enlisted

Ever so frequently, I feel the intense urge to throw away everything in my wardrobe and start afresh. Which is right about now. But being extremely impoverished, I've decided instead to take stock of what I have.

According Brit Vogue five years ago, these are the basics I need. (Those with a * indicate what's going on top of my shopping wish list. This is a completely self-indulgent post for me to justify shopping, but may I suggest you join me, too, in "taking stock".)



1. The nearest I have to a cashmere cardi is a threadbare pashimina which I no longer use.
2. See above. Pashminas are passe, no?
3. Slips I have, but they're all polyester.
4. I have one leather belt, circa 1995, which is still going strong.
5. Way too many totes, yet I keep buying more.
*6. This is clearly a sign that I need to buy a wrap cardi. One can never have too many cardis, especially in this freezer office.
7. I own only one pair of trousers and that is more than enough.
8. I'm so over jeans. Jeggings are the way to go.
9. Yes! I have striped scarves (non-striped ones too).
10. I bought my fave tee in three colours (I've become that sort of person who shops in multiples.)
11. I covet the gray slim ladies' Converse, even though I already have two pairs.



12. Not sure why I have a trench in Singapore, but I do.
13. Not a fan of polo tees, so I'll pass.
14. Long-sleeved stuff gets stuffed to the back of the wardrobe, but I know it's there.
15. Don't get me started on the nubuck leather bag -- the most expensive bag I've ever bought -- which is irreparably stained by a cheap pair of jeggings.
16. Cashmere socks? Really?
17. I'd rather wear a nice pair of tailored shorts than a casual skirt.
*18. Still on the quest for that perfect pair of flat boots. Oh, Frye, why are you so expensive?
19. I don't wear PJs; I wear boxers and tanks.
20. I knew that keeping that stone-washed denim jacket from 2005 was a good call.
21. Nobody wants to see me in a bikini, least of all myself.
22. Bought my first pair of loafers this year, not from Tod's though. I must say they are amazingly versatile.
*23. Yay, I don't have a shirtdress, which means another excuse to go shopping.



24. I'm afraid of ruining silk, so no silk tops for me. I'm too cheap to pay for silk anyway. What's wrong with polyester?
25. Jersey dresses are fine, except when I'm retaining water like a bathtub, which is 25 days in a month.
26. Silk clutches, lucite clutches, leather clutches, metal clutches. I have way too many.
27. See 24.
28. I look terribly dowdy in lace, so this is a no.
*29. I've toyed with the idea of sewing sequins onto a top, because all those I see in the shops are unsatisfactory. I would also like a sequinned mini skirt while I'm at it.
30. Who still calls them court shoes? Oh, right, the Brits. I own one pair of sensible black pumps (and several insensible pairs in other colours).
31. The missed opportunities for layering here. I would love to have an evening coat, except I'd probably be mistaken for a flasher at night.
32. Who doesn't own a bra or 10?
33. Diamante means fake diamonds, right? Real ones, I no have, but fake ones, I have in all sizes.
34. I have black capris, not pants, do they count?
35. I have one extremely unflattering vintage jersey skirt languishing at the back of my wardrobe, which I can't bear to throw away because it reminds of my first trip to Barcelona.
36. I have that exact same pair of Muji flip flops. Havaianas have nothing on them.



37. My precious black pair of ballet flats are dying and I'm inconsolable.
38. What do people without wallets do, throw their money into the bag? Wear clothes with pockets all the time?
39. Silk camisole: why must everything be in silk?
40. The last time I needed a "work" jacket to interview some CEO, I borrowed one. He turned up in jeans.
41. LBD? Check.
42. As a matter of fact, I do have a necklace from Tiffany -- I made my friends buy it for me for my birthday -- lurking somewhere.
43. Brown boots take priority over black ones (but a black bag takes priority over a brown one. There is no logic to my madness).
44. I have a whole bunch of opaque tights in all sorts of colours, but they cut off blood circulation to my lower body and cause my toes to curl upwards, so I stopped wearing them.
*45. Gold ballet flats are the Holy Grail.
46. My phone is my watch.
47. A vest is a singlet? Tank top? Wifebeater?
48. Denim skirt a.k.a. jean skirt. That's so early 1990s. I have a pair of denim cut-offs, which is also from the same era.
49. I love a crisp white shirt, but ironing is a bitch, so I hardly wear it.
50. I have a mamasan cardigan just like that. I go, "shi li li, sha la la" whenever I wear it.

