I Don’t Wish That My Baby Came With A Remote Control

Maybe I do. At times when I am up in the middle of the night, rocking my daughter to sleep until my arms (and eyeballs) fall off. Or at times when she screams in agony for no rhyme or reason, seemingly inconsolable and incredibly unhinging.

But, there is a rainbow after the storm, a light at the end of the darkest and frightfully long tunnel. I am always, eventually, comforted by the fact that my daughter wants to fall asleep in my arms before she decides to grow up and be all independent, and that she calms down and flashes the sweetest of smiles at me, just as I reckon the crying will never stop.

I used to be a child who didn’t know better, a woman who lost and found love, a scientist who relentlessly pursued the truth and the anti-truth, and then a researcher who stood up in board meetings telling people in suits what they should and shouldn’t do to make millions in the next quarter. In all these roles, there were a fair number of highs and lows.

Today, I am a new mother. I have only been so for slightly more than two months and whilst I don’t proclaim to be a know-it-all, motherhood is by far, the most challenging and rewarding role I have taken on.

The euphoria of finally meeting my daughter on her birthday quickly gave way to the blues. The broken sleep, the hours spent figuring the ways of breastfeeding, keeping at it despite the difficulties and the naysayers who kept pushing for formula for their convenience, the torrent of unsolicited advice unleashed with people’s mistaken rights of authority with MY child, the sudden absence of communication with my husband just because we were so darn tired, all these did NOTHING for my soul and I dare say, zilch for many women who thought they were 100% ready to be mothers. I felt depressed, angry, frustrated, ugly and most of all guilty for feeling all of that; after all, I did want a baby, didn’t I? And all these mothers, whom I know personally and whom I follow on social media, they seem to adore their babies and embrace motherhood unconditionally, don’t they? So, what is this that I am feeling? Do I not love my daughter? Am I fit to be a mother? These doubts gnawed at me and would have spat me out in disgust if not for prayers with the husband and my mother, and wise words from my wiser mummy friends (Y, P, F, QY and the wonderful ladies from this incredible online mothers’ group that I have had the privilege of joining).

Through them, I realised that I wasn’t the only one who was feeling gravely deflated. I realised that most mothers, if not all, sifted through that same pile of crap. I realised that not all mothers are forthcoming about the challenges because they fear being judged. I realised that people tend to gloss over the difficulties and focus on broadcasting the positive because that helps them cope…and come on, we all know that the audience isn’t always ready for social media diarrhoea on baby-cuteness (hell, I BET I’ve been struck off the news feeds of many friends after terrorising them with photos and videos of my daughter), let alone unrestricted whining on poop, vomit, crying and lack of sleep. My giving, non-judgmental and supportive friends let me in on the good, the bad and the ugly that motherhood brings; because of them, I am now brave enough to tell the world this… That the first month of motherhood was HELL. That it was the toughest shit I’ve ever done. That it was crippling. And somehow, I made it out in one piece.

Caring for my daughter still drives me batshit crazy sometimes, but my 24/7 spent with her has evolved to include more than a few redeeming moments that make me fall in love with her over and over again. I’ve grown to know a little more about her. Somehow, through the fussing, the tears she shed, the slitty-eyed toothless grins, the piercing screams, the know-it-all look on her potato face and countless sleepless nights, I have come to learn about her quirks, her idiosyncrasies, her penchant for certain things…her personality.

And that is the most amazing thing, to look on in wonder as my baby girl grows up to be more than the lump she was yesterday. To be the child who doesn’t know better. The woman who finds love one day. The woman who loves her vocation. The woman who becomes a mother. And hopefully, the woman who realises that she will always be her mummy’s little girl, no matter how old she is.

I wouldn’t have known my daughter this intimately if I took the easy way out of motherhood.

