You know how great chefs are like famous painters? Stubborn and particular about little stuffs? And how they'll go through all the trouble to find the finest ingredients? And how they'll painstakingly prepare them? And how they'll cook or bake to perfection no matter how long or how much effort it takes? And how they'll insist that their assistants follow their 5-hour procedure to finish a product when a housewife can complete in one? And how they'll insist on the smallest details to achieve what they think is best?
Well, I'm not like that at all.
Mana wu eng?*
The only thing I insist on doing the dumb way is frying my own pineapple tart filling, usually late in the night. For some strange reasons I enjoy cutting and slicing pineapples, (and most fruits, hence the strawberry pound cake.) It's almost a win-win situation: I get to cut, my family gets the juice, I have homemade filling, my neighbours get the smell, and I have time to do some reflections and ponder about life** while I'm frying etc etc.
And thus I fry.
I fry till the day UFOs decide to make contact, land first in SG and get slapped with summons and fines for not having IUs installed to pass through ERPs;
I fry till some kind soul explains to me why, of all the exotic animals and dinosaurs available, the genius has to bring King Kong back into America. Choosing an obese gorilla over extinct animals?
I fry till David Beckham retires from soccer and becomes the new voice of Donald Duck;
I fry till Obama's re-election slogan reads: "Yes! We can fry!";
I fry till scholars discover that Shakespear concocted Hamlet while having ham omelette;
I fry till peanuts become the new SG currency;
I fry till renowned hair-stylist with apartment in district 10 has, well, you know, hair;
I fry till cows come home, and still I fry.
Yes, I believe I can fry.
And so, with sighs of relief, satisfaction and pleasure, my fry here fry there ends while I admire my own work of fry.
Anybody who wishes to order my pineapple tarts with my homemade filling -Don't let me see you!!!
* Hokkien, suspected and most probably adverb, translates into : Linbeh got no time to sleep where got time to do all those things? You must be kong kam!
** Like why good things only happen to other people? And why is the neighbour's dog barking at this hour? And isn't it rude and unprofessional for a major music production company to not reply to my emails? And somebody should tell that guy singing karaoke in the opposite block that he's way out of pitch, and so on; you know, things that a philosopher is too proud to question?
Thursday, December 24, 2009
Thursday, November 12, 2009
The Devil Wears Bata.
Not too long ago, I was insulted by a security guard whilst making a delivery. He flatly refused me entry. He waved his arm at me in a up-down gesture and said: "Wah lau, you wear until like dat, we can't let you in lah". While this was happening, the other two guards looked at me in a "You should know better" expression. What the -? And I was thinking: "What? And you're wearing a uniform designed by Mr Hilfiger?" I was stunned for a few seconds, mainly because of his sheer rudeness, and his ridiculous reasoning.
Firstly, do not question my fashion sense. For I have the impeccable fashion style of a modern housefly. Have you ever seen a badly dressed housefly? No, I don't think so. There you have it.
And secondly, did he mean that if I were to be in a suit, he'll let me in regardless of the purpose of my visit? Even if it was just to sell packet tissue paper?
To better convince you of the value of my attire, let me give you a breakdown of what I was wearing at that time.
1. Singlet from NUM, retailed at $45, limited edition, only about 60 pieces in Singapore, only for people who have had attended an event graced by the Minister of Education.
2. Bermudas, gift from friend who bought it overseas. Priceless now that he has emigrated (or is it migrated? Same thing to me, he flew there anyway).
3. Vintage sandals, retailed at $55, value increasing daily once I used the word 'vintage'.
4. Boxers, the emperor wears it too, priceless beyond words.
What happened after that was I simply turned and left. Pity the customer who had to do self-collection from that day onwards.
Well, you know, life is about choices.
You can choose to be rude and insulting; or,
you can choose to be rude and insulting, in good english.
Do not ask me the name of the company that I had had this interesting encounter.
I will not tell you that it is a high-tech MNC in the north.
Firstly, do not question my fashion sense. For I have the impeccable fashion style of a modern housefly. Have you ever seen a badly dressed housefly? No, I don't think so. There you have it.
