I don't normally do food reviews for a few really good reasons.
Reason #1: No photos for illustration.
If you are a true foodie, you'd understand my predicament. I have absolutely zero control over my enthusiastic taste buds when confronted with highly delectable food. Out of ten times, I'd forget to take pictures a good eight times. Even if I remembered, it would be a tad too late. Before I can say "cheese!", the damage will have been done, and any enticing presentation of a dish will inevitably be ruined and reduced to an appetite-inhibiting splotch. Garnishes overturned, meat dissected, gravy dribbled all over. Not a pretty sight, especially for a food review.
Reason #2: Lack of recollection of details.
I am not one for note-taking during the course of my meal. In fact, I think that is counter-productive to fully appreciating food. The hand, at the fine moment of food tasting, is for holding cutlery, not stationary; the mind, at the same said moment, is to be experiencing pleasurable sensations, not sidetracking to remember the right spelling for exotic ingredients.
Hence, without the aid of a trusty notebook, it is quite unlikely for me to remember a thing about really good food. I wonder how anyone can. Especially those who can list every single detail from the price of the entire menu down to the types of tableware used in presentation.
Reason #3: Lack of words for description
How do you say something tastes really good, other than saying it tastes really good? Pardon my bluntness but I do find words like oozing (warm chocolate cake), slippery (udon), firm (fish) and bloody (steak) quite disgustingly sexual, or medical, or both.
I don't know about you, but to me, mind-blowing orgasmic food (some people prefer to describe it this way) just ain't something you can recount and retell with precision. (Which is also why I can't understand people who blog about their... ahem, other orgasmic-inducing pursuits.) The joy of eating is an intimate personal experience, quite indescribable in words. You can't just tell someone how good it is, he's got to try it for himself.
So my conclusion is, food bloggers must be food lovers who have remarkable self-control or a remarkable memory. Or they are not real food lovers at all, just people who find eating otherwise too boring. Whatever it is, I know I can never aspire to be one, and I shall count on the goodwill of these industrious people to write good reviews so that I know where to go for my next... errr... pleasurable moment.
Saturday, November 10, 2007
Lost Things
I got a little sentimental last weekend when our home was finally sold. Not that I minded the sale; I was eager to move to my spanking new apartment after all. But somewhere deep down inside, it hurt to say goodbye to this familiar place where I grew up in, the safest and warmest I've known so far, for a good twenty-odd years.
At this point, I've got to admit that I am a sucker for old things. Books, clothes, jewellery, furniture, anything. You'd find me happiest thrifting at a surplus shop. Even when I buy new items, I like them to look like they have been used forever. I would try to wear and tear down my belongings as soon as I lay my hands on them. My motto: The tattier, the better! I'm absolutely not a leave-that-film-protector-on-my-cellphone/digicam/Ipod-to-prevent-scratches kinda girl. Instead, I leave clear, deep impressions on my stuff like how animals scent-mark their territory, as if to say, "IT'S MINE, IT'S MINE, IT'S MINE!!!"
Maybe it's prehistorical human instinct and I'm just less evolved, but I prefer to think of it as an affectionate attachment to my belongings. To me, used items have the ubiquitous quality of being exceptional. No two are the same. New things start off looking bland and characterless, but over time, moments add up and relationships develop between men and their things. Then one day, they become precious. Precious with lots of memories. And I dig memories.
So, I'm an oldie and I like my things ancient. That's why I'm feeling rather melancholic about the loss of my old abode. I'll miss viewing the brilliant sunset colors out of the creaky old window. I'll miss looking up at the uneven plastered ceiling when I'm lying sleepless in bed. Most of all, I'll miss being able to come up to the door step and just step right into my "home".
The precious thing is no longer mine.
At this point, I've got to admit that I am a sucker for old things. Books, clothes, jewellery, furniture, anything. You'd find me happiest thrifting at a surplus shop. Even when I buy new items, I like them to look like they have been used forever. I would try to wear and tear down my belongings as soon as I lay my hands on them. My motto: The tattier, the better! I'm absolutely not a leave-that-film-protector-on-my-cellphone/digicam/Ipod-to-prevent-scratches kinda girl. Instead, I leave clear, deep impressions on my stuff like how animals scent-mark their territory, as if to say, "IT'S MINE, IT'S MINE, IT'S MINE!!!"
Maybe it's prehistorical human instinct and I'm just less evolved, but I prefer to think of it as an affectionate attachment to my belongings. To me, used items have the ubiquitous quality of being exceptional. No two are the same. New things start off looking bland and characterless, but over time, moments add up and relationships develop between men and their things. Then one day, they become precious. Precious with lots of memories. And I dig memories.
So, I'm an oldie and I like my things ancient. That's why I'm feeling rather melancholic about the loss of my old abode. I'll miss viewing the brilliant sunset colors out of the creaky old window. I'll miss looking up at the uneven plastered ceiling when I'm lying sleepless in bed. Most of all, I'll miss being able to come up to the door step and just step right into my "home".
The precious thing is no longer mine.
