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!

No angry, no angry!

I'm writing a wellness article (food-related, duh!) and I'm researching a diet that's believed to cure cancer. All that talk about the disease is making me terribly attuned with my cells, and I have this gnawing fear that my suppressed aggression may one day colonise and multiply those cells. Scary! I should seriously get back to yoga.

Contemplation.

I have developed a temporary penchant for blogger-authors – bloggers who achieve so much success online they've taken their publishing offline. A little ironic, but who are we to question the peculiar laws publishing thrives on?

Reading Brit writer/Francophile Catherine Sanderson's Petite Anglaise brings back as many beautiful memories of my summer in Paris as it forces me to question why I've fallen off the blogging bandwagon. Afterall, it wasn't that long ago that I too, like her, tore up the keyboard with torrents of words. Perhaps it is time to admit that beneath the gratifying cathartic release of pent-up self-expression is a need to justify myself to both friends and strangers.

I like to think that the need for self-representation, along with the urge to share every single detail of my life, has diminished with age. However, I do miss the cave of contemplation I retreat to each time I write a solemn, soul-searching post. Having to translate an inner whirlpool of thoughts into comprehensible words forces me to dig deep to express the very essence of what I'm feeling, and needless to say, it has been a long while since I've burrowed that deep within.

But well, there's no better time than now I suppose, to put on my thinking blogger cap for a bit as I contemplate life at 24 going on 25.

A characteristic signpost of growing older is probably the sinking realisation that you are nowhere near what or where you thought you'd be at this age. I've charted out many paths in my imagination, but none of them have mapped out quite the way I'd envisioned. I haven't always been this driven, but I'm glad my half-hearted fumblings have led me to where I am today. I've gained some, lost some, and beneath it all, learnt the all-important lesson that nothing will ever stay the same.

Change is the only constant, they say. If I weren't already convinced by the age-old saying, then the recent spate of developments has most certainly made a convert out of me. There's a melancholic bittersweetness about acknowledging successes and dealing with losses. It's hard to explain any further without disclosing whatever I'm not yet supposed to, so all I can say for now is damn, tarot cards are spookily accurate!

And that's me back to skimming the surface once again. :)

Island love.

From my balcony in Junjungan Ubud, Bali. 2011.

Friends say the darnest things.

Two of my bestest girlfriends have, in the recent weeks, said some things that made me LOL. Even in retrospect.

Ceci (aka moisturiser/scent addict) on Aesop
Me: I love shopping at Aesop. Stepping into an Aesop shop instantly transports me back to
that rainy Sydney morning.
Ceci: Ya the smell's so calming. At the end of a shit day, there's Aesop.

 Jins, world-class lazy bum
Me (after a press trip where I was plied with way too much food): Babe I need to detox.
Jin: Ok, let's go to a retreat where we do nothing but sit by the pool and drink smoothies all day.

It's not your fault if you don't find it funny. My sense of humour is known to be a little... different. But I'm documenting this all the same for future stress-busting!

Postcards from paradise.

My recent island trip was supposedly for work, but the bunch of uber colourful characters made burning my weekend so worth it!

Jungle dining

Breakfast for one, which I really enjoyed! :) I love my morning zen.

Sunsets

Sneak peek into a super luxe retreat

Trust me to find time to cop out for not one, but two foot massages! Right across the hotel.

Friendships forged over plenty of coma-inducing meals!

Off to the islands.

I like to think my beach girl days are over. Gone are the times when I would daydream about lying in a hammock, lulled into a catnap by the sound of waves lapping against a not so distant shore; when my idea of fun involved baking myself in the intense sunshine; and when I fervently sussed out deals for beach getaways and island retreats.

It's a little ironic then that work is, once again, taking me back to the islands. And despite the bad leg situation, I was so excited it took me awhile to get to sleep last night. I may have hung up my beach sarong indefinitely, but I guess you can never quite tame my inner island chick. :)

Finding my food voice.

