Simone, aka the Consistently Hungry One

so we're releasing an iphone book on spam

noreply@blogger.com (Simone) — Mon, 03 Aug 2009 05:59:00 +0000

And i'm wondering if i should be encouraging ppl to eat the canned meat.

it's meat. that's been canned. impregnated with everything artificial.

but why on earth does it taste so good?

have my tastebuds experienced a failure of subtle-flavour-response? has my tongue gone through so many cans of the stuff that i can settle for nothing less than MSG?

I fear I shall never love fresh cream, ripe strawberries, and pate on toast ever again.

Damn you Spam. Damn you.

Melaka

noreply@blogger.com (Simone) — Wed, 13 May 2009 13:56:00 +0000

Food, food, food. What else?

So we were dawdling about in Melaka sometime last year - well, not dawdling about really, more like eating our way through - when my boyfriend and I hopped into a cab to get ourselves to Portugese Square for fresh seafood. A little history here - the Portugese colonised Melaka (or Malacca, if we wish to be a little more politically incorrect) in 1511, and left their offspring, as well as an smattering of Potugescised (is that even a word? oh never mind) Indian immigrants to carry on their cultural legacy. As much as countries in the region do suffer a bit of a post-colonial chip on the shoulder, their food, quite thankfully, does not. So Daryl and I were looking forward to some Eurasian food - devil curry, namely, because the name fascinated us, and also because rumours of its spiciness had reached his chili-addict ears.

We didn't have Eurasian food in the end, because we were eventually distracted by a row of seafood stalls that were beginning to bring out their pots and pans and plates to prepare for the onslaught of customers, local and foreign. We stood, for a short moment, next to the murky Straits of Melaka, looking out into the distance at oil tankers, and catching a whiff of the waste and bacterial froth that littered the surface.

image copyright to Pale, found on stockxchng

We then proceeded to the nearest stall, had a look at the fresh-looking dead fish, and thought ah lovely, let's eat here.

It really was rather good. I could tell you more - but this was a year ago. And like just about everyone knows - it's all about the freshness. So out of that steaming, rancid water came sweet-tasting fish and prawn. Ah, the sweet mysteries of life.

But what matters most is this - before making our bumpy way into the heart of the winding estate surrounding Portugese Square, the cab driver pointed us to a small row of shophouses that lined a corner of a street that, being out of the shopping centre belt and the historic old town, failed to produce a bleep on the tourist radar. "Eat here," he said. "Good Baba food. But must call in advance one." The addition of the "one" at the end of his statement reminded me how Singapore and Malaysia - as separate as they are - remain forever joined by our patois. I only hope that my government, at least, would officially recognise it exists.

So on our most recent sojourn to Melaka, we engaged the help of a friend to call in advance. This friend was a brand new father, and according to Daryl, he shuttled faithfully and what must have been most exhaustingly between Singapore, his place of work, and Melaka, his place of well, diaper changing and baby raising. So Daryl and I demanded he make a call on our behalf look for the number, reserve a table, and to place our orders. I point to my boyfriend as having the heart of cold and impenetrable stone.

Being Singaporean

After an hour long wait that was engendered by a large group of loud, noisy, demanding and altogether ogre-ish Singaporean customers, I began a quiet reflection on my country's lack of civility. And then I tsk-tsked as they walked past, glared at the commanding, condescending woman demanding more out of harried waiters, and made loud comments about annoying Singaporeans as we Singaporeans like to do. Later that night, I also plotted to steal a packet of toiletries from the hotel trolley. But I do digress a little.

A dragon guards the entrance to a Chinese temple

The food finally arrived, and it was fantastic. Not in a "ooo daahling you should have seen the foie gras and lemongrass mousse I had at that new place, it was really to diiiiie for" sort of fashion, but as in, "if my mother could cook like this everyday, I would have thought myself dead and gone to heaven after every meal". Two dishes stood out in my food-addled memories the most - chinchalok egg pancake, and chilli garam ikan. The former was a marriage of fermented shrimp and egg. Like much pungent, fermented condiments that dominate Southeast Asian cooking, chinchalok is an assault on the unitiated senses. To be impolite, it smells bad. But mix it with a generous portion of egg, put it on slow heat and let the flavours meld naturally, and enjoy the excursion into fermented raw shrimp territory. As the eyes of the shrimp remain intact even as it undergoes vigorous fermentation, be prepared therefore to have your pancake of egg dotted with little eyes - tiny dots, really - that stare back at you with indignation. The latter involved fresh fish (once again, from the murky waters), deep fried to perfection and smothered with pounded chilli, garlic, and a little belachan (fermented shrimp again, but belachan is dried into a dark looking cake, that if left unwrapped, can stink out the fridge and cause all other foods to evacuate in a hurry.

