Supper Chillin'

We've made it an Event- The Parent and I- that from time to time we will go chill at various (late night) places around our 'hood. 

I don't know exactly how many coffee shops it is that we've been to. 

There's one that we walk twenty-five minutes to for sam lou hor fun and sweet sour pork rice because they're two of my favorites and this particular zichar stall does them well.

There's one on the other side of the 'hood that we have to walk fifteen minutes to because they serve up huge bowls of lor mee in very thick gravy.

We've been to a coffee shop near the park that's very popular for its carrot cake, fried hokkien mee and fried kuay teow. 

And we have been to the Indian-Muslim shops because murtabak, nasi pattaya, kusy teow goreng and prata were the order of the day.

Amongst some of our favorites include the mee pok from this coffee shop downstairs our house because their portions are huge with great bits of minced pork, lots of little mushrooms and a wonderful huge piece of lettuce in each bowl.

Our meals aren't always 'support local', by the way. :) 

We've gone to several Mala Xiang Guo places a couple of times because we get to throw all our favorite ingredients into a large bowl and have it all prepped together with crunchy peanuts for good measure. 

We haven't tried others very much yet, but perhaps one day we might attempt the Thai. 

There's a new Thai place opened not too far from the Mala Xiang Guo which seems to have good pad Thai and good green curry. 

McDonalds is another place that we (on occasion) go for. 

It's sometimes hard to imagine that The Parent would take a fancy to burgers and fries but nothing beats the fun of sharing out burgers, having a piece of fried chicken, picking on fries from the box, guzzling down a huge cup of Coke and dipping spoons into a cup of chocolate fudge sundae together. 

We've shared moments, even during challenging seasons- all of which are very, very special to me. 

May it be that there will be more. 

May it be that we'll have them for a very long time. 

And may it be that we'll be blessed the way we wish these precious moments to be. 

Starbucks in a Can

One of the most frequent themes in submission papers at Bachelor, Post-Grad and Masters level for Business Administration/Marketing is New Market Development.

This is a topic that requires months of research- whether it be on the ground or if it be conducted remotely offshore. 

There is always a lot of paper reading, a lot of sorting, a lot of calculating. 

There are times where one has to conduct surveys, and there are times where one has to organize interviews (for accurate information) with carefully selected interviewees. 

At the end of it, there is the collation, the writing, as well as the rewriting. 

Frameworks, formulas, theories, techniques- all these get thought through, sorted out, arranged, articulated, sorted out again, rearranged again, and re-re-rearticulated again. 

Some of the work is groundbreaking. 

Some of the work, however, is meant to just clear the examiners and get the qualification. 

It doesn't matter which it is.

What matters is that the paper can be utilized for real-world industry and real-world application, where, if I may say, corporate structure, political/economic movements and market sentiment play a much more significant role than the (oft-ideal) solutions presented to the examiners.

I'm not disdaining the ideas. 

I myself have succeeded with some bombastic ideas that have never been tested in real-world. 

But concepts for market penetration and market development are more usable when researched using a combination of data and groundwork. 

There are people who swear by data analytics and big data. 

Nothing wrong with data- my bread and butter involves using entertainment content as a means of data acquisition. 

But I am also a believer that a product/service should meet a user's needs, and what better way than to go straight to the users themselves?

Sometimes the results from both the data analytics and groundwork will surprise you. 

And that's when you have to make strategic decisions based on the results that the collective data reveals. 

It happens in every company, every corporation, big and small. 

A few years ago there were various articles about the presence of Starbucks in China's cities, and how the coffee chain, despite their Americanism, held less sentiment amongst the consumers as compared to the domestic coffee chains. 

Some people said it was because of unfamiliarity. 

Others said it was a matter of nationalism and national pride etc etc. 

But I found these on the shelves in SCARLETT- a specialty store in Singapore's Chinatown offering contemporary-label food products manufactured by Mainland Chinese companies which are then heavily marketed to the youth/young adult segment in domestic China (and the rest of the world).

Presuming so, these cans of Starbucks coffee would also be meant for the same youth/young adult shoppers at SCARLETT- and which means that Starbucks has a wider presence in Mainland China than what has been discussed in media. 

 

It isn't that they have had to close outlets. 

It isn't that they aren't opening more outlets. 