Around this time last year, I started lickthyspoon. I was then an eager, eager novice, having just signed on for the job of my dreams. I was very excited, but also a little daunted, by the steep learning curve that lay before me. I was a sponge, ready to lap up anything and everything that fell on my lap, and my plate.

lickthyspoon was my way of documenting my learning journey, but I took it down a while later as a lot of what I was writing professionally seemed to overlap with my blogging, and I really wasn't keen on navigating those grey, murky areas.

A year later and my portfolio's different enough for me to draw the line between my professional and personal writing. I also like to think that writing about food outside of work constraints will help me find and develop my professional voice. This may sound queer, but never question my always irrational mind!

I know my readership has dwindled greatly ever since I shut the blog down before the passing of my brother, but to whoever's reading - click on here and let me know how you like lickthyspoon. :)

Recharge.

It's been quite a week - not a bad one, and on the contrary one that brought some pretty good news - but I've woken up each morning more exhausted than the last. Things are rolling along rather nicely at the office, but I guess I've been placing one foot in front of the other a little too quickly in my pursuit of fast-forwarding growth. Cryptic, I know, but that's the best I can do on this grapevine of a world wide web.

So what do you do when you're mentally exhausted and in dire need of new batteries? Take the day off, of course. I've postponed this my leave many times over because work kept cropping, until I realised that there'll never really be a good time to take off because someone or something will always warrant your attention. So off I went.

But while I had grand plans to spend the morning sipping coffee and kneading dough, my past week of stunted productivity had me pounding away at my laptop all morning in hopes of hitting my revised target of submitting my article at noon. I did, thank goodness, so I spent a long while watching the rain pound down, reveling in the illicit feeling of having the rest of a supposed working day to myself.

And then I took my aunt to tea at PS. Cafe at Ann Siang, where I spent another two hours revelling in the illicit feeling of having a working day off. :)

Moving on.

So I've started yoga classes, again. Yep, three years after my last class with Sunil, I've finally moved on and found my inner yogi another home.

To be honest, I'm not quite sure how I feel about it just yet. It's in a quaint neighbourhood not unlike Whatever studio and I'm at ease with the instructor. But like a great love relationship, those surreal Wednesday evenings at Whatever are quite a (seemingly impossible) feat to measure up to, though I can never be sure if I'm looking back through rose-tinted glasses.

But yes, move on I shall. And it really is quite a nice start to the weekend, even if I have to propel/roll myself out of bed to get to class by 9.

Make it from scratch.

Changes don't happen overtime. More often than not, they manifest stealthily, sinuously... kinda like vines creeping up wrought-iron fences. Some changes are inconspicuous, inconsequential, while others are huge, especially when cast upon unsuspecting ol' me.

It started off innocently enough. On Monday, I initiated a Messenger chat with a friend to arrange for dinner, having missed a gathering while I was away in Japan. She suggested that we pop over to hers for some nosh and I, in typical dessert queen fashion, offered to bring dessert. The dinner was set for Friday, and I immediately started plotting the logistics. Bake cupcakes on Thursday night after chap goh meh dinner. Zip home after work on Friday, make frosting and ice cupcakes, pack them and cab over. Easy peasy. And then I lost myself browsing recipes online.

Fast forward to a wet, gloomy Friday evening. My work had taken and left me stranded in the middle of the CBD where every other person was waiting/calling for a cab. I had exactly an hour to get home, conjure up a batch of icing, frost the cupcakes and leave the house. My feet were aching, and I was starting to feel like an underdressed clown amidst the sea of perfectly coiffed executives. Deciding to brave the rain, I eased out of the taxi queue and went off in search of a bus-stop. And guess what cranky ol' me had to flip-flop past? Three dessert places. Ice-cream. Pastries. Perfectly iced cupcakes.

That's when it dawned on me. I should have bought dessert instead! A box of macarons or chocolate truffles, or maybe a tub of ice-cream. That would have saved me the late-night baking sweatshop and a prior trip home. Instead, when I had volunteered to bring the sweets, I had, without any further thought, already set my mind on baking something. Buying a readymade dessert could not have been further from my mind.

