A Discrepancy About This Crap Pansy

Whilst I was reconciling my bank account, someone called out crap, he’s a pansy. Yes, I think that was what I heard. Unless we are in a garden centre, Pansy is a word we seldom come across today. In my youth, we did not think it would be disparaging, we merely used it as harmless mockery. But, did we unknowingly hurt anyone who may have been openly effeminate or secretly gay when we loudly taunt them for being “girlish”, a pansy? Some boys were less boyish. They weren’t prone to dirtying their school uniform, their white Bata shoes were always brand-new white. Did they apply the white talcum-like powder coating to their shoes each day after school, I wondered. Maybe their mothers were OCD sufferers, their obsessive compulsive disorder made them particularly fussy about white shoes and white school uniforms. Why were we insensitive to those less boyish boys? Did we label them as pansies simply because they were careful not to dirty their shoes or just because they sat on carefully placed plastic sheets and not on bare earth? Just because they didn’t join the rest in hurting one another in their pretend World Championship Wrestling matches? Just because they shuddered at those who were game enough to feed live houseflies to their fighting spiders? Just because they couldn’t play football in the mud? Today, I find it irreconcilable to pigeonhole someone’s sexuality from their aversion to filth, insect cruelty and rough games. The discrepancy between then and now in how gays are treated is massive. Then, homosexuals got frowned at and sometimes got beaten up, now homophobia is frowned at and LGBT people have legal rights.

Murray, my son’s pup has the most adorable pleading eyes. He would melt anyone’s heart just with his cute, exaggerated doelike demeanour. When I am at work, he will not sleep in his own comfortable bed. Instead, he will pester me to let him sleep on my lap until I surrender. The last surrender cost me an expensive jumper from Prague, he tugged at my sleeves a bit too vigorously, the resulting tear caused me to shed a tear. Murray, no teeth! no teeth! Too late, he showed me his teeth. His playful tug at my sleeves was only to get my attention, hey hug me, put me on your lap. He didn’t mean to destroy my jumper, but he made me feel like a toothless tiger that day. I was supposed to be the alpha male in my office. Now I have to work with his head resting on my arm, his pillow. Worse was to come. Murray sleepily reached out for my hand which was busily moving the computer’s mouse. He planted his hand firmly on mine. Hey, Murray! We males do not hold hands! Is that meant to be a handshake? Weren’t you taught how to shake hands? A strong grip, a quick up and down motion, and let go. It’s not supposed to last more than two seconds, unless you’re posing for the paparazzi. Any longer and it will be deemed we are holding hands. Murray, two alpha males do not hold each other’s hands! This crap pansy, the friend in Hong Kong scoffed at me, I was sure he did. What’s this, urghhling? Holding hands with a male?

Anything wrong with that? I was tempted to ask, but I knew I would attract even more sarcasms. In Africa, Arab countries and South Asian countries such as Bangladesh, males holding hands would not provoke a homophobic reaction. It is a sign of friendship and respect for men to hold hands. They would not readily reconcile the discrepancy between them and the homophobic West. My gloves are off. Ok, no more handshakes. No more holding hands. To reduce the spread of pathogens, we should fist bump or offer high fives instead.

Sharing Is Caring, But Daring?

Sharing is caring. The Salvos trademarked it in 1950. It does make perfect sense, right? To care for someone, you’ll need to share whatever is precious to you, be it love, food, sharemarket tips, your best wine collection even!

In kindergarten and primary school playgrounds, young kids learn quickly that they need to share to make friends, gain an advantage (protection), be popular. The demands of evolution taught us to share, not so much to care for others, but to care for ourselves. The early hunter-gatherers realised that with their Stone Age weapons and inferior mode of transport, any success in winning a meal would require a group effort. Share the hunt and share the meal. Caring only came later, after the hunger was satisfied. Sharing often involves a selfish motive. Cavemen shared their caves for safety in numbers. Some shared their beds to have orgies. Spy networks and national security agencies share information to catch would-be terrorists. Sharing is indeed ultimately caring for our own well-being, it took some well-meaning person to make it sound magnanimous.

