Snap shots from 2011

I'm certain that many on the eve of the New Year watched fireworks, lit fireworks, played with fire or simply stayed up to countdown to 2012 in various stages of revelry.

I did no such thing.

I did, however, watch with great delight, my 4-year old's version of the chicken dance. And that was the best cheer I'd received all day! I want to say for the whole year too but that would just make me sound seriously pathetic. Only a parent can vouch that nothing is funnier than the unadulterated spin the 4-year old put on the old chicken dance. She wore her pink winter gloves on her feet and proceeded to shake her little bottom and flap her folded arms in chicken style. I tell you, it was amusing and not to say the very least, cute-to-the-core!

As opposed to my 4-year old, who remained light-footed on slippery glove-socks, my New Year's Eve started on the wrong foot. I had a bee in my bonnet to clean, de-clutter and simplify. The kids' bathroom sink looked like a vigorous campaign for Crest toothpaste-meets-paint-job, and sticky, minty mouthwash streaked the counter tops along with strands of hair and mangled dental floss in creepy clumps lay on the tiled floor. Don't even get me started on the toys, books and numerous small headless parts that were scattered throughout each living space.

My New Year's Eve was in shambles and there was no way I was going to ring in the New Year faced with domestic eye-sore. Someone had to die to torture my eyes like such.

I yelled, stewed and hoped-as-hell that I'd channeled several demons in my 5ft 1 frame that would terrify my kids into cleaning up and/or at least pussy foot around me that morning while the dark cloud shrouded my thoughts.

Thankfully, the mood lifted after the house was restored to some form of Zen-like calm. Then, I had time to think about the approaching year and caught myself going into a slight panic attack about upcoming deadlines the day I return to work.

 Must....not....think... about...deadlines...

I thought about achievements of 2011 and then cackled to myself and decided to ground myself in reality. My achievements might include modest efforts like being able take a breath and count to 10 (not 5) before yelling at my kids to clean up, or efficiently darting my "killer-Mom-eyes" look in public and have them not touch everything on the shelves or maintaining composure when my 10-year old goes on an argumentative banter. I might pat myself on the back for such small achievements but my kids, on the other hand, are constantly reaching and achieving new goals. I'm constantly in awe of them and bath in their exuberance, confidence and love.

2011 knows that I've achieved a big fat zilch but I think my glass is still pretty darn full enough to see me through another year of unknowns and adventures.

Happy New Year everyone! I leave you snapshots of 2011.

Granddad visited from Australia in July and was immediately invited to tea and biscuits with Sophie.

Summer vacation with the grandparents in Toronto, Canada. 

View from the top of CN Tower, Toronto.

Notre-Dame Basilica in Montreal, CA.

Lighted candles, Notre-Dame Basilica.

Adventures of the foursome in Montreal.

Brotherly tickles never tire. 

More of the fantastic four. 

Proof that Aidan sleeps anywhere. 

Behold, my mid-life crisis ride in Montreal!

Enjoying the last night of Nana's company.

And when work took me to Corvallis twice this year, I visited the enchanted woods in Multnomah, Oregon.

Fall wasn't as spectacular in Oregon but here was evidence of some dramatic foliage. 

Multnomah waterfall, OR.

View of Multnomah falls, OR.

Halloween. We went as ourselves. 

My eldest turned 10 this year. He's got to stop doing that. 

Sean's 10th birthday celebration.

More of the same celebration.

And as luck would have it, we did get to see Paul and Holly again. We spent Thanksgiving with them in Connecticut.

Monique and her fall bouquet. 

My boys. What would my life be without them?  Less crazy.

Walking in Simsbury, CT with the Ross-Sipes family.

Waiting in CT.

Sophie in her ice-hockey mask on the ice rink.

The Elf-on-the-shelf  kept watch on the kids.

Leaving out milk, cookie and a peppermint stick for Santa. 

"Oh Christmas tree"

That's us!

I can't win them all

Growing up, my packed lunches were 2 simple slices of crust-less white bread, often with a Kraft single-sliced cheese and ham.  For a more bizarre and dangerous combination, it might have been buttered raisin bread but always teamed up with the same perfectly square cheese and ham. It might have looked fresh when it was first packed but the killer tropical humidity and heat always managed to put the capital ‘S’ in stink by the time I peeled opened my plastic lunchbox to reveal the limp cheese and equally soggy bread exhausted by its efforts to keep cool.

Did I eat them? Hell no! I must have scammed hot noodles off some unsuspecting friend and dumped the sad lunches in the back corner of the school bus every day at exactly 7.25 pm, probably as the bus rounded the corner into our estate where I lived.

