpan humor only the English seem to be able to pull off. Too funny.

In the end, of course Joe Spork and Edie Banister triumphed. She always does. I probably wouldn't like this book as much if she was killed. You know, it needs that bit of wild chases, crazy theories, end-the-world-stuff, bit of fantasy, save-the-day-thing, like all good crime novels do.

"The gas taps in the kitchens," Dotty Catty says. "I have arranged that they should catch fire." She beams. Somewhere to one side, one of the Ruskinites makes a horrified choking noise. Brother Denis the Ruskinite stares at her, aghast. 

"But this palace is constructed over a natural-gas reservoir," he says in horror. "The entire citadel ... You'll blow the whole place like a bomb!" 

"Yes," Dotty Catty says. "It will be very distracting/" 

And just like that, Edie Banister is having a really bad day.

The Man's 40th

It's been a long while since we did these crazy parties. Nine years have flown by since the man's last birthday when he shrieked the lines of Bohemian Rhapsody into a chicken wing. Turning 40 is a good reason as any to get drinks going at our stomping ground- casual Quaich Bar and for nostalgia, Ice Cold Beer (ICB).

Getting royally sloshed once every decade sounds about right. Or perhaps the last one at this fourth decade. In case, you know, it results in strange bone-jarring encounters with walls, staircases, corners of tables and chairs, etc, all of which would be a terrible occurrence at 50 years of age. There was an impromptu pre-party at Quaich Bar. That was the quiet night out with a few buddies for gorgeous single malts. Not puking. No no no. We don't regularly puke out alcohol. What a bloody waste. Single malts, vintage cognacs and armagnacs are meant to be savored slowly. This party was such a civilized affair- sip a few drams and swing on home happy. No hangovers. Not even tipsy.

All vintages from the man's birth year- 1975.
Glenglassaugh White Rabbit,
Castarede Chateau de Maniban Vintage Bas Armagnac, and
Hine Grande Champagne, Jarnac Cognac.

The next party at Ice Cold Beer (ICB) was a riot! In 2006, the guests' drink of choice was vodka and very little beer. Now, it's whisky and a fair bit of beer. Somehow, ICB pulls a really good crisp pint of Stella Artois. It fast became the party's choice of beer for the night. Not many choices of whisky available. Didn't matter. This isn't a whisky bar. We could do with whatever they had. Glenlivet 12y.o worked. Definitely terrorized the staff at ICB. Oh well. We bought plenty of drinks. Ka-chinkk for the bar.

It was hilarious when Bohemian Rhapsody came on. Nobody requested for it! It's still one of those songs that you'll hear at a bar like this if you stay long enough. He had to re-hash the chicken wing bit. Hurhurhur. Easily done. He was tipsy enough. The last time he was this woozy, it was nine years ago right at this very spot. Hahahaha. Otherwise, our alcohol intake has remained relatively modest. At the rate the prices of single malts keep increasing, I'm not about to waste a drop of it by being even anywhere near the scale of tipsy.

We're older now; it's tough to get everyone together in one venue on one date and timing. Many friends couldn't make it down, but whoever could, made a party. Even in the photos, I could only capture half of the people since they popped in and out through the evening. Too lazy to stitch shots together. Big love to all. The man totally appreciates the texts, gifts (aiyoh you guys!), company, and most of all, your unyielding and sound friendship/s through the years.

Many healthy happy returns of the day, partner. I am glad to have met you when you were 30. I would not have liked you very much in your 20s. :P 

To the next decade, D, I appreciate you as you are. I seek not to obstruct, but to stand with you in the continued chasing of your passions, as you have done for mine. Don't stay the same. Change, evolve, become. Stretch that intellectual capacity and keep that ever-acerbic wit. May you always find the space to dream and create. Be yourself. I love you.

I Don't Feel Sorry At All

It's very hard for me to find something nice to speak about this deceased woman. Others still treat her as a learned and opinionated traditional sort of tea teacher who expanded their horizons and interests. I'm glad that in some circles, she still had their respect. To me, she was nothing more than a conniving and petty person who had more than a nominal role to play in killing my enthusiasm for tea.

She intentionally squandered my goodwill and wilfully owed me $1000 which was used to pay the bidding deposit for her new HDB shop space. The next month, she had the cheek to say it to my face that since she didn't think I needed the money to be repaid urgently, she would delay returning that amount. I kept quiet and waited seven months; she said nothing till I began legal action to retrieve the amount. You didn't ask me for a gift of money. You said you would appreciate it if I could use my credit card to help out, to get online and do the whole bidding process for the unit, on your behalf, then immediately return the monies incurred. She didn't expect me to be the type who would spend $10,000 to retrieve $1,000 because it is rightfully due, and because I was made to feel like a fool. I do not enjoy being taken for a ride and viewed as a meal ticket.

Throughout my association with her, she mocked my friends whom I sent to her shop to buy tea. They left empty-handed, bemused and a tad annoyed. It was the most embarrassing recommendation and error in judgment I made. She knew I did chargeable translations freelance and still insidiously asked for 'help', insinuating that I should do pieces of work at no charge for her. When I finally put a stop to that and said no, she feigned ignorance and emailed me five times in 24 hours, well knowing I was in London on vacation. Her idea was, if I was on vacation, then I'd be very free to do unpaid work for her. She actually said it aloud. Worst kind of client ever. I stopped being bothered about that, putting it down to her ignorance, small-minded opinions and cultural differences. She then came up with juvenile shit to insult my partner, the integrity of my marriage, and my religion, repeatedly. If it had been just the money and unpaid work bit, I could have forgiven the matter, even though she didn't apologize for the inconvenience caused. But to have her throw up the concept of reincarnation and the sly suggestion that my spouse isn't suitable or good, and that my religious beliefs to be an impediment to further (tea) knowledge... that was where I drew the line. Even after I sought to clarify and told her it was inappropriate, she persisted and didn't think it wrong. I will never let that pass.

Is this considered speaking ill of her? I don't care. I have no kind words for this woman. Do I feel conflicted? No. These are facts recorded, of which I kept logs and screenshots and all as...evidence in the event it went down to the Subordinate Courts. I had written two angry posts about her on this blog. With my 2014 decision to have nothing more to do with tea whenceforth, and this third post, it closes the loop to all my angst and disgust each time I look at a cup of tea or a teapot.

News of her cancer didn't rouse emotions. Being informed of her stroke stirred indifference. Stumbling across the news of her eventual death roused reflection. I take no joy or satisfaction in her death. I hold no relief or sadness either. I'm well aware of how karma goes around. Yes it's still Lent and Palm Sunday tomorrow. My parting words to her when she was alive and well, "Karma exists." Today, I don't regret having said that. Not one bit. 