Friday, November 09, 2007
The Dichotomy of Self
I am the embodiment of extremes. Well, I guess there's nothing wrong with it.
Two minds, two stances, two halves of an identity;
Never compromising, only winning or losing;
One way or another, it has got to be.
Good or Evil? The angel and devil plays
Hide-and-Seek, Police-and-Thief;
Within one entity, a dichotomy.
Not unlike the push and pull of gravity;
The true and false of assumptions;
The null and alternate hypotheses.
Not unlike the left and right of crossroads;
The maddening to and fro of traffic;
The rising and falling of tides in the sea.
As sure as each breath taken in and out deeply;
The heart muscles expand and contract, rhythmic;
Such is it, the Yin and Yang of nature's harmony.
Two minds, two stances, two halves of an identity;
Never compromising, only winning or losing;
One way or another, it has got to be.
Good or Evil? The angel and devil plays
Hide-and-Seek, Police-and-Thief;
Within one entity, a dichotomy.
Not unlike the push and pull of gravity;
The true and false of assumptions;
The null and alternate hypotheses.
Not unlike the left and right of crossroads;
The maddening to and fro of traffic;
The rising and falling of tides in the sea.
As sure as each breath taken in and out deeply;
The heart muscles expand and contract, rhythmic;
Such is it, the Yin and Yang of nature's harmony.
Wednesday, November 07, 2007
Tuesday, November 06, 2007
Meat, Give Us Meat
It was a hilarious weekend. What was supposed to be a genteel lunch get-together turned out to be rather disastrous. Six pairs of pretty pumps, three designer handbags, and a smart casual dress code, all waltzing gracefully into the green serenity of a cafe-in-the-park, thinking just how holistic it was to bask in some sun and phytoncide for a change.
Moments later, we fled.
No, it wasn't the mid-day sun, nor the lunch crowd. It wasn't the music they were playing, and it certainly wasn't the color of their furniture either.
It was the VEGETABLES.
We spent a good ten minutes staring horrifically into the Menu of Are You Serious Vegan Food before finding our voices and blabbering incoherently about the severity of the situation.
NO MEAT.
Gosh, I did not intend for that. Luckily, it didn't take long for us to devise a new strategy, not when we had the alpha male with us - the man who make the decisions and ate a darn lot of meat. We had unanimously decided to ditch that forsaken Cafe of Mock Meat to go somewhere else with a lot of flesh and blood. Well, the pregnant lady has got to get her proteins...
So it was with much anticipation that we transported ourselves in record time to the nearest carnivorous haven, where the greens were where they were supposed to be - garnished under the meat. It was an old, uninspiring coffee shop packed with ravenous like-minded foodies like us, savouring various animal body parts with much glee and a lot less style.
But never mind style. The food is good, and we were all happy. That was despite us having to devour tricky trotters and licking off near invisible fish bones while clutching handbags tightly under our arms and perspiring our makeup away. What is a little discomfort compared to the euphoria of tummy satisfaction? Suddenly, the world seemed much more agreeable.
We ended lunch with a few big burps and very hefty stomachs, and I made a mental note to check for meat in the menus in future. A true carnivore never makes such an abominable blunder. Rather no food, then no meat. I have let my friends down.
Apologies to all vegan friends. I hope you didn't retch after reading this. I'm just really not a leaves and roots kinda person, so leave me to my fried chicken, and you can have the coleslaw.
Moments later, we fled.
No, it wasn't the mid-day sun, nor the lunch crowd. It wasn't the music they were playing, and it certainly wasn't the color of their furniture either.
It was the VEGETABLES.
We spent a good ten minutes staring horrifically into the Menu of Are You Serious Vegan Food before finding our voices and blabbering incoherently about the severity of the situation.
NO MEAT.
Gosh, I did not intend for that. Luckily, it didn't take long for us to devise a new strategy, not when we had the alpha male with us - the man who make the decisions and ate a darn lot of meat. We had unanimously decided to ditch that forsaken Cafe of Mock Meat to go somewhere else with a lot of flesh and blood. Well, the pregnant lady has got to get her proteins...
So it was with much anticipation that we transported ourselves in record time to the nearest carnivorous haven, where the greens were where they were supposed to be - garnished under the meat. It was an old, uninspiring coffee shop packed with ravenous like-minded foodies like us, savouring various animal body parts with much glee and a lot less style.
But never mind style. The food is good, and we were all happy. That was despite us having to devour tricky trotters and licking off near invisible fish bones while clutching handbags tightly under our arms and perspiring our makeup away. What is a little discomfort compared to the euphoria of tummy satisfaction? Suddenly, the world seemed much more agreeable.
We ended lunch with a few big burps and very hefty stomachs, and I made a mental note to check for meat in the menus in future. A true carnivore never makes such an abominable blunder. Rather no food, then no meat. I have let my friends down.
Apologies to all vegan friends. I hope you didn't retch after reading this. I'm just really not a leaves and roots kinda person, so leave me to my fried chicken, and you can have the coleslaw.
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