Not bad, I only "need" five items to complete this checklist. Let's go shopping!

holy crap! shit happens!

For unfathomable reasons, I seem to always be flying off with severe lack of sleep. Oh, right, it's because I take four hours to pack every time.



In preparation for the detox [detox being a euphemism for colonic irrigation], I had been avoiding carbs and proteins as much as possible for two days. But I succumbed to the shrimp omelette on the plane. What can I say, I cannot resist food in compartmentalised trays. Also, the thought of not being able to eat for the next seven days was a strong motivation.



On arrival in Chiang Mai, I was whisked off to the resort, from which I would not step foot out for the next week or so. This was the view from the balcony of my "deluxe pool side room", also known as "the cheapest room in the house".



I'm not sure why housekeeping decided to welcome me with these honeymoon suite swans. To crack me up, probably.



The rest of the day was like an orientation: meeting with the health director [an absent-minded old man of some sort of Nordic origin who did not once ask me about my health], watching a welcome video by the founder in a Hawaiian shirt, which I'm sure was cheesy even when the film was shot in the early 1990s, and being instructed, while fully clothed, on, how do I put this delicately, sticking it up your ass. One last supper of raw zucchini "pasta" with marinara sauce -- Tasty! And I'm not being sarcastic! -- as I braced myself for deprivation, starvation and hallucinations of prawn cracker sticks.



Every day begins at 7am with a detox drink, made with some sort of gray liquid clay and psyllium husk mixed with watermelon and/or pineapple juices. You take this five times a day, every three hours. There are also herbal supplements in pill form, six of them, also five times a day, every three hours. I did not expect that to be the worst part of the detox, I thought it would be the lack of food, but the pills were truly vile, like regurgitated grass which is then fermented and dehydrated. But the detox drink was refreshing, despite the fact that there was clay in it.



I only made it for two of the meditation sessions. I figured I would just meditate in bed, because I was dozing off anyway while the guru was asking us to close our eyes and "watch the river of your thoughts, and then push it away". He also said: "Meditation is not doing. It is being." In my head, I was going: "It is boring."



I'm proud to say I made it for yoga every morning except one. Give me a break, I was on vacation, surely I was allowed to sleep in one morning. The yoga pavillion was on a hill with breathtaking views. Well, I was out of breath every morning after trekking up there anyway. But I must say I was already one of the fittest students and I felt a (probably unjustified) sense of superiority over the angmohs who couldn't even sit cross-legged and gazed upon my half lotus with awe and jealousy.



On top of the five detox drinks, we were also allowed one coconut [I accidentally on purpose ate the flesh once before reading the fine print of the fasting manual: "No chewing allowed"], one carrot juice [good thing I like carrots, otherwise it'd have been gross] and one vegetable broth [a.k.a. warm dishwater flavoured with three grains of salt]. The coconut was the highlight of my food-deprived day, but actually, I never felt hunger. I missed eating and food, but I didn't feel like how I usually felt at 12pm when I was at work and going, "Chi fan! Chi fan!'



There are two colemas a day -- I'll get to that at the end, so that the squeamish will have time to escape from this post -- but other than that, I was free to do anything and nothing. I chose nothing.



If the weather was nice, I'd go to the pool, do a few lazy laps, frantically apply liberal amounts of SPF 130 sunblock and then read. [Yes, The Art Of Travel is a bit of a cliche, but it's a good book. I also read two of David Sedaris' books, borrowed from my twin, which made me snort out loud most unbecomingly.]