It is that they have embraced the present-day buying behavior of the market and chosen a strategy that places their signature coffees into small-sized cans which are convenient to carry around, be easily stocked in supermarkets, small shops, kiosks, gamer cafes, any sort of shop, and vending machines. 

You can't tell me that ground research and data didn't contribute to such a approach. 

It obviously did. 

Because whilst US and other countries are a great market for cafe culture and all, China, on the other hand, is a remarkably mobile market where her people are constantly on the up and go, and whom have- in their phones- Wechat, Alibaba, Taobao, Douyin and Bilibili. 

It is with this perspective that many products, in particular, food, are being researched on in terms of food tech, packaging tech, logistics, consumer buying behavior and so on. 

More is the market welcome to foods that look fun, taste fun, have variety, are easy to carry around, and can be consumed on the go. 

Of course one can argue that it is possible to buy a cuppa from a Starbucks, put it in a flask, and bring it on-the-go. 

But in a country like China where the land covers five time zones, is it not more sensible to load cans of coffee onto a truck, deliver it to provinces all over, and send it straight to the hands of the consumers wherever they may be, instead of dedicating resources to outlets that come with limited space and limited number of baristas and which consumers have to come to?

Such a strategy, on the other hand, could actually make their outlets more coveted than had they been plonked all over the hottest districts of every provincial capital in the country.

Of course, this isn't the only reason why Starbucks chose to go the canned coffee route in mainland China (there're certainly other reasons- like the cooperation agreement between themselves and Master Kong in 2015) but in the chatter of market development from Starbucks' POV, the concept- however FMCG like- certainly came through.

Me Then, Me Now

It is now a very different me whom looks at this picture that I found tucked between the pages of an old spiral notebook whilst clearing out the drawers. 

And, really, should it not be, considering that 16 years have passed and within these intervening years, there have been certain seasons where the most unexpected of things happen?

No, I do not speak with regret. 

The years have passed. 

I have come through. 

There is nothing to be regretted. 

It must be said, however, that incidents, especially those of the unexpected kind, do make you grow in many ways. 

Sometimes you seek the growth. 

Sometimes it just comes to you. 

I'll tell you the truth.

I didn't know how to write this post. 

Rather, I didn't know what to write. 

Was it appropriate to write about the time where I worked at an office under a block of flats in a heartland neighborhood, and whose window in the picture I was leaning upon?

Was it appropriate to write about the events of the intervening years which has made a paradigm shift of the world? 

Could I write about the difficulty in anchoring oneself to your root personality despite the ups and downs that life brings you? 

Could I even write about the ups and downs? 

I wanted to. 

But 16 years is a long time and I don't want to make this post like a sort of chronicle (over a single picture) 

So let's just say that the person of today is very different from the person of yesteryear.

The hair's longer these days.

The smile's also different. 

And on a regular workday I'm clad more in Tshirts and hoodies than office blouses, office skirts and office pants.

There is no longer a need for me to dial down on the accessories. 

I can go loud, I can go soft, or I can go none at all. 

The hierarchy has reversed. 

Along with the reversal come the responsibilities and perspectives that the switch requires. 

If you ask me, the greatest change between those years and now has to be the attitude towards the world, and the world that I live in. 

It is not a choice. 

Besides the fact that the world has changed (hello smartphones, selfies, apps, social networks, and greater mobility) there are positions and perspectives that I have to hold firm if I wish to stay on this road that I chose to go on. 

There are times that call for a heightened sense of cynicism. 

There are times that call for a more critical eye. 

It is no longer possible for me to see situations and people the same way I once used to. 

Is that a bad thing? 

Not necessarily. 

After all, humans are complex beings with complex mentalities, complex emotions and complex desires that sometimes lead to complicated behaviors. 

And not everything you see is everything there is. 

Except that whilst I had to be more open (so to speak), give more space (so to speak) and be less judgmental (so to speak) at an earlier time, today my life fits less into the (expected) framework, and I find myself needing to call out bulls*** from time to time. 

Blisters and Bubbles

I had an appointment with the dermatologist yesterday afternoon. 

But I called and changed it to an open one. 

I think I am good. 

I'd like to think that, PTL, I shall continue to be good. 