Thanks to the string of work-related recipe testings, cooking and baking from scratch have become so ingrained in me that I never thought to consider non-culinary possibilities. For a person who loves convenience and efficiency, and who only in the past year roasted a perfect bird, fully overcome her fear of knives and really derived pleasure from cooking, this change is huge. It's monumental. And I love it.

Next up? Bread and homemade ice-cream, me thinks. Can't wait. And here they are, the babies born out of Thursday night's baking sweatshop. I couldn't be prouder.

earl grey cupcakes with vanilla bean and cream cheese frosting

adapted from Chocolate and Zucchini gâteau au yaourt, and a million other recipes

The pantry diaries.

So, I was lounging on the couch with Sophie Dahl's cookbook on my tummy, mentally running through my pantry as I lingered over any recipe that caught my eye. This is a routine I've been through for several years, way before I began my career in food writing. I almost always end up dismissing the recipes as, more often than not, I do not have the ingredients in my pantry. The kitchen really is still the domain of my Peranakan aunt and I didn't see the point of stocking up on bottles of balsamic vinegar, apple cider vinegar and all those fancy schmancy things Western recipes ask for. Granted, I don't always want to cook the dishes, but being the female that I am, I like having the option of actually trying out a recipe without having to lug back a cartful of condiments I wouldn't use for another two years.

But as I flitted through the beautiful Sophie's book today, it dawned on me that a good portion of the ingredients the recipes called for were already in my pantry. Balsamic vinegar, check. Fleur de sel, check. Rolled oats, check. Grapeseed oil, check. I may not have nicely fillet pieces of sole waiting in my fridge, but as far as condiments and dry ingredients go, I am pretty much covered.

And that, my friends, is the beautiful byproduct of the many recipe testings I have to do every month. A job in publishing may hardly pay the bills but boy, does it stock your pantry!

{image from weheartit} 

Food for thought.

I started reading Jennifer 8 Lee's The Fortune Cookie Chronicles today, and something the author said really made me think.

'Charitably, you could describe me as "passionate" about Chinese food. Passions seem lively and motivating, while obsessions sound dark and vaguely deviant. But the line between passion and obsession is a wobbly one.'

She went on to talk about how obsessions pick and control us more than we pick and control them. That had me thinking of the time I almost backed out of a much-anticipated Lawry's lunch with the girls as I was - I admit - obsessed with completing one of my first freelance food articles.

The realisation was startlingly clear. I was, once upon a time, driven by adrenaline and hair-tearing, overzealous passion. I was, once upon a time, obsessed with work. It's a rousing and somewhat scary thought. Thankfully, that obsession has, over time, dulled into a slow-burning passion. You would rarely find me in the office after 6.30pm these days, unless it's production crunch-time. And it's become a lot easier to fix up appointments and dinner dates with me as compared to the start of my career, when I would leave office to go home and write.

And you know what? I'm feeling so much better now that I'm not all strung up. I guess it does help to have a wholly successful boss who would, once in awhile, remind me that 'work is not everything'.

Balance. This could be one of my buzzwords for 2011. :)

Reflecting, sorta.

It wouldn't be quite right to say that 2010 has come and gone without a trace, for it has left quite a trail in its wake. The past year has at times passed by painfully slowly; at others it has whizzed by so quickly my attempts to slow it down are rendered futile. Perhaps it would be fair to say that 2010 was a year of both losses and celebrations - I lost my brother, but I also celebrated my freedom and went on to bag what I think is one of the most awesome jobs in Singapore.

I've lost the yen to self-reflect, break down and scrutinise every aspect in my life. While it is always good to give what you've done or about to do some serious thought, I've realised it is more important to just... live. And that's what I've been doing I guess. There's plenty more I want to see, do, experience, taste (haha), feel and accomplish, and there's a sense of wonder at how 2011 will bring with it more chances to do just that.

So 2010, according to the Chinese zodiac, may not have been such a good year for Tigers like myself. It's indeed been a bumpy ride, and since the Chinese zodiac says that this year's gonna be better... I say bring it on!

Eight days late but better late than never...

Happy 2011 everybody!

