Last dusk of 2011.

Two weeks ago, I settled back into my favourite Keralan hammock after breakfast and I thought hard. What is it that I want to achieve in 2012? To mediate everyday, to listen to my body, to complete 100 hours of yoga, to speak with care... there weren't many resolutions that came to mind after I spent a long time staring at the page and listening to the dancing breeze.

The truth is, I'm not great at making – and keeping – resolutions. I'm not sure if tangibilising a year's worth of abstract "I should do this" notions will actually spur me out of the rut that I settle into ever so comfortably as the next year progresses. Most of us have the freedom to remake our choices and relive our lives anytime. Why then do so many of us wait till the very last moments, right before the turning of a year, to search our souls and ask ourselves what it is that we really want? Do we, and will we, ever know what we want?

For a long time now, I feel like I've been living in waiting. It's almost like the many moments in my life have been orchestrated as a lead up to something, something that will make sense of all the choices I have made and lived by so far. A greater truth, if I may call it that, though not quite in the religious sense of things. Spiritual maybe.

So until the answer to life's great mystery weaves its way around to me, here's to you 2011. And 2012, I really hope the Mayans were wrong. I've got too much living left to do.

India calling.

Four Decembers ago, I took off to Ahmedabad with trepidation in my veins, wondering if I'd possibly made the worst decision of my life. Even though I didn't quite become the vegan yogi I'd envisioned, I returned half a year later an entirely changed person. India was the best thing I'd done for myself.

It's been a long time coming, but I'm finally going back, to the country that amazed even as it baffled and frustrated me.

You

I stand suspended
in your center
In a limbo
I linger

The unobtrusive voyeur
in your kaleidoscope
Impassive glances
upon your hazy throes

I reach out seeking
beyond the mad
for your spirit
one single thread

My fingers slipped through
your smudged translucence
And I returned untouched
A virgin maiden.

I wrote that during my first month, when I was bubbling over with an intoxicating combination of insatiable curiosity, bright-eyed wonder and homesickness in Delhi.

My itinerary's all mapped out, but before the road tripping begins, I'll be spending the first couple of days on my own in an Ayurvedic retreat. I'm looking forward to the quiet and solitude. The lack of everything may just prove conducive for meditating on life's great questions.

And though I know exactly where I'm going and who I'll be meeting, I haven't got a clue what awaits me the minute I step out of the plane tomorrow night. There they are... the first stirrings of wonder and, dare I hope, magic?

Rethinking yoga.

In recent months, watching a good friend drag her determined behind out of bed for 7am hot yoga lessons got me thinking of my forgotten fervour with the practice. A fervour that, rather ironically, died out upon my return from India almost four years ago. I'd sought to reconnect with the practice by seeking out new instructors, but I couldn't quite find in them the connection I had with the slightly eccentric Sunil, nor could I find in the studios the oasis of calm I found in Whatever.

Oh how I miss that calm. That bubble of deep breathing and chanting bells that insulated me against the craziness that is the world. The closest I get to that these days is zoning out on quiet mornings to Rodney Yee's Yoga for Energy DVD. "Feel the pause of the earth. Be that pause... Simple inhalation, simple exhalation. No effort, no restriction. Surrender completely."

Need to try another studio...

A picture paints a thousand words.

I've been reading a lot of travel literature of late, and a few works describe the Indian streetscapes I'd lived and breathed a little too long ago.

"Bullock carts trundle along red dirt roads..."
"Old women in blue saris sit on verandahs while their granddaughters troop along with jasmine flowers in their hair..."

Building on every line, the scene steadily came to life in my mind and I could almost hear the toot of car horns and smell the faint whiff of sundried turd. Wait a minute... those weren't the author's words; they were mine. That's when it dawned on me – those words had to be just part of the jigsaw that his eyes, or pen, chose to pick up on. What else did he see but not see? An unwashed beggar pleading for alms? Or the glint of a shiny commercial tower in the distance, juxtaposed against the fertile greenery?

The written word is ambiguous that way, but therein lies its beauty.

When faced with a reader's freewheeling imagination, a single written phrase takes on endless interpretations. What shades of blue were the grannies wearing? Were they grinning toothy welcomes, or snarling in hostility at being observed? In a single shot, a photograph would have captured that, and more, but I'd very much rather watch the scene unfold in my mind's eye. There's a lot more room to dream that way.