Emptying the wallet

And finally, a kebaya. The sarong kebaya is the traditional dress of the Peranakan, or Nyonya, peoples. I stepped into a beautiful boutique, was taken with the intricately beaded shoes and tops and sarong bottoms, and parted with all the money in my boyfriend's wallet. Words can't really explain the beauty of the kebaya that points to the aesthetic sensibility and adherence to tradition in every print, fold and embroidery. So in a month, when the kebaya arrives, pictures will ensue.

To make a trip down to historic Melaka, all you need to do is hop on a coach, sit on your bum for about 4 hours, and spill out of the bus into this utterly charming and disarming town.

Just some information:

For fresh seafood, head to Portugese Square. Just don't look at the sea water. I ate at the stall closest to the seaside.

To visit Aunty Lee's nyonya restaurant, make a call at least a week in advance, and be prepared to place orders. Number: +6062831009

a shophouse wall endowed with cross-eyed graffiti

And for the most beautiful Kebayas you could ever lay eyes on, visit J Manik on Jalan Hang Lekir. It's run by a lady named Joyce Ngiow - she will astonish you with her impeccable sense of service. I almost parted with my life savings because of her.

shame.

noreply@blogger.com (Simone) — Thu, 23 Apr 2009 05:19:00 +0000

picture available from: http://www.sxc.hu/photo/127850

I'll begin by saying (a little belatedly, perhaps) , that the New Paper did a mildly horrific spread of the experience I wrote on 2 months or so ago.

I've discovered, much to my pain, that when editors of this local paper deal with a single subject, they take the story on in any angle that they want, and with a sense of irresponsibility that is, unfortunately, disappointing. My point of view, in short, was abused.

So despite my calls for the education of both men and women in my conversations with the journalist, it perhaps fell on very deaf editorial ears. And the focus instead turned to painting women (or perhaps, just I) as hopelessly paranoid and pathetically reactive.

And so, I was presented with an article that was completely unrelated to the blog posts which had suprisingly touched more women that I thought they would.

Ah, the local papers. Perhaps bastions of education and knowledge should be found elsewhere.

As my experience has taught me, the journalists (as I suspect was the case for this article) and sometimes not to blame. Editors are pressured to sell the papers they direct - and sell they will.

But never the mind. I hope that one day, perhaps, some rights the women hold to would be taken far more seriously than they are now. And on a side note, that the AWARE debacle as presented in the local media would be replaced with a suggestion that the organisation has done more for women than our government perhaps has. And that rifts and in-fighting are, with any organisation, probably an unfortunate norm.

I once read about a pioneering female journalist known as Evelyn Cunningham. Something she once expressed will always remain with me: that women are the only oppressed group in society that lives in intimate association with their opressors.

So we live and learn intimately, perhaps, from the newspapers we read everyday. And for every editor who fails to stop up the daily, persistent trickle of prejudice, and who would rather fan the flames of diversionary controversy - shame on you.

Public place and private space - and wrong, wrong pictures.

noreply@blogger.com (Simone) — Sun, 01 Mar 2009 13:43:00 +0000

I'm looking at this article and i'm thinking, wah seh this is geography.

Human geography, that is. I've been peeling at my eyelids trying to read a little bit more on voyeurism. And apparently, someone taking an authorised picture of you in a way that invades your modesty isn't quite so well-defined in developed nations/states outside of Singapore either. Florida, as an example, is cited as such in this Associated Press article. It's about a woman who finds a man snapping pictures of her (under her skirt) at Walmart, and while the offender is charged, his lawyer argues for it to be dismissed, saying:

"...a person does not have an expectation of privacy while shopping in a local store".

The article continues: "Privacy rights, Price suggested, do not extend beyond restrooms and fitting rooms.'

The attorney bolsters his case with the fact that "Florida's voyeurism law is vague and insufficient because it does not define 'public place'". So if I get this right, it's possible to argue for the fact that in public places (save for restrooms and fitting rooms), women (or men, should the case be) can't be expecting to exercise rights to privacy.

Ah, so I'm thinking: What about our public buses? MRTs? Lecture halls? You and I wouldn't disrobe in a lecture theatre, because it's clearly a public place. But by simply being in a "public" place, am I deprived of my rights to privacy?

In other words: Is it a crime to take pictures of my intimate areas only when I'm in the school's washroom? And if I return to the lecture hall thereafter and a fellow student reaches under to grab a pic, is he/she then free of being convicted?

We could possible take a cue from California, where the focus is "more on the individual privacy invasion than where the crime happened".