We Are Singapore

Prime Minister, I wonder if it is true that when you were leaving Cambridge your tutor said "Well, Mr. Lee, when you get back I hope you will keep the flag flying" and that you replied "When I get back I will make it my duty to get the flag down".  

If that is true, then you succeeded in this as in so many other things. 

But running up your own flag you were wise enough not to break the links which matter. 

~ so said Margaret Thatcher to Lee Kuan Yew towards the end of her speech at a formal dinner on 8 April 1985, held at the Istana Dining Room of the Shangri-La Hotel in Singapore. (Link to full speech.)

Felt an emotional wrench each time as I stare up at the many state flags flying at half-mast. They don't just speak of the passing of one legendary statesman. They also remind us that many many of us share similar sentiments of quiet mourning, and for some, deep sorrow, and others, ambivalence. Singapore has never felt so subdued, sombre, sad, reflective, united and cohesive all at once, regardless whether one chooses to observe the declared mourning period.

We've outdone ourselves in possessing this amazing ability to queue. In this humidity and blazing sun. It's nothing short of magnificent. I'm so pleased that Singaporeans don't just queue for freebies, burgers and Hello Kitty items. A big thank you to grassroots volunteers, civil servants, public service officers, and ordinary citizens who simply reached out to help one another. You put in extra hours to keep this country running efficiently, holding it all together so that we could go about daily affairs without interruption. We definitely appreciate you doing what you do. This is the efficiency we're known for. We get things done. This week of national mourning, we also celebrate us, Singaporeans.

There's a massive amount of kindness going around. Very touching, really. Singapore, you do have a softer side even though you show so little of it. The whining too, has impressively lessened. And dare I say this, a fair number of gracious words and acts. I see graciousness everywhere. It's lovely. If this is SG50, then this is the sort of camaraderie I want, the naturally warm and sincere people-to-people vibes. This is the Singapore I love. This week, I've never felt prouder of fellow residents, and to be Singaporean.

Tribute center at Tanjong Pagar Community Club within Tanjong Pagar GRC.
My GRC. And yes, I've never voted. Dunno about 2016.

Black Chicken Ginseng Pear Soup

For someone who doesn't like chicken, I'm fraternizing too much with it. The man had the audacity to flash me a cute grin and asked me to do black chicken soup. What. I glowered at him suspiciously. What?! It is his birthday month. All right. I'll cook him at least four different pots of soup this month. At least he's not asking for soup every day. That would be a problem. This business of boiling soup is a full-time job. Seriously.

I really don't fancy a mix of pork and chicken in my soups. Just chicken will do. Also I might have a slight OCD problem. I've zero interest in using electric thermal cookers or crock pots. In fact, I've been bo liao enough to cook the same soups in different pots and material to check out if material matters to the ultimate flavor of the soups and decide on my favorite pots. There's a ridiculous number of dutch ovens and stew pots at home. Might as well have some fun. Wanted to also look at how the soup texture and consistency turns out in double-boiling and normal fierce bubbling. I don't have that much time on hand. It's just that I like boiling soups at night because I could do about hundred other tasks simultaneously.

Went out to replenish ginseng. My stock for the year was depleted in a month. Hahahah. Came back with a gigantic bottle of sliced up pieces. Looks like they'll be used up fairly quick. This pot was just plain 'black chicken ginseng pear soup'. But it sounded more poetic in Chinese- 雪梨人參黑雞湯. Whatever, as long as it doesn't taste too sucky. I'm certainly not eating it. The man can have it all. Only scooped spoonfuls to taste at intervals to check what else is needed in it. The man seemed to like it very much. The ginseng offset the sweetness of the dried fruit and pears. Well, it's boiling up a pot of random ingredients. Not exactly real cooking. But I suppose it counts lah. #impieCooks2015

Dinner For One

Came up from the evening swim and felt too lazy to head out for a bite. Didn't want bread and cheese either. Stared at the fridge and sighed. It would have to be whatever that was available and could thaw within two hours. Dinner for one. All right...it's like a mantra thing- I would utilize the kitchen more this year. Although it seems to be getting too regular.

Had cold food for lunch. Wanted hot food for dinner. Something light-ish. Noodles. Not really a rice person unless there's curry or gravy about. Instant noodles are usually eaten at the office, on-the-go or someone else's house. If I'm at home, I prefer not to do that. The fridge would always stock fresh or frozen packs of udon thick and thin and pasta which are just as quick. Had a bunch of maitake mushrooms (舞茸、まいたけ). Perfect. Udon it was. Boiled up an easy pot of dashi.

Thawed out two fishballs (the hand-pressed sort bought from the wet market), three pieces of tau-kwa  and tau-pok, and a kurau fillet. Since the fish was to be fried, might as well fry the tau-pok too. In the end, when the items were laid out on the table, it looked like a full meal instead of a harried bowl. Very satisfying. Okaay, a fair bit sort of nutritional value in there. This wasn't exactly 'cooking'. It was just assembling things, but whatever. #impieCooks2015 So yeah, most of the time I like what comes out of my pots. :D

The Passing of An Era :: Mr Lee Kuan Yew 1923 - 2015

I didn't live through those turbulent times pre-1965 and the years that followed. There're the oral histories, the recorded history, and the books. I read them. But I don't pretend to fully understand those times, circumstances, sentiments and politics; though I didn't agree with many of Singapore's early social and manpower policies, and still don't fully agree with them now.

I certainly raise eyebrows at many of Mr Lee Kuan Yew's unapologetic opinions and management of dissent. But the one thing I know, I'm a beneficiary of the legacy Mr Lee Kuan Yew had left even before his twilight years- a stable economy, a relatively meritocratic society, an efficient public service, an internationally-envied passport and many national achievements to be proud of. I can call many cities home, but this is a passport I will never give up. Most of all, the system has provided an excellent education in-country and overseas that has shaped my thoughts, formed beliefs, questions and outlook. I lead a privileged life of relative affluence in a country where peace prevails instead of civil strife and unrest. What is there not to be grateful about?

Mr Lee's indomitable spirit has led the way, along with many other pioneers, including dissidents right and left wing, they shaped this city-state to what it is today. It is now in our hands to preserve what we will of this legacy (in the noun's full definition and as an adjective) in order to navigate that delicate balance between paternalistic politics and liberal democracy. Are we now mature enough to shape our own policies? We should be. We must.

He is a remarkable man. This is the respect we will accord this day of his passing and during the period of mourning. In a collection of interviews in 2011, then 89 years of age, he said,

'I did some sharp and hard things to get things right. Maybe some people disapproved of it… but a lot was at stake and I wanted the place to succeed, that's all. I have no regrets. I have spent my life, so much of it, building up this country. There’s nothing more that I need to do. At the end of the day, what have I got? A successful Singapore. What have I given up? My life.'