I tried to fulfil my painterly ambitions. Don't laugh at my lopsided cake, this is my first attempt at painting anything other than cupboards and walls.



My package included daily tummy massages, you know, brute force to push the crap out. While my intestines were being squashed and twisted and pummelled, I gazed on a peaceful grove of bamboos and imagined scenes from Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon. After that, I would go for a sauna or steam bath to purge even more toxins.



Not being much of a nature lover, I didn't go hiking. My commune with nature was limited to this one inexplicable crab that scuttled across my path and the creepy crawlies in my room, including a big black butterfly which flew in and refused to leave.



One of the cats climbed onto my balcony, I know not how, and demanded to take a nap on my bed. There were scruffy dogs running around too, which made me miss my smelly one back home, but they didn't want to play with me.



This is not a pina colada. As if. From Day 4, we were advised to take this Liver Flush drink to rid our liver of toxins. Made of extra virgin olive oil, lemon and orange juices, garlic, ginger and cayenne pepper, it sounded vile but was really yummy, like ginger tea with fruit juice and a peppery aftertaste. This was my last Liver Flush drink, sadly, although I guess I could always make it at home myself.



On Day 8, I broke fast. It took me 45 minutes to finish eating my first meal of a fruit platter, because apparently I had forgotten how to chew. I was expecting the flavours to explode in my mouth, but instead the pineapple was so sour, it made my tongue sting for hours.



We were told to eat only vegetables and fruit for the first two days, but I succumbed to a piece of garlic toast and some wanton soup when I went to town to do some shopping. In the mall I went to, supposedly the biggest in Chiang Mai, there was an entire floor devoted to buffet restaurants. The only thing holding me back was the urban legend circulating in the resort of some dude who ate some fried chicken at the airport after his fast -- and couldn't poop for two weeks after that.



And speaking of poop, that was what I did twice a day for seven days, 20 minutes each time. The first time was the most daunting, but they give you lubricant to make things go smoother. There was no pain, just like a mild tummy ache, and then whoosh, out it comes. Someone who had done it before said it was so shiok, she could have done it four times a day, no problem. I would have to agree. [The above photo from my morning trek to yoga is just there to break up all this shitty text.]



There was a plastic mesh basket colander thingy provided if you were inclined to take a closer look, but I was too put off by the thought of having to wash the actual thing to use it. But from what I could see from the toilet bowl, holy crap! It was amazing how much output there was every single time, despite there being not any input. [Cute kitty pix, in case your imagination starts running wild.]



The final dump was the most satisfying, as I produced what looked exactly like those pictures I'd seen on the internet. I almost felt proud. But not proud enough to take photos, because I didn't want to risk dropping my phone into the bowl. If you are feeling exceptionally brave, click here for pix. You have been warned, so don't blame me if you lose your lunch because you were kaypoh. [Ominous pix of approaching rainstorm, just because.]



When I weighed myself on the last day, I had lost 3kg. Sadly, it was easy go, easy come back, even though I did not eat any fried chicken. I do feel disgustingly healthy and rested and squeaky clean on the inside. I was also warned that during the fast, I might feel nauseated, vomit bile and get headaches -- which the other people I met there also experienced -- but I guess I wasn't as toxic as I thought I was, despite the vast quantities of prawn cracker sticks I had consumed.



Heading home sweet home to my favourite dish in the whole wide world -- mum's chicken soup. But I didn't eat the chicken, just in case.

cooking is my therapy

Hello? Hello? *Tap tap tap on the mike*

Testing 1, 2, 3. Anyone there?

I'm still alive! More than alive, I've about doubled in size since posting anything substantial here, what with the way I've been cooking and eating. Here's what I've been gorging on.



I've developed quite an obsession with quinoa (above). My journalistic training compels me to add here that it is a seed crop that originated from South America and it is pronounced "keen wah". A friend asks: "How does quinoa taste? Would I be keen on it and go wah after trying?"