And secondly, did he mean that if I were to be in a suit, he'll let me in regardless of the purpose of my visit? Even if it was just to sell packet tissue paper?
To better convince you of the value of my attire, let me give you a breakdown of what I was wearing at that time.
1. Singlet from NUM, retailed at $45, limited edition, only about 60 pieces in Singapore, only for people who have had attended an event graced by the Minister of Education.
2. Bermudas, gift from friend who bought it overseas. Priceless now that he has emigrated (or is it migrated? Same thing to me, he flew there anyway).
3. Vintage sandals, retailed at $55, value increasing daily once I used the word 'vintage'.
4. Boxers, the emperor wears it too, priceless beyond words.
What happened after that was I simply turned and left. Pity the customer who had to do self-collection from that day onwards.
Well, you know, life is about choices.
You can choose to be rude and insulting; or,
you can choose to be rude and insulting, in good english.
Do not ask me the name of the company that I had had this interesting encounter.
I will not tell you that it is a high-tech MNC in the north.
Saturday, August 8, 2009
The King.
Of fruits, not pop music.
I stopped eating it the year I turned 14. That's about 10 years ago.
I've never gotten anywhere near them since, it's just one of those things. And I flatly refused my previous employers to do any product using it.
The Durian fruit is so strange, isn't it? It just looks so prehistoric, dramatic, and probably suffers from extreme insecurity, hidiing behind those clueless thorns. I don't get the thorns, squirrels still can get to it, monkeys play hamtam-bola with it......
And that smell, heavenly to some, but I would strongly recommend using it if we ever decide to venture into chemical warfare. There's probably nothing more insidious than the smell of ripe Durians. It lingers on and on. And 3 years later, after you've moved to a new apartment, have new kids and a new chin, you can still smell it on the new Gucci bag that you've just bought.
Erm, however......
A recent visit to my childhood home kinda changed my opinion of the King. Technically, my childhood memories did. I was reminded of the beauty of the fruit, the fragrance of blooming Durian trees, the fun of picking and plucking them (yes, you do actually have to pluck at times); the adrenaline pumping sound of Durians hitting the ground, the nerve wrecking moment of being just a metre away when it did, and the excitement of opening them. Most importantly, the exquisite taste (like truffles, sold like gold) which I deemed unnecessary to go into.
With luck, and forgiving neighbours, I foresee Grumpy churning out puffs after puffs, laden with gold, creamy yet bitter, pungent yet sweet. Ooooh, the wonders of locally grown, organic Durians: You ain't heavy, you're my Durian.
You know, I still don't get the thorns.
What dumb snake is going to take a walk under Durian trees?
I stopped eating it the year I turned 14. That's about 10 years ago.
I've never gotten anywhere near them since, it's just one of those things. And I flatly refused my previous employers to do any product using it.
The Durian fruit is so strange, isn't it? It just looks so prehistoric, dramatic, and probably suffers from extreme insecurity, hidiing behind those clueless thorns. I don't get the thorns, squirrels still can get to it, monkeys play hamtam-bola with it......
And that smell, heavenly to some, but I would strongly recommend using it if we ever decide to venture into chemical warfare. There's probably nothing more insidious than the smell of ripe Durians. It lingers on and on. And 3 years later, after you've moved to a new apartment, have new kids and a new chin, you can still smell it on the new Gucci bag that you've just bought.
Erm, however......
A recent visit to my childhood home kinda changed my opinion of the King. Technically, my childhood memories did. I was reminded of the beauty of the fruit, the fragrance of blooming Durian trees, the fun of picking and plucking them (yes, you do actually have to pluck at times); the adrenaline pumping sound of Durians hitting the ground, the nerve wrecking moment of being just a metre away when it did, and the excitement of opening them. Most importantly, the exquisite taste (like truffles, sold like gold) which I deemed unnecessary to go into.
With luck, and forgiving neighbours, I foresee Grumpy churning out puffs after puffs, laden with gold, creamy yet bitter, pungent yet sweet. Ooooh, the wonders of locally grown, organic Durians: You ain't heavy, you're my Durian.
