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)

Monday

My hubs was wheeled into the ER Monday morning when the weekend irregular heartbeats he’d experienced worsened to dizziness, chest and left-side body pains minutes upon arriving at work. He’d at least the good sense to call the company nurse where then 5 company paramedics rushed to his aide, administered nitroglycerin and made him dry crunch aspirin. Vials of blood work were drawn from him and by then, Corning Hospital’s paramedics were already at the scene to speed him off to the ER.

I was nowhere at his side.

In fact, when I arrived work at 11.30am -- after having taken the 2 little-lies and myself to a dentist appointment that morning-- my work colleagues’ ashen faces were the only indication that something was not right.

While my hubs was hooked up to wires and cords --that prodded his chest and arms-- with ends that snaked to machines, he was still in denial that he needed medical attention. I stayed no longer than ½ hour by his side before he shooed me off explaining that he was getting stressed knowing that my being with him was hampering me from meeting my work deadline.

He was asked to stay Monday night for further observation. The medical results collected over 1.5 days showed no indications of heart damage or signs of something remediable (or not). I don’t know what could be worse than leaving a hospital knowing that the medical professionals had no clue what went wrong.

Actually it could be worse.

Later that Tuesday evening, I drove over to the kids’ school to pick them up and ran into Sean’s Grade 1 teacher. She related sad news that one of the parent of her students passed away. He was 36 and his 2 children were no older than Aidan and Monique. He’d slumped to the ground whilst playing ice hockey and was pronounced dead by the time paramedics arrived at the scene.

We knew him only by affiliation. He worked at the same company, friends and colleagues at work knew him, he lived along the busy road that we drove past everyday commuting to places, he had a letterbox with his last name visible to the daily passing traffic, and his kids schooled with ours. My heart pained when I thought about his widow and young children.

Death has never been taboo. I recognize that we will all pass one day. I’d even gone ahead to instruct my hubs that should I be handicapped from an illness or accident, it would be the right thing for him to see that they pulled the plug. I don’t want my children burdened; I don’t want my spouse guilt-ridden into caring for my vegetative state. I don’t plan on having anyone see me at my most pathetic. Dying would be my freedom.

But Monday’s incident and the sudden death of Mr. 36-yr old made me fear death. I thought about the “what ifs” and how my children would cease having a father; my thoughts returned to the 2 young children of Mr. 36-yr old and realized that death was too cruelly random.

My hubs is now recognizing that he needs to take a breather. His vegan lifestyle might have helped with his cholesterol levels and blood profile but a continued stressful work lifestyle could still trigger a heart attack. Age isn’t on his side either.

And, we only have one heart and this life.

Balloon Girl

Balloon girl is uncomplicated.

To her, the promise of spring + frog rain boots + a balloon = Joy.

She showed me the spring in her bounce.

And tried to embrace the teasing beams.

But armed with a coat, she can better march into Spring.

"Are you still with me?"

"Come! Take my hand."

"We'll have so much fun..."

"... zooming about carefree."

"Right past Winter, just like this."

Steadfast Japan

News of Japan’s 9.0 magnitude earthquake shook my world. I was glued to news updates; I watched amateur videos online of tsunami ravages and widespread damages; I was sucked into following nearly every news and images captured. They differed but the content was always the same – Northeast Japan was in a sorry state; the Japanese people suffered; the damages were beyond imaginable.

That day, the scenes of rows of bobbing cars, ships and homes tossed around like they were bath toys gnawed into me. I felt sick to the stomach and reached out to friends in Japan on Facebook by typing out empty words of comfort. I needed to bond with them for reasons I couldn’t fathom.

Even as we mourned the insurmountable losses the affected faced, we’d all privately sighed a relief that Kobe was spared this time. Kobe had paid too dearly in 1995 when the 6.9 magnitude earthquake hit. Kobe folks -- as if acting on old memories -- reacted this time by buying toilet rolls by the dozens that resulted in storewide shortages.

