Recipe for Pork Chops

Aching arms : one right arm
Splattering oil : several splashes
Watchful eyes : two pairs
Garnishes : oil burns on hands (compliments from splattering oil)

I am a culinary idiot. Apart from passable instant noodles (with egg; my speciality), I cannot cook at all.

Home economic classes in secondary school and cooking lessons during my diploma days never did manage to nurture that domestic part of me which I suspect never existed in the first place.

Practice makes perfect. 

No practise however, makes whatever little that I had managed to retain from earlier days, throughly forgotten. 

I did meddle a little here and there when my mom or mother-in-law was cooking. But even those had to be under explicit instructions. Otherwise, I was a clueless soul at the stove.

Today had been a rare ocassion when everything had fallen into a right timing and here I was, standing at an arm's length away from the wok, trying to fry the pork chops. 

Under her instructions earlier, I had laboriously pounded on the pieces of meat using the back of the chopper. I thought I sounded pretty professional while I was pounding away with whatever strength I had in my arm. 

'POM.. POM.. POM!' 

Easy peasy, I thought. 
After a few minutes, my overconfidence was replaced by a dull ache that spread from my right forearm.

The aching continued as I awkwardly welded the spatula and tried to move the pieces of meat from side to side in the wok. They seemed to be taking their sweet revenge by causing the oil to splatter ferociously all over my hand, and some onto my face and feet.

Under her watchful eye, my mother-in-law stood beside and watched as I flipped the meat with my unskilled, cramped fingers. While I could sense her hands itching to take the spatula away from my clumsy, uncoordinated hands and say 'let me do it, you ninnywit!' on several occasions, she didn't. Instead, she patiently guided me through with appropriate instructions.

'Pour this', 'Add that', 'Stir here', 'Flip there'.

As the oil contunued to splutter and splatter all over, red burn patches began to appear on my hand. She laughed when I told her that I would have to wear gloves the next time I do frying in the kitchen.

I might have overcooked a few pieces of her chops and burnt her garlic in another dish. But she let me be as I was, like an over eager child trying to complete a newly learnt task. 

With no reproach of 'spoiling' her dish, she gently gave encouragements and compliments on how I was faring. I was clueless and awkward, but under her guidance, she made me believe that I could do it. 

And with that flip of the last piece, the pork chops were done. There was a sense of uncertainty and pride as I dished the cooked meat onto the porcelain plate. Uncertainty in presenting the family with a subpar dish for dinner, yet pride in (almost) completely preparing it by myself. It was definately a far cry from her tasty and tender pork chops, but it was a small start for me.

The burn marks will fade, my muscle aches will recover and she will do a perfect batch of pork chops the next time I am not around to interfere. 

In a few day's time, I will most likely forget the steps that she showed me. But how she taught and encouraged me today will be remembered in my heart for a long time to come. And given time, perhaps I may practise my way to better tasting pork / chicken / lamb chops.

So as my 8 year old son would say, chop chop curry pok. 

Let's eat up.

Our lazy road trip holiday: KL - Genting - Melacca.

It has been three days since we last came back from our road trip.

My unpacked luggage lying in the corner of the hall serves as a reminder of the chores that I have yet to complete, while the loots that we had bought - all still in their original packaging, sits in another corner wistfully reminding me of the 6 wonderful days that we had spent on the KL - Genting - Melacca route.

Good times fly by. 

In 'normal' times however, procrastination run rampant.

I'm probably suffering from the post-holiday syndrome and a part of me is still in denial mode. This undue procrastination would be my delaying tactics to prevent life from fully resuming back to normal. 

The road trip had been tiring. But it was tiredness well-spent. S and L were obviously thrilled to have our unadulterated company for those days, as were we. Spending whole, uninterrupted, lazy, glorious, just-us days with hub and the kids had been simply wonderful. 

We were slow to wake up in the mornings and often sauntered out for our breakfasts (or brunch on some days) way after 10am. 

Afternoons were spent holding their little hands and leisurely walking around the malls, enjoying the sights, sounds and different cuisines that we could find before tumbling back to the hotel late in the night.

Over the days, we had our breakfast alfresco-style in the misty, cooling weather of Genting Highlands. We watched 'The Good Dinosaur' and cried at the movie when.. well, I shall not spoil the plot here, on the many tender moments in the show. We 'poured' money down the games at the arcade with S furiously racing on the Daytona while L busied herself with the various funfair games available. Along the way, we spilt a tub of popcorn, ice-cream toppings and a whole bottle of sanitiser. We ate gingerbread men and hello kitty cookies, watched a street performance and clapped as clunky chipmunk mascots danced on stage.