I can't quite describe the taste. It is sort of nutty and creamy, and there is a pleasant, addictive bite to it. Depending on what you add, it can take on the flavours of, say, the miso paste that is mixed into it -- mmm, umami -- or the wafu salad dressing I like.

On top of being super yummy, it is also super healthy -- high in fibre, proteins, minerals, etc etc etc -- and super easy to cook -- just pop into the rice cooker with double the amount of water.



Quinoa is also super versatile. I have made a chocolate cake (above) with it. Yes, chocolate cake! It tastes just like a regular cake too, meaning it does not taste like cardboard masquerading as health food.

The original recipe is from The 10 cent Diet, but I have tweaked it a little:

1. Cook 2/3 cup of quinoa with double that amount of water in the rice cooker and then fluff and allow to cool.

2. Preheat oven to 180 deg C. Grease two 8" round cake pans. Line the bottoms with parchment paper.

3. Melt 180g butter and let it cool.

4. Combine 1/3 cup milk, 4 eggs and 1 tsp vanilla extract in a blender, add the cooked quinoa and butter. Blend until smooth.

5. Whisk together 1 1/2 cup sugar, 1 cup unsweetened cocoa powder, 1 1/2 tsp baking powder, 1/2 baking soda in a large bowl. Add the contents of the blender and mix well.

6. Divide the batter between the two pans and bake on center rack of oven for 40-45 minutes (until a knife inserted comes out clean).

7. Remove cakes from oven and cool completely in the pans before serving or icing.

The icing recipe is from my lurve, the baker extraordinaire of Crummb who is my Martha On Speed Dial, and it is idiot-proof. She advises that I use Millac whipping cream from Phoon Huat (or any whipping cream that has a "stabilising agent" in its list of ingredients, otherwise it will not set in our climate).

Add icing sugar (to taste) to 500g of whipping cream and whip until stiff. Yum! According to my Martha, you can also add mascarpone or white chocolate, but don't ask me what quantities, because I haven't tried making it yet.



I have also made quinoa into baked patties (above, with charsiew sauce pork chop), but, to be honest, they look better than they taste (very dry, need a lot of sauce to help them go down), so I won't bother listing the recipe.



I've also rekindled my love affair with cold noodles, specifically, somen (above). (It's the lesser known noodle from Japan, very thin and delicate, and cooks in mere minutes.) On a hot afternoon, it is the perfect quick lunch with carrot sticks, topped with seaweed and spring onions, and eaten with ice-cold dipping sauce.



After a particularly mind-blowing, stomach-bursting dinner at Osvaldo some time back, I've been hankering for good sun-dried tomatoes. Those from Cold Storage's deli section -- daylight robbery prices some more! -- just don't cut it. Then I stumble upon this recipe for slow-roasted tomatoes (above, pre-roasting) from ever-reliable Smitten Kitchen:

1. Preheat oven to 100 deg C.

2. Slice about 500g of cherry/honey tomatoes (two punnets in my case) into halves.

3. Place on parchment paper in a baking tray with whole cloves of unpeeled garlic.

4. Drizzle with olive oil -- just enough to make the tomatoes glisten -- and sprinkle very lightly with salt and pepper.

5. Bake for about three hours (do check after two hours, mine take less than three hours). They will look shrivelled and ugly but still taste juicy and explode when you bite into them.

6. Leftovers can be refrigerated, covered with olive oil.

I've used them in wholemeal wraps, with leftover bolognese sauce (see below), lettuce and grated pecorino romano. So so so good. Also good in baked eggs (see further below).



Another cooking experiment that went swimmingly well: Bolognese sauce. And so easy too. (I adapted the recipe from the River Cottage guy, but being lazy to measure, based the quantities on agar-ration.)