And maybe someone on the wait list would be better blessed being able to see the doctor on an (urgent) basis, compared to someone who no longer needs a consultation except to ask whether or not she can now put on vegan nail polish. 

I'm not being sarcastic. 

Two months ago I was the former. 

And trust me, I haven't forgotten the immense relief I felt when, after having failed to get an emergency appointment with a few derma clinics, a call came in saying that a slot had opened up and would I be able to come down right away.

Of course I went. 

There is no time to waste when you have been suffering for six whole days. 

I don't know the exact day when symptoms first started to show. 

I just know that it was early May and that the first symptom was a huge blister on my left heel.

Here's the thing. 

I don't know what caused it. 

I don't know how it got there. 

I thought it was a mere skin friction so left it alone. 

But it didn't go away. 

On hindsight now, it might have been that I'd gotten heaty and that unbalance in the body had somehow triggered awake the (old) chicken pox/measles virus from my childhood.

It might also have been that immunity levels were low at that point in time, and having had added stress on multiple fronts etc etc etc, everything just exploded in a massive outbreak that attacked the lymphatic system, the nervous system, the nerves underneath the skin, and the largest organ in the body- the skin itself. 

To have to endure such an affliction was a terrible, terrible experience. 

For days my fingers were swollen. 

So were my feet. 

It was hard to walk. 

It was hard to write. 

It was even hard to type. 

The itch, in particular, was unbearable. 

In my life I have had restless nights. 

I have had also sleepless nights. 

But never have I ever been woken up in the still of the night by a persistent deep itch that went deep into your hands, your feet, the spaces between your fingers and the spaces between your toes. 

It wasn't an itch that a good scratch could make it go away. 

Instead it was an itch where the more you scratched the stronger it got.

Nothing I attempted (on my own) brought relief. 

It got to a phase where I found myself scratching my hands on the edge of the table and on the doorknob. 

It got to a phase where whilst having dinner I involuntarily started scratching the sides of my feet on the edge of the plastic stool that I was sitting on.

I've used pens, I've used rulers, I've even used the cap of a pharmacy-bought steroid cream.

You may be wondering why with all this discomfort I didn't go to see a doctor.

I did. 

But because treatment was progressive, it was a GP that I first saw. 

She was as good as a GP is, but I had (stupidly) refused antihistamines, and the prescribed steroid cream turned out to be less effective than I'd hoped it to be.

Let's just say it was a very long weekend. 

Not that the medication didn't work. 

It did- to an extent where I felt well enough to go out for a quick dinner but then not so well after that when upon reaching home, I had to soak my feet in a pail of oats-blended water. 

It wasn't just the unbearable, torturous itch I had to deal with. 

There were the red spots and red patches that had spread like wlldfire all over my arms, my legs, my hands and my feet. 

There were bubble-like rashes all along the length of my fingers and my toes, there was crusted skin on my ankle, plus the many red, angry blisters that had sprouted over the soles of my feet, parts of my fingers, and sections of my palms.

With all this happening, how could it not be a relief when at the dermatologist I finally found out what the condition was, and what was going on?

Of course, there was the obligatory warning that it might be something more than (just) an inflammation, but still it was good to know that whatever it was, it wasn't something that couldn't be tackled nor handled. 

More than that, I didn't need to be brave in front of her. 

I told her how sad and horrified I had been to see my nail-polish ready hands turn swollen and ugly in less than a day. 

She understood. 

It was mid May when I went to see her. 

It is mid July now. 

In the last two months I've come to understand more of immunity systems and the way they affect our long-term health (not just when I have a cold). 

I've come to understand how our nervous system works, how it is connected to the state of our mental health, and how the sensitivity of our nerves can affect our day to day life. 

In a way, I have come to appreciate further the importance of TCM, of foot reflexology, of yin-yang balance, of those lymphatic massages we see in spa menus, and how the release of meridian points can mark the starting point to recovery, and overall well being.  

Of course, I am now more familiar with 'dermatologist-recommended' skincare products, skincare brands, what sort of stuff is meant for sensitive skin and what sort of stuff is meant for inflammatory issues like mine had been. 

I know how it is to cry from pain whilst using harsh soaps in the shower. 

I know how it is to be afraid to go to sleep because you don't know whether you will have a good night's sleep or whether you will wake three hours before your usual time, and you do not know whether you will wake feeling okay, or with swollen hands, itchy feet and uncomfortable elbows because your lymph nodes are jammed and your blood circulation is poor.