Goodbye Mr Lee. You were a respectful and devoted husband, a firm father, a committed man, a formidable mentor, a visionary, and most of all, even as you had resisted the label, an inimitable statesman of the 20th century, because that is what you are. Rest well, Sir.

Once, when she [Kwa Geok Choo] was asked on his 80th birthday in 2003, what was the most misunderstood thing about Lee, she replied, "I read somewhere that 'few elder statesmen can command as much respect and condemnation simultaneously as Lee'. I will leave it to these writers to argue which one has most misunderstood Kuan Yew." 

~ From 'Lee Kuan Yew: Hard Truths: To Keep Singapore Going', 2011, published by Straits Times Press.

It Isn't All About Vampires

Of course I picked up Karen Russell's 2013 short story collection 'Vampires in the Lemon Grove' totally for the title. Her fantastical worlds are awesome. These eight stories didn't disappoint. I slowly savored them over a long afternoon at the pool with freshly squeezed homemade lemonade. (Read reviews here, here and here.)

The collection begins with the eponymous title story, but oddly, I didn't quite fancy it. It's uhh...about rather...silly vampires. Eight stories, some I really dig, the others, not so much. They're mostly deliciously horrifying and hilarious.

The last story 'The Graveless Doll of Eric Mutis' makes a strong social comment about bullying in school. Of four kids in Anthem, New Jersey, narrated from one of the four kids'- Larry Rubio's viewpoint. Of how they bullied fellow new transfer student Eric Mutis, who then mysteriously disappeared from school, and how the boys then found a scarecrow of dressed in Eric Mutis' clothes and Hoops sneakers found tied to an oak tree in Friendship Park. They pulled down the scarecrow and threw it into the ravine. Then they found the scarecrow being methodically amputated. There could be perfectly logical explanations. But in the minds of the young boys, it became somewhat like a horror story. Until residual guilt in Larry Rubio haunted him with thoughts of Eric, and he had to get his friends to help him retrieve the scarecrow from the ravine. And somehow, I suppose, he became a rooted scarecrow... heh...I'd like to think, permanently.

I spread my arms above the rabbit, so no birds dove for it. I had a knife in my back pocket. The thought occurred to me that I was the scarecrow's guardian now, and the symmetry of this reversal both pleased and terrified me. Yes: now I would stand watch over what remained of Eric Mutis. It was only fair, after what I'd done to Mutant. I would be the scarecrow's scarecrow. My shadow draped over the remains of the doll. 

I love the second story 'Reeling for the Empire'. Creepy. Of a world where silkworms have died. Japan is the only country still producing silk because they found a way to pull silk from humans, by literally altering their physiology and turning them into giant silkworms. The girls provide threads of different colors. Of the trapped innocent girls kaiko-joko, the evil Agent and eventual freedom. Loads of social criticism going on in there. A fabulous dark little tale.

"These wings of ours are invisible to you," I say directly into the Agent's ear. I clasp my hands around his neck, lean into the whisper. "And in fact you will never see them, since they exist only in our future, where you are dead and we are living, flying." 

I then turn the Agent's head so that he can admire our silk. For the past week every worker has used the altered machine to spin her own cocoon - they hang from the far wall, coral and emerald and blue, ordered by hue, like a rainbow. While the rest of Japan changes outside the walls of Nowhere Mill, we'll hang side by side, hidden against the bricks. Paralyzed inside our silk, but spinning faster and faster. Passing into our next phase. Then we'll escape. (Inside his cocoon, the Agent will turn blue and suffocate.) 

"And look," I say, counting down the wall: twenty-one workers, and twenty-two cocoons. When he sees the black sac, I feel his neck stiffen. "We have spun one for you." I smile down at him. 

Double-Boiled Ginseng Lingzhi Chicken Soup

This isn't the pot to double-boil. Only for storage and re-heating.

At this rate, I'm going to bust the one-year KPIs for #impieCooks2015 within the quarter. I heard the girlfriend cough; it's that kind of cough. Well, she isn't going to stop coughing with one bowl of soup. Still. She likes Asian soups. She cooks good. But her schedule's been so hectic that there isn't a three-hour slot to get a pot going. Boiled up another pot of trusty chicken soup for her and made a midnight collection date. #impieCooks2015

Reading the TCM basics of '十八反、十九畏' (which is something like '18 Incompatibles and 19 Antagonistic or Counteractions herbs') convinced me that I should experiment no further with herbal soups beyond using lingzhi and American ginseng. You know, like Final Fantasy, like Ultima? Also I obstinately refuse to use herbs that I really don't like. For example, huai shan (淮山), some xia ku cao thing (夏枯草) that's also known as heal-all (or carpenter weed or heart-of-the-earth), cordyceps, dang shen (党参), dang gui (当归), almonds (南北杏仁), the sorts. JUST NO.

This round, I tried double-boiling. Double-boiled soups always look more like consommé rather than murky. Used Wisconsin ginseng, so I should do double-boiling instead of direct pot-fire bubbling. Kept it simple with the herbs to maintain the focus on taste. (人参灵芝鸡汤) Sneaked in a few cubes of pork loin too. Poked at the ingredients; there seemed to be some flavors left within. Okay, could pack that together with some carbs. Heated up a frozen square of udon to go with. Obviously it couldn't share the soup lah. It was quick to do a base of dashi and miso. At least it wouldn't be that bland. The udon didn't have to all soak in dashi. Just a quarter to keep the moisture would do. It was meant to be supper afterall.

Dunno why all these people like drinking soups in the middle of the night. The man is one, the bff is another. Now this girlfriend too. Glad she indulged my experiments and uhhh....didn't puke it out... :P

SAM's 'Imaginarium: A Voyage of Big Ideas'

There's only a short week of the school holidays. Resolutely blocked out and rescheduled one morning of meetings in order to have some time with Y and Lil'Missy at the Singapore Art Museum's (SAM) fifth edition of contemporary art exhibition for children. Themed 'Imaginarium: A Voyage of Big Ideas', it spreads across 8Q's four levels. Bring a pair of socks.

Paid more attention to the interactive quotient of the artworks than its artists. Well, it's meant to sustain the interest of children right? No matter how colorful or intriguing like the bugs made up of nuts and bolts and neon magical worlds in Kumkum Fernando's 'Kiko's Secrets', as long as the children can't touch it, then they aren't going to be very interested in checking out stuff after a while. I can't tell how much Lil'Missy likes the whole experience, but she definitely had some fun. She liked the pom-pom making in Izziyana Suhaimi's 'Let's Make! Studio'. Lucky us caught a break and quickly finished making two pom-poms before 40 children waltzed in and we whooshed out. Not going to have a chance to attempt sewing or embroidery.

