Archive for September, 2012

eating curbs

In addition to strange dessert, F*Hotel decided to serve us this today:

Said The Other Half:

We could suggest it to LTA so that no one need ever break their toes again.

Also available further down the buffet line was “Soft Shee Crab with Chicken Floss”.

According to the Other Half:

In Celtic mythology, The Shee were faerie folk. They must have seemed all-powerful to the ordinary humans, as are the Shee to the other creatues.

Said I:

That actually fits in nicely with the grass jelly with attache.

Said he:

Or the Rasta with cheese topping.

Thanks, F*Hotel for all that (unintended) fun on a boring Court day.

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weekend project

A couple of weeks ago, on her return from the Annual (or Bi-Annual) Homecoming, Rebecca gave us a magic box filled with 2 candy trays and a dessert recipe book in French (!!).

Notwithstanding, I bravely went through the book twice but for some really strange reason, in spite of the fact that the molds enclosed were clearly for gummy sweets, there was not one single gummy recipe in the book.

Undeterred, I proceeded to google a recipe and bravely proceeded the weekend past as follows:

1. Soak 4 tablespoons of gelatine (I used a Halal version from the supermarket) with 4 tablespoons of cold water and set aside to soften.

2. In a saucepan, place a 2/3 cup of fruit juice (I used an unsweetened pomegranate juice procured by The Other Half from the supermarket on the rationale that the sour juice will counteract the sugar), 6 tablespoons of sugar (I used fine brown caster sugar) and 4 tablespoons of corn syrup. Melt the sugar over a medium fire.

3. After sugar is melted, scoop the gelatine goop out of whatever receptacle it’s molded into and land it with a plop into the saucepan. Stir over heat until the goop melts into the liquid. I think I lost a bit of patience here and sifted out the stubborn little bits left on the top after I got tired of stirring.

4. Pour the (sifted) liquid into the molds, realise that you’ve got far too much liquid for the molds, then rummage through your cupboard for some more. You end up with gummy bears, gummy crocs, gummy alphabets, gummy numbers and a couple of gummy sunflowers.

5. Leave to cool under a fan in the dining room, then take a shower and leave the house for dinner with Mother-In-Law and Sister-In-Law at a restaurant. Return to Mother-In-Law’s place to watch the entire FormulaOne race, then get home to shout the kids upstairs to bed. Take a deep breath. Then attempt to remove the still quite soft jellies from the molds.

6. After a moderate amount of cursing, one dismembered gummy bear which was promptly eaten, and some discussion with The Other Half, pop the jellies into the freezer and go to bed, praying that time will fix it.

7. Wake up next morning, remove molds from fridge and pull jellies out (successfully) from molds to much jubilation. Another gummy bear promptly eaten by The Other Half for taste test.

8. After the pronouncement of suitability, hastily wrap up some in non-stick paper and take them to work as follows:

The gummies are a little softer than the usual kind of gummy bears you get in a store. But then they have absolutely no preservatives and are really quite yummy. We will be experimenting with other types of fruit juices / sugars to try to get a better consistency. The Other Half read somewhere that the brown sugar may have contributed to them not setting quite hard enough at room temperature so I have resolved to try with white, processed fructose instead.


In other news, I went to the zoo with the kids on Sunday. I have now developed a mysterious ache in my right buttock from my uneven gait. That’s my cue to walk less in my cast, methinks. How bloody inconvenient.

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In the annual “Let’s leave the City before everyone pours in for F1” exercise, I decided to leave work at lunch to go for a two-hundred-dollar haircut at a new fancy-pansy hair parlour to make myself feel better about my shitty life.

When I told my secretary about it, she said: So expensive! You should just go shopping with the money!!

I laughed but called the hair palour anyway because I’ve been psyching myself up to try the place for a while but haven’t done so because (a) it is more expensive than my usual haircut and (b) it was tantamount to committing adultery on Hair God (ie my usual stylist).

A disinterested voice on the phone told me that they were fully booked and hung up abruptly.

I was disapponted, then indignant at the rebuff, after spending so much time deciding to do this. I still needed a haircut though so I picked up the phone again and called my regular hair salon. The usual nice girl picked up. She originally asked me to show up at 5.30pm but when I asked apologetically whether I could drop by earlier, she made the effort to find out what I needed done and fitted me in within the hour.

I hobbled up the stairs of the salon to be greeted warmly by Hair God, who gave me this wonderful hairdo for less than fifty dollars:

What did I do with the remainder one hundred and fifty dollars I would have spent this afternoon? I had a cupcake and Salt-Caramel Mocha at Starbucks and then proceeded to Kinokuniya and bought myself enough stories for the next half a year, which really, like my secretary supposed, was WAY more satisfying than a two-hundred-dollar haircut, if you ask me.

So two things from this afternoon:

1. My secretary is a very wise woman who knows me better than myself; and

2. I will never think about committing adultery on Hair God ever again.

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While glancing through my credit card bill today to write a cheque for it, I noticed that one of the items was that farewell lunch I bought you.