I rang in the new year while grocery shopping in a 24-hour supermarket. It was so emblematic of my life and I really wouldn't have it any other way. :)

The festive rush.

Anybody who tells you that you can smoothly juggle:

1. a full-time job (with responsibilities that warrant that I clear all my articles before I jet off for a 11-day holiday - read: 8 stories, photo shoots + proofreading in 1.5 weeks)
2. festive celebrations
3. temporarily running a household and
4. planning and packing for above-mentioned holiday

is LYING.

I have in the past 10 days, :

1. Researched, written and typed myself into a corner
2. Ran amok collecting work-related stuff from around Singapore
3. Researched, written and typed myself into a corner
4. Shopped, searched and bought gifts for festive exchanges
5. Shopped, searched and lugged home 100000 items for a photo shoot
6. Played Cinderella at a gala dinner (11pm curfew to WRITE)
7. Realised I've missed out on a gift
8. Scrambled/begged for favours to get gift
9. Researched, written and typed myself into a corner
10. Drawn up a packing list
11. Chucked packing list
12. Vacuumed luggage (that's what happens when you now live near a construction site)
13. Baked way too many cookies
14. Ate way too many chocolates
15. Ate way too much

 #7 - #14 happened today, by the way. #15 happens every other day.

Crazy? It's an understatement.

My golden kitchen rule.

picture from inmagine

My job often sees me interviewing chefs and bakers, and one recurring question I always pose is this: "What is the one piece of advice you'll give to aspiring cooks?"
Their replies range from "Always read the recipe once in its entirety before cooking" to "Invest in a sharp knife". Valuable advice definitely, but if you asked me - which you probably wouldn't, which is why I'm blogging about this - I would say: "Never pile the dishes in the sink!" Trust me, it's something I've learned from all the recipes I've been testing.
 
Have a think. To make a simple chocolate cake, you would require:

1. Measuring cups and spoons to measure the ingredients
2. A knife to portion the butter
3. A heatproof bowl to melt the chocolate
4. A whisk or electric beaters to cream the butter and sugar
5. A bowl to hold the butter and sugar
6. And if you're separating the eggs from the yolks, another whisk and bowl to whip up the egg whites
7. A baking tin for the batter 

That's quite a bit to plunk in the sink, and quite a dreary feat to wash up after! It doesn't have to be though, not if you - and here's the key phrase - wash as you go.

Here's what I'd do:

1. Measure out all ingredients, then plunk measuring spoons, cups and knife into the sink
2. Put the chocolate to melt
3. Wash all that are in the sink - this shouldn't take too long and the chocolate should have melted by the time you're done.
4. Remove chocolate from heat and leave to cool slightly.
5. Cream butter and sugar
6. Whisk egg whites
7. Add chocolate, yolks and other ingredients into the creamed butter.
8. Fold in egg whites.
9. Dump all used bakeware into the sink.
10. Pour batter into the tin, then place it into the oven to bake.
11. Wash all that is in the sink - this will take longer than the first round of washing up, but your cake's probably not gonna be ready that soon anyway!
12. Wipe down the tables, twiddle thumbs and perhaps take a quick shower.
13. Cake's ready.
14. Serve and eat in peace, comforted by the knowledge that all you have to wash at the end of this is the greasy cake tin.

Easy peasy?

Losing teeth.

I've spent the drug-induced weekend wondering just how long one is supposed to ponder a grave decision, such as whether to voluntarily subject your jaws to the torture of being cut apart and then sewn up. Then again, it never was a matter of yes or no for me; but more a matter of when. Afterall, I'd certainly sat on the niggling toothaches that came and went for long enough, so much so that when the 10-day persistent toothache rolled along, I knew, deep, deep down in my gut that it was time. And since I was at it, why not remove all four achey buggers, instead of drawing out the process by extracting them in pairs? The bonus: I get to be asleep while the dental surgeon declares war on my gums.

