藝 Yì by Jereme Leung

Celebrated the man's mom's birthday at the newly opened 藝 Yì by Jereme Leung at the refurbished Raffles Hotel. The menu looked refreshing and we tried to order slightly different things from the parentals' usual choices and limited palates. The menu offers more than your usual Cantonese fare. Food was pretty decent, and flavors were well presented.

We ordered a little bit of dim sum, and had more mains with rice. The spicy twice cooked goose (回锅辣酥鹅) in casserole was quite delicious. Goose isn't often seen on the menu in restaurants here, so I really didn't mind a bit of poultry. The beef cheek, tendon, oxtail in sorghum grains and wine (高粱酱焖烧牛魔王) was beautifully balanced and superbly tasty. I was curious and ordered the S$26 steamed pork patty with 5-year vintage turnip 'lao cai pu' (五年陈老菜脯蒸肉饼). Yah I know, S$26 riiiight!!?! It was good, and it was as good as I'd have made it myself at home. HAHAHAH.

I skipped the fish because the only choice was a pomfret or a cod, both of which I didn't fancy that day. Nobody liked cod and nobody else wanted pomfret. Importantly, the option for pomfret is only a Taizhou-farmstyle braised milky thing, which didn't appeal. I prefer fish steamed. The nai bai stir-fried with garlic was not nice. It was also overcooked. I rarely order vegetables at restaurants because they always spoil it, even when I requested for the vegetables to be lightly cooked and to remain on the hard side. Ah well. 

The kitchen really made good on that promise of serving steamed white rice at the table, straight out of the cooker on the trolley. That's cool, but to be honest, that effort is lost on me. I don't particularly care about steaming hot jasmine rice in a bowl. :P And my request for iced water wasn't met. I asked for "冰水". Wasn't that a little obvious? More than "冷水", at any rate. The glass of water came at room temperature. Zzzz. I have a special dislike for tepid water. Next time I would be very specific and request for ice-cubes to be placed inside the glass of water.

da:ns 2019 :: 'Grand Finale'

I was determined to make time to watch Hofesh Shechter Company's 'Grand Finale'. I cleared the calendar for it and declined an unwelcomed dinner that was scheduled at the last minute. I would never miss a performance this good, and what more a dance piece that feeds my soul. It first premiered in Paris in 2017, and I was thrilled to have the chance to front row seats to this performance at Esplanade's da:ns festival 2019.

Choreographed by Hofesh Shechter (only my favorite contemporary choreographer ever), even the music is scored by him, aided by musician and score transcriber Chris Allan. I love contemporary dance pieces that are accompanied by a live band. Hofesh Shechter's pieces aren't always set to a live band, it has been a loooong while since 'Political Mother'. It isn't a rock band this round. It's a five-piece with a violin and a cello.

In the program note written by writer and editor Sarah Crompton (and author of 'Sadler's Wells—Dance House' published in 2013), she noted,

Shechter also wanted to explore the way in which society itself is responding to crisis. "Everybody's an observer these days," he says. "None of us feel personally responsible, even though all of us are equally responsible. It's a funny place we're in." 

The title of this piece, with its references to the flourishes of classical ballet, underlines its mix of deep seriousness and playfulness. "I like that it's clashing with what is essentially quite a dark work," he says. "It's a title I've wanted to use for a few years and I thought I had better use it while I was still young. To me, it's very funny."

Again, as expected of many Hofesh Shechter dance performances, this dance blew me away. As usual, the dancers are excellent, and the movements carry the signature strength and pure fire of the dance company. The choreography is exactly what I expected of the ticket and the name. Well, I'm biased. Heh. I left the theatre joyful and pensive at the same time. Do we sink or do we live? Are we powerless in this world or are we wielding power over how the future generations will live? Over two acts with a 20-minute intermission, ten dancers and five musicians created an apocalyptic world, control amongst chaos. This genre of dance calls out to me, and Hofesh Shechter is one of the finest visionaries who could put together raw energy, classical lines and politics into one dance piece.

"Many times, people want to know what I meant in a particular dance piece," says Hofesh Shechter, thoughtfully. "And I think it doesn't really matter. What matters is what happens on stage, then if something happens to the audience when they watch it. Or not."

The New Menu at Folklore

We know that Folklore is no longer helmed by Damian D'Silva (he's set up Kin at Straits Clan which opens end October and will have some tables available to the public), but we still gathered there for a farewell dinner for K and M who're moving to another city a little way up north.

Folklore's menu has changed slightly, and I think it's for the better. We didn't have many things to nitpick about the food. The wing bean salad has lowered its spice levels without compromising anything else. The flavors were still rich. The babi pongteh and beef cheek rendang were delicious. In fact, we enjoyed the itek tim so much that we ordered two portions- sufficient to feed all of us each 1.5 bowls of soup.

It's tough for a chef with ideals to acquiesce being a heritage restaurant in a hotel lobby, especially not when it's a shared space for hotel-style daily buffet breakfasts, and acts as a coffee lounge and meeting space for guests. The food will not go down well if the menu doesn't offer safe international favorites. That chilli and spice level in many dishes will just kill a lot of tastebuds.

As much as I love Damian D'Silva's food, I'm very open to other iterations by competent chefs. He has got his visions and ideas, but I can never agree with his sambal belachan. LOL His version is too dry. And his food leans way-too-spicy, even for me. My tolerance chilli and pepper is high. But I'm not interested in a singular flavor or first hit. I want layers in my food that the spices don't kill. It's a fine balance between spicy-enough and too spicy. To me, fiery spices are not always necessary to be sprinkled too liberally; it doesn't emphasize on the flavors of a dish. Sometimes, less is more. If someone else trained and enthusiastic can whip up decent hati babi bungkus (fried liver balls), I'm all game to eat it.

When Did You Last Step Into A Bookstore?

Howard Fishman's comment published in The New Yorker on October 24, 2019 flagged a most interesting idea, 'Should We Pay to Enter Bookstores?' Bookstores have long struggled with serving a purpose, balancing the books (pun not intended) and their bottom lines. Nominal entry fees might just offset utility bills and keep a small bookstore afloat.

This isn't a new idea, although it's something that hasn't been implemented much, or at least it isn't compulsory. Many comic shops institute a 'reading charge', which means you could stay for the hour or two, and read all the comics you want without buying them, because we know, comics all come in a series and poor students can't afford that. Mainstream bookstores haven't fully done that yet. They do have plenty of options for book clubs or book subscriptions, the sorts.

While browsing a table of new books at the Strand and spotting one that I wanted to buy, I experienced a common, modern-day itch: Do I purchase the book there and then from the Strand without pause, thus supporting bookstores, publishers, authors, and everything that I believe in? Or do I drive myself crazy by pulling out my phone and checking how much money I would save were I to buy the book online?