Chiang Yu Xiang's 'We Built this Estate!' held such chirpy colors. It is supposed to be an interactive exhibit filled blocks designed like giant Tetris pieces, urging visitors to create whatever they can imagine, to build our tomorrow. Tetris! To the kids, they're just blocks to be shifted around. Kinda meaningless to the younger children because they don't have the strength to lift or move the soft foam (?) blocks, and they're not allowed to sit or lie and jump on them. Gallery sitters looked a bit stressed as they followed the children to tell them "Don't do this....don't do that..." Zzzzzz. There were hand-sewn fabric dolls stuck on the wall paintings with velcro. In theory, they could be pulled off and shifted. BUT, the gallery sitters would repeatedly remind the children to be gentle because they're handsewn. ERRMMMM. HALLO? Not going to work lor. If the fabric dolls are so precious, don't let them be removed or allow any handling. This exhibit slips into an unintended feature of 'Imaginarium' because it's eye-catchingly located right on the ground floor. Like a playroom for babies, toddlers and young children. Being continuously told don't don't don't was a real downer. It made me want to petulantly jump on those blocks.

Giggled at Lee Jeeyoung's 'Dream House'. That was really the photo-op room. Candy, giant lollipops and all. Kids were welcomed to 'join the artwork' by grabbing a paper sweet to hang onto candy trees. What was most cool- the doodles that wound around the staircases by Band of Doodlers. 'Imagin-a-doodle' held so many characters and illustrations that captured the attention of every child who walked by. Awesome. We couldn't have been the only ones who had an urge to color in the illustrations. LOL. Couldn't linger or tell stories or explain the artworks thoroughly to Lil'Missy right there and then simply because of the never-ceasing crowds. We went at 10am; it was crazy. If there was anything that had caught the little girl's attention during this visit that she would like to check out, she would have to return on a quieter week day.

Buah Keluak for Supper

The best thing about the season, gifts of homecooked food, which are immediately stashed in the freezer. Then I could savor them even after two months. :D Especially treasured when these are foods I love but haven't had the courage to attempt cooking, even with the aid of memories. I should do so huh, when the memories haven't receded and those details could still be perfectly recalled.

One night when I got home from work at 11pm, and the only meal of the day was at 3pm, I was starving. Found a tiny stash of yummies that were in the fridge instead of the freezer. The helper must have left it there thinking that one of us would need food in the night. YES! Ayam buah keluak. What a welcoming sight when I opened the fridge. Buah keluak placed in whatever sort of dishes features prominently during this season.

This batch of ayam buah keluak was given by one of the MIL's extended family members. Everyone's version will taste different because they would have done the rempah in their unique ways. Perfect for me to understand this dish. There's something about these individual batches that would mark it out as 'belonging' to 'them'. But every year, it would taste ever so slightly different. We're lucky to get these gifts more than once a year. So I've eaten enough to know each individual's cooking styles and quirks for this dish. Muahahaha.

Didn't need the meat. Took three buah keluak all to myself and a wee bit of rice to soak up the gravy. I was ecstatic with supper! Oh my, that beautiful bitter black gold. Ahhhhh. SO GOOD.

Coconut Maple Lime Granola

Y now prefers to bake granola loose instead of portioning them out in bars. In a way, it could be less sweet because less honey is used to stick them together. Her husband A is now doing the bars and tweaking his own version of it. I love granola either way when it comes out of a home kitchen with controlled-sugar-portions.

The dear girl whipped up a batch and bottled a jar for me. Coconut maple lime granola. She was most pleased with this combination. Organic cold pressed coconut oil with locally grown limes (juice and zest) and maple syrup lent flavor to the nuts. The coconut smell was strong when freshly baked. But once I put the jar into the fridge, it evened out fine. The man went bonkers over this jar. He was so tempted to finish all. Had to warn him to leave some for me for breakfast because they weren't supposed to be dessert or snacks. I eat them as mains.

I've been hoarding the last five of my in-season Setoka winter oranges (柑橘「せとか」). Love them! It's a seedless tangor- a hybrid of tangerines and oranges. It's meant to be peeled and not cut. I don't mind fruits sweet, in a small quantity. Setoka oranges are ever so slightly bitter, mostly sweet and superbly juicy. Totally unplanned since the boxes of oranges arrived first, then Y's surprise gift. I bought the oranges, so that by itself was lovely, but not as precious until perfectly complemented with the heartwarming gift of coconut and lime granola.

先日は、美味しいものを頂き、どうも有り難うございました。

Small Bites at the Bar

Popped in to BAM! Tapas-Sake Bar with V. It can get really noisy in the small space. It could be worse than the volume at gigs because of the different registers of human voices, the clanging of glasses, crockery, pots and pans. But I love its casual vibes and Chef Pepe Moncayo's unpretentious food. This combination keeps me returning regularly for dependable meals, with earplugs. I really rather not get a headache and a ringing in the ears after.

I'm not here for its meats. The seafood is so good. I usually pick its omakase offerings and opt for all seafood. Sometimes, when there're four of us, we'll order the entire a la carte menu and share the food. Those small bites are deceiving. Eaten in quantity, they easily fill us up. This night out with V, there were familiar favorites on the menu. Cold capellini with strips of seaweed, uni and sakura ebi. Thick pieces of abalone in mushroom soup topped with truffle foam. Seared kinmedai and heirloom tomatoes. The grilled pasta (a la plancha) seemed to be a pennoni lisci or rigatoni served with squid ink and black truffles. Beautiful. Oh those grilled carabinero prawns! Luckily V loves prawns and didn't mind taking additional heads from my plate. I love them, but really don't dare to risk allergies flaring from the juices in the heads.

By now, Chef Pepe has figured out I'm not fan of meats. Although the meats are mostly for my dining companions, he sometimes still uhhh portions out a plate for me too. There was also charcoal grilled quail. It was lovely, but there was a thick slab of foie gras terrine at the side of which I half-heartedly stabbed at, and left it alone. I can't stand the smell, taste and texture of foie gras. Forgot to tell them to leave it out. We had two desserts. TWO. Pastry chef didn't think we were up for cloying desserts. He made us sour desserts. Awesome. Rolled out of the restaurant totally stuffed to the brim.

The Death of A Relationship

This photo focused on the wrong thing. I started on this ebook at the hair salon. I was concentrating on taking a photo of the salon's nice tangy mix of ice-cold honey-lemon drink. After that, couldn't be bothered to take another shot of the ebook cover.