And just like that, you’ve been gone for more than a month now.

I’ve gone from whatsapp-ing you almost every day to working through meals and nights. Then realising that whatsapp-ing you every day doesn’t really help with my psyche, I stopped. It’s a complicated emotion. We worked together for so long it’s strange not to ask you about stuff. Yet now that you are gone, it becomes inappropriate for me to ask you about stuff like I used to. It’s no good for us both. I dug deeper and strangely enough, started digging myself out of the rut I was in. It hurts to a point, then it stops.

So that’s how it’s like, or rather, that’s how life is. Months before you left, you asked me who would take over your work if you were to leave and I answered with a sigh, Me. I remembered telling you that if you were to leave, we would die for a while, but life will go on and we’ll pull through. Well, we did just that.

Do I miss the closeness we shared? Certainly. But I have also come to realise that the closeness we shared was so closely linked to the proximity of our relationship that without the proximity, the relationship will just never be the same again.

When I last met you at lunch last week, I said to you come back la, you know you want to. The truth is that I think I don’t mean it as much as I did say 3 weeks back.

So I can trewely say that I have survived. I have moved on. But I do still feel a little wistful, and a little embarrassed of the fact.

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For my education, said the good doctor

So I broke two of my toes last Monday going into work in the morning.

I actually made it into work after the incident, calmly set up my laptop and printed out two advices I had written over the weekend before I settled into my chair and wondered why my right foot still hurt like crap and how I could manage to hobble into Court in the morning for a matter. I took off my shoe and gingerly pressed on my toes. Something seemed loose and smarts like hell. Oops.

So I hopped on my good leg into The Buddha’s office and said I think I need to go off because I think I broke my toes so can you cover me in Court?

The Buddha looked at me and demanded to know the where and the how. Then he inspected my foot and ascertained that something was in fact loose. So he called our orthopaedic specialist and told him I was coming in for an emergency. You probably dislocated your toes. Go to [our orthopaedic specialist] and he’ll pop it back then you can come back to work.

[So calm right, the two know-it-all personal injury lawyers…]

So I hopped back into my office, called The Other Half to meet me at the hospital and my opponent in the morning to tell him I broke my toes so he has to either argue with himself or adjourn the matter. By this time, I could no longer fit my right foot back into my shoe so I hopped downstairs, got into a cab, called my mother [who was unbelievably mad at me for being the klutz that I am conveniently forgetting who gave me the genetically small feet which naturally predisposed me to klutziness to begin with] then hopped into the hospital.

The good doctor confirmed my suspicions, put me in an air cast and broke out a pair of crutches. Crap, said I. That means I can’t run for a while.

Run?! said he. You should be asking me when you can walk again!

Then he eye-balled me and said, How did you get to my office alone?!? Why didn’t The Buddha send you?!?!?!

By this time, The Other Half had arrived with alternative footwear for my good foot, looking rather harassed. The good doctor sent us on our way. On the way out of his office, I almost fell to my death on the crutches. Hold on to your wife! said he to The Other Half.

I managed to half hop half hobble to the car in the basement car park and The Other Half drove me back to my parents’ place, where I proceeded to show the kiddies my X-rays and caution them on the dangers of not looking where you step.

It’s been a week on and I feel like I should write down my story on a large-ish placard so that I can stop telling people the story when I run into them in Court, crutches and all. I have also gone from crutches, to one crutch, to no crutches at all, shuffling my air cast along on the floor. The bright side is that I get to legitimately wear my knee length socks for Autumn / Winter [as if that happens in Singapore] to improve the look of the air cast like so:

Fashion: A concept completely lost on the suits in Court

Except that I keep getting the question from the men, “So how long do you have to be in that cast and special socks?”

Oh well.

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Close to Hari Raya Puasa, we took the Parents and the kiddies to Desaru for a short holiday. To avoid all the hassle of planning, we signed up for an organised tour with the Desaru Fruit Farm and stayed at the Lotus Desaru Beach Resort for three days and two nights.

It turned out to be fantastically fun! We took the ferry to Desaru from Changi Ferry Terminal on a Wednesday morning and returned on a Friday evening. Because we went on the weekday, we basically got a personalised tour. The food provided by the Desaru Fruit Farm was fantastic and the kids had lots of fun visiting the ostriches, the crocodiles, the fireflies and just hanging out at the resort with their grandparents.

On a remote Bermudas ride…well, not quite

My father and the ostriches

me and mini-me

Sand play (with my mother blocking her face with her bag)

Going home

The best part I supposed was the fact that my phone had a SIM card failure and could not hook onto a Malaysian network. So no one could call me at all. They could only get to me via email on my work Blackberry and there is only so much angst one can convey through email. Heh.

But then I came home and my work collapsed around my ears. I still haven’t dug myself out from underneath it all yet [hence explaining the absence].

Oh well.

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