Wacky dreams are the norm for me. If it's not wacky, then I don't dream. This is why I like sleeping so much - the stories there are so much better. I've thought about starting a dream diary, but that's just too obsessive and time-consuming for my taste. Despite the degree of weirdness of the dreams, I try not to analyze them. It's a losing battle because each time I do that, I hear Freud telling me I'm a horrible person. And he's been dead for like, what, a hundred years? That creeps me out.
I
imagined when my heart stopped for three minutes and twenty-nine seconds last
year, I had died. But then I came back thanks to a strong cocktail of electric
shocks and adrenaline injections and a rather loud litany of, “Live, live,
live, live, live!”
That
had been the surgeon, by the way, who was an emotional creature. Perhaps he
said that to every patient that died on his operating table as part of his
gimmick, but it had done the trick in my case. I had returned, my heart was
pumping blood again and my brain began reversing its shut down process.
When
I came to a couple of weeks later, I realized I had lost few things (mainly the
sight and hearing on my left eye and ear) and gained a couple of other things
as compensation. The old folks might now call me ‘touched’. Or ‘cursed’. My mom
still called me lazy and I was forever ‘Delusional Wombat’ to my dad.
Losing
the sight in my left eye was hard to take and the loss put unnecessary strain
on my right eye, so I wasn’t allowed to look at computers or LED screens for
too long. That meant no smartphones that could entice me into partaking in the
forbidden activity and my time in front of the computer was regulated by an egg
timer.
While
everybody else talked with their thumbs and other digits, I had to rely on
old-fashioned face-to-face speech and passing notes in the class to
communicate. My parents also had the initiative of informing the school that I
needed to sit at the very front of the class due to this newfound impediment. The
school happily obliged.
When
I died during those precious minutes, I did not see anything. No tunnel and no
light at the end of that tunnel. No horned devils or a scene from hell. No
people who had passed away coming back and giving me advice. No angels, not a
feather. Not a thing.
If there's one YouTube channel that I think is mandatory for everybody to see, it is Cooking With Dog. The reason why I'm making such a statement is because this channel has succeeded in doing what other people have failed to do so far: making me want to cook.
Notice the emphasis on cooking. Usually when I watch a cooking show, at the end of it I'll say, "Oh boy, I want to eat that!" but never "Dang, now I want to try it making it myself!".
Cooking with Dog makes easy-to-follow, step-by-step videos that teaches you how to cook homemade Japanese food. Nothing fancy here, no flaming skillet or super knife skills needed. As long as you have taste buds and a kitchen, you can do whatever they do. Oh, having a Japanese or Asian supermarket near your place is an advantage because you'll need at least some basic ingredients such as cooking sake, hon-mirin and bonito dashi. Everything else, be creative! (Of course this is the part where you don't take me too seriously. My creativity in the kitchen has been a subject of ridicule for years due to the extent of which I substitute one ingredient with another, e.g. egg for water)
On each video, they'll post a list of ingredients in English and Japanese. The instruction itself is narrated by Francis, a cute grey French poodle with superb English. The Chef is a sweet, middle-aged Japanese lady whose deft hands can lull me to dream-like state whatever they are doing, be it cutting onions, mixing soy sauce and dashi stock, or simply just stirring a pot. Her movements in the kitchen are precise and efficient, and they will tell you why they do certain things. For example: when dicing onions, the easiest way is to cut along it but take care to leave the root attached. Rotate 90 degrees then make cuts perpendicular to the initial ones. Finally slice the onion from the end cut and voila! Straight away you'll have diced onions.
See? They got me excited about cutting onions.
I have so far tried three of their recipes: Chawanmushi, Pork Shogayaki and donuts. I'm happy to report that all have been a success, and I'm especially happy with the chawanmushi because it tastes better than what I had in some 'Japanese' restaurant. I will share with you the video here:
If you like Japanese home cooking, do yourself a favor. Try this one out! And of course, watch Cooking with Dog!
Oh, one thing. The channel may be in hiatus right now because they reported that the Chef got into a rather serious accident in January. She's currently in rehabilitation. I wish her a speedy recovery and hopefully she will be back all healthy, all pumped up again to cook! Man, I miss her already!
Celebrating International Women's Day 2012. I read this article from The Atlantic and was filled with an urge to write. The resulting piece is as follows:
Housewife
I am
a housewife, Sari said. I take care of my husband and children. I have three
children. Two sons, she added after a pause, smiling.
Sari's husband was an employee of a state-owned oil corporation. They lived in a
two-storey, three-bedroom house with a garage that could fit two cars. Their
house was located in one of the suburban development projects outside the
metropolitan and it was within easy reach of a hypermall and a wet-market. The
children’s school was also close by, just fifteen minutes away.