On our last leg at Melacca, we met up with friends and braved the rain for good food and familiar company. With hub's crazy idea, we grossly exceeded the seating capacity of our humble saloon car by squeezing 10 persons in a 2-layer formation. It was a crazy idea but we did it, and returned back to the hotel numb-legged and intact. 

There was also a nail-biting moment when we travelled down the north south highway on an empty tank anxiously looking for the next petrol kiosk. It was another hand-wringing 44km later when the petrol sign was finally spotted. I have never felt as relieved to see a petrol kiosk in sight.

The jam at the causeway took us almost 2 hours to clear and we arrived home road weary and dusty, but safe and sound. 

It was already past 9pm when we finally turned into the porch. The kids were laughing deliriously over a game that they were playing earlier on. The seats were littered with sprinkled biscuit crumbs and shoe print marks all over. And with jackets, pencils, stickers and papers strewn everywhere, the interior of our car looked just like a storm had passed through.

Aptly, it seemed befitting to think of our boot - laden with the various merchandise that we had heartily accumulated, as the treasure at the end of the rainbow. 

My mind hashes up bits and pieces of our lazy road trip as I unpack the items bit by bit. Although we did not travel far to places that were exotic or fanciful, it was nonetheless a fantastic holiday where we did nothing extraordinary, but experience joy in the simple ordinary of spending time with the people that we love. ♡

Back to reality and onwards to 2016.

I am what I think and do, more than what I feel.

Of all the toys that he own, his current prized possession would be this battered tin can. Wrecked with lines and dents all around it, this tin does not look much. 

But during these holiday afternoons, it has been his source of pride and joy when he was left to his own devices while sister was at school.

Placing this can on top of the tv console or atop another toy, he shoots at it with his nerf gun and the few trusty bullets that he owns. Sweating with determination and perseverance, he uses this can as his target practice honing his accuracy over the days, until he is able to hit the can down several times in succession.

While the sound of the metal can rattling noisily onto the floor may grate on a few nerves, each accurate shot that knocks the can off its spot is music to his ears. 

To onlookers, it may not seem to mean much - just a boy playing with a toy gun. But as I witnessed that shy, happy smile or the whoop of excitement that he gives with each successful shot, I reflect and remembered a line that I had read from the biography of Temple Grandin, an author who too has autism. 

I am what I think and do, more than what I feel.

Reading her words often gave me an insight to S's mind and understand a bit more on how his brain thinks. 

Not doing well in his recent exams has caused S to be split from the majority of his current classmates to (probably) the last class of his level next year. And while I worry down a host of problems, about his new classmates, new teachers and environment, whether the bullying cycle will start again, whether he will be able to find, make and keep new friends, I take solace in her words that these worries probably do not mean much to him. 

What matters instead is what he thinks he can achieve, instead of how I think he feels. In this instance, every knock down he manages is a boost to his self confidence and ability. Be it a chance success or a good aiming, he is evidently extremely pleased with his achievement.

While I do not hold high hopes for him academically, I do hope that S will never stop having this tenacious attitude of achieving and believing that he can, soaring to greater heights to fulfil his aspirations no matter how small they may seem.

En garde my boy! 
Towards Primary Three.

Lunar 7th Month

The flames licked the papers until they became a bright orange burning mass, scorching the air around us with its oppressive heat.

A stray gust of wind stirred the burning ashes up swirling them around until like falling grey snow, they settled everywhere, onto our clothes and hair.

We stood there looking until everything that we had burnt became nothing more than charred black debris, then we left.

It is that time of the year again, when the gates are opened for the dead to roam around us for a month.

I do not know if you are amongst the roaming 'crowd', much less if you receive the items that we burn for you. But I don't think too much into it as the dutiful daughter in me calls out. 

Just earlier on, we had picked out joss papers, clothes, shoes and other 'necessities' and had them packed into a package for you. The one that we had just burnt.

And if this was your death anniversary, I would have been more extravagant, 'sending' you paper cars, massage chairs, majong sets and the latest phone models like I had over the previous years. 

The burning of such offerings may be a ridiculous notion to some. But to me, it is a tradition that I was brought up with, and a belief that I am somehow, able to continue providing for you even after you have passed on. 

I wondered if you have received the items, and if they were intact.

I wondered how you were, and wistfully thought about the times when you were still with us.