My father left home when he was nine. Home was in Shaoxing, some four hours away from Shanghai, the place of his apprentice indenture. There, he learned to gobble down food quickly or go hungry. There was never enough to share. He never learned the luxury of enjoying his food slowly and deliberately. The skinny lad went home penniless after two tough years of hard slog, sweat and tears. He never admitted to crying, but I imagine he did. His masters shared a little of their business knowledge and laundry skills with him, was that caring? Not long after he returned home, the reality of desperate poverty forced him to move to Malaya where greener pastures were painted for him. There, opportunities were aplenty, he even taught himself basic accounting and English. During the Japanese Occupation, he was arrested by the sadistic men from the Land of The Rising Sun, on suspicion of spying against them. Unknowingly, all he shared was a chess game by the roadside with a communist sympathiser. That was enough reason to capture and torture both men. My father shared a chess game with a man he hardly knew, but he did not have the predisposition to care whether the man survived in a Japanese war prison. His own survival was being challenged. He reckoned he only survived because a fellow cell-mate, a teacher, gave up the fight to live. The dying man shared his plain rice porridge with my father, but only because he did not care to live anymore. By the time I was born, my father had built a profitable laundry business which catered to the needs of European expats, tourists that flocked to the Pearl of the Orient and RAAF personnel who were based in Butterworth. By then he also owned some rubber plantations in Sungei Petani, and a factory that produced smoked rubber sheets from the latex. These business enterprises were not only his. He organised many relatives and clansmen from the San Kiang community to join him in these ventures. Many made comfortable livelihoods from the laundry operations that serviced the hotel industry in Penang. Many later made a small fortune from the land sold off after the rubber plantations were no longer productive. Why did he share his investment opportunities with them? Was that from caring? My mother surely believed it was from love and caring for her siblings and cousins. Yet, there were audible claims that he did it out of selfish motives. There was the case of an uncle who died almost immediately after his retirement. He never got to really enjoy the fruits of his hard work. Pa provided his brother-in-law with a solid business opportunity, the latter’s prosperity was assured so long as he worked hard at his own business. Did he work himself to death? I adored this uncle. My affinity for breeding fish can be directly linked to him. Could he have provided a similarly positive outcome for his family had my father not shared those opportunities with him? Some of his children grew up to become successful professionals with glittering international careers. One even became a Datuk recently, akin to a British knighthood. I am incredibly proud of this cousin brother, he’s the one and only from my clan to earn this title. Did their lives markedly improve from moving to Penang from their small town? Can we suggest that their move to better schools in a more competitive environment vastly improved their tertiary achievements? Would they have done as well if not better, had they not venture out to Penang? Sharing is caring, but you have to be daring. Best intentions do bring unintended consequences. We do not need to be praised for sharing. After all, the motive can be deemed to be a selfish one. But, do we need to be daring to share? Peoples’ expectations and circumstances cannot be managed, a well-meaning helping hand may turn out to be disappointing or insulting to the receiver.

There was also the case of another uncle who my father concluded was not able to operate a laundry business successfully. So, he was given a monthly stipend to help make ends meet. Well, a sinecure actually, since there was no work to be performed. The couple had thirteen children and needed all the help they could get. As far as my mother was concerned, that was her way of sharing and caring. Many years later, I learned from one of the children they felt their father was unfairly left out of the many opportunities that were available to the clan. They felt unfairly disadvantaged and forgotten. Maybe their father didn’t share the truth that he was helped along the way. Maybe they didn’t care about that. Sharing is caring, the benefactor will think, but will the beneficiary extol the virtue of the giver if the gift is viewed as paltry, or worse, contemptible? That’s too daring to contemplate.

My own history is littered with disappointments also. When I embarked on my quest to create a retail franchise system in Australia, I naively aspired to copy what I believed was my father’s greatest achievements. A business leader who helped pull many out from the villages and out of poverty. After the 2008 Global Financial Crisis hit, the retail scene was a devastation after Lehman Brothers’ collapse triggered a panic in financial markets globally. Businesses were not able to borrow from the banks, the illiquidity was due to investors pulling their money out of the banking system which they no longer trusted. One by one, the franchise stores folded due to either high borrowing costs or zero borrowing capacity. Those who saw me as their business leader sharing with them brilliant business insights and a panache for great prosperity soon didn’t care much for my well-being after the collapse of their business. It would be daring for me to show my face to any of them now. Sorry folks, this urghhling only meant to share good things, he really cared. Sharing is caring, only for the daring.

Dandelion, A Delight

Many of my friends didn’t know the Dandelion is actually a nutritious plant. Definitely not a useless, annoying weed. Rich with antioxidants, it has many health benefits when consumed in moderation. Every part of the plant is edible, even its roots. In Korea, the roots are prized for their medicinal qualities, and are expensive to buy for the average family. In traditional Chinese medicine, Dandelion has long been used to treat stomach and liver disease, it is also believed to fight inflammation and diabetes. Herbalists use it to treat acne, eczema, high cholesterol, heartburn and even cancer. Modern science still lags behind the ancient practice, no conclusive studies have been finalised. But, there have been some progress.

A promising 2012 Canadian study reported that Dandelion root extract induced apoptosis in prostate and pancreatic cancer cells, reducing their growth and preventing their spread. A 2015 Canadian study reported that Dandelion extracts successful blocked UV B radiation when applied to the skin. A 2016 Danish study showed that Dandelion promotes or stimulates pancreatic cells to produce insulin, blood sugar levels are better controlled.