I now look at elderly persons suffering from swollen, arthritic joints with an empathetic eye. 

And with the same eye I throw upon those who feel dirty from inside out because the sight of discolored patches on their skin cannot make them feel otherwise.

This was a season where little things that never used to bother me. 

Like wondering whether the soap in the mall's restroom was too harsh for me and should I wash my hands.

Like having to tackle the problem of dry, peeling skin on my hands whilst on the airconditioned bus or in the airconditioned supermarket when in minus two degree winter weather I never had to deal with it before.

Am much better now, thankfully. 

I've completed the entire course of oral steroid medication as well as the entire box of antihistamines. 

I've used up two full tubs of Aveeno Intense Moisture Cream.

And the inventory now stands at 1.5 tubes of (stronger) steroid cream, half a bottle of soapless antiseptic body wash, half a bottle of Rosken Very Dry lotion, one bottle of Nivea Deep Moisture, and whatever's left of the Dr. Hedison skincare collection which my colleague pulled out from the storerooms and admonished me to go use it.

There have been many observations and many lessons picked up during this season, but if there're things that stick out in the mind still, it is that I've now come to understand the importance of emotional congruency (some call it self love) and the critical need to never, ever ignore calls of help from my mind, and my body. 

Chili Padi Nyonya

The saying that "Sometimes the best things are found in your own backyard" rings true especially when it comes to familiar flavors and homecooked food. 

A friend of mine found out quite recently that one of the dishes that his Chinese mother used to make for the family actually had roots in Peranakan cuisine. He was surprised when he found out. She was not a Nyonya- both his maternal grandparents had been first-generation immigrants from China. 

However, it was soon recollected that his mother had in fact learnt it from her mother-in-law, whom, although also a first generation immigrant from China, had at that point in time lived in a shop house along Tanjong Katong Road. 

Mystery solved. 

His mother no longer finds it easy to be in the kitchen these days. 

And he missed the taste.

So began the islandwide hunt for the 'perfect' babi pongteh. 

Three attempts there were in all. 

The first time was at this very touristy, very IG-worthy restaurant at the Esplanade. Everything came to the table served in pretty-looking dishes, and we had a good meal, even finishing it off with chendol, but he said that the flavors were lighter, the texture thinner, and seemingly cleaner (healthier) than what he was used to. 

After that we found a place closer to his home fifteen minutes walk down the road. The meal here was more satisfying, the portions here were larger, and the meat was chunkier. The flavors of the gravy were also closer to what he remembered, but perfection is key when it comes to (re-created) homecooked food, so even though it was better than the first, back we went to Google, the blogs, and the online reviews.

Somewhere along the way Chili Padi Nyonya on Joo Chiat Place popped up. 

So we went there. 

And almost immediately, we fell in love. 

Here's the funny thing however- we can't really pinpoint why.

We'd ordered the very same dishes that we had ordered at the previous two places, but the babi pongteh and the ngoh hiang here seemed to be more heartwarming and more satisfying than those which we'd eaten elsewhere.

It might have been the decor. 

Chili Padi Nyonya occupies two units on the ground floor of a row of shop houses, and had it not been for the table arrangement, we might have thought of ourselves having our meal in the dining hall of a home belonging to a typical Peranakan family. 

The lights, the color of the walls, the pictures, the furniture, the batik design of the tablecloths- reminiscent of a culture known for their intricate techniques, their beadwork and their bright colors. 

Now, the decor might have been inviting, but it was the food that charmed us. 

Served in a claypot dish, the babi pongteh was brought to our table bubbling away so happily as if it had been taken off the charcoal stove only a few moments ago. Inside the pot were vegetables (I think it were some sort of shoots), big juicy mushrooms, and several chunky portions of perfectly simmered pork belly all swimming in a thick, almost broth-like gravy.

The portions were very attractive to us, but the best thing about this dish had to be the gravy. 

For someone who is not familiar with Peranakan food, and whom hasn't had the opportunity to have it very much, this gravy suited my palate perfectly. 

Very much like the texture of a well-prepared stew, it was not only thick, but extremely rich in flavor, and was so comforting that we considered ordering another plate of rice just to finish up the gravy. 