I wondered if you were proud of my achievements over these past nine years, and if you knew you were now a grandfather.

I wondered if the act of burning these offerings was actually a form of solace for myself instead of you. That it was a way I could continue linking with you, even though I know that the line between us has long been broken.

Until the Lunar Seventh Month ends, the gates will be opened for another week more or so. Yet, in anticipation of the Mooncake festival, lanterns and mooncakes of all sorts have already been hung out in shops at full blast since weeks earlier. 

Life, in its usual self-preserving mode, wastes no time in hurtling itself towards the next festivities.

And like the many others rushing past me towards their next destination, I too have to move onwards in life.

But in the midst of my progress, I also try to slow down my footsteps, making the effort to appreciate the little things in life before it gets mowed down by the passage of time. Till then, all that we will be left will be nothing but cherished memories in our hearts.

You are dearly missed, Pa.
Wherever you may be in this space of time, I hope that you are well.

A Tale Of The Mysterious Bowl Of Noodles

There was a mystery that plagued us since my son, S, first started primary school. Initially having difficulties ordering his food for recess, his routine kicked in only after a few months and thereafter, whenever we asked what he had for recess, his answer would always be the same.

"Dry maggi noodles."

And I would go trawl through the school's website for the canteen menu, scrutinising the list for this item. There were wanton noodles, curry noodles, and chicken noodles amongst many others, but no 'dry maggi noodles' were listed.

For months, this mystery plagued us until it became a mystery unsolved. We tried several times probing further into what type of noodles he actually had, but S was unable to articulate his thoughts and describe it to us. We had also made a few attempts to visit the school, but unfortunately on all times the canteen was closed.

Weeks turned into months, and months into two years. And still, every single day, his reply would be the same.

'I had dry maggi noodles for recess.'

Although exasperated, we let the mystery slide until over the months, it became a long-standing tv series instead of a suspense drama. Until last week.

In support of his school's walkathon-cum-funfair, we had trooped down to find - lo and behold, the canteen open! It was a perfect opportunity to finally unravel the mystery of the noodles.

While watching S queueing patiently in line for his turn, I felt an unspoken surge of pride. Newbie no more, my boy had grown so much more independant and confident throughout these two years. When it was his turn, he made his order for one 'dry maggi' and that was it.

We were pleasantly surprised when the auntie recognised him and told us that he was her '老顾客!' (Regular customer) He had loyally patronised her stall for almost two years afterall. She also shared that he had on several times, shouted for his order even though he was far behind in the queue. My boy was that anxious to have his noodle fix.

As he carefully carried his noodles to the table, he surprised us again by eating with chopsticks. None of us at home had ever seen him eat with chopsticks. Although not a pro, he could drag his noodles up and with some manouvering, even pick up a fishball.

Sitting beside him and watching him slurping up his noodles, my eyes welled up with a sudden swell in emotions. Somehow, catching this rare glimpse of S in his school environment and how he was adapting, made me realise just how much he has grown, in so little a time. And he made us very proud with his little achievements! It was another mark added to his milestone.

And so, the long standing drama series has finally ended and the mystery solved. We have also come to learn that S, being a creature of habit, would not tire in having the same meal every day.

Through my eyes, these noodles in its signature plastic orange bowls do not mean much. But to him, I imagine it to be the most delicious meal in the whole canteen. The staple, familiar, comforting meal that he looks forward to at every recess.

And when he is all grown up, I have no doubt that these noodles will be remembered fondly in his nostalgic memories of school.

Sing You a Song

He was in his room playing when he suddenly ran out into the living room where his gong-gong and po-po were watching the tv. His ears had somehow picked up strains of the new national day song playing. 

Placing himself strategically in front of them and cutting off a portion of their view, he began to sing.

Warbling words that I couldn't quite make out, he belted out strings of lyrics, singing along to the new song that he had (presumably) learnt in school.

I observed him from the dining table as he stood there, gustily singing along to whatever lyrics he remembered from his music lesson. In between breadths, he would shout for us to look at him whenever he thought our attention strayed. 

"Look at me! I'm singing the song! Look at me!" He would exclaim proudly. 

His enthusiasm was infectious.

I watched as he sang his heart out, tone deaf in some parts and off-pitched in most. 

I watched as he took deep breadths whenever he thought he should, following each new breadth with a loud burst in volume. 

I watched as he sang loudly and softly, with high notes and low notes, pausing whenever there was a break within the choruses. 