There are numerous recipes available, this one is particularly easy to prepare. Dinner will be ready in approximately five minutes.

1. Pick Dandelion from your garden. Preferably those in the shade, they are less bitter. Wash Dandelion thoroughly.

2. Soak hard tofu in boiling water.

3. Blanch Dandelion in boiling water for 2 minutes. Immerse for an extra minute if you don’t like the bitter taste.

4. Break the tofu into crumbs.

5. Rinse blanched Dandelion in cold water.

6. Drain with colander.

7. Wring dry the Dandelion .

8. Cut Dandelion into small pieces. All of it is edible.

9. Mix cut Dandelion with tofu. Add sesame oil.

10. Add soy sauce, salt, sugar and pepper.

11. Finally, sprinkle roasted sesame seeds on to the dish.

Snake In The Eagle’s Shadow II

Not long after I started blogging, I was censured by a reader. Be silent. Read more first. Read a lot more. That was an attempt to censor me, my viewpoints aren’t worth the bytes they occupy. In my blog, Snake In The Eagle’s Shadow, I described how a few people in my life still think they have the power to censor and censure. I was told to stop sharing food pictures in one group chat, and video files in another. Ask for permission first. Seek approval from higher authorities first, in other words. When I sent photos of my roses, I thought it seemed harmless enough. No! I was castigated for being insensitive. There are some less fortunate ones who may view you as a show off, bragging about your koi and garden. Time and time again, I am being “told off” or criticised. What is the point of being in a chat group if we only can chat about the weather and wish one another pleasantries such as Thank God It’s Friday or send mundane, brain-numbing Good Morning messages. Or is it that they can share whatever they like but I need their approval first? There is no need to be gender specific, so I will continue with they.

When I blogged about Rasputin, I was challenged, “Are you not making sweeping statements?” Rasputin was, of course, a controversial character in his time, he died an untimely death after five attempts on his life. There will be strong, opposing views about him; needless to say, I would not assert that whatever I wrote were indisputable facts. After all, that is what controversial means. Much of what I wrote were stories told by the Russian tour guide. After checking the veracity on the Internet, I decided her stories were worth sharing. I am first to admit my research is hardly scholarly. “Sweeping statements? Which ones?” I asked. They said they hadn’t done any in-depth research themselves. They couldn’t say if I was making any sweeping statements.

Last night, the Censorship Board sent another representative to caution me.

Did you ask your mother if you can post such deep secrets about her? Did she give you permission to use her photo? Best if you remove it. They don’t think you should post personal stuff online. Remove your blog. There is a protocol, you cannot simply post any deep family secrets online. You shouldn’t make judgemental statements.

Later, it got personal after I defended myself. “What deep secrets, which are the judgemental statements that are so detrimental to our mother?”

“You just can’t take criticisms, always seeking praise.” “What?! I’m not after praise, I just want to be left alone to express my thoughts” I retorted. I don’t need to be censored. And I don’t deserved to be censured either!

“You’re getting all obnoxious and uppity” they decried. In my younger days I would have cried. Why am I being picked on again? The Eagles are soaring above ferociously, eager to pounce and tear off my head with their talons.

“Why do you need to air grievances to the world? Why are you so self righteous?” Obnoxious, uppity and self righteous, three injurious stones cast at me.

What grievances did I write about in Please Appease To Ease And Please? Am I being self righteous when I write about my observations about life around me? About my childhood? Isn’t it my right to write about my life, my views, biased or otherwise? Am I not allowed to share my stories, as long as they are accurate from my perspective, truthful without sensationalism? As long as they aren’t vicious, vindictive or poisonous? Is it pointless to share our stories? Am I being egoistic, narcissistic, tragic to think my stories need to be shared and read? The eagles are soaring above, will they dive and pounce on the snake again?

Blogging takes guts. I didn’t know that. It would be fun to pen my ideas down, improve my vocabulary, add a new discipline to my thought process. There is a big price to pay though. I make myself vulnerable to harsh criticisms, open ridicule or worse, backstabbing about my character. I am made to feel like a lemon today. Urghhlings, leave me alone.