So, before I research further into this sorta thing, I need to remind myself what constitues voyeurism, and what doesn't. I'm perhaps a little guilty of it myself - at which point do we draw the line at private space and public permission?

So, for example, I photographed someone on a bad hair day, and am putting this up because while said photo was taken, he was ignoring me playing a game on a mobile phone. I bear evil grudges that way.

And then there's my lovely aunt, who found herself embarrassed trying to get used to chopsticks. She found herself very alone, because certain people whom I shall not name kept laughing at her. Okay, my dad. He is also quite evil that way.

And this picture has nothing to do with voyeurism at all. I had baby Joseph's complete consent.

What do our rights mean?

noreply@blogger.com (Simone) — Thu, 26 Feb 2009 14:25:00 +0000

As all of you know from my girth and my pictures, this blog entails my obvious love for food. But the thought has crossed my mind that perhaps my life should be more than about a hundred and one ways to stuff a mushroom. So first off, I think, I should present this para to you for a quick read:

“Word or gesture intended to insult the modesty of a woman – Whoever, intending to insult the modesty of any woman, utters any word, makes any sound or gesture, or exhibits any object, intending that such word or sound shall be heard, or that such gesture or object shall be seen by such woman, or intrudes upon the privacy of such woman, shall be punished with imprisonment of up to one year, or with a fine, or with both”. – section 509 of Chapter XXII: Criminal intimidation, insult and annoyance, as stated in the Singapore Penal Code.

I know I said quick read - sorry about that. It wasn't quite a quick read for me either. All I think is, wah. I don’t know how lawyers do it, but words like these muddle me completely.

But I must tell you about a recent experience which first of all, made me look up this para on the Internet.

I was at an electronics store at Paya Lebar a couple of weeks ago, when a member of the staff took pictures of me in a voyeuristic fashion. My first reaction? A sense of embarrassment. My second was a sense of shame. I wanted to get away as fast as I could. I couldn't really explain why without delving into past histories. I explained to my bf Daryl that a man was busy taking pictures of my lower body. But if any of you know Daryl, you would know that we wouldn't be walking out without some sort of a commotion. The man was confronted, but there was no admission made. A couple of days later Daryl and I made our way down to the police station to make a statement.

What concerned me was this: the police weren't quite sure what should be done. Was my underwear exposed? the NSF policeman asked. (I'd previously mentioned my skirt had been blown up by a fan situated on the floor, and for all I know the man must have been waiting to capture another, related moment). Er, I said, I guess so. Are you sure it was exposed? he asked again. I recall feeling like I was on a very short fuse that had just about reached its end. YES IT WAS EXPOSED. Sigh.

I was then told that investigations could not proceed without a magistrate's order. Apparently, it doesn't constitute the sort of offence that would be investigated without direction from a judge. One harrowing experience at the courts later, I had the order to proceed. It might be a little inappropriate here to discuss the experience at the courts, for one reason that I'd possibly bore you, and for another, I think I would have to first read up on just what contempt of courts really means.

At Daryl's insistence, the case was resolved. I'm very thankful for his consistent reminders that my modesty and privacy meant something; that I hadn't done anything wrong and so should not feel a sense of shame, or else give into it; and that some sense of justice should come out of it.

I think my stomach was in a twist the entire day. But again, because of that support I had (also a million, billion and otherwise uncountable thanks to my friend S, currently with a law firm and who possesses frightening powers of cross-examination), I remember thinking that, alright then, bloody hell, I'm not going to wait for the police to begin an investigation. I should go ahead and have a look at the company's CCTV, point out the bit where he did the deed, and ask him square – with S’s help – if he would like to make a confession.

The man did confess, after having vainly tried to explain that really, he had been studiously attempting a picture of the ceiling. He was suspended for two weeks. A letter of apology was also sent to me. As much as it is now over, I hold out a distant hope that he should turn from his ways, and realise that women shouldn't be treated like meat at a market.

So after this very long story, the points I wish to make are as such:

I think we need to know where this context figures in the policing of our society. According to an officer I spoke with, outrage of modesty (molest and beyond) is treated with the requisite urgency. It is otherwise for what he classified as an "insult of modesty" - the definition of which you'll see doesn't quite fit squarely with what he claimed it to be. But urgency is not my concern as such - my question is, why does it seem to me like absolutely nothing is done about it in the first place? As a case in point, you may at your own choosing surf a couple of local websites. Search the category entitled "candid", and see how many convent girls have their pictures taken with what I can only assume to be an absence of permission, and put up for a million men to see, to rate and to grade. Likewise so for women in MRTs, in the lifts, standing in a bookshop. The physical contexts span a number of locations, but the intent is the same: to capture, to expose, to get aroused over and in the process, to degrade a woman who gave no permission or consent for her picture to be used, and to be used in such a fashion. And no-one is caught, for as it seems, they are not recognised as having committed an offence.