1. Chop streaky bacon and fry in a hot pan until the fat runs clear. Remove from heat.

2. Brown minced beef in small batches until cooked. Remove from heat.

3. Fry finely chopped garlic and onions until soft.

4. Add 1 can of tinned tomatoes (400g). (The recipe also called for 250g of sieved roasted tomatoes, which I omitted because I had none and anyway, how do you sieve roasted tomatoes?), but I'm thinking the next time I attempt this, I will add the slow-roasted tomatoes, chopped roughly, from above.)

5. Bring to a merry bubble and allow to thicken slightly. Add 250ml water, the bacon and minced beef, a liberal sprinkling of McCormick's Italian seasoning (there is no shame in not having fresh thyme, rosemary, basil, etc), salt and pepper.

6. Simmer uncovered for an hour, stirring until thick.

7. Serve over spaghetti. Grate a mound of pecorino romano (my new fave cheese!) over the whole plate and devour.



The moment I saw my foodie colleague's Facebook photos of baked eggs, I knew I had to make them. Mine (above) were a little over-cooked, being my first time and all, but still very eggy and delish. Comfort food at its best.

1. Preheat oven toaster at 200 deg C.

2. Chop streaky bacon and place in ramekin. Place in the oven for about 10 minutes, until it sizzles.

3. Add slow-roasted tomatoes, then crack two eggs into the ramekin. (I find it easier to crack the eggs into a bowl first.)

4. Bake for another six to eight minutes, until the whites are set but the yolks still runny. Remove from heat and top with pepper or, in my case, Japanese seven spices or togarashi, which I've been sprinkling on practically everything, from chicken soup to salad.

Demmit, now I've made myself hungry!

doodles at 30,000 ft

The "I Lego NY" guy is back with a visual diary documenting a flight from New York to Berlin (with a layover in London).

On a related note, I've been toying with the idea of taking up a course and I think I've decided. I'm going to learn to draw, and I don't mean like a five-year-old. Does anyone know where I can take lessons? I don't want to join a CC class with other five-year-olds.

chocolate factory

The Mast Brothers from The Scout on Vimeo.

Is it wrong that I want this chocolate because the bearded brothers (especially the non-bespectacled one) are so adorable?

ai, actually

I stopped repeating this following anecdote, courtesy of my aunt who overheard it on the bus, months ago. Now that 爱, the Taiwanese melodrama that advances 0.1mm per episode, has been moved to a daily (daily!!!) slot, it has become "newsworthy" again.

Woman on the phone on the bus: 老公，今晚有没有做爱？
Her follow-up question after his affirmative reply: 今晚做爱几个小时？

Demmit, now I have the Hokkien theme song echoing in my head：我问天！我问天！

an education

All the illustrations on Stuff No One Told Me should be compiled into a book and given to kids (and adults too).

mosaic love

It's currently Day 83 on my second Project 365, which I'm doing with M and K. (We also have an intermittently updated blog of all our pix so far.) Being the masochist that I am, not only am I using an iPhone and not a proper camera, I'm also shooting only square photos and restricting myself to one-line captions.

I must say, looking at it again, the very first day's photo bugs me as it is not really square; I may change it. No rules against that, only a penalty for quitting prematurely; a penalty so goddemawful it does not bear contemplating.

Here are the pix from the first 72 days. Fingers crossed I make it to the finish line.


1. Day 1, 2. Day 2, 3. Day 3, 4. Day 4, 5. Day 5, 6. Day 6, 7. Day 7, 8. Day 8, 9. Day 9, 10. Day 10, 11. Day 11, 12. Day 12, 13. Day 13, 14. Day 14, 15. Day 15, 16. Day 16, 17. Day 17, 18. Day 18, 19. Day 19, 20. Day 20, 21. Day 21, 22. Day 22, 23. Day 23, 24. Day 24, 25. Day 25, 26. Day 26, 27. Day 27, 28. Day 28, 29. Day 29, 30. Day 30, 31. Day 31, 32. Day 32, 33. Day 33, 34. Day 34, 35. Day 35, 36. Day 36