Please Appease To Ease And Please

In the 1930’s, she would have been considered a siren from Shanghai. Her cheongsam revealed her enviable 32-24-34 figure, perhaps unknowingly to her, since she never considered herself attractive. To me, she is as regal as any monarch, as considerate as any good care-giver, as glamorous as any movie star, and she will always be my loving mother. When I was a young boy, I knew her to be extremely thrifty. She was most certainly a frightening sight to the wet market vendors in Chowrasta market. Five cents was worth five minutes of haggling, and if she caught the fishmonger in a good mood, maybe even a bonus prawn or two would have been thrown in. In truth she was from Ningbo, but in those days, not many knew where that was. So, people knew her as the woman from Shanghai. Shanghai sounded more metropolitan, modern, sophisticated. Although deprived of a proper school education, the two years she got was sufficient to make her literate, elegant and intelligent. She was irresistible to my father, their courtship was short. Maybe she knew she had to be fast, for he was one of the more eligible bachelors, entrepreneurial, ambitious and dapper like Gregory Peck.

She’s now nearing 96, although she would quickly and firmly correct me. 97, according to the Chinese lunar calendar. They add a year, after all, aren’t we born into this world upon conception?

I returned from my two week holiday five days ago. Before I left, I told her I would be away for only twelve days. Did I deliberately miscount it by two days so that my absence would sound shorter to her? Or maybe subconsciously I don’t count travelling time since days spent travelling isn’t really a holiday? Maybe she is upset it has been 20 days since I last visited her. Twenty days to any nonagenarian would feel like a very long time, I realise. Which would explain why she is in a prickly mood. She repeatedly says she’s well past her use-by-date. Every day is a bonus, there won’t be many to come, she predicts. She struggles to get up, mutters to herself that her head is spinning, time isn’t on her side anymore.

When your twins were born, you let me sleep on a urine soaked bed.

She informs me of this abomination today?! Could I have been so deliberately cruel? And if so, why? I love her! She’s my cherished mother, for crying out loud! After all, she has been exhibiting early signs of dementia. It is not a disease but it can be quite debilitating on the elderly, characterised by impairment of brain functions such as memory loss and judgment, confusion may impact on daily activities and communication abilities even. I bought a new queen sized bed for my parents of course, before they arrived to celebrate the birth of my twin sons. Maybe she dozed off one afternoon when she helped put my eldest son to sleep on his mattress. I couldn’t afford another bed then. Maybe she unknowingly smelt his wet blanket when he moved himself closer to her face. He was two years old when his brothers were born, he wasn’t quite ready to relinquish his smelly wet blanket. Their mother recuperated in hospital for three weeks, all the more reason to lug his blanket everywhere.

A situation like this can easily get out of hand. Emotions can run wild, will I feel aggrieved, should I strongly protest, and protect my reputation? Will my other siblings believe this ridiculous accusation? They may want to readily believe the old lady, venerable but also vulnerable, usually clear headed yet exhibiting the onset of dementia. Do I defend myself and risk further angst and emotional stress to everyone present? She may even protest that I, without any medical advice, write that she has dementia. She may even ask me to withdraw this uninformed opinion.

No, I have to be calm. Everyone has to be calm or calmed. How do we care for a loved one who is dementing? Arguments will only agitate her, added stressors will aggravate her mood swings and even change her behaviour. I have seen her turn aggressive and angry, never her normal traits, not even when she became an octogenarian. I used to joke I would rather see her angry, at least I’d know she is still well. If she is strong enough to slam her hands against the dining table, she is well enough for me not to worry about her health.

Please appease her, I remind myself. Calm her down, show her affection, and reassure her she is very well loved, forever our precious mother. Please ease her tension. Talk about her good old days, add humour to the conversation, take her out for a meal. She will like that. Please her, make her feel life is good. Make today a real bonus.

Framed As Important, Famed As Impotent

NATO! A few of my friends called out to me, as I strode towards the group of grey retirees for a lunch appointment in Penang. This was the first morning back to my hometown. I was there to attend RU8, this being the eighth reunion of school mates born in 1958. Time is not on our side, RU’s will be an annual event from now on. I was relieved the welcoming party introduced themselves, for I wouldn’t have rated the chances of recognising any of them high. After all, 44 years is a long time, and many a scar will not heal in one lifetime

NATO? Why, I asked. Apparently, a friend based in Hong Kong had conspired with them and framed me as one who talks big and talks a lot but without any action to back up his words. No Action Talk Only. Does the North Atlantic Treaty Organisation which includes the United States deserve such a slur on their reputation? I suppose the alliance has been a benign, impotent body during the bulk of its existence after the last Great War. Its abject failure in the Balkans after it bombed Yugoslavia, its disastrous foray into Libya to oust Gaddafi, Libya went from the wealthiest African nation to now a failed state, and its weak effort in Afghanistan to contain the Taliban militancy deserve acute criticism, especially when the war on terror was declared over, five years ago, in 2014 by President Obama. But, I’m not impotent, I declared. Was I misheard? Did I say I was important? Unfairly, I am now famed as an irrelevant clown whose feverish gobbledygook rants serve no purpose other than make a fool of himself.