What a delightful chilling read. It's a dark little tale of a divorcing couple's squabbles, sinister secrets, the family cat, and perhaps a murder or two. All dramatized within Chuck Palahniuk's Kindle single eShort 'Phoenix'. Brilliantly written.

Rachel and procrastinator-passive Ted went about their lives uneventfully with his fat old cat named Belinda Carlisle. Rachel got pregnant and gave Ted an ultimatum to send the cat away and sell the house. Then the cat died in a house fire, and their daughter April, was born blind. It was only three years later on a business trip in an Orlando motel room that Rachel began to contemplate the damage and realized three-year old April never spoke a word during her nightly calls home. She began suspecting her husband of nefarious deeds. What kind of relationship did they have that a wife had to ask the husband if their daughter was still alive after six days.

"Don't stew about it," he says. "She's just giving you the silent treatment." His voice muffled, his mouth pointed somewhere else, he says, "You're just upset that Mommy's gone, aren't you?" A measure of dead air follows. Rachel can hear the carnival music and silly voices of a cartoon playing in the living room. It's not lost on her that she mostly listens to television with no sound while her daughter watches without visuals.  

Still directed elsewhere, Ted's voice asks, "You still love Mommy, don't you?" 

Another beat of silence follows. Rachel hears nothing until Ted begins to placate: "No, Mommy doesn't love her job more than she loves you." He doesn't sound very convincing. After a pause, he scolds, "Don't say that, missy! Never say that!" From the tone of his voice, Rachel braces herself for the sound of a slap. She wants to hear a slap. It doesn't come. Clear, speaking directly into the receiver, Ted says, "What can I say? Our kid can really hold a grudge." 

Rachel's thrilled. The last thing she wants her daughter to be is a sop like Ted, but she keeps those words in her mouth. That's Monday's phone call, done.

In Rachel's analysis of the events and re-telling of the story, we realized she engineered the death of the cat, and had to also contend with a burnt house. However, she did up the home insurance two weeks prior. Ted might not be as simple-minded as he appeared to be. He could be quietly exacting 'revenge' for the cat on their blind and now-silent-over-the-phone daughter April. How could even an angry kid stay so silent on the phone for seven nights? Eioowwww. All these games, physical torture and emotional pain. Of two people who didn't seem to love each other, got together for convenience. Poor cat. Poor April. What a deliciously spine-tingling tale.

How could Rachel not be affected, living pregnant for six months with smoldering cat turds? As the obstetrician put it, the toxo parasite attacks the optic nerve, but Rachel knew there was more to it than that. It was retribution. Of course, Rachel swore she hadn't seen Belinda Carlisle before she'd flipped the switch. And Ted had accepted Rachel's statement at face value. 

There were lies that married two people more effectively than any wedding vows.

Ginger Tisane

The man is nursing the last bits of a persistent cold and has still got a slight cough. He was feeling so much better with a combination of meds, chicken-ginger soups and no alcohol. Then he promptly went to quaff a whole Mandarin orange. I told him "Confirm 咳死你". Of course he didn't understand what I said or even the words. Hahahaha. True enough, he was woken up by two major coughing fits later in the night. ORH-BI-GOOT. In the morning, he sheepishly asked for 'ginger tea'.

TISANE lah. Things brewed with water that aren't leaves from camellia sinensis are either tisanes or floral infusions. Anyway. I can't bear to talk or think about tea, much less drink it. Each thought still induces distaste and disgust. I avoid it like the plague. But boiling up a ginger infusion to chase sniffles away is fine. Two big cups of ginger tisane for him. An age-old remedy.

I like ginger tisane. I don't take it regularly though, just once in a while when indigestion acts up or when the onset of a bug is felt. I'm definitely not keen on those instant satchets. I'll blend up old-ginger, add in rock sugar or black sugar, and steam it into a paste to store in the fridge for the week. I'll scoop a small bit into a cup of hot water every other day to sip for a week or two.

One could do ginger tisane in any way. With lemons, fresh mint leaves, cinnamon, red dates or wolfberries. Mmmm. Those are nice. This pot, I did it in the simplest way that was almost medicinal and spicy. Just slices of old-ginger and apple. Upon serving, I stirred in dollops of dark honey and drops of lime juice. Spicy goodness.

Yup. The man has a special pink Le Creuset cup for hot beverages.
My pink Arabia Moomin and Snorkmaiden is a recent gift from N.  

memasak dengan buah pohon bilimbi

Each time we go over to the friends' homes, it's like a botany lesson. Either they would remind us about the plants in the garden or their parents would. At N's, their bilimbi tree (or birambi, if you like) was fruiting, and had plenty to give. Sour sour deliciousness.

Forget the supermarkets, it's tough to even find buah bilimbi in the wet markets. Restaurants rarely offer anything with it. Few seem to still do this now even at home. Some still make chutney with it. Not even sure the internets can teach me how to cook a dish using buah bilimbi. I'd have to rely purely on memories. I suppose slices of bilimbi could replace assam. I'm not a fan of assam. Sambal fish with bilimbi works. So would prawns and some meats. If I'm brave enough, I can pickle it to make sambal beling-beling!!! I love love love sambal beling-beling with fried fish eggs.

N's mother didn't want me to just take photos of the fruits and the tree. She practically dumped the whole basket of buah bilimbi on me. The man conveniently stayed out of earshot because he isn't particularly keen or deft in whipping up nyonya dishes. He just wants to eat them. Like I am any better in the kitchen lor. My grandparents had these bilimbi plants in their gardens and I ate loads of foods cooked with the fruits. But I've never actually cooked any dish with the instructions of the grandmothers, or on my own. Wah lau.

The whole universe is conspiring to make me cook more this year. I know it. N's mother is very persuasive. So it came to pass that I went home with a basketful of buah bilimbi. Certainly not about to reject this gift. It's precious. Sambal udang bilimbi/belimbing anyone? I'm also thinking, perut ikan. It's something I haven't had for a long time, and this dish, I know how to cook it from memories that are still crystal clear.

El Mero Mero

Yay. Aside from Casa Latina, found another decent Mexican restaurant in town. It's been consistent for these few months, wheww. When the parentals got in after yet another jaunt out, we took them to lunch at El Mero Mero.

No complaints from the parentals about El Mero Mero. They enjoyed it. The parentals cannot do hipster new restaurants in the stark sort of industrial decor because the chairs are too uncomfortable for them, too high and too small for the butt, and often have no backs. When these restaurants are located in hard-to-find-parking areas, the parentals aren't going. We need to recce dining venues for family meals like the way we do for work luncheons and events, check out details right down to the air-conditioning vents and the direction of air-flow. Quite the usual, I suppose, if I don't get out of work mode. -_- We all have different dining expectations that need to meet in the middle in order to have a comfortable meal.