I figured that my kids will not have to suffer through the boring lunches that I had. The health-food Nazi in me was determined that their lunches were going to be healthy. That meant that I’ve said “No” to whines and pleas for bought lunches at school. My kids aren’t going to buy pizzas and chicken Franken-nuggets even if they cost as little as $1.50 for a meal and if it meant saving me the headache of preparing lunches in the morning.

The Nazi in me was willing to prepare lunches in the morning just so that her kids could eat varied lunches like freshly packed salmon onigiri (Japanese rice balls) with seaweed or shrimp and cucumber sushi rolls or couscous with homemade meatballs; pasta with olives etc. Very rarely was lunch a simple ham and cheese sandwich and if it were, it would still have been browned in butter on the outside so that it looked liked the perfect cheese melt.

Yes, my kids will eat lunch – healthy, stylish and hopefully, not sweaty lunches.

But did I also mention that life can really throw a curve ball at the best laid plans?

Friday morning at the breakfast table, my kids talked about how some of their friends didn’t eat bread crusts and how most had packed ‘unhealthy’ lunches – according to their lunch-Nazi Mom’s definition. Then, Sean brought up that his friends voted his lunch as….drum roll..... the “Yuckiest!” Apparently, I only lost by a nose hair to some other kid’s mother who’d been packing her son -- “brown blobs” which were considered even far worse than my "Yuckiest" title. She reigned champion. 

I’m flattered.

The only upside to my “Yuckiest” packed lunches is that my dear kids actually like them.

Or it could just be the strange voices talking in my head.

I leave you with a recent drawing by Aidan hopefully to distract you from my newly achieved lunch title. I'm the unmistakable brown and blue blob. 

The case for homemade dumpling wrappers

10 years back, a Taiwanese mummy friend once confided in me in a mock whisper that a Taiwanese mother wasn’t worth her salt as a cook if she didn’t know how to make dumpling skin from scratch.

My limited mandarin skills couldn’t assert the expression “get out?!” with quite the same punch so I let my jaw drop and my eyes cross. Evidently, my look of horror was indicative enough that I was worth neither salt nor dumpling because I’d depended on those factory-made life savers for years. Abashedly, I admitted to her that I didn’t make my own dumpling wrappers. Maybe she felt pity for me so she hastily and cheerfully added that neither did she.

For years I rationalized that since I wasn’t Taiwanese, I didn’t have to live up to their cultural expectations. But curiosity got the better of me one weekend, plus I was tired of the hour drive to the Asian grocery shop in Ithaca whenever I was low on dumpling wraps and of the many times I couldn’t make dumplings because I didn’t have a ready stash in the fridge.

Dumpling skin is simply flour and water. Anyone who has made pie crust, bread dough or similar would intuitively know how to fashion the dumpling dough with warm water and a teeny bit of oil. The dough came together and it didn’t look perfect. The recipe assured that it was perfectly fine as it was and that allowing it to rest would allow the gluten proteins to work their magic in enabling pliable dough. While the dough sat and stared, I got busy with salting cabbage leaves for my meat and vegetable filling, and the necessary greens like garlic chives and spring onions.

Now, garlic chives dumplings are possibly my favourite kind. When we lived in Taiwan, we were walking distance (25 mins or so) to a small Ma and Grandma shop that made the most flavourful garlic chives dumplings -- ever. I thrived on them for many lunch meals. My fat year-old baby loved them and so did the older kids. Then, one day when I took my Taiwanese neighbour to the dumpling shop and ordered the usual for my kids and myself, she was surprised that I didn’t order the plainer, non-garlic chives variety for my kids. She claimed that her kids wouldn’t touch them complaining of its overpowering taste. Well, I gleefully thought to myself,  “more garlic chives dumplings for me then!”

Sometimes I get updates about the two little ladies who run the dumpling store. “They’ve asked about you”, wrote my close Taiwanese friend one time. I’d like to think I’d single-handedly boosted their business during those 2 years. I hope they will be around for as long as garlic chives dumplings are a staple of Taiwanese cuisine.

I didn’t steam or boil up the dumplings as the recipe suggested to thoroughly savour the taste and texture of homemade wraps. I will tell you that I slaved all afternoon making those damn dumplings and will spare you the doubtful thoughts, (and several curses under my breath when I forgot to sprinkle flour on the wrapped dumplings and they all stuck together like a possessed long dumpling train) that played in my mind as to whether homemade dumplings from scratch were really worth all that time.

Sigh, they were.

Nonya wannabe

Singapore 2009: Nonya, my sweets. 