When I shared my stories of me as an irresistible, incorruptible and indestructible hunk like Keanu Reeves, it was made very clear that those heroic, galant stories were born in my dream world. There, I was more powerful and faster than Superman, a better equipped fighter than Batman, and more iron-willed than Ironman. In my dream world I can reach apotheosis. Which is why I cannot understand why some of my grey haired friends shamed me by publicly calling me NATO. They confuse my dream world with my physical world, although both are real to me, when I am there. For them, it’s only real when the physical attributes can be detected by our sensory organs. Their reality requires them to touch, smell, taste, see or/and hear. How do I convince them that is far from the truth? Our brain has never been outside our body, yet it can experience our physical surroundings. The reality of our physical world is very different to that of the bat, its world revolves around its sonar capabilities. So, how real is real when two animals’ reality in the same physical world is so vastly different? The human brain uses electrochemical signals to interpret the data it receives, creating a reality that we perceive. A reality that in fact is quite subjective. For instance, some will see green when others see red, and others can’t decide at all what they see. Let me repeat that: what is real is actually a subjective interpretation by our brain. Quantum physicists still cannot answer the fundamental nature of reality with their photon experiments. The outcome of the “double slit” experiment can change depending on whether or not we choose to measure some property of the light particles involved. If the way the world behaves depends on how we look at it, or if we look at it, what then is “reality”?

It is true that our brain can also let us feel and experience events in our dream world. After all, who hasn’t had a wet dream? And since we can feel, hear and see in our dreams, why is our reality there not considered real? Have we not experienced fear, screaming out during a nightmare? When our brain is experiencing it, both worlds are as real as each other.

I need to confess I also live in a third world. No, I don’t mean a third world country. My virtual world is a happy, busy place, its inhabitants are mostly retirees sharing food pictures and rowdy beer sessions. There, in the digital universe, my friends gather 24/7 from all parts of the globe. A quiet introvert in the physical world, in the virtual world, I am unchained and totally free to express myself. My friends have not yet told me to shut up there. A word I coined is extrovirt, one who is an extrovert in the virtual world.

The Heritage In Our Dotage

Some say we are already in our dotage. Surely not, we may be in our sixties but we aren’t weak and in declining health, are we? Sigh, it’s all relative I suppose. When was the last time I dashed a hundred meters or jumped six feet high? My recent reunion with school mates from four decades and more ago was a stark contrast from distant days gone by. We wouldn’t be seen stark naked these days, we just don’t possess a physique that demands a first look anymore. We talked about health issues and wealth issues, no longer girl issues. Some of the grey ones amongst us are blessed to be doting grandpas, in dotage.

Upon my return to Penang, I was reminded of my hometown’s proud achievement in 2008. Georgetown, Penang’s capital city was listed as a UNESCO World Cultural Heritage site. The oldest of the British Straits settlements, Georgetown is dotted with rows and rows of shoplots, many of which are still in desperate need of a good paint job. Gems are easily found hidden amongst these, some are exquisitely renovated and have been brought back to their former colonial glory. Retaining the island’s cultural and architectural heritage is admirable. But I think to be a world heritage site, it has to offer more than just these. As importantly, I think Penang’s famed food heritage should be equally cherished and protected. This precious heritage through the culinary gifts from so many faraway places in Asia for over two hundred years shouldn’t be taken for granted lest it is quickly lost. Broadly speaking, the incredibly vast menu of food including street food, also known as hawker food, mostly originated directly from China, India, Sri Lanka, Thailand, Indonesia whereas others are influenced by mixed cultures such as the Peranakan, a blend between Malays and Chinese. To simply say the foods are from China and India of course is to markedly devalue this culinary diversity that is Penang’s gift to the world. These two vast nations have over two hundred ethnic groups, each with their own uniqueness stemming from geographical, seasonal, tribal, and cultural influences, to name a few. China and India are in fact two major civilisations that pretend to be countries.

In the past 44 years, I have returned home for maybe five times. So, I think returnees like me may have a strong claim to know if a cherished dish has lost its original flavour. And if so, such dishes ought to be out of favour in order for Penang to retain its title as one of the street food Paradise on Earth. Yet, in every corner of Penang, the street food hawkers reign supreme. Many with solid reputations, enhanced by social media and food review “authorities” such as Tripadvisor are often disappointing to those who remember how their food tasted in their heyday. Is it social media that has socially engineered our food heritage? I suspect the hawkers are merely adjusting to the generally less discerning and therefore less demanding taste buds of tourists, and they get away with higher profits with less tasty ingredients. Why spend the monetary cost, effort and time using tediously prepared ingredients when they can simply avoid it and the affable unquestioning tourists will be none the wiser and still rate it with five stars? Food bloggers are usually younger and less discerning, they do not have yesteryear standards to compare with. To me, the issue here is the locals expect and demand street foods to be cheap. They mentally calculate how much a plate of Char Koay Teow should cost from its ingredients without attributing any value for the main ingredient, i.e. the skill and knowledge of the hawker. It is akin to a diner at a Michelin 3-star restaurant who does not expect to pay a stiff price for the chef’s culinary creativity and skills. No, that would not happen in the developed world, so why is this lamentable disgraceful slap in the face treatment for our finest hawkers be tolerated in Penang? Over time, our best food hawkers will simply die away or if we are lucky, their successors and pretenders will compromise on the quality of their output, since people do not put a value on their input.