However we didn't. 

There was still the ngoh hiang. 

I'll have to be honest. 

It was the largest piece of ngoh hiang I had ever saw. 

No, it's not a cliche. 

It really was the largest piece of ngoh hiang I had ever seen. 

Call me suaku, but most of the zhichar places tend to chop the roll up into little sections for the sake of the chopsticks, and even so, none of them are this huge, are they? 

It was very tasty, and there was a little bit of sweet sauce at the side.

Again I'm no expert on this dish- I just eat- but the insides of this chonky roll were stuffed full to the brim with ingredients that included little bits of minced meat and cute little bits of what I think is water chestnut.

We ate both dishes together. 

A bite of the pork, a bite of the pork fat, a dip of the roll into the sweet sauce, a mouthful of warm, fluffy rice together with the gravy. 

It was a blessed meal. 

And it was a very delighted diner turned loyal customer who very likely will not be hunting around the island to satisfy cravings for the flavors of home again.

A Quiet Quieter Farewell

Miss Brown's husband left us on a glaring, hot, humid morning in the early Spring of this year several months ago. 

They had been married for more than 50 years. 

We don't know what it would have been like had she been by his bedside. 

We didn't have time to know.

And now we will never know. 

Four hours. 

Four hours was all there to be had from the moment he collapsed (in the A&E) to the moment he grasped the loving hand of our Lord and bid this Earth a gentle, peaceful goodbye. 

There was no time for us to seek a second opinion, there was no time for us to do anything else, and there was no time even for us to call anyone. 

His heart stopped several times during the few hours that we were there. 

Each time we requested the doctors to try again- and again. 

They did. 

But they also told us that all things considered- age, health, severity etc etc etc- there were only so many times they could revive him, there was only so much they could do- and even if he did manage to pull through, his life would be drastically different.

We didn't understand. 

We didn't want to understand. 

Tempers flared. 

But in times like these you make the best decision you are forced to make- just so that there will be no regrets after- and so we alternated our conversation. 

Regardless how we felt, regardless how helpless we were feeling, we decided to do what we could do.

His son spoke to him. 

I spoke to him. 

We reminded him of what he had requested of us (only just the day before) to bring, hoping that the reminder would urge him to fight on. 

But we also said words to him in preparation- in case he made the decision to give up, and not carry on. 

Internally neither of us who were there gave up. 

His son didn't. 

Neither did I. 

Again and again we requested. 

That is, until the numbers on the machine started to drastically fall. 

That is, until we realized that his breathing had evened out, and that his left eye (which previously had been open) was now closed. 

And only when we perceived a very, very peaceful, very very surreal countenance upon his face- when we were sure that he had made his own decision- then we stopped.  

The countenance does not lie. 

We did not stay for the Last Offices. 

Maybe we should have. 

But... I had to go. 

And there would be no one by the side of the son, whom, in any case, felt more comfortable making farewell arrangements for his father rather than standing there watching the gurney take his loved one away. 

The afternoon passed. 

In the evening, alone by himself he went to the nursing home where his father had been resident and brought his belongings home. 

We prepared a set of clothes, his sandals, his favorite maroon colored sling bag, and put the rest in the room. 

Next day at the Coroner's the examination was done, the certificate issued and collected, and we witnessed the white cloth over his father's face and body as the bearers bore him out on a stretcher.  

There was no avoiding it this time. 

There was also no avoiding the sight of his father being placed (loaded) into the back of the van. 

It was difficult to see. 

Especially since his father had been coming to see the doctors at this particular hospital from time to time and no one could have ever imagined that one day he would leave the campus grounds not in a regular medical transport but in an unmarked dark blue van.

I don't know how we got through the rest of the day. 

But we had to, and we did. 

The farewell next day was small, intimate, quiet. 

(For the record, people had been informed. They just did not come.)

There was a short, simple service. 

We then said our last words, placed in the casket the flowers that we'd bought that morning from the supermarket near his home, and closed it. 

Seeing the casket make its way slowly through the sunlit chamber was hard. 

For me, at least. 

But because we had determined that, according to our faith, he had simply stepped from one plane to the other, we smiled through our tears, gave him a goodbye wave and (like how his son would tell him in life) told him that "we'd come see him another day".

I have to admit that neither one of us who were there that day have come to a complete closure about his sudden departure. 

