The Enviable

Stare if you must, I'm wonderfully beautiful; coarse and cracked at all the right angles.


Sourdough rye bread


My rugged and tan beauty may not always be universally understood nor sought after because for reasons I cannot fathom, children and some adults prefer my anorexic white bread counterparts. They say that the fluffy texture of those airhead bland beauties are the dreams of a selected majority but little do ‘they’ know that the texture wouldn’t have been made possible without the necessary chemical enhancement so de rigueur in store bought bread. It may not be a coincidence that they are called ‘wonder bread’; I think it is more serendipitous a name. I've often wondered if several chemical mutations later, might they even qualify as bread under a more stringent and discerning judging panel?

Not wanting to sound like sour bread – which incidentally is what I am – I have argued that that there is no beauty in an over-botoxed or hyper plastic surgery on any leggy model. People should love me for my rustic quality. I'm testimony that unadulterated whole grain ingredients can make a darn tasty and wholesome mouthful. What is there not to love about me? Superficially, I look great – I’ve seen those adoring glances that the baker and her lot have thrown at me while exiting the oven; I'm sturdy on the outside but moist when sliced open – a combination so vital and satisfying at the same time. I've heard the delightful crunching against my crust and the grateful hums as my chewy insides meet teeth and tongues.



Home made highly active "sponge" -- fermented flour and water mixture


I wasn't created in a flash, nor churned out with thousands of others in a sterile environment under the tired supervision of disinterested eyes. My predecessors have whispered the secret of my birth as one might have stayed on a little longer on the counter to watch the mystery unfold.

As it turned out, my maker took a few cupfuls of “magic” sponge that had been cultivated and nurtured for over 5 months (and still counting); I've heard this sponge is never allowed to die but even if it did, it could easily be made again with flour and water and a good measure of patience; and it accounts for my tart disposition and sets me apart from lackluster breads made from granules in small sachets. Then, whole grain rye flour, whole wheat flour, bread flour, and salt, were massaged in by hands; by the same fingers that have failed at complicated scales and arpeggios, and palms that have been weathered from hauling bags and children. But those hands have become fairly masterful, from dedicated practice over many tries, at knowing how best to mould me.

Time – my bossom friend – has assisted in my growing and plumping; I have heard -- no less than 5 hours –first, sitting patiently in a big bowl, and then transferred over to a basket couche. Patient diligence was another main conspirator and I was never hurried off to the next stage lest it impeded my growth nor was I left unattended for too long, thereby losing my strength to stand tall. Everyone knows that posture and stance is of great importance on the beauty runway.

The handsome hearth, that welcomed me, was fired up for a good half hour to an extremely high temperature, to aid in hardening and browning of my crust and to boost growth. Twice, I was cooled by a welcome spray of water, then, I continued to sit pretty at a more desirable temperature for my insides to lift and dry.

At the insistent beeping of a counter timer, I was carefully pulled out from my warm cocoon and left to rest on cooling racks, occasionally lovingly patted and admired by our maker and several little cherubic faces. Nothing pleased me more greatly to hear the crowing delight when I was sliced, shared, and savoured after having been tickled by slabs of cold butter and various spreads. I heard I tasted real fine when paired with sharp cheeses and cold meats.

If only you could meet me: I'm the rustic beauty you'll never forget and apparently I'm a deal breaker in the union between our maker and her chap should she ever forget how to re-create me; that’s how powerfully enticing I am!

The perfect holes

Picture(s) of the week

Sometimes when you just can't make up your mind on what best to wear and think that everything in your wardrobe look equally fabulous, what better way to solve the conundrum than to throw everything on!

At least, that was Monique's hair-brained scheme for her little sister.

At first, Sophia was crazy thrilled.

But eventually, even the best clotheshorse started whinnying.

The unsung gadgets

I confess; I do love kitchen gadgets, especially ones that promise to slice chunks off the time spent in the kitchen; which in itself, is quite ironic when I think about it, because the better the gadgets are at performing just means that I depend less on 5-minute meals and more time labouring over meals from scratch. I’m then back to spending way too much time in the kitchen! But that isn’t the point of my story today.

You see this mandoline slicer? It isn’t flash and it didn’t cost much either, in fact it is possibly the Hyundai equivalent of kitchen gadgets with the Mercedes Benz version costing as much as US$300. And I haven’t really had much use for it apart from slicing zucchinis for my raw food vegan ‘pasta’ dish. Sure, serious cooks like some of you would say that I could easily use it for julienning all sorts of vegetables like the way my Japanese friends would attest to origami-dainty fruits and vegetables. But I’m not a perfectionist and if my vegetables look unruly, I’m certain I wouldn’t be traumatized.

However, I found a new use for it today that upgraded the taste of my keropok udang from a B-minus to a very decent A-minus. (I’m leaving the A-plus for Christine’s grandma because if it weren’t for her, I would still be eating commercial keropok udang)

My first attempt at making keropok udang had me slicing the udang roll by hand and by the time I was done with the first 2 rolls, my hands cramped and gimped; the slices got thicker and coarser. Evidently, it did affect the texture and hence, the ultimate satisfying crunch was not reached.