Below are the only stand-out establishments I was lucky to have experienced last week. These are to me, Penang’s finest food destinations that have retained the high standards passed down from their fore-fathers. There hopefully are many many more that I have missed, a week in Penang is far too brief. I also acknowledge that one man’s treasure is another man’s trash, many will undoubtedly disagree with my opinion.

Penang’s Teochew cendol is a sweet delicacy which requires the best Gula Melaka and freshest santan (coconut milk). I have been suffering from severe withdrawal symptoms due to my chronic addiction to it. To soothe myself, I had one serving on my way to Penang. Kwong Wah in section 14, Petaling Jaya, any cendol will do I thought to myself. Surprisingly, Kwong Wah now has usurped the title from Penang’s legendary outlet in Lebuh Keng Kwee as best cendol in the land.

I had Penang’s most famous street food, Char Koay Teow, in four separate locations but none of them made my list. It is a disturbing trend that has to be arrested, or we lose what made us great.

Penang Road Char Koay Teow with Duck Egg

888 Hokkien Mee and also the Lor Bak at Lebuh Presgrave.
113 Duck Meat Koay Teow Th’ng 111 Lebuh Melayu
Hokkien Rice Porridge (alternatively, with mee sua) at Hon Kei Food Corner, Kampung Malabar
Hokkien Cha and Sar Hor Fun at Gou Lou Hong Kee, Campbell Street
Jawa Mee at Bobo Cafe, Lip Sin Garden
Nasi Ulam at Air Itam
Chee Cheong Fun, served unfolded with Sesame, Hoisin and Hae-ko at Seow Fong Lye Cafe, McAlister Lane.
Lor Mee, at Kheng Pin, Sri Bahari Road.

Apart from the above street foods, the fabulous Peranakan restaurant I had the privilege to enjoy is Winn’s Cafe @ Irrawaddi. It is Nyonya food close to its pinnacle, I reckon it easily rivals Violet Oon’s National Kitchen in Singapore. What sets Winnie Poh’s restaurant apart from the rest is her preparedness to trust and value her chefs’ culinary skills whilst honouring the traditional recipes of the Baba Nyonya. She adds a modern-day touch to her heritage in terms of high-end presentation in a classy air-conditioned environment. Impressive dishes in a large menu include Pie Tee and Lor Bak, Jiu Hoo Cha, Kiam Hoo Koot Gulai, Tau Ewe Bak, Perut Ikan, Nasi Ulam, Assam Prawns and Ikan Tumis.

Four Seasons including Pie Tee and Lor Bak

Penang Lang, appreciate the skills of these finest hawkers, value them before they devalue themselves. They are our vanishing heritage in our dotage.

R U At RU8?

Reunion no.8, what an overwhelming event. I almost choked when I was on stage, maybe it was the Yee Foo noodles down my throat. A reunion of old school mates, some of whom started school life with me, in 1965 right through to 1975. That gives us a special bond, despite it being severed for 44 years. That’s a life time in Victorian days. That’s also a lifetime for many lost brothers. I was shocked by the casualty list, the lengthening list will become more and more casual, unfortunately. RU1.0 was held in 2008 and everyone has been excited at the increasing number of attendees since then. On reflection, the number instead will decrease over time. After all, we have all passed middle age, our twilight years approaching with accelerating speed. With a vengeance perhaps, the way we eat, drink and party till late here, surely the day of reckoning is beckoning.

I was keen to meet some of my school teachers, particularly the Malay teacher who taught us Bahasa Malaysia, and the biology teacher. The Malay didn’t turn up, not surprisingly. He was a sadist who turned and twisted many a nipple of those unfortunate students of his. I was one of his victims. Faham kah? Faham kah? He repeated as he asked me a question. I didn’t understand what faham meant, so I kept shaking my head. Each time I shook my head, the harder he pinched and distorted my nipple. Faham kah? I should have been smart enough to nod instead of continuing shaking my head. Duh! The class laughed and applauded with each twist and turn of the nipple. The classroom rebel was born that day, what class! By the way, faham kah means do you understand.