This picture was taken on my last trip back to Singapore. We walked by a stall in Chinatown tended by a kebaya-clad genial lady who’d immediately reached for my children while I remained distracted by the pretty rows of kuehs.  Candidly, she posed with them like she’d known them for ages. I posted the picture on Facebook as part of an album dedicated to my visit back home. A friend then asked if she was my mother since she did look the part of a doting grandparent. I snorted and answered, “Nope, but I wished she were then, I would have hit the jackpot of Mothers because she would have made me many a yummy Nonya kueh!”

Sorry Mom.

I imagined that a Nonya mother dotingly handed out kuehs the way chinese dragon-mothers zealously handed out smacks. In an alternate reality, perhaps that kebaya-clad lady was responsible for the colourful, sticky and sweet kuehs which she constantly lavished on her Peranakan offspring. And any excess, she would sell at a stall -- exactly like the one in this picture -- where the dainty rainbow treats beckoned kids and mothers alike. The glutinous jewels that promised flavours like coconut, pandan essence (from screwpine leaves) and loads of gula melaka (palm sugar) were tempting reminders of childhood years gone by that would make mothers succumb, forking out the ke-ching just to relish them once more.

I figured that since I wasn’t part-Peranakan (Nonya), I'd missed out on a whole lot of kuehs in my lifetime!

(from top right clockwise: chopped pandan leaves; readying the pan with banana leaves; pandan leaves extract; steamed  glutinous rice with knotted pandan leaves)

Worse, being this far away from Southeast Asia, made Nonya kuehs plainly exotic, if not largely unheard of. Like I’ve said before, desperation can lead people -- namely me -- to some pretty bizarre thoughts like one that sprang to mind of late, “it's about time I learned to make kueh.”

(from top right clockwise: double boiling the custard; kueh sarlat sliced; side view of kueh sarlat;  steamed  glutinous rice base layer) 

Likely possessed by benevolent Peranakan deities, I channeled the powers of well-honed nonya cooks and in a trance-like stupor, googled “kueh”. The worldwide web flashed a wealth of recipes and even decent pictures of the final goods. The Gods were obviously on my side. The stars had conspired; I was ripe for kueh sarlat making.

It really wasn’t difficult; the invoked deities were obviously determined to see me succeed. I started making the kueh late one afternoon and by end-dinner time, the steamed spongy cake was ready. Ignoring my satiety, I gobbled down 2 rich slices of kueh sarlat and it was very, very, very good. I shoved down one more slice just for good measure and grudgingly shared the rest with the family and work colleagues.

I realize that part-Nonya I'm definitely not, but I’m certainly part-greedy pig.

Kueh Sarlat Recipe:
300gm Glutinous Rice (soaked for about 4 hours)
200ml Santan (coconut milk)
1/2 tbsp of Salt
Pandan leaves knotted
Banana leaves (cleaned)
* I only had 250 grams of rice and had to adjust the other ingredients accordingly.


Top Layer for Serikaya Custard
25gm Corn Flour
30gm Plain Flour
3 Eggs
125gm Sugar
200ml of Santan (coconut milk)
90ml of sieved Pandan water (blend about 5 leaves of pandan with water)
* I used about 10 leaves inspite of the recommended recipe.




Place the soaked and drained rice on a steamer.


Place the knotted pandan on it and steam for about 15 minutes.


Add the salt into santan and stir to dissolve.


Sprinkle or pour in the santan on the rice gently and fluffing the rice.


Steam for a further 20 minutes and for the santan to be absorbed into the rice.


Remove the steamed rice and place it on a pan lined with banana leaves and press it down with something flat. I used the back of a spoon. Make sure it is pressed down firmly. It helps with the end result.


Place the pressed rice into the steamer and steam for a further 15 minutes. Keep it there while making the Serikaya Custard.


Serikaya Top Layer:
In a small mixing bowl, stir eggs, santan and sugar with a wooden spoon.


When the ingredients are all mixed together, add in the corn flour, plain flour and the water from blending the pandan with water. (the water should be a shade of green).


Stir it till it is well mixed. My mixture was dark enough but seemingly with 5 leaves, it may not be and the addition of green colouring is recommended by the original recipe. I voted a big "no" since I'm not a huge fan of chemical additives. Plus, neon green isn't my preferred shade.


Strain this mixture.


Prepare a heatproof bowl over a pan of hot simmering water. Double boil it and stirring it all the time.


Make sure the fire is at its smallest to prevent curdling of the custard.


Cook till it has thicken but not overcooked.


When it has thickened, you can pour into the pan with the rice below.


Steam the two layers for about 30 minutes on low heat.


Cool the Kueh Sarlat, slice with sharp knife dipped in cold water. Serve.