So….no, I don’t wish for my baby to come with a remote control. Perhaps, only for a few seconds (OKAY OKAY, MINUTES), when I cave into negativity and desperation, but I know that if I hung on a little longer and walked a little further with my little girl, the rainbow is just one mother’s love away.

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Read on for my new journey as a mother and for my thoughts on love and marriage.

We Are Still Us

It was 5am. I had just finished feeding our little girl and was crawling back into bed when the husband rolled over, snuggled up against me and whispered, ‘You don’t know how much I love you’, before he woke up for work.

I guess we are still us, with a little one in tow, and I’m glad that almost nothing has changed.

Read on for my new journey as a mother and for my thoughts on love and marriage.

The Stork Delivered…And Then, There Is A Potato

Our little girl made her grand entrance almost as quietly as our reactions when we first saw the two lines on the stick. There was no drama, everything was relatively textbook and we stayed pretty calm. As such, I have a very boring birth story to tell but hey, it is best to be boring in this case; it means that the delivery was straightforward and I am beyond thankful for that.

My due date came and went away with nary a hint of when F was going to arrive. I felt like I was going to explode even at 37 weeks and boy, was it tough to keep my energy levels up as the due date approached. I was also a bagful of bitchy hormones. I lamented at how awful the aches and pains were. I felt nervous about the possibility of being induced if the baby decides to be fashionably late. On the other hand, I was also very anxious about having a screaming newborn in our lives; I wasn’t sure if I could ever rise up to the challenge of being a mother, let alone a good one. And when people asked me if I were still pregnant or commented that I looked like I was going to pop, I almost ripped their heads off and was shy of screaming, ‘Are you frigging blind?!’ whilst frantically gesturing at my ballooning belly. Well, I said it was the hormones: they were kinda bipolar and very angry. M took me on many dinner dates to take the edge off and luckily for him, the hormones obliged.

Many pelvic rotations and crazy long walks later, the bump was still…there. I sought solace in what the nurse exclaimed at my obgyn’s when I told her how disappointed I was at the baby’s late arrival – ‘Wait till you have the baby, then you won’t even have time to take a dump!’ – a statement that pretty much sums up my newfound motherhood, but that’s a story for another day. SO! Onto the birth story…it all started the day after my due date…

6.30pm – 10pm: M and I headed out to celebrate a friend’s 30th birthday at Bistro Du Vin. He joked that this could be the last fancy meal I have before the much-dreaded confinement period; afterall, we have been told by my obgyn that I might be induced after our scheduled check up the next day. I was so certain that the baby would show up early, that all those weeks of waiting made me very jaded and skeptical of what M said. As my obgyn deadpanned, ‘Your baby is living it up in your 6-star hotel’. She sure was! Anyway, I felt about 3 to 4 painless contractions during the half-hour car ride to dinner that evening. I brushed them off as Braxton Hicks contractions, much like the ones I felt in the weeks before. A few more hit during dinner but I thought nothing more of them. I did however check my bags again as I might be induced the next day. I slept rather well that night.

7.50am – 8.20am: We headed to Mt E for my checkup with our five bags in tow. One for the camera, one for M, one for my shiny new breast pump (just in case our kiddo has problems latching), another for our baby and of course, one for me (the vanity queen in me brought basic makeup along as I wanted to look more like Spongebob and less like a gunny sack when visitors come, but as newfound motherhood would have it, I didn’t even have time to wash my face in the hospital). I felt about 4 to 5 painless contractions whilst en route to the clinic.

8.30am – 8.50am: I was promptly strapped onto the CTG. There was one full contraction in 15 minutes. Again, painless. My obgyn did a VE and I was 1.5cm dilated, just 0.5cm more than the week before but owing to the number of contractions I had since the night before, and the fact that we needed to get the baby out before it was (i) way overdue and (ii) time for M to embark on his new job the next week, my obgyn decided to induce labour. She told me to have a big breakfast at Paragon before admitting into the hospital. She also expected the baby to arrive later that evening.