My biology teacher unfortunately does not remember me, even though I remember her well. I was inconspicuous when I thought I was special. I retold her the story of how I challenged her in class during a frog dissection session. Why do we need to dissect a frog per table of five or six students? Why not just dissect one frog per class? Why at all? It’s not as if school children will miss some significant knowledge that couldn’t be attained from a Form teacher? Why would a chloroformed frog teach us more? I gave her a hug but I think she was visibly afraid of me and my Rasputin hairstyle. Never mind, that was for all the frogs that were sacrificed.

The spirit of brotherhood amongst the original St Xavier’s guys and those from La Salle should be the envy of many. It’s a rarity to find such amazing camaraderie amongst men who are strangers in fact. We may have met some during our school years, but some didn’t meet at all. The Xaverians from Branch School joined our school, SXI, from Form 1, whereas the Lasallians came three years later. Our year had some 450 students in secondary school, many I hardly knew or never met. I rationalise that it was because I lived just a hundred steps from school, and thus had no opportunity to roam about with mates after school. Even those I hung around with in school were mostly unrecognisable. Some faces I could connect to their name tags after some recalling, others were faces of strangers. Even cheating didn’t help, I soon peeped at their name tags first, some names I instantly have an affinity for, others were long forgotten or never were acquainted with. Seldom did I connect a face to a name. Yet, the spirit of brotherhood was undeniable. I was overwhelmed by the incredible goodwill and unmatchable welcome from these brothers. The Lasallians taught us all to call one another Brothers. Think of blood brothers, brothers-in-arms, brothers in shining armour, and you’ll know what I mean. These guys will do pretty much anything for one another. One even took his shirt off his back and gave it to me because I loved it so much. I asked to buy one. Alas, it’s a limited edition, sold out last year. They treated us, “out-station” guys as if we have VIP special status. Out-station here means visitors from interstate or overseas. We are the long lost brothers, unconditionally welcomed back with open arms and strong bear hugs.

“Brothers Forever” on a banner flashed across my view but it also flashed dismay in my mind that somehow we Brothers have forgotten the Form 6 girls who attended our school for two years. I think they should not be excluded. Maybe RU9.0 will flash a banner that says Brothers & Sisters Forever.

RU8.0 was an unforgettable event and will remain embedded in my heart till the end of my time. We let our hair down all night, well, at least literally for those with long hair anyway. Too many were bald or balding. We rocked like youthful fanatics until the ground rocked. At precisely 11 pm everything and everyone started swaying. Earthquake! I screamed in my mind. But, later I realised it was a false alarm, people were swaying because they were totally inebriated! My brothers missed me so much, it was quite touching. Throughout my short stay in my birthplace Penang, they often called out miss (my surname), miss (my full name), miss (my initials). I’m so overwhelmed by how much they have missed me. Missing me may have something to do with my hair, someone joked.

AirAsia AK1639 left Penang at 4:30 pm today. Goodbye Penang, goodbye my brothers. When will we meet again?

It Feels Great To Be Grateful

Bikash sends me another gem, a reminder that it’s not happiness that makes us grateful but gratefulness that brings happiness to us. There’s a lot to be grateful of, therefore there is a lot to be happy about. We just need to view our circumstances from a positive perspective.

I woke up with a troubled tummy for the third day. It’s worse today, as the exotic foods I had have by now been infused and churned with the dozens of Durian from yesterday. I was greedy, and now I’m paying the price? No, I’m grateful I had the opportunity to enjoy the diverse tastes of the fruit. Now I know how to differentiate between Ang Bak and Bak Ewe, Green Skin and Lin Fong Chiao.

I have been over-eating and observing my Intermittent Fasting programme with abject failure. My pants are tighter, which means my belly fat is embarrassingly visible. An accidental glance at a shop window gave me a horrible fright, I saw myself like I never saw myself before. Now I hear what my cousins said about me. IF has made me skinny and my muscular frame a distant memory. Why are you so silly? You reject food when it’s served in front of you? What does your mother say? Aiyah, so stupid! Life is short, eat, eat eat! Everything in moderation, another cousin chimed in. My cousins were echoing that same message throughout last night’s dinner. This concept of moderation, how much is it before we exceed “moderation”, I asked her. You’re eating in moderation, and is that why your arms are flabby? Another cousin said leave it to our Maker. It’s already preordained. We can’t change our date with destiny. The Lord maketh us and toil addeth nothing thereto. No matter what we do, we can’t improve ourselves. Am I sad? How should I react to that? I didn’t need to. She went on to say her brothers have already told her she sounded like an uneducated woman. No, I was not the least mollified by the barrage of criticisms about my IF programme. It’s backed by science. I invited them to argue with Dr Oshumi, the 2016 Nobel Prize winner for Physiology, who reported the benefits of autophagy from fasting. Don’t argue with me, I’m not qualified. But, I’m grateful for the opportunity to spend precious time together with my 89 year old auntie and a few cousins. My lovely aunt even stepped into a bar for the first time in her life. Cheers. Being grateful has brought me much joy and meaning to my life.