It struck me that I haven't visited a bookstore in the longest time. I buy books online nowadays and borrow hard copies from friends. I love second-hand bookstores and happily contributed loads of money there because I get those books faster than from the library. Even those, have sadly gone out of business. When Kinokuniya closed its Liang Court store, that really killed my interest in bookstores. I didn't want to traipse to Ngee Ann City just to browse at its Orchard store. To me, that's a rather inconvenient location that gives me angst each time I navigate through the crowds. There's something magical about having the leisure to browse and pick out titles to buy. I enjoy that. But often, I simply don't have the time to do so.

There're local independent bookstores around to purchase items from. But if a hard copy is desired, I tend to buy it from their online portals. I don't bother shipping in books from overseas unless they're titles I can't find here.  Also, some independent bookstores really jack up the prices of regional and international books. While I don't mind paying a little more, I don't really want to do it for every book. I don't have a moral high ground on this one.

If the entry fee is kept at a nominal rate, I wouldn't mind paying at all. I would pay to browse. Hahahha. I read really fast. Flipping through the books would tell me if I want them on my bookshelf. I don't want to buy a book for the sake of buying a book. And if I leave the store empty-handed, then I won't feel so bad about not buying anything.

Bellamy was adamant that he does not want to rely on gimmicky revenue streams like coffee, tote bags, and notepads in order to stay afloat (“Anything but books,” he said, sardonically)—and certainly not an entrance fee. “I want to do it the traditional way,” he told me. “If the greatest city in the world can’t support me, I’m gonna close my doors and head up a country road,” he declared. Sarah McNally, the owner of the McNally Jackson chain, feels the same way. “Bookstores are havens,” she said. “They’re one of the few public spaces left. It’s my responsibility as a bookstore owner to figure out how to stay competitive. Charging admission?” she asked, incredulously. “What about children? What about teen-agers? Absolutely not,” she said. “I’d rather close.” 

..................... 

So, pay to walk in to the Strand, or McNally Jackson, or Spoonbill? I would, certainly, and I have a hunch that others would, too, especially if all bookstores (or even all physical stores) instituted the same policy. It may not serve to topple Goliath, but it may at least hold him at bay until we can figure out a better slingshot.

Summer Hill Bistro

If not for Summer Hill’s outdoor area that’s pet-friendly, I wouldn’t have made the trek to Sunset Way. When I got to the bistro, I laughed, it’s right next to Springleaf Prata! For as long as I’ve been stopping by for prata and such, I’ve never noticed its next door neighbor. Now I know.

It was a cool night. Lovely to sit outdoors and enjoy the breeze, and the crisp air after the rains. The bistro took effort to spruce up its alfresco area. Being seated next to a wall of plants next to us made it very soothing. There were only three other tables tonight, so we weren't too worried about the dog getting in the way. She was contented to just lie down and snooze.

The bistro was out of curried mussels and a few other items that we wanted. Oh well. We'd just have to return to try its other dishes. The two or three-course set menu is ideal because of its smaller portions. Otherwise the quarter of roast chicken in the set would become an a la carte S$32 full roast chicken.

The man wanted a veal chop, but it sounded really heavy. He eventually chose a a starter of roasted baby eggplants with hummus, chickpeas and currants, and a super filling black cod burger of pilsner beer batter and housemade milk bun, lemon and herb slaw, and pickle and caper tartare sauce. That was delicious. However, the side of duck fat fries were oddly not fantastic.

I took the three-course meal which included a starter, a main and a dessert. The cream of pumpkin soup with walnut oil and fried herbs was beautifully done. Nothing inventive and very comforting. This bistro is known for its roast chicken. Since it was hormone-free and brined, I figured it couldn’t stink that bad. Opted for the thigh and drumstick. It was pretty all right. Glad the gravy was separated because I wasn't hot about that. Loved the bed of mash and the charred brussels sprouts. I had to have dessert- a citrus rosemary and olive cake. It came with a bowl of chantilly cream. I ditched that. The cake was good enough!

BurgerLabo

When the friends raved about BurgerLabo at Gilman Barracks, we had to slowly make our way there to have a taste. This is Nekkid's new incarnation, another food baby from Ken Loon (of The Naked Finn). The tiny bistro was crowded when we went. Well, there were just three of us, and nobody picked up that phone for us to make any reservations. But we got a table outdoors at 8pm. They thoughtfully provided mosquito coils. They were effective. Whewww. I've had enough of being bitten by mozzies these two weeks.

We all opted for the Basic Burger (S$23) — a 170g patty made from a blend of grass-fed Black Angus beef neck and Toriyama Umami wagyu A4 tenderloin and brisket. The others requested for a side of an egg (S$3) with the burger. I skipped that. Too filling for me. I added pickled and caramelized onions (S$2). The Basic Burger comes with a standard two slices of American cheese, grilled tomato, lettuce; and house-made bone marrow 'butter' made it superbly delicious.

Cutlery, wipes and serviettes offered. None of that bullshit that burgers don't require cutlery. (I'm glad that the stupid joint closed down.) The menu offered truffle fries or truffle fries with cheese. We asked for NORMAL FRIES (S$3 per serving). None of us liked truffle oil or anything like that in our food. If I want truffles, it's gotta be shaved truffles and only that.

I'm glad to see a vegetarian option on the menu. They called it Almost Burger. I want to eat it at the next visit. It's a mix of Impossible™beef and OmniPork with fried and fresh onions, pickled gherkins and house-made Danish remoulade. Sounds decent! If fries aren't your thing, there're additional sides of pumpkin mash, grilled cauliflower or tomato, and cauliflower soup to choose from too.

For people who don't take beef or superbly processed fake meat, you could do chicken or pork. Or a lobster roll. The Chicken Burger (S$20) is conceptualized by Julien Royer (of Odette). It's a 160g GG French poulet boneless leg marinated in yoghurt and spices, topped with egg and Frenchie salsa. The pork burger uses pork from Salmon Creek Farms (Twin Falls, Idaho) in the form of a Buta roll. The Buta Roll (S$20) is filled with grilled pork belly and collar, and baked bacon, pickled daikon, yama-wasabi, dunno-what tare and grated Parmesan cheese. For S$38, the Connecticut-style Lobster Roll (same as Naked Finn's) using 90g of grilled American lobster comes with shoestring fries and mesclun. Hahaha. There's a lobster bisque (S$22) too.