Then, nestled in my gadget drawer was this wooden-handled sieve that I’d bought yonks ago because I had romantic visions of me stirring and flipping hot noodles into bowls, just like the way the sweaty singlet-wearing chap did at my favourite noodle stall. But we don’t eat noodles as often as I’d like to, and along with the garlic peeler and meat tenderizer, this sieve remained out-of-sight and forgotten; well, until today when it performed the trickiest task of catching bits of fried keropok in a timely swoop plus effectively draining the oil. This time, my keropok pieces were so thinly sliced that they bloomed to near delicate paper-thin crisps. My preferred tongs would not have met up to the challenge without crushing them to crumbs.

Needless to say, this batch turned out tons tastier than the previous attempt. It was so good that I had to extract the bowl of prawn crisps from wee Sophia’s clutches so that the other 3 would have some upon their return from school. But even as I’d turned my back -- bowl in my arms and Sophia's loud protests in the background – I’d cunningly shoveled 3 more crisps into my greedy mouth; and maybe some more when she finally left my kitchen.

Who’s counting anyway?

Heaven on earth

Before the scenery is blanketed in snow and the chill in the air is too much to bear, we broke away from the chains of monotony and headed to view nature’s spectacular paintings.

Granted that front row seats were extraordinarily rustic and evidently few, but that’s no matter, nature is the perfect hostess, welcoming and bursting to give those who’ve come to seek her effervescent beauty the most eye-catching colours.

Even the little one stopped in her tracks, distracted from her usual trickery, just to wonder in amazement at the scattered leaves. Occasionally, she’d marched through the fallen and curled, just to hear the en masse conspiratorial rustlings.

Others were more enticed by the frigidly cold waters that pooled at the bottom of the modest falls, gingerly dipping their toes to feel the slippery and hard iridescent slate beneath their footing.

We followed the path where the waters hurried past, leaving carved history in its trail, and found ourselves humbled and in awe of nature’s grandeur that have spanned for hundreds of years in total oblivion to our blinkered race towards technical advancement.

The magical hues of auburn and gold were sometimes overpowering. But the quiet woods, tightly huddled, offered comfort -- in unity and with widespread arms -- to my strained heart about to burst from the wondrous vision. They have heard the muted wishes of those who have traveled down the same moss-covered and muddy veins; maybe they might hear mine too.

“Look up,” they seemed to whisper in rushed excitement, and when I did, I was stunned by the brilliant golden leaves, like fiery bright stars against the radiant blue. My wish was granted; I pointed my camera to the heavens and began to shoot madly, marveling at the esoteric beauty but knowing in my heart that simply, Mother Nature was all encompassing and widely enjoyed.

And although eating during a performance is considered a huge faux pas, we carefully munched on our sandwiches and continued to enjoy the enveloping charm. The trees didn’t seem to mind as they swayed in the breeze allowing our exposed skins to tingle from the crisp air, but we were respectful and left nothing behind.

For generations after us will continue to come and enjoy this same refuge.

My tiny little dancer

Sophia brought home her first (legible) piece of artwork on Tuesday. In the past, she’d scribbled a couple of strokes across papers and affectionately called them “colouring” or said it was an animal, person or whatever she was trying to express but she’s my 4th kid and unless her drawings prove to be Van Gogh artistic as opposed to merely the insanity that plagued the said artist, I generally nod and smile and then, coincidentally and conveniently – and I’m not admitting to anything here – that piece of “artwork” might find its way to the recycling bin.

I’m ashamed to say that I’m that callous mother that psychologists alert their readers to. You know the kind of awful parent that many enlightened adults today say that they grew up scarred because of the things their parents did or didn’t do. Somehow, I suspect that those same therapists have larger paychecks than I do (mine being a big fat zilch) and/or have fewer children, and have rooms aplenty for every breadcrumb mosaic inspired expression that their children have prolifically created.

I, too, aspire to be as rich and fabulous, and promise a room dedicated to each of my children’s growing tsunami of artwork. Until then, I’m afraid only the ones with some recognizable form of people or animal or whatever that they were trying to express, might make it into my stringent selection. Actually, I jest. I really meant that I would only keep drawings that have “I LOVE MY MUMMY” in brilliant colours or are flattering portraits of myself.

This piece of artwork obviously doesn’t meet any of that listed criteria but sometimes I’m a big softy and I’m known to hoard artwork if they make my heart squishy.

I love that she’d carefully pasted a wee heart neatly on each of her family members – and coincidentally, perfectly on the Mummy cut out and on hers (she’d laid claim on the purple little girl cut out); I love the way she’d paired her siblings, and that she’d chosen to be beside Monique’s cut out whom she adores; I love that my cut out figure is also a whiff taller than cut out Dad because it is important that I cling on to my delusional hopes of being tall. Most of all, I adored that when asked to describe her family, she’d told her teacher that we ‘dance’ and visions of us as the twinkle-toe Von Trapp family singing in the face of daily perils streamed into my subconscious.

