Random Thots
Tuesday, October 25th, 2005Just thinking..
Pondering what I should do with my life.. Sigh…
So many things to do.. so many choices.. so many options..
And the worst thing that happened today was that a reminder of my shitty past cropped up.. And I realise, I’ve been through a lot of shit.. I mean, A LOT of SHIT. (kagak - in Portugese.. I’m learning bits and pieces here, cool huh? 
)
And I guess in a weird way.. maybe God lets us go through all this shit coz it matures us.. and when the greatest thing in your life happens to you… you really actually know how to appreciate it..
Hmmm…. feeling kinda down, kinda philosophical and deep in pensive thoughts..
Thinking about how life goes on so fast that before you know it, the things that were so important and clear to you are just a blur memory..
That’s why I never like looking at my footprints in the sand..
They always get washed away by the waves.. and after a few minutes, they’re totally gone. Like you were never there before..
Guess the same goes for this world, doesn’t it?
Now you see me… now you don’t.
Scary how that simple phrase sums up our existence.
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Oh yeah… am going back to Penang this weekend for my break..
Gonna go see my grandma and cook up a real nice authentic Nyonya meal. YUMZ.
And most importantly, get back in touch with my roots again.
Yeah, I do have ties in KL now… but there’s just something about Penang that you can’t get anywhere else.
I’d love to bring up my kids someplace where everything is near, the air is fresh and slightly salty when we’re nearer to the beach.. Trees everywhere and the wonderful smell of food when we’re in town..
Brings back memories..
When I used to walk out to the main road near my old house.. the whole way is shadowed by tall trees, and you are bathed in heavy cool air.. going out just to collect Saga seeds.. the red shiny little irregularly shaped pellets that burst out like sparks of fiery red flames from their wizened old pods..
The sound of the ol Laksa man’s horn as he slowly cycles down that road, announcing that he is here to sell his trade.. the sharp pungent smell of laksa as I near his worn but shiny stall.. him sitting on the old browned leather seat of his bicycle, waiting, smiling his gap-toothed grin as a look of recognition crosses his face.. Holding the pretty but resilient ceramic bowls with roosters painted on their sides.. Holding them gingerly because they’re hot, but firmly as I struggle to keep the slippery white noodles in place with the chopsticks..
Walking along the beach, along Gurney Drive, when the whole row was taken up by hawkers and we’d sit on tables on that small width of beach, with many crows flying about and the interesting potpourri of smells coming from the different stalls..
Along that same stretch but further down where the beach widens out.. digging religiously for Lala’s.. a monthly thing, greatly treasured, when my mom and I would go down to the beach, armed with my little spade and bucket… i would squat down at a spot which i felt was "right" and we would start digging.. The elation you feel as you dig deeper.. anticipation.. and victory of discovery as we find a whole hoard of lala’s waiting… the slight pinch on your sandy fingertips when they close their shells as you pick them up.. and best of all, after the tiring day.. mom would continue digging, and after I felt that I’d contributed enough to our dish, I’d skip off and go collecting shells..
I still have that shell collection.. believe me.. those kinda shells I picked up so easily last time.. are rarely seen nowadays on the beach..
After getting all sweaty and sandy, we’d brush ourselves down, and drive back home (which was 5minutes away from the beach) with our bounty. At home, pass the bucket back to Granma, who’d smile and then with a focused look on her face, proceed to the kitchen. After washing the lala, she’d shoo everyone out of the kitchen and made magic. Soon after, I’d be scooping out hot steaming fluffy rice on to my plate and out the dishes would come. All piping hot, and the feature of the day.. lala.. fried with a little bit of oyster sauce just enough to complement and not overpower the fresh sweetness of the small little mussels in their open shells…
Durian season, we would spread newspapers on the tiled floor, in the airwell, Mom would struggle, her face turning slightly red, with the massive chopper trying to put it in the groove and open the most delicious fruit, so as to see it wield its golden yellow treasure.. I would happily sit down and wait to sink my fingers into its soft yet firm flesh and eat my heart out. Granma and mom would eat it "chiak chihtoh" (eat play-play - meaning to eat something on its own, without rice or bread to accompany it) and then, we’d sit back, blissful. Later, mom and granma would come back with a plate of rice each, and mix the durian flesh with rice and eat it, proclaiming that it tasted wonderful. Which I’m sure it is, but I have yet to acquire the taste of that..
My granma, mom’s mom was an amazing cook… who’s granma isn’t? She would make Roti Jala with the most amazing chicken curry.. what amazed me the most was how she made the roti jala. That was my favourite food.. still is.. brings out the child in me whenever I eat freshly made crispy roti jala.. my grandma would skilfully blend the batter and then pour it into the roti jala holder with the small holes.. and quickly move it around the flat grille pan. As it browns quickly, she would take it off the pan with her bare hands and place it on a big plate. She usually made 1-2 feet high of roti jala for big dinners. My job, which I was ever so proud of, was to place a piece of spring onion, about 3 cm long, on the top of the roti jala,one end of it poking out from the side, once it was placed on the plate. Those acted as little "marker flags" so that the pieces would come apart easily…
My granma also made amazing cabbage rolls.. she’d mix prawn, crab, pork, water chestnuts and carrots together as a paste and roll them up in cabbage leaves. After that, she’d steam them in this BIG wok for some time, and when they were done, the beautifully formed cabbage rolls sitting there like fat mounds of popiah, soaking in the sweet juice, with steam coming up. My mom would bring them for my recess in school, nice and hot, and I’d eat them to the envy of my friends.. yeah I did share.. coz granma made a lot, specially for me…
Yeah, I’d like to bring up my children in a place where I grew up.. a place with warmth, love, fun, laidback environment.. somewhere close to my heart. I hope that they’ll love it too.. that they’ll feel the same need to preserve our culture as they grow up. I’m making sure that all the authentic Nyonya recipes do not get lost, as well as the collection of my Nyonya Kebaya and sarongs will stay in the family, as heirlooms, but better yet, will be worn by my children and grandchildren and their children to come.. And they’d grow up thinking of Granma’s fantastic cooking, which is true to its culture in all its ways, of preparation, ingredients, methods and even the non-Nyonya dishes, my "childhood dishes" as I’d like to refer to them, like the cabbage rolls, butter baked chicken, ayamas chicken balls fried in chilli sauce and so on.. I’d like to see them go on.. I mean, imagine, in todays world, probably, our grandchildren would never be able to boast about their Granma’s fantastic cooking.. they’d most probably say "Hey! My granma took me to Starbucks and McDonald’s today for lunch! The food there was great!"
See? that’s the danger we all face.. the extinction of our culture.. where lines between races blur and we lose all identity of our heritage in the name of progress and development. Sad isn’t it?
But I’m going to do all I can .. True, I can’t be a laksa man on a bicycle who comes around every evening, or the old Indian man with his talams full of the different kuih, nor can I bring my kids to dig lala (coz of lead poisoning) or collect saga seeds (which are so hard to find now) but I’m pretty sure, I can be a cooking, jovial Granma. Hahah… Oh yeah, just thought of it.. to have lotsa grandchildren, I gotta have lotsa kids.. Maybe 5.. or 7.
hmmmmmmmm………………