Granted that I’d only lived in Kobe for a year and hadn’t fully assimilated into Japanese life well enough for me to converse in fluent Japanese, I’d fallen in love with Japan. From their well-preserved heritage and culture to their deliciously simple meals, Japan captivated me. And what I gained most was by observing and having contact with the locals that changed my life’s perspectives.

The Japanese taught me the importance of attention to details. Like in gift-giving, it was much less the “thought that counts” which in my culture, was an excuse to explain a haphazardly thrown-together present. To them, the thoughtful act started from the perfect home baked biscuits to the way they were presented in a cutesy basket, right down to the handing over the gift in their partial head-bent manner. They took pride in seeing their task from start to finish.

It is hard to compete with the Japanese on that account. The hubs once described to me a 50-ish year old Japanese man whose sole job was to direct cars in the company car park. With little more than a cloth flag and whistle and under the scorching summer sun in his smart uniform, he took on the seemingly mundane task with great fervor and not once did the cloth flag nor whistle rested. It was as good a job as any and some one had to do it, and he did --with pride.

Our cultural orientation guide told us about how harmony was an important concept in Japan when we first arrived in our host country. It didn’t mean anything to me at the time but days into Japanese living, I learnt that it was carried out unobtrusively in every Japanese breath. If you have a cold or cough, you put on the face mask, never mind how ridiculous you look. That is harmony; it is being considerate to others. One afternoon, my kids played in our apartment courtyard and the next day, the apartment superintendent came over and told me in his most polite way that they shouldn’t ride their bikes because the plastic wheels made a grating noise loud enough to offend neighbours in another building. I was annoyed but that was my kids’ and my lesson in harmony -- learning to make sacrifices for others.

I read in the recent Times magazine how one Japanese farmer, who had grains that were soiled from the tsunami floods had, inspite of, offered his neighbour his unblemished grains from his share. Such self-less sharing were more common reports than opportunistic looting in this period of food rationing. It is chaos in Honshu but the Japanese make up for it by being harmonious.

It makes me sad that the tsunami and earthquake have caused extensive damages and taken numerous lives. But Japanese values are universally about order, beauty and preservation; and the people are possibly one of the few industrious and stoic lot. Perhaps another country dealt with the same hand might falter at rebuilding attempts but not my beloved Japan. They will weather this stoically and few years from now, the tears on the land would only be but beauty marks.

Winter Blues

"Hello, Old Man Winter."

Next to Autumn, Winter seems colourless.

It is bleak and harsh, stamping out life.

At times, it gets mind numbingly cold.

And the only colours on the ground are the plastic monstrosity forgotten at the first snowfall.

The kids don't care, they love crotchety Winter all the same.

Sure, there is shoveling but we like to call that "character building" and focus on how it'll help build "big muscles"!

But after a storm, beauty envelopes the landscape making postcard pictures of winter wonderland possible.

I love peering through the windows when everything is covered in either flaky, fluffy snow or the dense blanket that shroud branches.

But it also means that there is sweaty hard work on the other side that needs immediate attention. It is times like this I appreciate my 'man-shovel'.

It isn't very often that we get sunny blue skies after a snow storm but one morning, Winter had a change of heart and indulged me with a scene from wonderland.

That day, the kids were on a 2-hour school delay because of the storm. I waited with them and enjoyed the few moments capturing the glow the morning sun had cast over our backyard.

As you can tell, I have a fascination for snow covered trees.

Something about stark layers and gnarled still branches get me every time.

Snow dressed Christmas trees are eye candies especially when sunlight hits them at the right angle.

Otherwise, there is grave harmony when the sky is overcast.

Do not be deceived at the sight of these berries -- this isn't a hint of spring but evidence that Winter hasn't blanketed all colours.

It is end-February, and the snow pile keeps building. The groundhog's forecast for a long winter seems ominous.

But the kids are determined to gleefully ride out the rest of the season.