To my surprise, I didn't mind the Basic Burger. Of course I never love any burger enough to want to have it every week. (Nope, no 🌭🍔🍕. These are sad foods which I avoid.) I have no idea how people judge their burgers. There're all sorts of requisites and whatnot. Here's a sampling of my tastebuds if you want to benchmark my comments about burgers. Hahaha. I don't take to Shake Shack or In-N-Out. I'm not keen on Fatboy's, Wolf or Omakase, I don't mind Two Blur Guys, 25 Degrees and Burger Joint. Dunno what my choices mean, but it's an indication of whether your tastebuds are similar to mine. This is important if you want to give BurgerLabo a go, especially when it's at Gilman Barracks- if you take a risk without reservations or a car, you'll be rather miffed by the lack of food choices in the area.

La Strada's Spaghetti alla Carbonara

J and I thought that it was time for us to ingest carbs by way of pasta for lunch. When neither of us gotta rush off for afternoon meetings, we could afford a leisurely meal, and we won't be done in by the Z-monster. To La Strada we went for lunch.

The restaurant's S$42++ set lunches are always decent, and I seem to only be able to make it for lunches here anyway. I usually opt for the three-course set lunch — a starter, a main and dessert + coffee. There're plenty items on the menu to choose from, depending on how hungry I am. Bread isn't complimentary at lunch though. I don't remember if they ever offered complimentary bread; I've never bothered with it since bread occupies the space needed for pasta.

Today, a starter of pomodoro was perfect for the crazy hot day. We knew we would be too stuffed for any solid dessert. A hot coffee and a scoop of strawberry sorbet were ideal to round up the meal.  I had to have the spaghetti alla carbonara. Had a craving for it. It was sooooo satisfying. Done right with just a wee bit of butter, slow-cooked egg, parmigiano and ham crumble, it was a lot of happiness on a plate.

It Never Gets Easier; You Only Get Fitter

Finally bought a new pair of training shoes after two years of sweating it out at the gym. Of all the shoes tried, Reeboks work best for me at cardio and weights classes. Another pair of Reeboks it is now. (I run in Vibram FiveFingers.) Retired the old pair from gym use and re-purposed it for 'dog-walking'. Hahaha.

For a few weeks now, I’ve been doing the latest release for LES MILLS GRIT™Strength. Friends who did the release first were stunned, and advised me to lower the weight for my first taste of it. I wisely listened to their advice. I dropped weights for the first time. I was gobsmacked by the many reps in GRIT™Strength 30. Towards the end, there was one segment which called for [25reps X 4 sets] X 4 rounds. WHAT THE. That be 400 jumps and lifts. It wasn't even the whole workout. OMG. Had to ease out the sore muscles at gyrotonic class for the next two days.

Once the mind and body grasped how much energy is needed for this release in a 30-minute class, it didn't feel so exhausting. This week, I've plonked back my usual 7.5kg-a-side. Sure, instead of 18 reps row+clean+press with the bar, I could only do 10 reps. That is okay. I keep the form and I don't over-strain any joints or tendons.

It has been two years since I first stepped into a LES MILLS GRIT™Strength class. No regrets. For someone who isn't into traditional weights training, kettlebells or powerlifting, this exercise program that has combined both weights and cardio works very well for me. I could choose to pile on the weights or scale them back depending on how I feel each week. However, I still reiterate, the goal is to gain strength and muscles while remaining injury-free. That credit, completely goes to gyrotonic and pilates. Without those movements to strengthen the core and ease tight joints, I wouldn't be able to remain relatively limber at standard strength-training and cardio classes at the gym.

Trattoria Pizzeria Logic at Craig Place

Quite fun to have a branch of Trattoria Pizzeria Logic open up in Singapore. They hauled in a custom-built wooden kiln to churn out pizza using classic Naples-style pizza dough. I'm no fan of pizzas, and still don't particularly like it even if the crust and base are super thin. Obviously I'm no expert on them either. Hahaha.

We bravely turned up just a few days after it opened. The restaurant is spacious. It has a bar area with high stools, and an inner dining area with regular tables and chairs. Took a starter of boiled beef tongue with tomato sauce and salsa verde with anchovies, boiled potatoes and carrots. Not too bad at all. Obviously they brined the tongue, and I suppose it was meant to resemble bollito misty, but in this tiny starter portion, and using only beef tongue. Not the best rendition. This dish could do with a little more work in balancing the flavors.

The margherita was on a promotion that evening, priced at $9.90 instead of the usual S$26! It was a no brainer to get that. One slice sufficed for me. The man could easily polish off the rest. A good margherita is hard to come by too, and this pizzeria did a tasty version.

For the pasta, we opted for paccheri with Neopolitan meat sauce. The meatballs were good! When done well, the classic tomato sauce with pork pasta is comforting, unexciting and superbly satisfying. I saw the pasta carbonara. Cannot make it- it's kinda dry, but the fresh cream is a fail. We made it to dessert- a very unexciting tiramisu. Not the best, but okay. The menu has a wide-enough range for a table's different preferences and the food's decent enough for us to hop by if we want a simple pizza and a cold beer.

'Delayed Rays Of A Star'

Since Amanda Lee Koe's short story collection of 'Ministry of Moral Panic' (2013), I have been waiting to read her debut novel, 'Delayed Rays Of A Star' (2019). I'm more curious about it than excited because it's categorized as historical fiction and revolved around the lives of three then up-and-coming actresses Marlene Dietrich, Anna May Wong and Leni Riefenstahl in the 1920s and 1930s. It promised to be ambitious and I'm not sure it would deliver.

The book's first few pages held a translated quote “Either the puppet or the god.” It's taken from German writer Heinrich von Kleist's short story 'On the Marionette Theater'. The next page was a reprint of that famous photograph (taken by Alfred Eisenstaedt) of  the three women at the Berlin Press Ball in 1928. It's this photo that the stories swirl around.

In the year the photos was taken, Marlene Dietrich was about to leave Berlin for Hollywood, gave up her German citizenship to be an American, sold war bonds, sang for the Allied forces and raised funds to aid the Jewish refugees; Anna May Wong was an iconic third-generation American-Chinese Hollywood actress (stereotyped and pigeon-holed by directors and film studios. She lived during the prejudicial legislation for the Chinese ruled her life although her grandparents settled in America since 1855, including criminalizing marriage between a Chinese and a white); Leni Riefenstahl seemed rather infatuated with Hitler, supporting his policies and visions, and was apparently part of his inner circle. She met Hitler who approved of her opinions and she ended up directing a number of critically acclaimed Nazi documentaries and propaganda films.

Different chapters focus on the respective personal lives of each star, and of course the destruction and minor characters that form their world. There're countless disappointments, betrayals and triumphs. Written in third person narrative, these minor characters are pivotal to Amanda Lee Koe's storytelling brilliance in this book. Categorized into these three stories of three characters over six chapters, we hear stories from......,

'The Sole Purveyor of Madame Bovary in Beijing'

Bébé was 90-year-old Marlene Dietrich's Chinese maidservant in Paris. We learnt how she arrived in Paris, and her life now, and her first taste of macrons from Ladurée on Rue Royale because Madame Marlene desired them. Bébé holds 'refugee' status after being conned to work in Paris and then busted in an anti-vice sweep). By the end of the book, in a strange twist of fate and circumstances, she was deported back to China, via German police.