1. Day 37, 2. Day 38, 3. Day 39, 4. Day 40, 5. Day 41, 6. Day 42, 7. Day 43, 8. Day 44, 9. Day 45, 10. Day 46, 11. Day 47, 12. Day 48, 13. Day 49, 14. Day 50, 15. Day 51, 16. Day 52, 17. Day 53, 18. Day 54, 19. Day 55, 20. Day 56, 21. Day 57, 22. Day 58, 23. Day 59, 24. Day 60, 25. Day 61, 26. Day 62, 27. Day 63, 28. Day 64, 29. Day 65, 30. Day 66, 31. Day 67, 32. Day 68, 33. Day 69, 34. Day 70, 35. Day 71, 36. Day 72

going off the deep end

I just realised I have not posted the entire series of our monthly jumps, which have been going on for almost a year. Soon, soon. In the meantime, be hypnotised by this.

unravelling

I want to make a surprise ball. Heck, I want to receive a surprise ball. From Kiosk. Check out the unravelling video.

happy (belated) mother's day

My mum, my sissy and me in Genting, circa 1985.

Due to some stupid glitch, I could not post this photo yesterday, when the three of us celebrated a low-key Mother's Day with Vietnamese food for lunch.

I just like this snapshot; it cracks me up. And by the way, I still have that red quilted jacket and I can still fit into it. *Smug face*

bad picture, good meatballs

The recipe for these baked chicken meatballs is the first I've tried from Smitten Kitchen and it won't be the last.

Not only were they easy to make, they were also healthily baked and succulent and juicy, thanks to the dollop of tomato paste on top of each. And they tasted cheesy without the addition of cheese, which is pretty amazing in my books.

My inner Martha is well pleased.

i heart pancakes

I needed an excuse to use my new exceedingly impractical but pretty measuring cups.



So I modified the IHOP recipe and insisted on feeding my family a pancake breakfast.



Topped with my fave fruit -- raspberries.



And my non-fave fruit -- bananas -- and golden syrup. Of course, IHOP's were fluffier but mine were pretty yums too.

pengerang

The heavy marble-topped table was cold and sticky as I rested my forearms on it, already aching from lugging a camera forged from steel, or so it felt, for an hour.

I tuned out my friends' excited chatter -- about prime lenses and bokeh and bak kut teh and the watered down teh si -- and cast my eyes around for something to shoot to make this shoulder ache worthwhile.

Mosaic tiles caked with decades of grime, fluttering day-by-day calendar with ultra large numerals, kopi tiam auntie pouring hot beverages ungracefully into beer mugs. Click, click, click.

Motioning to my bag, I tasked my friends to look after it while I wandered out into the drizzle to see if I could capture scenes of what Singapore must have looked like in the early 1980s, somewhat unenthusiastic because, clearly, the 1970s was my preferred era.

Just across the two-lane road, I spied another kopi tiam. On the second-storey of the shophouse, the windows were gaping holes that framed the sky. The skeleton of the rafters was still there, but the roof was nearly all gone. The sky was not as vivid a blue as I would have liked, and the pathetic wisp of a cloud was not particularly picturesque, but what to do. I decided to make the best of it.

I crossed the two lanes without even looking right, left, right. There were no cars. As I got closer, I saw that the metal grills on the front of the kopi tiam were pushed apart. Inside was a food stall, with gleaming stainless steel counters, spotless glass shelves displaying wantons, char siew and bundles of thin floury noodles.

Behind the wall of steam rising from the pot was a wan-looking woman of indeterminate age with a pinched but kindly face, dressed in an overly-large pair of bermudas and a T-shirt which spelled out, rather incongruously, "Jurong Bird Park" in faded rainbow colours.

Pasting on my best asking-favours-from-strangers face -- eyes widened, mouth slightly upturned, shoulders shrugged haplessly -- I opened my mouth, but before I could greet her "auntie", she was bustling towards me with her own version of my face. Turned out that she wanted me to help her translate the English instructions on the back of a pack of plant fertilisers. I seemed to remember that they mentioned Lily of the Valley, although there were no plants to be seen in the entire place.