Look,
Sari said, pointing at a photo of her children. This is Arif, the eldest. He’s
in the third-grade now. And this is his brother, Arya, second grade. The little
one is Alina, she’s only two. I’m enrolling her in a playgroup next year.
They
were sitting at Bu Ikawati’s roadside kiosk when the light from the single bulb
above their heads went out. “Yaaah, there it goes again,” said one of the men. The
others only nodded while sipping their black coffee and puffing cigarette smoke,
as if saying it was to be expected.
The
smell of kretek, tobacco blended with
cloves, filled the air. It was a balmy, sweat-filled night that had been denied
rain for weeks. Syarief wiped the back of his neck with his hands. The
mosquitoes that had previously gathered around the lone bulb were now making
him their target. He swatted them away, only to hit Mansyur and caused his
coffee to spill. That earned him a glare, and although they were good friends no
words were spoken. His tongue was as heavy as the apology that sat on it. He knew
it was there but didn’t bother to let it out.
Conversations
were often abandoned at a night like this. Nights where they knew with
certainty that the next day would be worse. Still no rain. The rice fields were
parched. The longer the drought ran, the longer the silence was. Syarief
wondered how many weeks had it been since he’d last seen a hint of drizzle. The
riverbed was now as dry as the asphalt road. The soil cracked, the carcasses of
their livelihood hung, withered and defeated. They all needed to make do
without a harvest this season and the men had been working all sorts of jobs
just to survive. These jobs, like the rain, didn’t come easily. Many of his
friends and neighbors had been forced to go to the capital Jakarta
to scrape a living.
It
was with every intention of malice that Holly, Chigusa’s Holland Lop bunny, bit
my ankle and wouldn’t let go. I told her as much, but that girlfriend of mine
defended the dwarf rabbit and accused me of delusions and oversensitivity. “How
can,” she began, “such a cute creature like Holly have that kind of thoughts?
Look at her!”
I
looked at the big floppy ears, large eyes and button nose.
“Even
Satan was once considered devilishly handsome,” I reminded Chigusa and made an
effort to look in pain.
The
umbrella woman’s job is to take you from one point to the other without getting
you wet in the rain. You pay her a pittance for this service. She always
carries three umbrellas hooked on one arm and only appears when the sky looks
ready to cry. More often than not, her presence foretells the rain. Whenever
you see her lounging around the corner of your apartment building, you know
that it’s time to bring the laundry in.
It
is an easy job, but not a lot of people want to do it. The rain is the main reason
why. It is a fickle deity—it teases, delivers, withholds, spends, and rages on,
yet ultimately always stops. The rain is the friend and enemy. The rain
provides and takes away. The rain pours for one day and ceases for two weeks. The
rain keeps the umbrella woman alive while slowly killing her.
Besides,
being an umbrella woman is not by choice.
This particular entry was written for Writing in the City's October 2011 prompt. The theme was 'Transaction' -- how art suffers or thrives in this increasingly materialistic and transaction-based world, especially in Singapore.
The Body Painter
Word count: 750
Summary: What do you get for three hundred dollars?
This piece is inspired by a fortuitous visit one day of a similar bird who showed nothing but polite indifference, and a bottle of talc powder sitting around in my room.
Liliflora
Word count: 2400
Summary: In the language of flowers, magnolia means 'love of nature'. Who knew?
This
morning a bird came to my window and spoke to me. “Beware of the Liliflora,” it
said. Before I could ask the bird what it meant by the ominous warning, it had
flown away.
I
kept on replaying the scene in my mind few dozens times over the next two days,
but I still couldn’t understand the bird’s words. I didn’t even know what Liliflora
meant. When I searched the term on the internet, I only got entries on magnolias
and the closest I’d ever been to the flower was through my talcum powder. Did
this mean I have to be wary of talcum powder from now on?
Summary:
Exercise in short forms. Caught-in-the-act, deer-in-the-headlight, I-saw-you-watching-me-watching-you
moments. Snippets of memories. Thoughts. The good, the bad, and the fugly.
*
At
the MRT, a middle-aged, silver-haired man wearing blue-striped polo shirt and
grey pants walked passed by. He shouldered a backpack that had one side-pocket
open. From inside of that pocket, a white girls underwear peeked through the
slit.
Wacky dreams are the norm for me. If it's not wacky, then I don't dream. This is why I like sleeping so much - the stories there are so much better. I've thought about starting a dream diary, but that's just too obsessive and time-consuming for my taste. Despite the degree of weirdness of the dreams, I try not to analyze them. It's a losing battle because each time I do that, I hear Freud telling me I'm a horrible person. And he's been dead for like, what, a hundred years? That creeps me out. 