Today Madame's stool was shaped just like a petit-croissant. 

She flushed it down, the petit-croissant shape coming apart with the force of the water. Bébé was fascinated by the different breads available in Paris. Bread for her meant something very different from rice. She made an effort to remember the names of all the breads, practicing their pronunciations so she would not make a fool of herself at the bakery: baguettes, boules, croissants, fougasses.

'Walter Benjamin Is Recommended An Overnight Motel in Portbou'

Walter Benjamin, a German-Jewish writer, began a correspondence with Anna May Wong till it tapered off years later. He was being hunted by the Gestapo. With an entry visa to America but not the relevant exit out of Vichy France, they were denied entry into Francoist Spain at Portbou, and the ultimate port of departure in Lisbon. Their hopes of an escape were dashed. The Portbou police posted a sentry outside the motel he and his acquaintances stayed in so as to escort them back to Vichy France. In that motel room, he chose suicide by ingesting 15 expired tablets of morphine.

'The Malayan Orangutan Has the Key to the Basement of the Leipzig Zoo'

Hans Haas, a resting soldier rotated back to Berlin after two Wehrmacht campaigns on the North African front, worked security on Leni Riefenstahl's film set in the mountains. As part of the security dispatched, he also helped out with the lighting crew on Riefenstahl Film GmbH. Hans had plenty of musings about his mentor Schmitz, who was one of the best gaffers in Berlin. He had apprenticed with him when he was best boy at UFA the premium motion-picture production company in Berlin.

We follow his time on Leni's film set. So there's a wolf, and that's the odd bit. The wolf was meant to be used for a few scenes, and it escaped, only to be shot by a farmer. German wolves were protected, and Leni wanted a wolf for her film from Leipzig Zoo. She got one. We hear the story of animals at Leipzig Zoo. The Chairman of the zoo saved all the baboons and golden tamarind monkeys to salty in a disused basement. He locked them in, and left the key under a fruit bowl. He showed Dewi where the key was. Dewi, is the oldest orangutan matriarch from Malaya.

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This isn't an easy book to read for me. I'm neither a film buff nor am I into these actresses. I know of them, but I'm not completely interested their lives or a fictional account of them. To be less confused about Amanda Lee Koe's work of 'historical fiction', I read up about the backgrounds of these actresses, their delayed start to 'stardom', and their eventual achievements, their political leanings and their fateful choices. Much more has been written about Marlene Dietrich and Leni Riefenstahl, less so about Anna May Wong. This book takes artistic license with what we know about the actresses and that is all the fun in reading it. 

The New O'maJ

In Pasta J's new iteration as O'maJ at Novena Gardens, its menu favorites have thankfully been retained. Specials of the week or off-the-menu items rotate according what the kitchen could procure fresh or if they're happy to share their experiments that met their standards.

O'maJ still has their rules on minimum spend, which will not sit well with many potential diners. Have you seen their reservation notes on Chope? It's super long. But it doesn't matter to us. They also have rules on accepting small well-behaved dogs visiting alongside their humans, and not the big ones unless the owners are very disciplined. If pet owners can't control their dogs' spraying or acting out, then don't visit. This is not a dog cafe. I'm thrilled that the restaurant secured their pet license; I'm in full agreement and support in how they choose to enforce the license and not have that revoked or cause too much trouble to the cleaning crew.

We didn't exactly celebrate our tenth wedding anniversary. We simply went to O'maJ for the usual dinner, with Choya. Hahaha. It’s crazy how much we enjoy its food and fusion flavors. Although I still think that the soups and many dishes could do with a lot less salt. The dog has been spoilt rotten here. She tries her luck with John, but she knows she only gets a pat. She has better luck with Angie and Xena who'll always come pat with her when they have a moment, and feed her beef treats the kitchen has made.

One portion of pasta isn't that big here. Two could easily share and still have space for other items. We had a spaghetti of clams, bacon and shrimps. It was dependably salty, full of umami and gave me much happiness. It always comes with sliced chilli padi, which is much appreciated. I really only wanted the spaghetti and the sauce. Tossed the shellfish over to the man to polish off.

We asked the kitchen about their pork of the week. They came up with a special order of ribs for us — two nice-sized ribs of Iberico pork in tamarind sauce, drizzled with toasted sesame seeds and garlic. It was honestly fabulous. I thought it would be crazy fatty (that's why I don't take cuts of wagyu unless it's the rump), but the kitchen had balanced it well. It was tender, and the fatty bits weren't that bad or filled up such a big part. The man wasn't about to let go of the ribs. He used his hands to get to the best bits at the bone. Heh.

Being Married :: 10 Years

Wow. Here it is, this is the man and I's tenth year of marriage. Never mind the marriage, that term itself isn't binding. It's the relationship that we should focus on. We've quietly walked this path in life together for so long. I honestly never expected to stay in a relationship for this long. We have been in a committed relationship for 14 years! We hit that tenth year relationship mark in 2014, and we have now come to the marriage's tenth year.

The man and I have subtly changed since we got together, swopped jobs, rode through health hiccups, and solidified who we are as individuals in this life. Trundling along the passing years together provided both counsel and companionship. There is love. The nature of love has changed; mutual respect has only grown. The early years provided the groundwork to pave the way to an older love that's secure in its current state, giving us a peace of mind. As we grow older, we become less fearless. We have more to lose to mortality, yet we hold faith that we've done the best we can for ourselves, and done right by each other. Now, we just have to do right by the dog.

I had earlier written this on facebook, just for fun because it's the tenth year of marriage, and I hadn't bothered much with updating anything on that platform:

You're a soulmate. You're not my best friend. You're not my better half. We're not halves, dammit. We're individuals. You're my partner, my equal, and rather occasionally, I'll give you that- my intellectual superior. You've made 10 years of marriage feel effortless. 🖤 

It only took me 10 years to convince you that worn clothes and wet towels belong in the laundry basket and not on the floor 10cm outside of it. It only took you 10 years to realize that I make a kickass sambal matah and sambal terasi, and takikomi gohan.

We said we would not bother with any major celebrations, no matter how private. I didn't get the man any gift. He bought me flowers. Luckily he was rather clever and chose to get it from Tiong Bahru Market. I laughed when he walked through the door with a huge bouquet. It would be the first bouquet that he bought me! I honestly that it was very sweet but totally unnecessary.