You might say that I’ve read too much into it but I believe that children’s artwork are, at the core, a basic expression of their lives -- their feelings and their perception of reality. I don’t believe that we’ve been doing much dancing or any at all (that I know of) but I found her answer quite charming. Sure, it could be interpreted as the genesis of a potential delusional (nearly) 3-year old psycho-killer but I’m her mummy, and I think she is pretty bloody wonderful so I’d prefer to believe that it is her simple (and I don’t mean half-witted) way of saying that her life, with her family, is like a joyous dance.

I’m not a professional child psychotherapist and perhaps one day, when she is all grown up, she’ll look back on this picture and think it should have walked itself off to the recycling bin. But for now, it’ll grace my fridge door and later, packed away along with the other delightful memories that I cherish from my little joyful dancer.

The hole in the dough

It’s Monday, and if you are at work, maybe you've had your usual cuppa coffee along with a pastry, a bagel or a donut. Was it a Krispy Kreme?

Chemical addiction

If you are an American or live in America, you’ll know Krispy Kreme – famously known to melt in your mouth like warm butter and leave a dizzying sweetness for an instant and approved caffeine-free rush. I've once waited for them to roll out fresh from the oven signaled by the urgent flashing of the red neon lights “HOT” outside the bakery. I've even dared to race the Houston cop car that did a blatantly illegal U-turn, in bright daylight no less, and who'd even driven against traffic to get to that newly launched Krispy Kreme in my neighbourhood. I hadn’t tried one at the time, but had only heard the tantalizing cantor of praises at my office.

So, I did the most logical thing: I followed that cop car, but in a law abiding way that took me to the next set of lights and to a proper left turn lane. It cost me all of a few minutes of delay yet the donuts were still glowing warm. It was such an emotional experience that these sugary gems were finally in my arms that I splurged and bought a box of a dozen to share my virgin experience with the folks at the office. After all, if that cop proved that the lure of those donuts could make him/her treat the law with such disdain so could I throw all sensibilities out of the window and feel generous about sharing my loot.

That was in Houston, and I think I had Krispy Kreme no more than 5 more times before leaving for upstate New York. It was a hasty love-affair. Then, the delightful red neon lights that I’d come to love and expect -- vanished.

But I found them again at Walmart in Orlando on our Disney trip. They weren’t warm, and they lacked their familiar fried dough aroma being already packaged but hey, I wasn’t fussy so I bought a box anyway for old times’ sake. The kids and I (even the vegan hubs) indulged and then curiosity made me turn the package over to read what went into making these donuts so delightful.

Ingredients only pointy-eared trekkie Mr. Spock would understand

Did you read all that? Is that even in English? Maybe I should have paid more attention during chemistry classes. If I’d known that these complicated chemical compounds were going to be so tasty, I wouldn’t have bothered treating them so gingerly over the bunsen burner at school; I would have tasted every single blue, green and noxious liquid. Sure, I got my 4% iron intake by downing these donuts when usually I had to eat tons more spinach and fart beans to get my iron count. Clearly, this was way more fun! But what on earth is ethoxylated mono and di-‘what-the-hell-is-that’-rides along with ‘artificial flavour’ being listed in the glace? Are they telling me that the buttery sweetness that I’d come to associate with a Krispy Kreme was actually a figment of my imagination? Holy crap! Is this even considered food? Is this even legal in the US? Did that cop know this when he/she made that right-about turn to the nearest Krispy Kreme? Was s/he heroically arresting the people at the bakery for injecting food with toxic waste? Because s/he should have, and then I would really have applauded their misguided u-turn attempt.

This doughnut -- or whatever it is pretending to be -- is so wrong: It should be illegal. So, to it I said, “I love you no more.”

Smuggled 'bak kwa'? Not anymore.

Presenting homemade barbequed sweet pork jerky otherwise better known as ‘long yoke’ or ‘bak kwa’ for Singaporeans (and Malaysians). My nightly fantasies that the US customs and border protection will bring an end to the restriction of imported cured meats will now vaporize; I will never have to listen to other people’s successful but tedious ways of smuggling it past the patrolling sniffer dogs without setting off frenzied barking. Nor will I ever stoop to ask my dear mother to bring it in for me knowing that she will be up several nights plotting out cunning ways to outsmart customs. Sure, the cured meat will taste even more heavenly but at the price of worrying about the potential heavy penalties imposed if caught. I’m good at abiding the law (really), but for most part, I think I'm just desperate to lay hands on decent 'bak kwa', and so I went ahead and made some. And like most foods, it isn’t complicated. Trust me, I wasn’t born with the Martha Stewart silver spoon in my mouth.