We rolled eyes when the man's dad joked about asking for a bread basket and tomato sauce. Well, he wasn't exactly joking. He doesn't do spicy well, and eats everything with bread and tomato sauce. Zzzz. Anyway, El Mero Mero doesn't serve either. It doesn't have to. It's a modern Mexican restaurant, not American. It's awesome that they've partnered Comcrop to grow a few necessary ingredients required in their kitchen, say habanero peppers and tomatillos. Sauces and salsas are made fresh in-house, and taste great. Different from those that come out of a bottle. Good wild fish tacos that usually use a red snapper. Awesome guacamole. I love it! Helmed by Chef Remy Lefebvre, the food here is executed much better than its other cousin Señor Taco which is located in the rather irritating Clarke Quay. El Mero Mero at Chijmes has a better vibe and a clean and crisp contemporary touch to all the dishes.

Old-Fashioned Chicken Soup

For some reason, the man truly believes in chicken soup as the cure to most ills. He's feeling under the weather and can't seem to shake off a persistent cold, waking up with coughing fits at night. It's been an intense two weeks at work and on all fronts. It was a particularly long day that was expected to end at midnight. I decided to boil up a pot of old-fashioned chicken soup for him. With slices of ginger and bits of peppercorn. The second pot this week.

NOPE, I don't consider boiling up a pot of soup as 'cooking'. It's the simplest thing. Only when I could be bothered to move my lazy ass to the supermarket at 8.30pm to buy ingredients. I was in luck. The supermarket had fresh-enough spring chickens. Grabbed one. Had to clean it. UGH. Pulled on gloves. Cut those stupid nails and bits on the feet, chopped off the head and butt, removed most skin, and all that. DOUBLE UGH. I dislike handling raw meat, and of them all, chicken. THAT REALLY STANK. I will taste the soup, but I won't drink it, because, chicken.

I'm not making broth or stock. It's kinda like....medicine for sniffles, I suppose. My version won't be tasteless. But it's certainly not gourmet. This is just plain hearty old-fashioned pure chicken soup Asian-style. Not Jewish penicillin and no matzo balls. Not quite Japanese chicken soup (鶏がらスープ) either. There's no need to brown anything in the pan. I certainly wasn't going to have oil splatter the kitchen this late at night. All that was needed was to blanch the chicken before it went into the pot. Turned the fire up high, then lowered it to a steady simmer and for the next three hours. Then I waited, for eight bowls of water to boil down into two, thereabouts. Not double-boiling. Just thick thick chicken juice. Went into kitchen every 30 minutes to stare at the fire and uhh listen to the bubbling, gave contents in the pot a stir, and lifted out excess oil.

It was nice to see the man's face light up at supper, slurp the steaming hot bowl, and hear him declare it "good". Still, that warm fuzzy feeling that lasts for about 10 minutes isn't nice enough to convince me to cook regularly. LOL. However, this being the man's birthday month, I will indulge him, and like I said, utilize the kitchen a little more this year. #impieCooks2015

An Easy Mosaic Print in Blue and Grey and Tulle

This dress is a precious gift. I've worn it all of thrice so far. Cut out from a pleasing subtle easy mosaic print of blue and grey in 100% cotton, this dress falls into my usual color spectrum. I was very worried about that grey-blue tulle. I rarely touch tulle outside of the dance studio because it's really unflattering for my figure. Knowing how clumsy I am, there's a chance it could be shredded at each wearing.

Handmade with love by three beautiful people with such big hearts and talent, I was overwhelmed with this special gift. I never dared to ask Y to make me a dress because she makes clothes only in tiny-people-sizes. No words could describe how touched I was to receive the dress. It isn't made in big-people-sizes. They made one. Just this. THE ONLY ONE. The dear girlfriend has designed many dresses for little girls and shirts for little boys, and till today, didn't even make any for herself. Felt bad that she used up so much fabric for mine. She's completely out of this fabric now and doesn't plan to do repeats. Oops. Three little ones could have gotten extra dresses or shirts out of mine...

It's uncanny how Y and her mother-in-law (who sews so nimbly) got my sizes down pat, and they knew how the dress would sit on an adult. They even lengthened the top and lowered the waistline of the dress to fall at the hips because I don't like A-line bottoms. It's awesome. Her little girl was there when she gave me the dress. It tickles Lil'Missy to know that we share some beautiful hand-sewn pieces of clothing.

You could accessorize with anything. Since a pearl button is affixed to close the scallop collar at the back, I followed suit and recently wore pearls with it. A pair of lapis-lazuli and cultivated freshwater pearl earrings, and a classic cut of natural pearl and diamonds on the finger. I like wearing this dress best with Mary Janes from Doc Martens. This dress makes me want to run and jump and twirl. Round and round and round; grinning and giggling. As it should be. Thank you, you, you, you and you (can't miss out the dog).

Dashi Master Marusaya :: だし処丸佐屋

Katsuoboshi (かつお節) supplier Eiji Futagami quietly opened izakaya Dashi Master Marusaya (だし処丸佐屋), focusing on showcasing dashi and how it naturally enhances the flavors of various casual dishes in Japanese dining. Aged bonito flakes are additionally offered with our orders.

Their food has remained surprisingly good since they opened about three months ago. Thank goodness. Their previous incarnation at Lau Pat Sat wasn't the best. This version is so much better. It's located at the stretch directly across from the back of Riverview Hotel and Grand Copthorne Waterfront Hotel, few doors down from Kith Cafe, Toby's Estate Coffee, and next to Merry Men.

The service is friendly, earnest but patchy. There's this server whom I can't quite figure out if she's drunk, tired or absent-minded. When taking orders without the tablet, she promptly forgets half of what we said. Unsurprising. Even when taking orders with the tablet, and she returns to confirm what had been said, she manages to still forget half, as in, not keyed-in at all. DOHH. Most strange. I wasn't in a combative mood on those visits, neither were the friends. We simply harassed the other servers to double-check on the items we really wanted.

The friends and I have ended up at Dashi Master Marusaya regularly for meals, not just at lunch, but also in the nights because their last order is at 11pm. That's a great timing. This is a casual izakaya that I always keep in mind. It's quite a gem in Singapore. I'm extremely fussy about Japanese food and there're many crap restaurants out there. I'm particular about dashi too. The grandparents taught me how to discern the quality of dashi from its base ingredients of aged bonito flakes and dried kelp. It's a balance of the sea, something light but not bland. When I do cook, dashi features largely in many dishes.