I watched his hand gestures poised, I assumed, like his music teacher in school as he waited for the cue to start singing the next chorus.

I watched as he stood in front of the tv, proudly singing and performing what he had learnt in school.

Others might see a boy who was singing out of tune, and with over-enthusiastic gusto.

But as I watched him standing there, singing with the big wide smile on his lips and pure enjoyment radiating from his face, I saw a boy who sang beautifully. 

I saw my boy exuding confidence and happiness. 

And I realised that for all my exasperations - the narrow scrapes past each school term, the barely passed marks his term assesment papers scored, the dog-eared crummy worksheets he squished into his file every single day, the dirty pencil box smudged over with black stains, constantly filled with broken pencil leads and rubber shavings, and all my constant picking up after him. For all they were worth, my boy enjoyed his school. 

Basking in our applause after the song had ended, he executed a bow and grinned from ear to ear as he said '谢谢'. Then he ran back to the cars that he had so abruptly left awhile ago.

That night as I looked through his bag, flipping through his messily scribbled diary, straightening out the crumpled pieces of worksheets, and sharpening up his blunt, broken pencils, I felt heartened in all the mundane motions. 

Because, although clean pencil boxes mattered, neat worksheets mattered, and grades mattered, I almost forgot that him enjoying school was what mattered most.

As much as I wanted S to be able to overcome his difficulties and excel in school, he had to first enjoy learning and the journey along. 

So far, we seem to be on track.
And I am thankful for that.

To my neighbour, Rachael.

The news had been expected. But still, I clung on to a shred of hope in the quietness over the past twenty days. In a way, no news meant good news. Then yesterday, as I heard the doorbell ring at such odd hours, and the hushed whispers that followed outside my house, I knew instinctively that it was news of your departure. 

You and I have been neighbours for 10 years. And though we've seen each other's children grow from a baby to a child, we weren't especially close.

I didn't know what your surname was, or what hobbies you had. But I could easily recognise your voice from outside my door when you were rushing around trying to get your children ready for school or for going out.

We didn't know each other's birthdays. But you knew my children's as I knew yours. And come each birthday, we would buy for each child, a small gift. It would be nothing fanciful really, but it was a token of our neighbourly ties.

We didn't know the likes and dislikes of each other. But we knew the different sets of problems our children faced in school. The snatches of conversations that we had hurridly exchanged during those slivers of time when we had bumped into each other between me rushing for work, and you leaving for your marketing.

In the years recently, I haven't been seeing you around as often as I used to. Your family would be away for long blocks of hours everyday and it would be harder to bump into you. The last conversation that we had, had been many months ago when you were telling me about the family commitments that you faced. That too, had been hurried and rushed as I was getting home after work and you had to go prepare dinner.

We didn't chat often, but those regular exchanges of pleasantries and the catches of conversations that we had shared over the years, had been our ways of getting to know each other.

Yet, beyond our catchups outside our houses and around our estate, I didn't know you much.

I didn't know if you had any peculiar habits, or if you preferred to drink coffee or tea. I didn't know how bad your eyesight was or how well you could see without your spectacles. I didn't know your age or your dialect group, if you had any medical conditions, or that you had heart problems. 

I didn't know what happened that night when your kids came out rushing and shouting that you had fallen down.

I didn't know what to expect when I rushed over with my family and the other neighbours.

I didn't know what to do when I saw you lying there unconscious at your toilet floor.

I was shaken with shock, and between helping to calm down your kids who were crying for you to wake up, calling for the ambulance, and frantically digging through your possessions trying to locate your identity card and your medications, my mind drew a blank and I didn't know anything else.

After the ambulance had whisked you away to the hospital with your husband beside you, and your sister had arrived to look after your kids, everything quietened back down, and the neighbours and I slowly retreated back to our individual houses.

It was a sombre mood as I prepared myself and my kids for bed. I couldn't sleep that night. Everytime I closed my eyes, my mind flashed back to the scene of you lying there unmoving and broken.

Since that night, your quiet household became even quieter and emptier, devoid of any movements. Over the past weeks, all we heard of, were that you were in the icu with no change to your condition.

Until today.

I didn't know a lot about you, and I guess I never will anymore. What I do know, is that you were a kind, warm and helpful person, and a wonderful neighbour to have.

Life is unpredictable, and your sudden departure has left a raw absence and dull spot in our floor of neighbours. As your husband and children mourn for your loss, we grieve along too, missing your presence in our hearts.

Goodbye Rachael.
May you rest in peace.