You know, I still don't get the thorns.
What dumb snake is going to take a walk under Durian trees?
Monday, March 23, 2009
Elephant-A whole different culture.
Recently an American friend asked me to make a cake for his son, for his 18th month birthday celebration. 18th months? Is it a culture thing, I wondered? He actually requested for a) car, b) boat or c) elephant. I chose Dumbo. Bad decision.
Because of some scheduling issues, I only had about 3 hours to do it. Oh my, was I frantic. Finally, after half a bottle of Cinzano, Dumbo was coaxed into existence. Oh, the booze was for me, not for the other mammal with trunk too.
It actually looked okay! From far, at least. Stand closer, you'll see a malformed, tail-less anteater with extra long legs that might or might not be cross-dressing as an elephant, that might or might not have been a donkey too ( it had a carrot in it's trunk).
Prior to delivery, I told my friend to tell his son that it was an abstract looking elephant. You know, as in abstract paintings? That was also when I connect with artists around the world who can't paint still life to save their own. Well, what do boys a little older than a year old know about elephant anyway? If a certain dinosaur can be purple, and a certain sea cucumber can wear pants......
I'll be saving the remaining half bottle for the next challenge.
Giraffe cake, anybody?
Because of some scheduling issues, I only had about 3 hours to do it. Oh my, was I frantic. Finally, after half a bottle of Cinzano, Dumbo was coaxed into existence. Oh, the booze was for me, not for the other mammal with trunk too.
It actually looked okay! From far, at least. Stand closer, you'll see a malformed, tail-less anteater with extra long legs that might or might not be cross-dressing as an elephant, that might or might not have been a donkey too ( it had a carrot in it's trunk).
Prior to delivery, I told my friend to tell his son that it was an abstract looking elephant. You know, as in abstract paintings? That was also when I connect with artists around the world who can't paint still life to save their own. Well, what do boys a little older than a year old know about elephant anyway? If a certain dinosaur can be purple, and a certain sea cucumber can wear pants......
I'll be saving the remaining half bottle for the next challenge.
Giraffe cake, anybody?
Thursday, February 26, 2009
A Good Job.
I've read somewhere that when times are bad, the movie industry is not affected at all. In fact, it gets better, cos everyone wants to 'escape' from the real world, and be lost in fantasies and romance and sci-fi and what not.
I like to write, so maybe I should start writing movie scripts. It's easy. Get the first one going, and the sequels and spin offs will follow by itself.
I could have written : Die Hard, Die Hard 2, Die Harder, Die Very Hard, Very Hard To Die, Die Already, Go Die, so on. Or The Chronicles Of Nana: The Hamster, The Cupboard And The Hamster's Grandmother. Or you know what, how about Scream, Scream Louder, Screaming Bi*ch etc etc. You get the idea.
I like to write, so maybe I should start writing movie scripts. It's easy. Get the first one going, and the sequels and spin offs will follow by itself.
I could have written : Die Hard, Die Hard 2, Die Harder, Die Very Hard, Very Hard To Die, Die Already, Go Die, so on. Or The Chronicles Of Nana: The Hamster, The Cupboard And The Hamster's Grandmother. Or you know what, how about Scream, Scream Louder, Screaming Bi*ch etc etc. You get the idea.
Dog.
I missed GoAwayYouStupidDog!
Although a boarding house with professional care and comrades to frolick around with is better than being my portable hand towel for sure. But can somebody please lick the fudge off my floor, like, NOW?
His real name is Buck.
And if we had named him Kitty instead, I often wonder, would he suffer from identity crisis?
Although a boarding house with professional care and comrades to frolick around with is better than being my portable hand towel for sure. But can somebody please lick the fudge off my floor, like, NOW?
His real name is Buck.
And if we had named him Kitty instead, I often wonder, would he suffer from identity crisis?
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
The Name.
Many people asked, why called 'grumpy baker'?
Erm, don't tell you leh. But try placing an order when I'm in the middle of a good book.
Erm, don't tell you leh. But try placing an order when I'm in the middle of a good book.
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