9am: M and I shared some kaya toasts, chee cheong fun, soft-boiled eggs and Milo at Ah Mei Cafe. I couldn’t quite taste my food as I was still trying hard to process the fact that we would be having our baby that evening. The nerves hit me as I informed my mum over the phone and I welled up.

9.30am: We bought some magazines and papers from Marketplace and drove over from Paragon to park our car at Mt E. Having been pre-registered, I was quickly admitted and strapped onto the CTG again. There were two big contractions that were 12 minutes apart, alongside small, irregular ones. All were painless. The nurse and midwife also asked me a whole load of questions and gave me a run-down of the procedures. I even had time to choose what I wanted to have for dinner that evening. M organised our stuff, made some phone calls and settled down on the couch.

11am: I was administered the Fleet enema to clear my bowels and was asked to hold it in for 10 minutes. Note to the wise: holding fluid in is against the law of nature and the enema works like a charm in 3 minutes. Enough said.

11.30am: Registration details were verified. We were also briefed on birth certificate application. I felt more contractions but they were still painless.

12 noon: I was 1.5cm dilated and had my water bag broken. The tug was rather uncomfortable and as the warm fluid gushed out, reality hit me and I started crying. M told me everything was going to be okay and calmed me down. The nurse then put me back on the CTG. M got me some Chupa Chups to suck on as I was feeling hungry but wasn’t allowed any food. As my water bag was broken, I was officially bed-bound; I decided to read the magazine to kill some time.

12.30pm: The nurse put me on the oxytocin drip to hasten the contractions; the insertion of the cannula was bloody painful. Three vials of blood was also taken for cord blood banking; that didn’t hurt at all. Soon after, I felt more contractions and this time, they were akin to very mild menstrual cramps.

1.20pm: The first painful contraction hit me (on a pain scale of 3 or 4 out of 10) but I could breathe through it. I thought this was no biggie and that I might just be able to deliver without an epidural.

3.30pm: The contractions were increasingly painful (7 or 8 out of 10) and annoyingly frequent (2 minutes apart). The amplitude of each contraction appears to be 120 on the chart. I was told the maximum could be 180. I was gunning for no pain relief but the contractions were too frequent to give me enough rest. The worst menstrual cramps looked like cherubic angels next to these contractions. Given that I was only 2.5cm dilated and that I was likely to labour for another 7 hours, I knew I would be too exhausted to push if I didn’t opt for an epidural. Between an epidural and a possible C-section in the event that I lost the will to push, the choice was obvious.

3.45pm: The anaesthetist arrived promptly and hit me with the epidural within 15 minutes. I was told to curl up like a shrimp and the midwife weighed me down as a local anaesthesia was administered. It was completely painless, unlike the insertion of the oxytocin cannula. The catheter was then inserted via an offensive-looking needle but again, I felt nothing save for a tingling sensation in one of my legs. Before I knew it, the cold fluid was piped in and the contractions were no longer painful. I felt like I could breathe again without the contractions creeping up on me every 2 minutes. The odd thing was I could move my legs in spite of the epidural; movement however, required some effort as my lower limbs felt exceptionally heavy.

4.30pm: A catheter was inserted to empty my bladder as I was bed-bound. This was painless too, but I could feel some tugging and shoving going on down there.

5pm: My obgyn came by to check on me and found that I was 3-4cm dilated. I was bleeding slightly but she didn’t think it was a problem. I drifted off to sleep till about 6pm before waking up to full-fledged hunger. Another Chupa Chup was devoured.

6.30pm: The nurse declared that I was 5cm dilated and completely effaced. She did however mention that the baby’s head seemed too squashed and I might need to go for an emergency C-section. I was banned from finishing the Chupa Chup even though the fats from my left thigh were probably munching on the fats from my right to stay alive. I forced myself sleep while M had an offensively fragrant takeaway dinner from Din Tai Fung in the delivery suite. I almost regretted not eating M for breakfast.