2. We also need to know: how does our system of policing - and on a wider level, our system of law - respond to the vagaries of exposed modesties on the internet? Is this a crime? Does it count, and if it does, why is nothing much done about it? The police have explained that my case is classifiable as an insult to modesty. The extract of the chapter as outlined above, however, would perhaps apply more to the victim of a flasher than anybody else. And yet, my situation would not be classified as the other, closest alternative: an outrage to modesty. This is because only a case that displays actions as outlined in s. 354. of Chapter XVI: Offences affecting the human body (you may view this at http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Penal_Code_(Singapore)#Criminal_force_and_assault), would really be classified as such, for it must involve criminal force or physical assault. So I ask: where does this particular crime (or what I deem to be a crime) lie? Is it definable as an offence? And if it were, why is this definition not clear to women like you and I? You may head straight to the police after an arrest. And as for rape, it is thankfully accepted knowledge that the woman has suffered a crime. But I ask – what about women in the situation as outlined above?

3. And lastly, education. First off, we need to ask: do women know their rights? I have often wondered why knowledge of the Penal Code, human rights and, naturally, women's rights, are not explored in the schools. Or at the community centres, where you may find middle aged ladies wondering how they should respond to an abusive husband. Or in this instance, for the convent school girl who sees a man taking a voyeuristic picture up her uniformed skirt, and does not know how to act.

Do not act as I did, which was a. to feel shame and embarrassment, and b. to walk away. Walk towards the person who attempts to defile you, insult you and degrade you (unless of course, he is on the physical attack). Challenge what he obviously deems to be either perfectly acceptable, and/or perfectly stimulating, and demand that your pictures be deleted, and that task be done before you. If it is refused, and if the person becomes aggressive, go to the police. There is, however, a great big But.

You will, as in my experience, be presented with the idea that they don't know what to do. Then you'll be led to the subordinate courts, where you'll go before a magistrate, re-tell an incident which has been emotionally traumatising and invasive, and wait and hope that your case will be heard and the police will be allowed to act. If that doesn't happen, then I'm sorry.

But do not keep silent, as I once did. Please use your voice to defend, to challenge and to declare that your rights and the law which seeks to protect them must be clearly defined. I will make every effort - as I hope you do - to ask that authorities pay attention to the ongoing outrage of women's and young girls' modesties that happens on the Internet every day, with every upload and with every click to view.

La Traviata!

noreply@blogger.com (Simone) — Mon, 02 Feb 2009 12:24:00 +0000

Look there, it's the marching dessert people! They tear down the walls of ivory tower hypocrisy and set the unwitting captives free from their own lives of colourless bourgeois! LIBERA!

Ignore the fact they look like Ku Klux men.

Fabulous.

The Chinese New Year

noreply@blogger.com (Simone) — Tue, 27 Jan 2009 05:10:00 +0000

If you summarise the Chinese New Year in a fruit, you'd wind up with a pineapple. A glorious, yellow-gold pineapple. If pineapple really brought gold into my household, I'd be planting more of these in my backyard. But as of now, we only have one plant that gently delivers one fruit every few months. I secretly whisper into its leaves at night and try to coax it into giving me triplets. No, acutally, I don't. But I'm sure I disturbed you a little there.

It's the new year, and considering my family does have a thing for sausages, we went on a small lap cheong spree. Unlike most people, we aren't really averse to angina. So we purchased 14 of these sweetly seasoned rods of fatty meat, and it was with distinct sadness that I had to pass half of that quantity on to my boyfriend.

Then there is the new year kitsch. Oh kitsch, lovely kitsch. What could we do without fish made of sweet glutinous rice? A sentence, again, that would not appear in any other place or time frame, save for Chinese New Year in a Chinese-ish country.

And then there was Melaka, which has preserved the pineapple tart and various other goodie-making culture better than we have. But we were stuffed from too much pre-CNY feasting. So we walked along the narrow, narrow streets where cars threaten to run you into a drain every five minutes or so. And old ladies stand at the side of the road, watching the tourists go by and thinking "oh those blithering souvenir-buying idiots again". And we bought souvenirs.

Have a glorious new year everyone, but more importantly, a blessed year to come.

Love, Sim.

Aunts, cars and hamsters

noreply@blogger.com (Simone) — Thu, 15 Jan 2009 03:10:00 +0000

The topics in this post, as you must know, are completely unrelated to each other. I'm sorry for the utterly confusing post, but it does point to the fact that everything in the past few weeks have been absolutely haphazard, mind-numbingly draining and completely exhausting. It seems that when life throws you a lemon, it actually pummels you with a harvest.

