17 hours

14:18 hrs
Somewhere between Penang and KL

It's a long journey home and for the past 7 hours, I've done little more than eat, read and nap. For 17 hours, my life is distilled into the simplest choices between feeding my body or my mind, or closing my eyes and letting the world, along with its cheery platform send-offs, pass me by.

For 17 hours, life exists and revolves around this tiny carriage with chattering old folks and petulant toddlers. I've found my place right here – 10D by the window – and I stay firmly in my seat, watching the changing scenery outside the train doors. I contemplate crawling over my sleeping companion to stretch my legs, but the hypnotic blur of passing shrubs and the soothing lull of a moving train keeps me rooted, at least for another minute.

The feeling of staying put yet simultaneously moving is an odd but comfortable contrast. It's a soothing balm for a restless spirit, and an unshackled grounding for a gypsy heart.

Sing me a song again, daddy.

"Once when my younger heart was broken, your shoulder was there to cry on.
Sing me those songs I know will linger, long after you have gone."

He never had to use harsh words or to hold a cane in his hand, but his strong silence was very effective in keeping a young, feisty girl in check. I used to think that I feared him, all those nights I stayed past my curfew and stared at my ringing phone with trepidation, but now that I've grown up, I realised that it wasn't fear that had me scurrying home. It was respect.

Something he told me when I was really young has stuck with me all these years. I was no more than 9, and it was just another ordinary night at the dinner table. I can't remember the context of our conversation, but I do remember him turning to me and saying, very matter-of-factly. "Respect is something that has to be earned, not given. For example, I want you to call me papa because you respect me, not because you have to."

We've had our differences – we still do – for I've made some unconventional choices through the years. But in his quiet way he's stood by me through all of it – sending me off at the airport to India (muttering under his breath about the dangers of an uncharted land), sending me off at the airport to Paris (grumbling about the strange Frenchman who stole my heart), and rubbing my shoulders in comfort when I returned home from a trip sobbing over a heartbreak (no, not the Frenchman). Very calmly, he put down the evening papers and held out his arms when I dropped my backpack at the front door.

In recent years, I feel like we've swopped roles, now that his strength is gradually slipping away with age. But when I slipped my hand into his this morning as we walked home from breakfast, I felt it – the rock-steady spirit I know I can always rely on, even when he doesn't look it.

Isn't he amazing?

Foodie perks and fangirl moments.

A few months ago, I had the chance of meeting Poh Ling Yeow. For the uninitiated, Poh's a MasterChef Australia (season 1) finalist and the host of Poh's Kitchen on TLC. I've been a fan of her vivacious TV personality and I was chuffed to get to interview her for my column. It took a hell lot of restraint not to blog about this that very weekend, and after what seems like forever, our June issue's finally out on the newsstands.

Apart from all that eating, getting to meet and pick the brains of foodies and chefs has got to be one of the best perks of my job. The excitement never gets old, although I like to think that I've developed a bit more poise since the year I ran across a ballroom just to get a picture with David Rocco. Coincidentally, my dear photographer friend Sook Wai, who egged me on to cop a shot with Rocco then, was snapping for this event as well. This is me, immortalised on film.

I burst out laughing when I first saw this. So this is what I really look like when I'm in food heaven.

Speaking of MasterChef, Ran and I attended a cooking class organised by Cookpad International last Sunday. It was organised team competition style, which was new but kinda fun, in a Masterchef-y sorta way. The kitchen zen I so enjoy while slicing things up eluded me and I found myself alternating between fervently checking the clock and anxiously thawing-frying-grilling beef. It almost felt like I was back at Saffron, 'cept that there was no nasty-tempered head chef staring holes into our backs. It was quite a Sunday evening and one thing's for sure – there's no way in hell I'm ever signing up to be on Masterchef, ever!

My team of lovely ladies.

Our tomato salad and under-caramelised onions.

The burgers turned out pretty well, though.

Jacqui treated us to her awesomely yummy cupcakes. That's the salted caramel and vanilla bean.

And that's Jon, the event organiser and director of international product for Cookpad, Inc. Within 5 minutes of Facebooking this shot, I had two very enthusiastic texts from my female friends asking who that hunk of a man was. Focus on the food, women!