7.45pm: I woke up to a strange urge to push but was too afraid to notify the nurse as I thought it was the bowel talking. I didn’t want to poo on the bedpan.

7.50pm: As luck would have it, the nurse came by to check if I felt anything. I decided to ‘fess up and it turned out that I was fully dilated. The urge to push wasn’t the bowel talking afterall. Our baby was ready!

8pm: Very quickly, the midwife got everything ready, propped my legs up, instructed me to grab onto the rails and motivated me to push. She told me to imagine being constipated for two weeks and to do the biggest poo of my life. As ridiculous as this may sound, on hindsight, she was absolutely right on the money. It was all very military, and I did whatever the midwife wanted me to do (OK TAKE A DEEP BREATH NAAAAAOOOO ONE TWO THREE FOUR FIVE SIX SEVEN EIGHT NINE TEN!!!!!). It was a little difficult to push with the epidural still on, and I was told to focus my energy on the belly as opposed to straining my head (I was turning red with every push). M made the call to cut down on the epidural so I could identify the area to focus my energy on.

8.15pm: My obgyn arrived and took the front seat (meaning she was right where my vajayjay was) whilst the midwife semi-shouted at me to push when the contractions occurred. They were coming on fast and furious and I barely had time to breathe before the next ones hit. They don’t call this labour for nuts. M continued to encourage me and he held my right arm as I braced myself for more pushes. At some point, I asked the cheerleading team about the progress and was met with a hesitant ‘you are doing well’ from them. They looked slightly stricken for some reason and I thought I did a poo whilst pushing. Feeling rather dismayed, I couldn’t quite focus on pushing afterwards until my obgyn said that I was crowning and that our baby had a lot of hair.

8.30pm: One last push and I could feel our little girl’s shoulders push past before my obgyn swiftly pulled her out onto my tummy. M cut the cord and my obgyn collected the cord blood whilst I stared right at my daughter’s crying face. I can’t quite describe how I felt but it was as if the world had and could only contain us. Tears of joy, hope, fear and relief were shed as I held her in my arms.

Our baby was then taken to the warmer and had her height and weight measured. M was allowed to clean her up as my obgyn massaged my belly to get rid of excess blood after the placenta was delivered. As the epidural was turned down, I could feel her sewing me up but I really couldn’t care less about the pain as I was anxious to have the little one back in my arms. She was brought back to me as I requested for her to latch on as soon as possible. We also took some family photos and waited to be transferred to the maternity ward. M sent some photos to our families as we waited. We finally got to the ward at about 10pm. I remember bumping into my parents, sister and her boyfriend outside the ward as I was wheeled in with our little girl in my arms. The happiness on their faces, the warmth of my daughter’s body against mine, the exhaustion and relief on M’s face, the love I thought I could never give, these I can never forget.

I wasn’t man enough to go through labour without the epidural. My makeup kit went unopened and I did look like a gunny sack. I didn’t need to use the breast pump as baby Faith could latch well (ironically, my milk didn’t come in till we were discharged on Day 4). I still have one Chupa Chup in my handbag today and I certainly didn’t finish reading the magazine. I did however, have a baby and today, she is about 5.5 weeks old. That is all that matters, even if she is a little cranky and looking more like a mishapened potato (sorry baby, despite that, Mama still thinks you are too cute).

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Read on for my new journey as a mother and for my thoughts on love and marriage.

A Sweet Farewell to London…and Some News

I’ve procrastinated long enough on this teeny announcement. Or two teeny announcements, if you will. Some of you, whom I know personally, are already in the loop but I thought eight months is a long time to go on the blog without actually talking about it even in the most cryptic manner, so it is time to spill the beans. I had wanted to protect my privacy and keep the news all to my selfish self. The last I heard though, some naysayers have already caught wind of this anyway and I’ve been told by my loved ones that I should share the news because readers (who are still sticking around…I’m very happy to know you are, given that I barely wrote anything in the first three-quarter of 2012) would want to know, so here goes…

…I’ve moved back from London to Singapore for good, since eight months ago…and…I’m pregnant!