But thankfully and most wonderfully, I have a beautiful guest staying at my house.

Her name is Johanna Elizabeth Uys, and she is my lovely aunt! She's a real life-saver in times like these. Her general sprightly-ness (is that even a word?) lifts everyone's moods up. I love Aunty Bets.

And other things that lift my mood include hamsters on a wheel.

And here comes the third aspect of this completely confusing post. I am selling cars. No, I'm no car dealer. Though some might wish that I were, simply because I have no business sense. You would absolutely make money off of me.

Here's one, an Opel Astra 1.8. This is for loan re-assignment, which means you'd take the loan over from my family member, who purchased this car. I'll pay up for the first year of installments, which should help if you're a little tight on cash right now.

Here's the second, a Toyota Axio 1.5. The same applies to this one.

Thank you everyone, and a good Chinese New Year to you! May you have wealth - and more important, health - and may your ang bao pickings be great. That's if your single. If you're married....well, may you have plenty babies who help with ang bao pickings, and thereby cover your losses.

Love,
Sim.

Date me.

noreply@blogger.com (Simone) — Sun, 04 Jan 2009 15:06:00 +0000

I can only hope you have had a really fabulous New Year, and have stuffed yourself good and proper. Please don't decide to starve yourselves in time for Chinese New Year, people. Because you must try these dates, topped with cream cheese and pecan.

There's something interesting about this after-dinner treat - served in Spain, it actually came to be when Moorish Armies (bringing dates) plundered the Spanish, thought their blue cheese delectable, and left the conquered nation a dish to remember them by - blue cheese atop Medjool dates, and sprinkled with a little orange blossom water. And not forgetting a pecan.

But this ain't Spain, and I'm quite sure, that as many of my friends do, you might be a wee bit averse to blue cheese. It does have a strong flavour, I know. I personally love blue cheese, but my family can also attest to the fact that for 20 years I slept every night with mangy pillow that had its own peculiar smell, and reeked lightly of baby pee.

Sorry to suppress your appetite there.

Here, this starter tastes equally good with a flavoured cream cheese - it doesn't just taste good, everyone. It tastes fabulous.

Health geek note: Dates are high in potassium (for the nervous system) and magnesium (for the bones). While high in sugar, they're also immensely high in fibre. Anything to make you go in the mornings.

************

Dates with cream cheese and pecan

For 36 stuffed dates:

About 150g flavoured creamy cheese (like Boursin), or blue cheese if that doesn't make you break out in a cold sweat
18 Medjool dates (do get Medjools, as they are the best and most moist)
36 pecan or walnut halves

Medjool dates are the larger variety of dates, at least larger than their California cousins. They are also the best tasting -with a dark amber color, slightly wrinkly, but with a fresh-looking shine. When you bite into one, it should be so sweet as to bring on a sugar rush in your bloodstream. Mmmm.

Use a soft creamy cheese that's been flavoured with garlic and herbs, or else one that has a strong flavour on its own, like blue-veined cheese. If your cheese is any milder - like Edam - the date would suffocate its flavour.

First toast your pecan halves in a heavy-bottomed frying pan (heavy bottomed so the nuts don't burn, as these pans conduct heat more slowly and evenly), at medium-low heat for about 5 minutes. Check constantly and shake them about in the pan from time to time. When they turn a little darker and you smell the sweet nutty fragrance, they're done.

Now your dates. Split your dates down the middle with a small knife.

Remove the seed.

Press your date half (the cut area facing up) with your thumb slightly, so as to broaden the surface area for spreading on your creamy cheese.

Take a tsp or so of the cheese (or start off with a half tsp if you're using a smaller date), and spread that on in a neat little mound on your date half.

Press the pecan or walnut half into that pretty mound, try one to be sure it's as you like it, and serve alongside port or sweet dessert wine. Or 7-up or Coke, or tea, although that might be sacrilegious. It tastes good regardless.

** Facebook readers: get to enjoy more recipes at the blog add: www.consistentlyhungry.blogspot.com

Cucumber salad with mint

noreply@blogger.com (Simone) — Tue, 23 Dec 2008 04:50:00 +0000

I know a few men who recoil at the mention of mint in anything they eat. Unless it's in a mojito that's got as much alcohol as is humanly possible, they say, no mint please, thank you very much.