Whilst waiting for a friend to pick me up for lunch today, I noticed a homeless woman ranting loudly about how she is going mad from despair. She has bloodied wounds on her foot and back, her left leg is noticeably swollen. She didn’t ask me for help but I gave her the box of Him Heam biscuits meant for my friend. He won’t miss what he doesn’t know, I rationalised. After that, more sob stories rattled off her tongue. Wow, I hope you’re not trying to scam me for money, I told her. It’s scammers that make it difficult for good samaritans to keep helping. A fool and his money are soon parted. The warning bell tolled long and loudly as I took out a RM100 note from my wallet and handed it to her. Don’t lose it, I said. Don’t be scammed by anyone. Use it for food only, ok? Such good advice, right? Sometimes I should listen to my own advice!

Anyway, she didn’t show any gratitude like you would expect from someone in such dire circumstances being just handed an equivalent of 20 plates of Char Koay Teow. Not a word of thanks, not a nod of acknowledgement. Hmmmm, I did say we ought not to have any expectations when we give.

Duran Duran? Nah, Durian is King

I’m in Penang, my birthplace. When my friends invited me to a “Duran” party, I wondered why it would be at noon and not in the evening. They weren’t talking about the British band, a multiple Grammy winner and Brits winner, Duran Duran. In Asia, Duran Duran will have to move aside for the Durian, there can be only one King. The Durian is king of all the fruits here. It’s exotic, aromatic and some say even erotic. Smear it all over your lover’s hands, mouth and body, and you’ll have a devilish time. In recent years, planeloads of fans have flown into Penang from Hong Kong and China to snap up limited tickets to Durian farm tours. It’s not only Duran Duran that has lost out to Durian in this part of the world, you won’t find planeloads of tourists flying in for any other fruit. There just isn’t any comparison, the King sits alone at the apex.

I was privileged to be amongst the 12 A-list guests for today’s tour to a Sungei Ara farm. Only the elitist can be in such a list for one of these parties, I imagine. After all, I know the bloke who many adoringly call the Prez, short for President For Life of our committee that oversees our school reunion.

In a Duran Duran party I imagine I’d be dressed impeccably in a black turtle neck with long sleeves, drinking red wine. But this is a durian party, we just need to be in the shade, away from the scorching sun and drink lots of water. The wine industry is a lot more sophisticated. Wine has been so well described by connoisseurs you could almost imagine the taste from just reading their notes about the wine. But when it comes to Durian, many are lost for words when asked to describe what they are tasting. There is nothing subtle about the Durian. It is an explosion of smell, taste and texture that befuddles the brain. Some will die for it and others will die because of it. A university building in Canberra had to be evacuated yesterday because some students had smuggled durian into the campus. For many Aussies, the aroma was so vile to their senses that they senselessly ordered the evacuation and temporary closure of the building. Either you love it or you loathe it. When it comes to Durian there is no fence sitter.

When the Durian party is over, there isn’t a moment to harbour any regrets. It’s a very sweet food, my insulin spike would have skyrocketed. Never mind the high cholesterol, it’s ecstasy whilst it lasted. As I leave the farm, I think back of the camaraderie in the Durian group, it’s a happy moment in time when everyone is basking in the warmth of good friendship with sticky, stinky fingers and lips. They dismissed my suggestion of using disposal gloves to enjoy the fruit. No, the Durian tastes better when eaten with bare fingers, they assure me. But for me, the Durian fragrance is alluring and irresistible only before you eat it. After devouring it, its fragrance changes to a foul smell. It will take days before the stink leaves my body, via the privacy of my toilet, hopefully.

On the way back from the farm, I was stuck in a car full of A-list guests. Someone in the car decided he would be the random phantom who couldn’t control his bodily functions. We didn’t catch him. Maybe they? He was too clandestine with his random release of Durian infused gas from his butt hole. Random means there was no warning from him. Have you ever sat in a small Nissan full of big old men on a hot sweltering afternoon in Penang? And the air conditioning unit was struggling in vain to make it a pleasant ride? My ride was made so much worse by the incessant release of the pungent smell of durian by an irresponsible old man. I am sure I wasn’t the culprit but I’m over 60, there’s no absolute guarantee that I was in full control of my bodily functions. I reckon it was definitely one of the other guys. It is unfathomable how the once irresistible fragrance becomes a disgusting intolerable odour once we are bloated with durian.