The friends simply love the restaurant's salmon sashimi. Oddly okay. The slices we had were fresh and cut close to the belly. There're many other 'Japanese' restaurants that serve chirashi bowls that I would never eat. I've learnt to order cooked/hot food at these restaurants that aren't my usual. Their raw fish is never up to my expectations. Importantly, this restaurant does good bowls of udon in about six variations hot and cold. YAYYY. I love udon. There's ramen too, if you prefer their lighter version in dashi instead of that thick oily chicken or pork broth at the ramen shops. They serve a superb version of a Satsuma-Kagoshima fried fishcake (薩摩揚げ) that is delicious, along with grated ginger. I dislike the fake fishcakes (kamaboko, 蒲鉾), say, narutomaki (なると巻き). There're enough items on the menu that makes it always a satisfying meal. Stay this way please!

薩摩揚げ。非常においしい。

Bête

Went to the library and borrowed Adam Roberts' 'Bête'. What a fantastic read. Cleverly woven themes, good narrative style, great story and cool ending. (Reviews here, here and here.) 

Love the title. 'Bête'. It means 'beast'. Set in UK where computer chips embedded in animals gifted them the ability of speech and thought, and plenty of references to a period when "the NHS was actually free" and a Starbucks coffee cost €11, yup, euros. Humans no longer hunt and butcher animals for food, but grant them rights under the 12 points of the Great Animal Charter. Humans generally eat Vitameat. Only rockstars and millionaires could afford real beef. This book has less to do with the issue of vegetarianism and farming than to do with political and socio-economic concepts. If you feel like arguing with the book right from the start, hold it in and finish it. The ending is quite awesome.

The story is led by protagonist Graham Penhaligon, a hardliner farmer and butcher-turned-drifter and who in an ironic twist of fate, hit eventual 'enlightenment'. He wrestled long and hard, along with the readers if these animals hold a consciousness and awareness, called bête, or are they simply controlled via the great big intarwebs by computers. The book is split into three parts and I wondered why they were titled, Part I 'Two legs in the morning', then Part II 'Three legs in the afternoon', and the final Part III 'Four legs in the evening'. When I got to the final part, I understood why it became two legs to three to four legs. Also wondered when a quote or reference to H.G. Wells would appear. Well, right here, as a preface to Part III-

'The study of Nature makes man at last as remorseless as Nature'.
The Island of Doctor Moreau.

Graham Penhaligon raised cows and butchered them, and eventually was hauled to court for the 'murder' of a "canny cow" but charges couldn't be pressed because the head which held the chip was lost and unretrievable. The story is of his personal journey and beliefs, interspaced with meeting various characters and the second love of his life, her cat called Cincinatus, the shutdown of the internet and wifi, arrival of a fictional plague sclerotic charagmitis, the war between bêtes and humans which would lead to the meeting of the consciousness of this very cow he had 'murdered' who in the form of a Lamb now, would avenge itself by duping him to carry a virus to the human military leaders in the name of 'negotiation'. The first five pages of this book would already draw you into its world. I'm keeping the ending a secret. Read it to find out. Totally worth your time. Here, I extract Chapter One 'Turing-testing the cow',

As I raised the bolt-gun to its head the cow said: 'Won't you at least Turing-test me, Graham?' 

'Don't call me Graham,' I told it. 'My wife calls me Graham. My mum calls me Graham. Nobody else.' 

'Oh, Mister Penhaligon,' the cow said, sarcastically. We'll have to assume, for the moment, that cows are capable of sarcasm. 'It won't much delay you. And if I fail, then surely, surely, go ahead: bye-bye-bos-taurus. But!' 

'You're not helping your case,' I said, 'by enunciating so clearly. You don't sound like a cow.' 

'Moo,' said the cow, arching one hairless eyebrow. 

'Human speech evolved in the mouths of humans.' I told the beast. 'Cow-mouths have a completely different architecture. You shouldn't be able to get your lips and tongue around phonemes like Graham and Turing.' But I lowered the bolt-gun. Idiotic, of course, but it was unnerving all the same. When my daughter Jen was younger she had a doll called Snuggle Snore-Gal. Oh, she loved that plastic artifact from its nylon hairdo to its sealed-together pink toes. She talked to it, and the doll talked back to her. She clutched it to her every night as she slept. Then the doll somehow got dropped in bucket of Rodenticide. There was no way I could be sure Jen wouldn't secretly sneak the toy from whichever dump bin I threw it in and cuddle herself to toxic shock - she was stubborn, like that, my lovely Jen - so I decided to burn it. It was a ten-inch-high toy doll but it begged for its life with an ingenuous piteousness that wrenched my heart. A ten-cent chip made in India, stuffed in the kind of plastic doll they give away free when you buy ten euros of fuel, and I felt like a Nazi commandant. 

A cow is not a doll. A cow is larger than a doll.

北京人民艺术剧院呈献老舍的《茶馆》

Watched the three-hour production by Beijing People's Art Theatre (北京人民艺术剧院)- 'Teahouse' by Lao She (老舍《茶馆》). The author's actual name is Shu Qingchun (原名舒庆春), born 3 February 1899. Written in 1957 when he was 58 years old, the three-act play spans five decades, revolving around the fortunes and eventual downfall of a popular Beijing teahouse named Yu Tai (北京的裕泰茶馆).

Had to study 'Teahouse' as requisite text at A'Levels for Higher Chinese and also General Paper in Chinese. o.O Don't even ask why I opted for that, in addition to what-used-to-be-called-S'Papers. Definitely enjoyed 'Teahouse' a thousand times more than ploughing through Cao Xueqin, Gao Er and Cheng Weiyuan's 'The Dream of the Red Chamber' (《红楼梦》， 前八十回由曹雪芹著，后四十回的作者为高鹗和程伟元). Apparently the 'Teahouse' was staged in Singapore in 1986. Like...30 years ago; okaay, that is of no relevance to me. It is the now that I care about. Even though I could regurgitate about industrialization versus revolutions, irony and all those during exams, I probably didn't truly understand what they meant. Especially that last scene where the living flung paper money and sang a funeral song. Today, I do. 所谓 “葬送三个时代”。Dug out my old text and re-read it before attending the play.

Yu Tai Teahouse is owned by proprietor Wang Lifa (茶馆老板王利发), who only wished to retain and expand his father's business legacy, but in the end, failed to do so because it fell victim to the circumstances of the era, blown to pieces by the winds of economic and political change. It's a not-so-subtle commentary on Beijing/then-Peking society after the fall of the Qing dynasty in 1911 till just before the Cultural Revolution.