So I was surprised that one the occasions I made this cucumber salad. It's something like the Indian raita - a side of yoghurt with fruits and vegetables mixed in - that accompanies hot, hot curries, but quite. Unlike most raita, however, this is a tamer version that doesn't have masala or ginger added. And on these occasions, the boys came up to say oh this is very nice, I actually like it! And then I'd tell them it has mint in it, and a they'd look a little horrified. And perturbed.

But that's okay, because for me this has been the perfect potluck dish to bring to parties where the hosts have told me, please don't bring anything because we have enough food, but I bring something anyway because I need to express myself with food. I'm one of those annoying guests you should never invite.

It's light, it's healthy, and it pleases both the men and the ladies, with a subtle flavour of mint, a little garlicky heat, and the coolness of cucumber and yoghurt. Enjoy!

Recipe (serves 6-8 people)

6 medium Japanese or Lebanese cucumbers
2 tsp salt
2 cups Greek yoghurt (go for Greek because it's nice and thick)
3 tbsp extra-virgin olive oil

2 medium garlic cloves
1 tbsp minced fresh mint leaves (about 10-12 medium-sized leaves)
A dash of ground black pepper

So first you start with your cucumbers. Preferably Japanese or Lebanese. The ones pictured here are Japanese. The reason I choose Japanese and Lebanese is because they have less seeds, and so less water. Remember that water in cucumber salad is your personal enemy.

First we slice them up. After cutting off the bitter ends, slice each cucumber into segments. You want to slice that lengthwise, and I'd show you but I forgot to take a picture *blush*

Then you cut those cucumber halves diagonally across into little pieces, and put those in a colander. The next part is the fun bit - we need to wilt them, to get the water out.

So add 2 tsp of salt, and mix it around a bit

Load up a ziploc bag (here I use two, as I didn't have a large one) with water, seal, and place it on top to weigh the cucumbers down. Set it over a bowl to collect the liquid. Leave that somewhere for about an hour, while you attend to other important things in life, like pestering your family to reveal just what Christmas gift they got you.

Now your dressing. Crush or finely mince your 2 medium garlic cloves. (If you aren't a big fan of garlic, bring that down to one). If you don't have a garlic press to crush garlic with, do invest in it - I can't live my lazy life without it. Add this to 2 cups of greek yoghurt, sitting in a medium bowl.

Now your mint leaves - I finely chopped (okay so not so fine, but I always tell myself no-one notices) enough mint leaves for 1 tbsp's worth. I would have preferred 2 tbsp, but there might have been a revolt. Add that to the dressing.

Add 3 tbsp extra virgin olive oil to your dressing, along with a dash of black pepper. You'll want to stir this mixture up. Place your dressing in the fridge, and let your cucumbers sit for an hour till they are done wilting. You might want to bother your family at this time to ask them to confess what they got you for Christmas.

After an hour, return to your cucumbers. See? This is the liquid the cucumbers pass out. (Somehow, saying liquid passes out sounds wrong).

Now mix your dressing in the cucumbers, and voila!!

Yummy. Now feed that to an unsuspecting man in your life.

Abundance

noreply@blogger.com (Simone) — Thu, 18 Dec 2008 14:05:00 +0000

We just had too many apricots sitting on our tree in Perth, and decided to pluck them before the fruit fly eggs in them could hatch and bring forth spawn. You heard me right, people. Bring forth spawn, wriggling spawn. I regret I did not take a picture of those that did.

We hadn't sprayed our apricots this time, which explains the eggs. But organic does that to you - it gives you eggs where you don't want them.

But we digress severely - here, we have an abundance of apricots.

And in case you didn't have a good look at that abundance, there's more abundance here.

I enjoy taking pictures of stoned fruit with fuzzy outsides.

I've always thought that when someone says you get a fuzzy feeling inside, they're really referring to the way you feel when you look at the fuzzy skins of apricots and peaches.

But, goodbye little apricots. Goodbye too, all you unhatched eggs.

You are about to be boiled down. Into very yummy apricot jam.

And you'll go on equally yummy scones (which I promise you will be up soon, and will come in especially useful if you have a nice lazy weekend morning in store. That's if you aren't rushing getting Christmas presents, and like my dad, spiking your children's milk on Christmas eve so you can pretend the next morning that Santa did drop them off under the tree, and it wasn't you stumbling around at 4am trying to slip them in unnoticed. Okay no he didn't spike our milk, but he must have done something for us to not notice for 7 years.)

But enough about the things I did in Perth! I regret I didn't take pictures of the process here, and what is more, in Singapore it's hard to get a basket full of cheap fruit to make jam with. I do have some relatives in South Africa who might be reading this (hullo, Erasmus-es and Uys!), but as is well known, South African ladies quite possibly know all about jam anyway, and their jam would knock my jam off the kitchen counter any day. So it's down to some serious recipe-churning, everyone.