Those Gorgeous 1987s

L and J called for a drinks night at their home. They wanted to open up superb bottles of reds and whites for the month of October. Oooooh. YES. The man and I thought it would be fantastic to ditch the dog to have a night out in a comfortable venue. Sure, it meant we couldn't stay out till 2am, but honestly, we hit the sack before midnight. After settling the dog and getting to the friends' at 7.30pm, we would still be able to have a lovely long evening.

When I looked at L's text about food, I was like, what else could I bring to the table?! (I'm sure everyone else reacted the same way too.) The ever consummate host had listed out an entire menu that didn't seem to require additions! She had truffle pasta, roast beef, roast pork (siew yoke), and a strawberry cheesecake. All homecooked and trotted out from her kitchen. There was even kueh pie tee made by L's MIL! What the whaaat. I don't know how she can do this and not be utterly exhausted at the end of each dinner party. I ate so much kueh pie tee. V's contribution of quinoa salad went great with the meats. OH MY. 

There was bubbly, and bottles of whites. Knowing how discerning the hosts are, the whites would be good, but I ermmmm passed them over in favor of the reds. THE REDS! The 1987 Tenuta San Guido Sassicaia and the 1987 Martinez Lacuesta Gran Reserva, Rioja DOCa were sooooo gorgeous. Ahhhhh. I literally sighed with happiness after the first sip of each bottle.

Work Projects Are Nearly A Wrap For The Year

When my last project wrapped in July, and the confirmed and signed new projects won't fully begin till next February, I thought I was done for the year, and could solely concentrate on training the dog. Heh. Then a flurry of emails resulted in a sudden (welcomed) flood of work in August that has kept me busy. These will wrap at the end of the month.

I had a bit of an issue with scheduling. These pieces of work require more than just churning out translations and pieces of analysis. I've had to turn up at meetings, briefings and facilitation sessions. It has been stressful trying to juggle work hours and caring for a dog prone to paw-chomping and separation anxiety. I was hard pressed to even squeeze out time to meet friends for leisurely meals or coffee! We had to do many meet-and-run dates. Now that the projects are winding down and the dog finally gets that she will be alone for a few hours in the day, I can breathe a little easier.

By God's grace, I've had (and will have) a steady stream of paid projects coming my way. The best thing, these paymasters are prompt (within 30 days) and aren't the type who would ask for a 'discount' or bargain for extra paperwork, etc. These projects have been challenging but very fun, satisfying a part of the academic brain that should be kept well-oiled. The nature of freelance work is unpredictable, and every year, I can never quite tell if I'll hit my ideal annual income. If I do, I count my blessings. For six years now, I've been incredibly lucky to be able to secure sustained work, and merrily grumble about having to pay income tax.

After one such morning of killing the brain cells,
it felt great to take a break for lunch, and coffee at platform..

Fed Izzy

On her way back to London, Izzy had an eight-hour transit in Singapore. Beyond checking out Jewel at Changi Airport, She wasn't interested in playing tourist; this isn't an unfamiliar city to her. She and the man used to work together years ago, poring over crazy corporate agreements. Now, she's starting her training contract and will soon qualify as a solicitor. Hurrah! She has always been really sweet each time I see her in London and Seattle. Ahhh, time flies. Thought we'd host her at home, chat a little, play some guitar, have some light bites and drinks.

Grinned when I saw the frozen pumpkin in the freezer. It was for the dog, but hey, I could use it! I ought to prep some brainless food in the fridge in case Izzy was hungry and wanted something more than chips. Pumpkin beehoon it was for carbs. Also whipped up sweet and sour pork. I made seafood shumai too; which could serve as emergency bites with udon if more food was needed. These are my standard 'instant' food for guests if I'm not sure if they need food and don't know their dietary preferences. Unfortunately, this generic menu doesn't cater to gluten and soy allergies. #ImpieCooks2019

The food was meant as light bites at tea-time (clearly I don't care about cakes and pastries for tea), and we could go out to dinner before she headed back to the airport. But it was such a lazy afternoon that 'tea' was alcohol. We inhaled too many glasses of gin topped with blackberries and decided that we didn't need to go out. The food for 'light bites' turned into portions for a 'light dinner'. Hahaha. The man was grinning because he was the unintended beneficiary of this meal. (I hadn't cooked all week for humans.) Izzy said that she had been eating lots and this was quite the ideal small volume for her stomach before she got onto the plane.

'Singapore You Are Not My Country'

Such a lengthy poem. Many words. Many ideas. So much feels. Strong emotions. This poem has reached out beyond literary circles and made its rounds in Singapore society across all levels. Alfian Sa'at's 'Singapore You Are Not My Country' that is part of his first poem anthology titled 'One Fierce Hour' published in 1998. What a bloody genius. This talented writer was only 21 years old.

I'm not the biggest fan of Alfian's writing or his opinions or points of view. I've skipped plays because he wrote them or I'm simply not interested in those storylines. However, I admire his willingness to speak and write, and stand up for what he believes in. I may not agree with him, but he is a voice of which Singapore society needs. Healthy dissent, if I may. His words are a healthy dose of skepticism and a reminder of what's reality for many people.

In this whole NUS-Yale-Alfian saga, I can't help seeing how he has been shortchanged, and he has been hung out to dry. I feel that Alfian has been unfairly criticized by a Minister who knows very well the power of soundbites and social media, and pro-establishment support. BUT I strongly feel that he has underestimated the literacy of his electorate. His words in Parliament rang annoyingly loud with wilful ignorance. The incumbent EDUCATION MINISTER. Walaoeh. I felt rather offended. I find it sooo distasteful. Suddenly, I have a whole lot less respect for his political integrity and closed mind.

There is a need to read Alfian Sa'at's 'controversial' poem in its full context. It is brilliant and glorious, with all the angst of a young adult, and yet filled with common sense. And the saddest part, I fully identify with it only in my late twenties, not in 1998 when I was twenty years old.

'Singapore You Are Not My Country'

Singapore you are not my country.
Singapore you are not a country at all.
You are surprising Singapore, statistics-starved Singapore, soulful
Singapore of tourist brochures in Japanese and hourglass kebayas.
You protest, but without picketing, without rioting, without Catherine Lim,
but through your loudspeaker media,
through the hypnotic eyeballs of your newscasters,
and that weather woman who I swear is working voodoo on my teevee screen.

Singapore, what are these lawsuits in my mailbox?
There are so many sheaves,
I should have tipped the postman.
Singapore, I assert, you are not a country at all.
Do not raise your voice against me,
I am not afraid of your anthem although the lyrics are still bleeding from 
the bark of my sapless heart.
Not because I sang them pigtailed pinnafored breakfasted chalkshoed in school
But because I used to watch telly till they ran out of shows.
Do not invite me to the podium and tell me to address you properly.
I am allergic to microphones and men in egosuits and pubicwigs.
And I am not a political martyr,
I am a patriot who has lost his country and virginity.
Do not wave a cane at me for vandalising your propaganda with technicolour harangues,
Red Nadim semen white Mahsuri menses the colourful language of my eloquent generation.
Your words are like walls on which truth is graffiti.