有人问道为什么写《茶馆》，老舍回答道: “茶馆是三教九流会面之处，可以容纳各色人物。一个大茶馆就是一个小社会。这出戏虽只三幕，可是写了五十来年的变迁。” 

The acting was superb. The three hours flew by. The actors brought the characters to life, raised all pertinent themes and linked personal fortunes to the rise and fall of political systems. A teahouse is where most people gather in China back then. Dunno about now. But it would be very different in the bigger cities of Beijing and Shanghai. A teahouse sees so many characters; it's a microcosm of society and familiar stories of individuals persecuted. Well, feel free to liken a teahouse to our local kopitiams and its customers and how everything under the sun is discussed, from property prices, to social policies, CPF monies, Ministers, children and the prices of food and drinks, and uhhh how many times the trains break down, et cetera.

As we walked out of the theatre, I wonder, if Singapore would stage a play like that. Or even get a script going. You know, with this SG50 thing and all, to have a play written for the 50 years since independence in 1965. Bus riots, racial riots, Communists, those stuff. Or even before that, those tumultuous pre-war/post-war years. Not two musicals about one man's life against the backdrop of economic and historical milestones and contemporary achievements. I don't want a report card that has been relentlessly repeated and drilled like a manifesto. But I guess an honest script in a supposedly multi-racial society would be deemed too inflammatory, especially when the society is really more conservative than progressive. Not going to happen.

Flap Steak at Morsels

It's been a while since we last had a meal at Morsels. Two years on, since the restaurant opened, and my favorite dish of all is still their grilled octopus on squid ink risotto, garnished with salted egg yolk sauce. Happy to see it still on the menu. I was tickled that my beer came with its bottle-cap tight. Now, I don't know if it's one of those twist-caps, but I'm not going to risk tearing nails or fingers by twisting off any bottle cap. Luckily, since we're such alcoholics, the man had a tool on his keychain that doubles up as a bottle opener. Heh.

Beef is possibly my favorite meat, next to reindeer. Undecided about duck. I'm one of those who don't appreciate wagyu, and in fact hate it, along with striploin. Hate that marbling and melt. Like how I'm not a fan of otoro or chutoro. If I'm using my meat quota, I'd rather ribeye, flank, rump and flap. I refuse to call it 'bavette' because it doesn't mean the same in US and Europe. Flap is flap.

Morsels offered bavette on the menu that evening. Okay. FLAP. We love sitting at the bar at the restaurant. Watching food being cooked is really interesting, to us. The best part of the meal is to watch the meat being prepped and grilled and we knew it would turn out good simply by watching. Hehehe. The flap steak came sliced and beautifully grilled medium rare.

Keep going at this, guys. You churn out fabulous food. Each meal is so good. We love it that you're feeding us well.

The gorgeous flap steak.

上元節 :: 吃一碗回憶 :: 臘腸飯

The plate is designed by Sean Tiang, titled 'Jia' (家).
From Supermama.

My paternal grandparents kept a mainly vegetarian diet. But every lunar new year, a festival that caused them much grief and of which they were always quite torn about celebrating, they didn't mind marking the festivities with a bit of meat. They always cook up a pot of laap mei fan (臘味飯). That salty but strangely tasty dish of claypot rice with preserved Chinese sausages (lupcheong, 臘腸), waxed duck, bokchoi and dried mushrooms.

I was really close to this set of grandparents. In honor of their memory, every year, I would randomly buy a tiny yellow gold piece-something to chuck it into storage, and cook a tiny pot of preserved meat rice. It doesn't take much skill to cook it, honestly. You just need good ingredients and get the steaming time right. Use those superb naturally fermented sweet dark soy sauce. But no, I don't fancy bak kwa, chorizo, ham or sausages. #impieCooks2015 

I wasn't interested in making laap mei fan. Nobody at home eats that. All the preserved meats sliced up to do one bowl of which wouldn't even be finished. Less than a cup of rice was used. So I simply got two sticks. A regular lupcheong and a duck liver yuencheong (膶肠). The girlfriend rolled her eyes when she knew I only wanted two sticks. She keeps a stash of lupcheong and waxed duck and preserved meats bought from regular trips to Hong Kong, say from Man Lee Long (萬利隆) and Wo Hing (和興). She wanted to give me the whole pack. Too much lah. As it is, I have to sneak around to cook it because the kitchen at home doesn't permit pork. Usually the bff would cook this for me. Hehehehe. But she isn't in town these few weeks. Pfffft.

Instead of laap mei fan, I did lupcheong rice. With bits of cabbage and raw shallots. Hahahaha. It would do. Stirred it in a pot on the stove. You don't need the electric rice-cooker to do such a tiny bowl of rice. There's no nutritional value in this meal. But it was absolutely satisfying. All those familiar yet new flavors. It was purely a bowl of lovely memories, significant only to me.

华艺 :: 和妈妈中国漫游

The only reason I jumped and bought tickets to the The Nonsensemakers' production 'Travel with Mum' (和媽媽中國漫遊) was because it was performed in Cantonese (with Chinese and English surtitles) and for the actors' masks. I didn't watch it for the emotional parts of the show which were heavily themed around filial piety and family ties.

Adapted from a true story, the play tells of a 74-year-old man who built a tricycle to take his 99-year-old mother across China to try to reach their eventual destination Tibet. He wants to fulfill her wish of seeing the world while she still can. He takes her through rural villages and cities on this 900-day journey across 30,000 km only to kinda not reach their destination, but instead reaching Hainan. It's a vacation and a whole host of new experiences for the mother who has toiled all her life for the family and never left their rural hometown.

Left the play feeling peeved because of its self-righteous tone. It was enjoyable only because of the excellent acting. The actors wore masks, so the audience couldn't see the facial expressions. But the body language, hand gestures and voices transmitted the necessary messages. The idea of filial piety negates all other matters. It's the be-all and end-all. Yeah, it's a true story and all that. Still. The script plays to stereotypes, social norms and expectations. I'm probably taking this too seriously. *shrug

Have you ever read this Chinese children's classic and its stories, especially that one about burying the son to save the mother? 《二十四孝》(or also known as《全相二十四孝诗选》) 之《為母埋兒》or《埋兒奉母》I've no idea what it's called in English- maybe 'Twenty-Four Filial Piety Exemplars' or 'Twenty-Four Paragons of Filial Piety'. Whatever. The stories are creepier than tales of horror and the supernatural. Even if they're satirical or leaning towards metaphorical, it's really not funny. Sure, there's always this female figure(s) in our lives whom we love and respect. But it doesn't necessarily have to be our mothers, biological or adopted. That's the message the play didn't send.

PS: On a separate note, AIYOH. This mix of traditional and simplified Chinese script is annoying! I can read both fine. But it's annoying when the production company hails from Hong Kong or Taiwan, and uses traditional script. Everything is transposed to simplified script in Singapore. A tiny reflection of cultural differences. Yup, 'one country two systems'. And not forgetting the diaspora. Of an ethnicity that's Han Chinese, and that's where it ends.