This made me think of the heated arguments I used to have with an ex-lover on his obsession for photography. I thought that they stemmed from my childishness but on hindsight, maybe they weren't so absurd after all. He was a visualist living to capture the present; I was a wordsmith absorbing the present to mull on later. I am as much the eternal dreamer as he is the stark realist.

Little miracles.

There we were back at the same table. Mentors and juniors; past and present. It's been way too long, but the entire gang finally gathered last night over a hell lot of bubbly and laughter. Heartfelt speeches were made, tears were shed, and too many IKEA glasses were broken.

It didn't seem that long ago that we'd all come together to work towards the same goal, a group of seemingly different women united by our shared love for publishing. The hopes and dreams that brought us together may have since changed, but last night was an affirmation that the friendships and bonds are made to last.

I started out 17 months ago hoping just for decent colleagues, but I've come away with so much more. Isn't publishing amazing? :)

"We are light bulbs in the electrical system of the universe."

The past month has been tough, very tough indeed. I've done the mental equivalent of climbing mountains and slaying dragons, and my spirit is worn and weary. I like to think the worst is over, but do dragons ever die, or do they only sleep?

I'd never been in this dark a place for so long a time, and it was a scary, scary place to be. A twisted wonderland of confusion where clouds of illusion and deceit swirled around me, nibbling at my soul and putting my core values to the test. There were times when I wished there was a greater power I could turn to. After riding on an endless merry-go-round of what-ifs, all I wanted to do was to thrust my decision into the hands of a more enlightened being. But to shirk the responsibility of shaping my life is a bit of a cop out, isn't it?

I ultimately fell back on the non-religion that's always worked best for me – catharsis. I don't doubt that I would have found some peace of mind sitting in a church or a temple, but it was through verbalising my innermost demons to the priests and priestesses of my heart that I got the clarity I needed.

However, this whole dark spell did get me thinking about religion, and I'm gonna go out on a limb here and try to tangibilise my often abstract notions. As much as I live life more by my personal rules of karma and goodwill than a particular faith, I do believe in God. I just haven't decided what form my God takes, or if he/she/it should even take any. Instead, I like to believe that God is within all of us.

Coincidentally enough, right after I'd exhausted all forms of catharsis and finally arrived at a decision, my colleague returned me my copy of Sarah McDonald's Holy Cow, which he'd been holding on to for several months. A few nights later, I thumbed idly through the book and started re-reading it from a middle chapter, and a particular paragraph jumped off the page. In it, McDonald was discussing Hinduism and the concept of God.

"God is not a judgemental giant sitting up in heaven, it's a force within us all – we are light bulbs in the electrical system of the universe."

See, I always knew that if push came to shove and I had to choose a religion to save my life, I'd pick Hinduism.

Sangria sober.

For ten days I've mulled, moped and fought mental wars. Heck, I even contemplated going to sit in a church in search of a sign, an indication of sorts that my decision would be the right one.

I finally experienced my moment of clarity today, after I downed my happy hour drink a little too quickly in the temple of booze. Ironically, through my tears, my answer was as clear as day. And my head and heart finally sang the same tune.

Booze may not the answer to all questions, but sangria gave me the answer to mine. Here goes nothing. Salud!

Desired things.

When I was younger, I couldn't wait to grow up. Adulthood seemed to hold so many colourful, exciting things that were out of reach of my tiny grubby hands. Every birthday was a step closer to that bright future (and a reason for me to have my friends over to eat cake and stomp on balloons); every birthday was a chance to dream up a new fairytale. When I was 16, I couldn't wait to be 18. I wanted to be able to drink, drive and party. And when I was 18, I couldn't wait to be 21, to watch R(A) movies, get married on a whim and oh, whatever it is to be a legal adult.

Well, adulthood really isn't quite what a five-year-old me imagined it to be. You see, apart from all the drab realities that come with it, being an adult gives you choice, power and opportunities. Dreams are all they are when you're five – if I wanted to be a teacher, all I had to do was lay out my Barbie dolls and wobble about in my sister's stilettos acting all grown up. My flight stewardess career could wait until tomorrow. Fast forward 20 years, and I am actually able to do something to attain my dream, whatever it now is. But with great power comes great responsibility. No, I kid you not. Knowing that I have the choice and the power to change and shape my life whenever and however I want to scares me, because I desperately want to do the right thing; because I am a slave to calculating opportunity costs. And ironically, power leaves me feeling a little powerless sometimes, too.