Kolache

(Clockwise from top right: Savoury kolache fresh from the oven; sweet kolache with 2 toppings -- cottage cheese and strawberry; savoury kolache exposed; sweet kolache with 3 toppings -- far right has a prune filling)

My baking and cooking days haven't ceased -- if you are wondering about the lack of food posts of late. No Siree, I love food too much to have my work life quash my addiction for the sublime textures and tastes that good food offers. Plus, the era of google searches has brought food recipes (that I would otherwise have no access to) within a quick tip-tap on the keyboard.

Every now and again, I remember bits from my days in Houston where good food wasn't hard to find. I was hankering for savoury kolache in the style of the breakfast ones I used to have at a bakery called "The Kolache factory". A colleague/friend had introduced it to me in my early Houston living days these delightful  baby soft buns stuffed with scrambled eggs, jalapeno cheese and smokey sausage. The pillow-like pastries were worth the additional miles tagged onto my drive en route to work. I doubt if these are authentic stuffing found in a Czech Kolache but the person who infused Tex-Mex flavours to popularize these Eastern European pastries in the Southwest was genius.

So, I had to bake some Czechoslovakian-inspired kolache. I say 'inspired' only because I've never had the real McCoy in the country where it hails from, and if my Czech friend stumbled on this, she might think I was smoking some sort of herbal weed if my version differed greatly from hers. So, I protect my reporting integrity by saying that the recipe used yields kolache like the ones I've eaten plenty times in Houston.

They weren't difficult to make but like all good food, you can't rush through each step. The prunes had to soak, the fresh strawberries had to cook down into a jam all while waiting for the buttery yeast dough to rise. The filling and the dough were prepared and laid on baking trays the night before so that the following morning, all that had to be done was to spoon filling into each wide-mouthed dough parcels and leave them to bake for 25 minutes.

That Monday morning, my little people were the first to try the freshly baked sweet kolache which they tucked in between mouthfuls of cold milk. And the still warm savoury kolache stuffed with cheesy bratwurst, pickled jalapenos and hash brown were lovingly wrapped and placed in three lunch bags.

Lucky little buggers!

6 and 8

I don’t remember being 8 years old, much less being 6. I don’t have old photos of myself here in NY to remind me of scenes frozen from yesteryear. There weren’t many of me anyway by the time I was born because my parents were probably far too busy to record our lives the way they did when my eldest sister was little where upon every breath she took, a Polaroid picture emerged.

My memories are less pictorial but more illusive like the one where I’d been feeding the back corner floor of the school bus my stale and limp buttered raisin bread to avoid the wrath of my eagle-eyed mother who would check my lunch box daily; or the night where I’d literally dry retched because I caught my parents kissing. Mostly, I remembered racing my older sisters to independence and longing the same privileges I’d assumed they were handed (which weren’t many on hindsight) with each passing year.

Chosen artwork (2nd down from top) displayed at the Corning Museum of Glass (11 May, 2011)

Birthdays marked my gradual pull away from my mother’s cautious grip. I wanted to hear more,"Yes, you may," rather than "No, you are too young!" Plus it got increasingly annoying being mistaken for being younger than my actual age. I couldn't understand my mother's glee over "looking young" when I felt it  was more of a scourge back then having to politely refuse the kids' in-flight party pack at 22 years old on board Quantas airlines.

Daddy's girl (19 May, 2011)

My babies have been asserting their independence from the first cry and those independent roots dig deeper like stubborn taunts.  So, I understand if Aidan’s dreams of world domination propels him to the moon and back in one breath but the 6-year old in him still makes him pause to steal another hug from me. Or the way Monique assumes the role of boss lady but is still vulnerable and sensitive to her friends’ unrelenting questions about her seaweed wrapped lunch. Eventually (and hopefully), their self-assuredness will rely less on the hubs and myself and like the proverbial 3 little pigs, they will set forth on their own.

Astro boy and his sidekick (28 April,2011)

They both turned 6 and 8 in April and May. Their joint ages probably marks the number of white hairs sprouting on my head but eventually, I will lose count of these numbers the same way I’m starting to lose count of the rapidly graying strands.

The reigning undefeated puzzle Master in our house (April, 2011). 

But, I don’t want to forget them at this age. I want to remember them just as they are today -- the scent of child-sweat mingled with grass and mud -- an endearing combination just shy of an adult stink. I want to remember the way they shine in their element because it will help me forget the nag they bring out in me and help me gloss over my struggles to keep patient when their back-chats niggle at my nerves.

Perhaps one day, they'll forget being 6 or 8, the way I did. That is fine. But, they will always be mine and when all else goes south and I'm cushioned in adult diaper, I want to be able to look through this blog and be reminded of scenes locked in time. I know it will put a gummy smile on my weathered face.

Salsera pequeña (8 May, 2011)

This one is for me when I’m an old woman.

The Birthday boy and his numerous expressions

Monique's rite of passage (1 May, 2011)