This has become an island of walls.
Asylum walls, factory walls, school walls, the walls of the midnight Istana.
If I am paranoid I have learnt it from you,
O my delicate orchid stalk Singapore,
Always thirsty for water, spooked by armed archipelagoes, always gasping for airspace,
always running to keep ahead, running away from yourself.
Singapore why do you wail that way, demanding my IC?
Singapore stop yelling and calling me names.
How dare you call me a chauvinist,
an opposition party,
a liar,
a traitor,
a mendicant professor,
a Marxist homosexual communist pornography banned literature chewing gum liberty smuggler? How can you say I do not believe in The Free Press autopsies flogging mudslinging bankruptcy
which are the five pillars of Justice?
And how can you call yourself a country, you terrible hallucination of highways and cranes and condominiums ten minutes drive from the MRT?

Tell that to the battered housewife who thinks happiness lies at the end of a Toto Queue.
Tell that to the tourist guide whose fillings are pewter whose feelings are iron whose courtesy is gold whose speech is silver whose handshake is a lethal yank at the jackpot machine.
Tell that to my imam who thinks we are all going to hell.
Tell that to the chao ah beng who has seven stitches a broken collarbone and three dead comrades
but who will not hesitate from thrusting his tiger ribcage into another fight 
because the lanterns of his lungs have caught their own fire 
and there is no turning back.
Tell that to the yuppie who sits in meat-markets disguised as pubs, listening to Kenny G disguised as jazz on handphone disguised as conversation and loneliness disguised as a jukebox.
Tell that to all those exiles whose names are forgotten but who leave behind a bad taste in the thoughtful mouth, reminding us that the flapping sunned linen shelters a whiff of chloroform.
Tell that to Town Council men who feed pigeons with crumbs of arsenic.
Tell that to Natra Hertogh a.k.a Maria who proved to us that blood spilled was thicker than water shed as she was caught pining under a stone angel in the nunnery for her husband.
Tell that to Ah Meng, who bore six hairy *******s for our nation.
Tell that to Lee Kuan Yew’s squint.
Tell that to Josef Ng, who shaves my infant head amidst a shower of one-cent coins, and both of us are pure again.
Tell that to my Warrant Officer who knew I was faking.
Tell that to the unemployed man who drinks cigarettes smokes tattoos watches peanuts unself-conscious of his gut belch debts and wife having an affair with the Salesman of Nervous Breakdowns.
Tell that to our Maya Angelou’s who are screeching like witches United Nations-style poems populated by Cheena Babi Bayee Tonchet Melayu Malas Keling Geragok Mat Salleh.
Tell that to the fakirs of civil obedience, whose headphones are pounding the hooving basslines of Damyata Damyata Damyata.
Tell that to the statue of Li Po at Marina Park.
Tell that to the performance artists who need licences like drivers and doctors and dogs when all they really need is just three percent of your love.
Tell that to the innocent faggot looking for kicks on a Sunday evening to end up sucking the bit-hard pistol-muzzle of the CID, ensnared no less by his weakness for pretty boys naked out of uniform.
Tell that to the caretaker of the grave of Radin Mas.
Tell that to Chee Soon Juan’s smirk.
Tell that to the pawns of The Upgrading Empire who penetrate their phalluses into heartlands to plant Lego cineplexes Tupperware playgrounds suicidal balconies carnal parks of cardboard and condoms and before we know it we are a colony once again. 
Tell that to Malaysia whose Desaru is our spittoon whose TV2 is our amusement whose Bumiputras are our threat whose outrage is our greater outrage whose turtles are weeping blind in the roaring daylight of our cameras. 
Tell that to the old poets who have seen this piece of land slip their metaphors each passing year from bumboats to debris to sanitation projects to drowning attempts to barbed neon water weeds on a river with no reflections a long way off from the sea.

O Singapore your fair shores your garlands your GNP.
You are not a country you are a construction from spare parts.
You are not a campaign you are last year’s posters.
You are not culture you are poems on the MRT.
You are not a song you are part swear word part lullaby.
You are not Paradise you are an island with pythons.

Singapore I am on trial.
These are the whites of my eyes and the reds of my wrists.
These are the deranged stars of my schizophrenia.
This is the milk latex gummy moon of my sedated smile. I have lost a country to images, it is as simple as that.
Singapore you have a name on a map but no maps to your name.
This will not do; we must stand aside and let the Lion crash through a madness of cymbals back to that dark jungle heart when eyes were still embers waiting for a crownless Prince of Palembang.  

~ Alfian Sa'at, 'One Fierce Hour' (1998)

Simply Peranakan at Hotel Chancellor

It's such so lovely to have the friends buy us dinner. They insisted on getting the bill. We thought it was to be a casual get-together (of which we split the bill) because all of us have been swamped at work and with adulting, and haven't been able to meet much except for a few chats when we run into one another at the gym. It was fantastic to be able to chat at length.

Dinner was at Simply Peranakan. This is the same restaurant that moved from Esplanade Mall to the ground floor of Hotel Chancellor. It's now sited at a rather awkward corner though. That evening, we got there just as busloads of tourists exited the restaurant. Whewww. I guess they gotta do whatever it takes to ensure continuity of the business. Rents in Singapore are crazy, so it's cool that restaurants still survive. The restaurant's food didn't blow me away when they were at the Esplanade Mall, but it didn't suck. It was somewhere I would eat at again. Although I wondered if their food standards have been compromised if they do mainly tourist business...

Food was surprisingly decent! At least the kitchen didn't sting on the spices. Ordered standard items of babi buah keluak, chap chye, and rending. It was a casual meal, and none of us were that hungry, so we didn't need to go overboard. We finished whatever we ordered. Yay! They had to have dessert. Cheng tng and chendol, and both were good.

Choya's Lunch Bag

I don't feed Choya outside when we head out to restaurants or bars. She either eats early before we go out, or she eats late when she comes home. She doesn't mind treats when we're out, but she's not keen to eat her proper meal in high-traffic and noisy places.

On nights when we visit the friends and stay for hours, if they permit, Choya comes along. It's not a matter of 'just ask'. I've to think about whether the resident dogs and Choya will get along, fur shedded that will inconvenience the friends, and there's always a chance of a pee accident. Occasionally when we do 5pm or 6pm timings at the friends', she eats dinner at their homes. Many of the homes have resident dogs. We'll separate all canines at meal times. I don't think any dog will take kindly to another curious tongue in their food bowls.