Am I having a quarter life crisis? That may explain the restlessness brewing inside me, the growing need to charge journeys, seek clarity and chase the dream, however fluid and murky it currently may be. And I will. Or it would be an awful waste of adulthood, wouldn't it?


Desiderata
Max Ehrmann

Go placidly amid the noise and haste,

and remember what peace there may be in silence.

As far as possible, without surrender,
be on good terms with all persons.
Speak your truth quietly and clearly,
and listen to others;
even the dull and the ignorant;

they too have their story.

Avoid loud and aggressive persons,

they are vexations to the spirit.

If you compare yourself with others,

you may become vain or bitter;
for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself.

Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans.
Keep interested in your own career, however humble; 

it is a real possession in the changing fortunes of time.
Exercise caution in your business affairs, 

for the world is full of trickery.

But let this not blind you to what virtue there is;

many persons strive for high ideals;

and everywhere life is full of heroism.

Be yourself.
Especially, do not feign affection.

Neither be cynical about love;

for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment,
it is as perennial as the grass.

Take kindly the counsel of the years, 

gracefully surrendering the things of youth.

Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune.
But do not distress yourself with dark imaginings.
Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness.

Beyond a wholesome discipline,

be gentle with yourself.

You are a child of the universe,

no less than the trees and the stars;

you have a right to be here.

And whether or not it is clear to you,

no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should.

Therefore be at peace with God,

whatever you conceive Him to be,

and whatever your labours and aspirations,

in the noisy confusion of life keep peace with your soul.

With all its sham, drudgery, and broken dreams,

it is still a beautiful world.

Be cheerful.

Strive to be happy.

Korkor's food hero.

Late last year, I stalked bookshops in anticipation of the release of Cooking for the President, intended to be a birthday cum Christmas gift for my aunt. For those who know her, my aunt (or korkor as she's fondly known) is neither a woman of demands nor one of an extensive range of emotions, but she was near rabid as the day of the book's release drew nearer. "Girl, did the bookshops call you? You mean they didn't send a copy to your office?"
I don't know what it was about the book that drew her so; all I knew was that she really wanted it.

My cousin ended up gifting her with the book while I was away in Japan, but I'm having the last laugh as the official taster of the dishes korkor tries out. It's been nine months since and not a week goes by without korkor brandishing a new dish while declaring that the recipe worked perfectly. That's a tall order, for she never trusts recipes ("aiyah, chefs will never tell you everything), but the flawless instructions in the book has made the author Ms. Wee Eng Hwa a rock star (or "food hero", as we say in the magazine) in korkor's eyes.

Well guess what – last night, I met the rock star and tasted her cooking, at a birthday dinner Ms. Wee hosted for my ex-colleague turned very dear friend, Jo. No amount of egging would nudge korkor out of her shell to attend the party with me, but she did wait up to hear my blow-by-blow account of the food.

Cooking for the President is a tome filled with over 200 recipes compiled by the daughter of our former president Wee Kim Wee. Someone compared it to the Larousse Gastronomique equivalent for Nonya cooking, and I couldn't agree more.

Menu of the night

Jo and Ms. Wee

Pong towhu (Beancurd, prawn & pork meatball soup)

Sok Hiong's bungah pekkak tow eu kway (Star anise soya sauce chicken)

Chap chye (Nonya stewed vegetables)

Sambal udang (Prawns in chilli paste)

Itek sioh (Coriander braised duck)

Nonya noodles – a must for birthdays!

Curry chicken – we were hyperventilating by then

Pulot hitam (Sweet black glutinous rice porridge)

Final course! Pulot seri kaya (Egg coconut milk custard on glutinous rice cake)

And a snap for posterity.

WHAT A SATURDAY NIGHT! I'm humbled and truly honoured. :)

For more information or to purchase a copy of the book visit www.cookingforthepresident.com.

Laidback tripping aka Why Adelaide is not for 'Type A' types

Great weather, good food, good wine, lazy swims and soaks in hot tubs and golly, eight hours of sleep every night! These all sound like the perfect ingredients for a great holiday, but as much as I enjoyed the getaway, it wasn't too long before super laidback Adelaide got a teeny bit too ardous for me.

I was looking forward to immersing myself in the heartbeat of a colourful city, but all I found was a faint bleep on the cardiac monitor. Surprise, surprise! Adelaide resembles a sleepy retirement village (complete with plan your funeral commercials playing on the telly), even when the weekday CBD folks came out to play. Taking it slow may be just what the doctor prescribed for us high-strung types, but unfortunately, prolonged periods of lazy time don't quite sit well with me. Me and my pitiful Type A personality.