After five long years in London, I’m finally back home. Suffice to say that everything and yet nothing has changed since 2007. Suffice to say that I’ve done a whole lot of growing up in the UK, seen countless beautiful sceneries whilst travelling, made the most wonderful friends in the five years, tasted a decent portion of good food, started a blog that I thought no one would want to read, cooked/baked/photographed/styled my way from complete noob to amateur-amateur, interacted with the most amazing chefs, built a home from scratch (literally) and learnt a hell lot on ‘How to Live Life to the Fullest, Responsibly So 101′. I also found time to fall deeper in love with my best friend, get married, graduate with a doctorate and have a baby.

London is a big part of my life.

When it came down to the last second, to leave my home of five bittersweet years, I was devastated. The exit from London was pretty hasty. I quit my job, found out I was expecting (and hence decided that I should return to Singapore prematurely to prepare for delivery, I was supposed to leave London only in the summer of 2012), moved to Boston for six weeks as M was posted to Harvard, flew back to London for a night, switched my bags out for summer clothing and everything that I might need back home before speeding back to Singapore the next day. I didn’t really have time to say goodbye. To-date, I still keep the bucket list I had drafted for London and I hope that I will be able to return to the city one day to check the items off the list. I couldn’t even attend the Olympics events that I had bought tickets for.

The next months went by in a blur. There was so much to do with my relocation. I had to get my accounts, documents and life in order. I missed M terribly when he returned to London to finish up his studies. I went through pregnancy alone, save for support from my family and in-laws. None of the relocation bit, physical or emotional, was easy. The days started looking brighter when M came back, triumphant as a fully-qualified doctor after five gruelling years in med school. He packed up our flat in London as hastily as I had left UK, attended his graduation ceremony with his parents but without a very pregnant me, flew back to my arms in Singapore, sorted out whatever I couldn’t handle and supported me through the last trimester.

We had a heart-to-heart talk yesterday night before we fell asleep at 3.30am. It’s been a while since we chatted this much, for four hours in fact. And we both realised how different life is in Singapore. London was a dream. We lived life to the fullest, laughed and cried the hardest, seen the best and went through the worst. It was a city where we grew up the most as individuals and as a couple. It was our first real home together. Coming back to Singapore makes for an almost surreal dive back into reality, where we are suddenly challenged with obligations and responsibilities to others other than two of us, issues to do with fitting into the local culture and soon-to-be parenthood. Even though Singapore is our home, we haven’t got the slightest inkling as to what lies ahead and we will need to do to rise up to the challenges. One thing’s for sure; we are back now and we will make our lives here work. We will carve out new memories, strive towards new goals and conjure new dreams.

To celebrate the chapter that was London, and welcome the new that is Singapore, I prepared my very first dessert table before I left UK. I was challenged in every way, as I have been during my life in London. Different pastries and desserts to make on limited resources, thinking about what really mattered to me that would fit in with the theme, and putting it all together so it makes sense and gives heart. So there you have it, a blue-white-red presentation of a Victoria sponge, Marmite cupcakes with cream cheese frosting and macarons with rose buttercream, a true culmination of something that is quintessentially English, a little bit of what I have learnt to love and another that is a little cosmopolitan owing to the time I spent in Europe. I’ve also scattered the cards, letters, notes and gifts from family and friends around the entire dessert table just for…the two of us to enjoy. Shame I couldn’t offer the sweets to anyone else. Oh well, maybe next time.

Happy homecoming to us, and may we meet again, my fair London.

*Updated: This post is featured on Tastespotting. Check out my profile on  Tastespotting to see my other featured posts!

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Read on for my new journey as a mother.