In fact, despite the large interior, there was just her wanton mee stall and one unoccupied large table under the lazily revolving fan. No Jaz beer posters with Gillian Chung, no golden cat with upraised paw, no calendar with ultra large numerals. As I fumbled through the instructions in my faltering Mandarin -- how do you say sprinkle fertiliser around the circumference? -- a guy who looked to be in his 20s walked in. Pleasingly plump and bespectacled, with a messenger bag slung across his body, he struck me as one of those graphic designer types. He seemed taken aback at my presence and examined at me curiously, making me wonder if my denim shorts were too scandalously short.

I quickly took the chance to gesture towards the flight of stairs at the back of the room and asked if I could take a look upstairs, hoisting my camera to my face to indicate click, click, click.

There was a flimsy accordion-type door stretched across the stairway and a single naked lightbulb was switched on, as it was dark that deep inside the hall, even at 9am. The auntie made short work of the four or five hook-and-eye catches securing the door, swooshed the door open
efficiently and stepped aside to let me up. As I brushed past her, she grasped my arm with a surprisingly strong claw-like hand and said, in Mandarin: "Be careful."

The floorboards must be rotting and may not withstand my weight, I thought, reminded of my grandmother's pre-war shophouse which we were never allowed off the ground floor. So imagine to my surprise when I creaked my way to the top, that I saw another stall in the far corner.

A ruddy-faced man was chopping vigorously behind the counter while another, equally ruddy and also clad in a similar uniform of thin white tee, loose black shorts and Tat Sing slippers, flip-flopped around hurriedly with plates of chicken rice. A couple of girls in uniforms and plaits, who looked like sisters, were picking up their haversacks, getting ready for school.

I took in all of this in five seconds flat. My first thought was: How would customers know that there was chicken rice upstairs if the door was latched? It was followed quickly by: But there are no customers here at all, who are they serving?

I looked up, fully expecting to see the sky. The roof was completely intact. I could not see the sky.

My feet moved of their own volition and bounded down the stairs so fast, I didn't even have time to worry about tripping and falling. My pale face must have said everything I could not even put into words, because the auntie, with sorrow in her eyes, patted me once on my shoulder and said: "You saw them."

My entire body was ice cold and stiff. I could only nod.

"You better leave."

As I forced my legs to function and walked out onto the sidewalk, something made me turn back. Through the grills that were now drawn shut, I glimpsed the entire family gathered around the table, getting ready to eat. At that moment, the fear in my heart evaporated, leaving behind an almost unbearable sadness.

Footnote: I later learnt that the kopi tiam had burned down 20 years ago and the only survivor was a toddler, the youngest boy in the family.

verminator: they'll be back

For the past couple of months, I have been plagued by vermin -- and other foreign objects -- in my food.



First was a long-legged insect in my broccoli. That will teach me to try to eat more veggies.



On a quest for buffalo wings, I made M have dinner with me at Dan Ryan's, only to be rewarded with a long strand of plastic in my clam chowder. The wings weren't that hot either.



Two weeks later, my chicken horfun had a little extra something something in it -- protein from a worm.



On a day trip to Pengerang to partake of seafood, I was merrily digging in when a flying creature insect thingy decided to dive headlong onto my plate. Five minutes later, its counterpart decided to land on my gravy-covered fingers and commit kamikaze. The 11 other people at the table were not affected by vermin at all.

obviously, we are not christians part II

Conversation this morning:

Dad: Today is Good Friday. It's the day he rose from the dead.
Me: No, it's the day he died. He rose on Easter.
Dad: No, he died on Christmas day.
Me: No, he was born on Christmas day.
Mum: Who died?
Me: [both an answer and an exclamation] JESUS CHRIST!

obviously, we are not christians

Mum and I had this conversation on Monday morning:

Mum: This Thursday is a public holiday.
Me: No, it's this Friday. It's Good Friday.
Mum: No, Good Friday is on Thursday.
Me: ?!?!?