I know I haven't. 

But that is another post for another time. 

Right now I'm just working through the memories of those few days. 

It has taken me four months before I've been able to write this. 

Nevertheless, I am thankful that during that season- even as we mourned his passing and dealt with the shock, the grief and the helplessness all at the same time- there were friends who guided us through the farewell arrangements, there were friends who gifted us meaningful mementoes for his father, and there were friends who made wonderful suggestions as to his new place. 

Windsor Nature Park

I intend to make a second trip down to Windsor Nature Park. 

The pictures from my first visit there didn't turn out very well. 

It might have been the Light. 

It might have been the rains. 

I don't really know. 

I guess it is one of those things where the results don't actually turn out the way you expect them to be. 

This was our first visit to the park. 

Meant to be a sort of recce trip on behalf of a wheelchair bound elderly whom we thought might do well to have a stroll there, we simply checked Google Maps, turned up at the main entrance along Thomson Road, went on the trail, and kept on it. 

Had the rains not flooded the boardwalk, we might have gone all the way on the Squirrel Trail towards MacRitchie Reservoir (or wherever it was supposed to lead). 

As it was, we got stuck halfway- no, I wasn't going to puddle my way through the muddy waters- and so decided to stick to safer walks, and drier ground. 

It wasn't completely a wasted trip however. 

We did manage to recce a trail that we thought she might like and where we could bring her next time. 

And I got absolutely fascinated at the sight of a gorgeously large natural grove of bamboo. 

I'll be honest- that's one of the plants that I want to see again. 

After all, it isn't every day that I get to see the sturdy and tall yet graceful and timeless the natural stems of untouched bamboo.  

Plus, I want to know if the Squirrel Trail (and other trails) in this park- a patch of green located between MacRitchie Reservoir and the Peirce-Seletar Reservoirs- stop at the grounds of the Singapore Island Country Club just behind, or if they meander through the gentle rolling slopes of golf course green. 

Waffles in Bukit Merah

This was a little shop which we discovered (by accident) whilst walking along a row of shops under a block of flats in Bukit Merah. 

Sometimes it is good when you have no idea what you want for dinner, and just decide to go with the flow. 

That's what we did. 

The original plan had been to have meatballs at IKEA, but the queue was horrendous and waiting is not my forte. 

Then we thought we might try for a meal in the mall beneath Park Alexandra Hotel but there weren't many options, we didn't want chili crab, we didn't want ramen and we'd already had Indian earlier. 

So we figured we could go try ABC Brickworks Hawker Center. After all it had been a few years since we'd gone there nearly every evening for dinner when the office was just across the road. 

But here's where we chanced upon this little nook of a cafe somewhere between the Nippon paint store and the carpark. 

The warm cozy lights, the pleasant, neat decor and the plant pots on the wall were what first caught my eye. 

Then there was the short queue.

So we took a look at the menu- and went to join the queue. 

It didn't take us long to be seated and have our orders taken.

It also didn't take us long to have two slices of chicken cutlet and two quarter sized waffles served to our table. 

I had to stand to take the picture. 

But I didn't mind. 

It is not often that waffles come presented to the table in a stack on the plate like they do. 

And even though the plate might have been a tad too small to cut up the waffle square by square without messing up the greens and the fries, it didn't matter much to me either. 

I simply used my hands. 

It wasn't too bad.

Warm and crispy on the outside with a wee little bit of fluff on the inside, we dipped them into the (real) maple syrup, mixing bites of the waffle with that of the savory wedges, the cold, fresh lettuce and the tart, juicy cherry tomatoes. 

The cutlet could have been a bit larger, and it could have been a bit more tender- but it was tasty enough to make up a simple, satisfying meal. 

What I liked about this plate was the amount of heart that had gone into it. 

Too many new cafe owners tend to make the mistake of giving too much and blasting too much on social media and influencer marketing without taking into account the overheads, the costs and keeping a tight rein on business sustainability. 

But here it was clear- the quantity, the quality, the plating, even the environment- every plate had been concocted with careful calculation without forgoing aesthetic intention. 

And so, in support of their effort and their warm, comforting food, with the hope that they'd still be here the next time we came to this area, we decided to add on dessert- a single scoop of Earl Grey Tea ice cream.