In the meantime, if you don't have a chance to visit till Christmas is over because your children are wailing for presents and your husband is wailing for presents too, God's blessings upon you.

I'm very sorry, everyone

noreply@blogger.com (Simone) — Tue, 16 Dec 2008 13:27:00 +0000

For the dearth in posting. Some urgent matters have come a'calling, but I soon do hope to post something on dips you can bring out for the family over the long Christmas-New Year stretch.

But first, I must tell you somethng that will possibly make you sick, so don't read this if you're about to eat.

Do you remember the year old egg? The picture is reproduced here for your viewing pleasure. It looks deceivingly fresh, but its looks are a lie. This egg was left in the fridge for about 11 months. My father forgot them the last time he was in Perth, and when we opened the fridge door in the Perth home 11 months later, we found a row of eggs. Very old, but oddly smell-free, eggs.

I remember telling my father all about salmonella. About how leaving a cracked egg in the fridge could leave you gut-stricken for days on end. I remember him nodding thoughtfully, saying oh yes, we should throw these eggs away shouldn't we. He promptly exited the house and made a trip down to the store for some fresh, free range eggs. "Why free range, dad? I thought you never believed in the organic free-range thing." "Why, for my daughter of course." And he smiled benevolently.

The next morning, my dad cracked a few free range eggs and served up scrambled eggs. Perhaps it was the fresh air and the holiday mood that had descended upon me, but I thought they were wonderful. I paid him the compliments, and he smiled. Benevolently, once again.

My father revealed two days ago that when I wasn't looking, he had slipped in the year-old egg. You see, he explained, the fridge kept them rot-free. And anyway, it was just one, he said. AND, he added, I didn't see you running to the toilet, innit?

I didn't. So I am still considering if I should, perhaps, one day slip some cream into his scrambled eggs. He hates cream in his scrambled eggs. And then I'll tell him, after he pays his compliements, that ah hah! They had cream in them. You didn't know that, did you?

But I suspect he'll laugh about it. He wouldn't feel ill, as I suppose you might be feeling now. So I suppose all I can do, would be to whine and moan to him about it till the cows come home and enter their sheds and lay on their bedding. But come Sunday, I'll slip double cream in his scrambled eggs, and maybe add a dash of milk. And I'll laugh maniacally and go to bed feeling satisfied with my sad little effort to exact vengeance on my father's risk-taking effort upon my gut.

Me dad

noreply@blogger.com (Simone) — Fri, 05 Dec 2008 13:33:00 +0000

I know we don't look alike at all.

But we share many things in common - we can both live on fish and chips for several days in a row; we're both scared of the sea; we both love baking; and we both fart in public.

I'm sorry, everyone....But, as they say, like father, like daughter.

I'm so glad that of all the people in the world, I got this one as my dad.

What we've been doing

noreply@blogger.com (Simone) — Fri, 05 Dec 2008 02:29:00 +0000

Me dad and I, that is.

My pride and joy of Perth November 08, panna cotta with strawberry coulis. It was edible, eatable, and from a distance, looked pretty!

There's been apricot jam bubbling on the stove

Freshly harvested marjoram hanging out to dry

A year-old egg cracked for to satisfy our curiosity (it was left in the fridge that last time my dad was here - for a year.) And for the record, it didn't smell. At all!

And not forgetting swans. Swans have mean personalities. They're beautiful, and they know it. Oh they're mean. To explain my aversion, I was bitten badly once and my knuckles hurt like crazy. And my dad was bitten, too, while venturing to feed them at a park in Perth. I know I'm whining. But around aggressive birds, I feel like I'm on the set of Alfred Hitchcock's, well, The Birds.

I'd like to post about food

noreply@blogger.com (Simone) — Tue, 02 Dec 2008 06:07:00 +0000

and some pretty swans that near bit my dad's fingers off.

But unfortunately (and in a morbidly exciting way), we experienced an attempted break-in last night, and a window was broken. I am too glad I couldn't sleep, otherwise I wouldn't have heard a sound.

I am also too glad my dad sprung into action the moment I woke him, and grabbed a mighty pitchfork to defend us both. I cowered behind him with a hammer.

Thank God, the burglars had run off by the time we ventured into the garage to fetch our weapons of warfare.

And because, again, I'm a little morbid, more exciting updates later - we might have to have our thumbprints taken! I suddenly feel like watching 2 seasons of CSI.

But on a more serious note, I'm very grateful my father is okay. I will be extending my stay for a week, to settle things and keep my dad company.

Till then, I hope to post up some things on home-made jam, South African rusks, panna cotta and nasty swans.