It was 5pm on a Thursday and there we were in the heart of the Barossa Valley, sipping cocktails and watching the sun set over vineyards while waiting to be seated for dinner at the the ultra swanky Appellation. Picture perfect and something others would kill for, but right there and then, nothing appealed more than the thought of hammering at the keyboard on my messy office desk. No siree, I don't think I do lazy very well at all.

But that said, it was still a good holiday and if anything, the break's made me look forward to Monday morning more than I have in awhile. Helloooo deadlines, oh how I've missed you. In the meantime, here are my favourite snaps from my week of kicking it back in South Australia.

Breakfast for junkies. In transit at Melbourne airport, and the only time I felt real hunger for the rest of the week.

Fresh produce at Adelaide Central Market. Oh the colours!

It's always nice to have a street with your name on it, even if it wasn't named after you.

Hotel room picnic with market buys: Cheap but yummy Moscato, crackers, salami and the tastiest chilli speckled pecorino.

Sunday brunch to share at Cafe Crema in Glenelg: Chorizo & beans hotpot and vanilla chai lattes.

One of my favourite buys. Rings that actually mean something!

Foodie stop: Good Life Modern Organic Pizza.

Love their philosophy...

And their sea salt speckled garlic bread.

Pity about the pizza!

Mucking around in the candy shop.

Tram ticket wisdom. I like new beginnings!

Braving the dark, quiet streets to dinner at Sparrow Kitchen & Bar.

The wine-fuelled walk back was not scary at all. I wonder why?

Italian breakfast at Rigoni's on Leigh (MY) Street.

Breakfast for champions: 2D muscle men and a cappuccino.

All set to conquer Harbour Town.

Harbour Town sunset.

Sunset in the CBD.

The yummiest fritto misto at Andre's Cucina & Polenta Bar.

Perfect spring weather at the Pennington Gardens.

Breakfast at the uber quaint The Store on Melbourne Street.

Fluffy pancakes BURSTING with blueberries.

Need versus want, simplified.

Love their clean-smelling organic skincare.

Impromptu fancy dinner getup with my storebought blazer and beaded blouse. All for just under AUD50. ;) India's trained the bargain hound in me very well indeed.

Zucchini blossoms at Auge. Oh how I love thee!

Checking in to our gorgeous room (Room #1) The Stirling Hotel in the Adelaide Hills.

On to a late lunch at The Locavore. Brililant concept (and a very charming boss).

The setting's pretty awesome too, though I had to squint to read the wall of wines when we returned for dinner on our last night.

Happy as a clam to finally sit down to our first meal at 3pm.

With the obligatory glass of wine! And wishing I'd piled on more than two layers as it was getting rather chilly outside.

Nursing our post-dinner food coma with a chick flick. You've Got Mail hits the spot every single time.

Delicious pan-fried gnocchi at 1918 Bistro & Grill in the Barossa. I don't think I've ever eaten so much gnocchi and eggs Ben in a week!

Chef's tasting menu at Appellation. I was wishing so bad I would be hungry...

But I entered the dinner hall full, and left stuffed and a tad too mellow from the wines.

Cappuccino well done at The Stirling Bistro. They give us a AUD50 voucher for breakfast every morning, how generous!

If there's one thing the South Aussies do well, it's got to be poached eggs. I didn't have a single bad one, and trust me, I had ALOT of breakfast eggs on the trip.

Strolling through Hahndorf, a German town in the Adelaide Hills.

The town was a bit touristy, but gorgeous nonetheless. It made us feel like it was Christmas morning!

Look what I found while poking through the curio shops. Now that's just how I like to cook!

Sipping hot chocolate in the sunshine.

And posing for a picture, of course!

Back to The Locavore for some last night hurrah. Our waiter Ben, who's lived in Asia and is super fluent in Singlish, took wine tasting VERY seriously. We finally decided on our choice of red after five bottles. Or was it six?

So after a coma-inducing meal, and after we had, against all odds, polished off a 'meal on its own' sticky fig pudding to applause, Ben presented us with complimentary petits fours (or threes?) with a flourish. "This is just because I want to kill you."

His ploy failed, though we did roll out of the restaurant three hours later a little worse for wear. See you if you get here to Singapore lah, Ben. ;)