I'll have to consider logistics for Choya's dinner. Canned food and rehydrated food works, but depending on her food schedule, it might be fresh foods for the meal. So I got her a Thermos jar to put all those in. YAH LAH, IT'S HELLO KITTY. Ermmm...... I'm terribly embarrassed to admit, I also bought an on-the-go set of toddler fork and spoon. Hahaha. This is such a deep rabbit hole to tumble into. I remind myself that only the essentials are needed.

The man was like, "Please buy this cow lunch bag!" WHAT THE. I'm like, the dog already has a small haversack that I carry out on the weekends or when we go further then our usual strolls in the neighborhood. She doesn't need a lunch bag! Anyway, the cow bag was purchased. This bag is trotted out when we visit other homes. A pack of wipes and a small bowl are stuffed into it too.

Choya Turns 2!

I managed to stop the man from getting stuck to the ridiculous idea of doing a birthday party for the dog. It's not as if we live in a big house with a pool and a garden with a Weber grill, and we could simply term it as a weekend casual dinner. Don't be duhhh. I don't even want to organize birthday parties for kids. What makes you think I want to do it for a dog?!

I'm wistful that I've missed her adorable puppyhood. But I certainly don't miss any of the destructive chewing and mess that come along with puppies. At two years old, Choya is now a young adult. Her last shedding in June and July changed her fur from brown to red; these are her full adult colors. She's a true red Shiba Inu. Her epiphyseal plates should have closed, and I hope that the last four months of quality feeding would have helped with the calcium and minerals needed. We can properly work on strengthening those muscles more to help her with her patella lunation.

I understand her gut flora and her digestive systems. Rotating her proteins have ensured a lack of allergies to food. I can't control environmental allergies, but I can ease the symptoms by being vigilant with antiseptic washes. Especially for her dainty paws. I've crawled out of the dark mopey tunnel of those initial two months. I'm still not sure having a dog ups my happiness index. But yeah, I'm still a slave to the dog, albeit a lot more sanguine.

She's more attentive to our commands now. Daily reinforcement ensures that she gets all her basic commands. 'Sit, Stay, Down, Come Back, Let's go. Stop. No.' She's truly not food-motivated when it comes to training. I train her without treats. I train her by just voice and tone. She lives for our praise and attention. We didn't get her a birthday meatloaf or special edibles. Neither did we upgrade her to sleeping on a mat on our bedroom floor. We can only offer her a lifetime of love and care, good food, clean water, and a forever-home.

The Pilates Monkey Stretch on the Cadillac

Gyrotonic helps with teasing out greater hip mobility and the ribs and spinal rotation. Six months of weekly sessions have kinda awakened the weak spots and teach them to pull their weight. Weeks of practice have resulted in being able to pull in the hip joints properly without lifting the sacrum, strain in the quads/hamstrings or the lower spine overcompensating.

Going back to basics at pilates allows me to know for sure if the hips are truly less 'tight', and to check if the spinal could articulate as well it should. Gyrotonic movements are much better with coaxing gentle spinal articulation than pilates which require a little more strength. With gyrotonic, I could really isolate the spine and hips, allowing me to focus on understanding how to activate the muscles. Also, our pelvic floor muscles weaken with age; it's my interest to strength the pelvic floor as much as possible.

Did the Monkey Stretch on the Cadillac. The bar really helps in pulling the back up straight. I'm not supposed to be hanging on for dear life. The abs and hips are supposed to be supporting this weight. The hands and toes are light on the bar. I have issues with rounding the middle spine or sitting up ramrod straight (like in a Teaser). I once thought I needed longer arms to do an on-point Monkey Stretch. I guess not. A stronger core and deeper hip flexion are key. The Monkey Stretch requires a lot of lift from the lower and middle back, and also a lot of pulling in of hip joints into its sockets without tucking. I doubt I could touch my nose to the knees. 10 degrees closer at a time. I'll get there.

The FIL's Birthday Brunch at Basilico

Between Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, there was a window for a birthday brunch for the man's dad. We've gotten lazy, and since Basilico at Regent Hotel still offers one of the best buffets around on Sundays, we took the parentals there.

There were plenty of choices for the parentals at the soup, salads and bread section. Foie gras and such were on their list too, since they aren't supposed take so much of it, they literally only take that while on vacation or at this buffet. They liked the chilled seafood, and they said the crab that afternoon was good, much better than the lobster. I took their word for it; had to avoid shellfish totally for the day.

The problem with buffets- my stomach can't eat that much and I'm really not interested in eating many items. Two plates of food are more than enough for me. One starter and one main. The good thing about this buffet- The Cheese Room. Many choices of cheese and bread, and really delicious tomatoes. Piled my plate full of cheese, and a rock melon. Didn't mind one slice of ham. Went looking for more carbs. Ditched the roast beef. Took one lamb chop and a little bit of linguine with pork ragout. There was a rather nice baked sole fish that was trotted out piping hot when I walked by the counter. Took a chunk of meat too.

We didn't bother with a birthday cake this year either, since everyone's supposed to cut down on sugar. A whole cake is quite tough to finish, and it gets jelak in the attempt to finish it within a week. This buffet would have plenty of choices for little bites. I succumbed and had the prosecco. Somehow, prosecco at brunch always tastes so crisp. As dessert, two easy glasses of chianti rounded up luncheon.

「猫を棄（す）てる 父親について語るときに僕の語ること」:: 村上春樹

Thought I should just read it. It sounded...different from the author's usual style — Haruki Murakami's short essay published in The New Yorker on September 30, 'Abandoning A Cat: Memories of My Father',「猫を棄（す）てる 父親について語るときに僕の語ること」. This English essay is translated by Philip Gabriel.

The author begins the essay with a childhood memory of him and the father abandoning their cat 2km away at the beach (who cleverly returned before they did). He used that to set the pace in this story about his relationship with his father, Chiaki Murakami. He tells readers how they became estranged when he became a writer at 30 years old. They subsequently never spoke much and didn't meet for the next two decades. Apparently they never really reconciled even upon the father's death at 90 years old in 2008.

This essay was first published in the June 2019 issue of Japanese monthly journal Bungei Shunju (文藝春秋). The author has always been interested in the political and social relationship between China and Japan. World War II was of particular concern, and along with that, his father's role as a soldier in the Japanese Imperial Army at that point.

The 20th Infantry Regiment was known for being one of the first to arrive in Nanjing after the city fell. Military units from Kyoto were generally seen as well bred and urbane, but this particular regiment’s actions gave it a surprisingly bloody reputation. For a long time, I was afraid that my father had participated in the attack on Nanjing, and I was reluctant to investigate the details. He died, in August, 2008, at the age of ninety, without my ever having asked him about it, without his ever having talked about it. 

My father was drafted in August of 1938. The 20th Infantry Regiment’s infamous march into Nanjing took place the previous year, in December of 1937, so my father had missed it by nearly a year. When I learned this, it was a tremendous relief, as if a great weight had been lifted.