Love, Sim.

noreply@blogger.com (Simone) — Thu, 27 Nov 2008 06:56:00 +0000

I know that we shouldn't be casting stereotypes, but when I think of the land of Oz, I can't help but think of koala bears and kangaroos.

But I do hope to bring back some good nougat. See you in a week! Love, Sim.

Image courtesy of Capgros, at stock.xchng

Sweet lassi with saffron

noreply@blogger.com (Simone) — Mon, 17 Nov 2008 08:44:00 +0000

A couple of weeks ago, two close friends and I found ourselves at one of my all-time favourite Nepalese spots, a restaurant called Everest Kitchen at MacPherson Road. And like most meals I have with most friends, we dive into the menu with wild, reckless abandon. The table creaked with food, and the waiters looked a little stunned.

Just as my guts were about to burst - and because I love ordering third rounds when my guts are about to burst - I asked for momo, a Nepalese dumpling. Steamed or deep fried, they asked. Of course deep fried! (Is it just me, or do things taste better when they clog the arteries? And does anyone else around here like spam sushi? Please raise your hands. Thank you, that one lone person who doesn't mind sharing my shame.)

It arrived, steaming hot, fried to momo perfection, and arranged prettily by an attentive cook on the border of a copper plate.

The dish came with a bowl of smooth orange chutney, which I then heartily recommended to my friends. It's wonderful, I swooned. Coriander-ish, pungent, mustard-y. Somehow, I had forgotten to mention one thing: it was HOT.

So I think the Heavens must have conspired against my friend MY that night. MY fears chilli. If she happens to consume it in the smallest amount, she reaches for a glass of water and consumes it in 5 seconds.

And so without an intelligent thought passing through my food-addled mind, I heartily recommended she douse her momo with the chutney, forgetting its potential to destroy her entire evening.

I think it was about ten seconds before MY began gaping and gasping, fanning herself like a dribble of lava had made its way down her gullet. Her hands reached with lightning speed for a glass of lassi (or mahi, as it's apparently known in Nepal), and she began chugging the yoghurt drink down in impressive time.

In a while her breathing slowed, her face resumed a colour that wasn't a vibrant beet red, and her eyes lost its wild look of panic. I apologised profusely. I think I secretly feared that if she fainted from the exertion, she might never forgive me. And stalk me. And vandalise my house. Or make me do her laundry.

But MY is nice, kind, thoughtful and rarely enjoys conflict. She generously responded to my apologies with, "Fine....okay....not your fault....yes....lassi good", as the effort of the words rended her voice sounding like it had lost a few chords.

I really regret, MY, for the trouble I caused you for offering momo chutney. And I really, really regret that I didn't take photos. This recipe is for you! And, I must add that if there are any MY-like sufferers out there, nothing saves a constricted throat like lassi.

Sweet lassi with Saffron

Ingredients:

500ml plain yoghurt (my favourite brand is locally-produced Alvas)

250ml ice-cold water

2 tbsp caster (fine) sugar

1/8 tsp ground cardamom

A generous pinch of saffron threads

One tbsp boiling water

First, your saffron. It's a spice that's pretty exotic to us, partly because it is grown between the Mediterranean and Kashmir, and largely because it's darned expensive. But the saffron here imparts a very pretty effect on the lassi. And things like this make me feel extravagant. If I were to describe saffrons' flavour, it would be slightly grassy, and hay-like. (I think my taste buds desperately need refinement.) Nevertheless, feel free to do without this - the lassi tastes wonderful either ways.

Place a generous pinch of saffron in a small saucer, pour in about 1 tablespoon of boiling water, and let that steep.

Then, measure out 500ml plain, unsweetened yoghurt - I go for Alvas, because I find it smooth. And the fluorescent pink cow is mildly hypnotic.

Pour it out into a pitcher - preferably see-through glass. That's because the saffron threads will tint the yoghurt, and it gets slightly psychedelic.

Pour in your water...

...and the saffron that's been steeping and creating a flavoursome liquid...

...Not forgetting your sugar...

...Now this, THIS is important. This is what sets lassi apart from your standard off-the-supermarket-rack-yoghurt-drink. This is cardamom. It's a spice used often in Indian dessert, and it is fragrant beyond belief. And because it's THAT fragrant, a little goes a long way. Here, I use one-eighth of a teaspoon of ground cardamom.

Now you mix till the sugar dissolves. I use a whisk, because I'm a bit fanatical about whisks. A spoon will do just fine.

Add a couple of ice cubes, and that's it. Sweet lassi with saffron. (In thick scottish accent) 'O Lassi, I can nae do a thing without ye!'Sorry. Will stop now.