The three weeks leading up to the big op was uneventful, to say the least. While my colleagues were inspired to share their horror extraction stories during pantry lunches, I remained mostly unaffected,  focused instead on working like a woman on a mission in order to earn my planned medical leave. Yeah yeah, I can lose them teeth but I still have a magazine to publish. Ironic really, how the erratic world of magazine publishing is supported by this clockwork grind. But I digress.

The first trickles of apprehension started about three days before the op. I can't remember what spurred it, but I do recall having a "oh man, it's happening this Friday!" moment while walking back from lunch on a sunny day. Work kept me distracted well enough until Thursday night - I'd normally want nothing more than to cab home for a quick bite after four straight days of overtime, but that night, all I could think of was how I wouldn't be able to eat properly for a while, and I admit, how there may be the tiniest chances I may never wake to eat again (drama, I know). So I rolled home just before my no-food-no-drink midnight curfew, stuffed to the brim with kimchi and barbecued short ribs, and straight into bed with butterflies (or it could be all that food) in my belly.

I awoke thirsty and hungry (how is that even possible?!) on Friday morning and I really didn't have much time to ponder life and death before I had to "check in" to the day ward and dress in those horrid hospital robes. Nope, forest green and baby pink will never be my favourite colour combination. The rest of the pre-op procedures happened in a flurry - my blood pressure was taken several times as it read a little too low for the nurses' liking (what do they expect, I was starving) but they got over it and I was soon escorted down a long hallway towards the operating theatre. Somewhere in the flurry I kicked myself mentally for not completing my insurance nominee forms.

I was then taken through a risk-acknowledgement pep talk by a perky albeit inexperienced doctor, who made me think of Greys' Anatomy and Kenrick and how I should do my part in contributing to medical education. But while I smiled and nodded cursorily, my mind screamed accusatory questions: Why did I choose to go under general anesthesia (read: indefinitely comatose) instead of extracting just two teeth under local anesthesia (read: squirmy but still awake)??

Because you see, I realised then that it wasn't the pain that scared me. It never was the pain that scared me, but the fact that I may not wake up from the anesthesia. Because as easy as it sounds to be asleep and oblivious as strangers sawed through my gums, it is hard, very hard for me to voluntarily surrender myself to unconsciousness. It was, to me, choosing to gamble death, and I was so close to throwing in the towel and screaming: "No, don't put me to sleep; I'll sit through the horror of having you saw through my gums while I'm awake!" But the thought of putting off the extraction and rescheduling an appointment irritated me enough to hop on the operating table, amidst beeping machines, scrubs-clad staff and yup, another eager trainee, this time tasked with finding an appropriate vein in my left hand. "I'm educating the young... I'm educating the young," I breathed through a bruising pain, smiled at my anesthesiologist (who oddly resembles The Flying Dutchman) and drifted off to oblivion.

I awoke an hour later to the first perky doctor, who shakily assured me that my tastebuds were still intact. It was too quick and surreal, waking up in a different room, scrub cap removed and my hair smoothed out. I would have thought we hadn't begun, if not for the tell-tale spot of blood on my blanket and jaws that felt like they'd survived an hour in a boxing ring.

Solace.

image via weheartit.com

It hasn't been the breeziest of weeks. I've had my fair share of laughter, courtesy of my nutty colleagues and, I've come to realise, an absurd ability to laugh at myself, but there's been a hint of gloom hanging over it all; the kind of gloom that can encourage not-so-cheery feelings to grow and fester, if not properly tended to.

I had one of those mornings yesterday, quite possibly because I was lugging around what feels like a body's worth of loaned tableware and hardcover books about town. I was grumpy and cranky, and my top was unflatteringly hitched up into awkward folds by the loaded bags.

I tottered briskly on towards the last stop, impatiently blowing my fringe out of my eyes. I came up the escalator from the underpass and instinctively, my steps slowed as my vision focused on the Sun Moulin Bakery.

 The aromas wafting out from the bakery reeled me in and I soon found myself navigating its narrow aisles in wide-eyed wonder, oblivious to the weight on my left shoulder now that all my other senses were consumed by the sight and smells of freshly baked pastries.

I was instantly cheered. I'd found my happy place.