Oddly, the is a piece of Murakami writing that I enjoy. I didn't even mind the 'Murakami man' that it centers itself on, the author himself. I like how Murakami wrote this, and its deeply personal story. It's finally one story in a narrative style that I don't think it as nonsense. Well, it isn't as though he writes prattle. He writes well, but it meant nothing to me. I can't appreciate any subtlety or surrealism in his stories. I'm not his intended reader. But this essay, I understand. I can even relate to it, in many many ways. I'm not close to my parents either, in particular, my mother.

The essay ends with another childhood memory of a little white kitten who ran up a tree and got stuck there overnight because there was no ladder high enough to rescue it. The author doesn't know what happened to it because he didn't see the kitten come down in the morning. The metaphors in this essay are fairly coherent. I'm not sure why cats though. Hahaha.

My father and I were born into different ages and environments, and our ways of thinking and viewing the world were miles apart. If at a certain point I’d attempted to rebuild our relationship, things might have gone in another direction, but I was too focussed on what I wanted to do to make the effort. 

My father and I finally talked face to face shortly before he died. I was almost sixty, my father ninety. He was in a hospital in Nishijin, in Kyoto. He had terrible diabetes, and cancer was ravaging much of his body. Though he’d always been on the stout side, now he was gaunt. I barely recognized him. And there, in the final days of his life—the very final few days—my father and I managed an awkward conversation and reached a sort of reconciliation. Despite our differences, looking at my emaciated father I did feel a connection, a bond between us. 

Even now, I can relive the shared puzzlement of that summer day when we rode together on his bike to the beach at Koroen to abandon a striped cat, a cat that totally got the better of us. I can recall the sound of the waves, the scent of the wind whistling through the stand of pines. It’s the accumulation of insignificant things like this that has made me the person I am.

Apple Cider Vinegar on the Dog

I've been using diluted povidone iodine in a paw-bath for Choya twice a day after walks. Her paw-chomping compulsion has been reined in; the soak is keeping her paws clean and minor bites disinfected. In between, I use a paw balm. This girl loves to pounce and run, but her paws are so so delicate. Haizzzz. 🤯

She seemed to have gotten a scratch and bruising at the left hind leg carpal and tarsal joint. Likely from running around at daycare. It must have hurt because on the way home in the school bus, she chomped on her left hind paw till it was raw. She specifically chomped on that paw for at least a good 20 minutes. It was so raw till she hobbled a little when she got off the bus. Inspected the paw and couldn't see any cut or bite or lumps. There was no dried blood or bleeding. It was only the rawness from chomping and the scratch/bruise at the joints. 

My trusty assistants:
diluted apple cider vinegar,
and povidone iodine.

I had to bring out out the apple cider vinegar, dilute it in a spray bottle and use it on her paws thrice a day. I'm not keen to have her ingest apple cider vinegar. I don't belong to that camp. So it goes onto her as an external application and onto her raw patches. It definitely stung her as she held her left leg up after. But she quickly realized it was okay walking on the floor at home. Didn't hurt that badly.

Whenever we go out on longer walks, her first aid kit comes along. A bottle of diluted povidone iodine and bandages suffice for emergencies till we get to a 24-hour vet. Depending on where we go and how long we're out for, I now also grab that bottle of diluted apple cider vinegar. Just in case.

For the next few days, I stared at her gait. She walked and trotted okay on concrete and hard floors, but not on grass. That's when I knew there wasn't any fracture or sprain. It was probably minor bruising and muscle tear. Those grass bits would have poked into her paw and hurt the tender bits. It took a whole five days for that paw to be less raw. Out comes the cones and booties. Gotta rein in her compulsion to chomp it. That paw will take another ten days to fully heal.

Mutton Mysore at Gokul

It was one of those random texts, "We're going to Gokul for lunch at 1.15pm. It's last minute but you guys wanna come with?" OH YES. WE WANT TO!!! It's always good to see these friends and have a chat.

There was an hour till 1.15pm. Plenty of time for us to toddle to Gokul. The man and I had no plans today anyway, and were thinking of where to head out to lunch. We hadn't seen the friends for a while, and they've only just got back from another long trip, and we missed them. Food at Gokul is always great, so why not.

There was nyonya laksa, which I really like. But today I wanted rice and the mutton mysore. There was a craving to be satisfied. The man went there the other night with his mates and didn't tapau anything for me. Pfffft. I would have preferred a pilaf of sorts, but the man wanted sambar rice. Like rice doused in sambar. I no like wet rice and wet vegetables. But okay lor, I shall eat it so as not to waste food. Ordering another pilaf would just be too much carbs going on.

I obviously didn't know that Gokul offers specials of roasted chicken rice and nasi lemak on weekends. Until D requested for the nasi lemak. Obviously the friends frequent Gokul a lot more than we do. When the nasi lemak arrived, I was like, wah, it's got sambal goreng! I stole a spoonful of her rice. Delicious.

Cooking For Choya

At Meidi-ya, as I picked out two fresh fillets of salmon, I cackled. My famous last words about the dog — "I'm not cooking for her." Well, these fillets were for her, to be sliced up into eight pieces and frozen, and I'd sear them bit by bit over a few weeks. Salmon doesn't form her main protein. It's very oily and it should be given in moderation. Salmon will be an add-on to whatever else she is having.

Choya has been living with us for four months. From crap kibbles to low quality canned food, her stomach has been transitioned to tolerate new foods in small and increasing doses. She eats a combination anyway. She now has higher quality kibbles, and grain-free wet food of meat, green tripe and offal; there're dehydrated raw nuggets (to rehydrate), as well as human-grade lean beef and lamb mince that are unsalted and cooked without any sort of oil or seasoning. I don't even bother with herbs because the occasional vitamins meshed into her food will take care of any lacking aspects. #ImpieCooks2019

In the interest of all-rounded nutrients and for the convenience of future boarding logistics, she'll not be put on a full cooked-food diet. I also not so free ah. I don't want her stomach to become so delicate till it gets upset when other foods are given. Her meals are rotated throughout the week to ensure a good balance of all nutrients to be absorbed. She's not to take that much fats (hence I'm watching the intake of salmon skin and treats) in order to avoid triggering pancreatitis.

One thing, I will not feed raw, raw. I don't have the confidence to keep, handle and serve the raw foods in a hygienic way. I'm also wary of parasites and salmonella. It only takes one raw egg to kill us with cleaning up explosive poop (been there, will avoid going there again). Any human-grade food for Choya will be all cooked. Her daily poop tells me everything I need to know about her gut flora. I'm very conscious of it. I don't take kindly to random strangers exhorting the beauty of feeding raw, to my face. Whoever cleans up the poop-slush gets final say over her food/diet.