Like my bakes? Then check out my other sweet adventures in the kitchen!

A Call For Celebration: The {Red Velvet Cake} Edition

Boy meets girl. They kinda like each other. They like each other enough to want to get hitched. Wedding bells rang. Then there was one of us. And another. And another. Decades later, they welcomed a grandchild. 39 years on, the boy and girl still love each other very much. I don’t know what their secret is to a long, successful marriage, but I know we have lots to learn from them.

Said boy and girl are my dearest Dad and Mum. For decades, they have stood by each other and raised the three of us, my brother, sister and me. They taught us to respect people, love others, work hard towards our goals, do the best we can regardless of the outcome and be gracious towards those who are unkind to us.

In a society flecked by fleeting relationships and featherlight commitment to people, it is hard not to be astounded by a couple’s 39 years of love, sheer hard work and understanding (not to mention doing this with three impish children in tow). How can we not celebrate?

I couldn’t think of a better way to do so than with a Red Velvet Cake. It is something that my parents have not heard of, and I thought it would be lovely to surprise them with something novel, just as how they have taught me new things every day of my life. It doesn’t help that a Red Velvet Cake is a stunning cake to look at and an equally delicious one to have when done properly. I tried my best to do the cake justice and I’m glad that this version brought a sense of wonder and satisfaction to my parents with its perfectly moist crumb and tangy, fluffy frosting.

Happy Anniversary, Mum & Dad! You are our role models and we can only aspire to be half as awesome as both of you are.

P/S: Pardon the mismatched styling – all my props are still in transit…..

Check out what I have been baking in my own kitchen.

Also check out my other food adventures.

*Updated: This post is featured on Tastespotting. Check out my profile on  Tastespotting to see my other featured posts!

Reliving the Smells & Tastes of Wanderlust

Pan-seared scallops, with  jamón ibérico chip, pomme purée, served with jamón ibérico foam and chestnuts.

Blimey, is it 2012 already? I can’t believe I have been away from the blog for three whole months! Thanks to all who have been dropping me tweets, messages and emails to check on how I am (and maybe to see if I’m still alive hehehe), I just want to say that everything’s good and I’m finally back with an entry that hopefully makes your mouth water, as much as it did to mine when I was browsing through my photo archives.

Black truffle spaghetti

I hate to admit it but oh gawwwwd, the backlog on my photos is truly appalling. Believe it or not, these pictures were taken a whopping ten months ago, in May 2011, after we returned from back-to-back travelling to Florence/Pisa and Murcia/Cartagena. Better late than never, eh (and yes, travelogues are coming up in future posts)? These dishes were lovingly prepared (how else would we have done it? =p) in our tiny kitchen in London, following our gastronomical trips which swaddled us in romantic (f00d) affairs.

Spaghetti with pan-fried prawns, green olives, and jamón ibérico chips

Like most of our holidays, we planned the trips according to meals and everything else was secondary to eating. This comes as no surprise as we’re after all the forever-hungry-pair-of-food-mongers. The delightful produce had us feeling like glam goddesses rolling in silk sheets that were the unspeakable pleasures; flavours of the earth and the sea couldn’t have been better represented by the black truffles we had in Florence, the fresh seafood and our favourite jamón ibérico de bellota we indulged in when travelling in Spain. We returned from our trips, completely inebriated by the tastes and smells of western Europe, and very quickly, we found ourselves working hard in the kitchen, slaving over the stoves all for the sake of reliving the experience.

The best thing that came out of this? Having to brainstorm, cook and savour a truly breathtaking meal with the one I love. There is really nothing quite like beating about the kitchen in our shabby home clothes, bantering, exchanging tips on cooking and  fussing over each other’s poor plating skills. That, and reminiscing the wonderful memories we made on our trips together. Ahhhh, the good ol’ days…

Check out what’s cooking in my kitchen!

Also check out my other food adventures.

You’ve Been Good, 2011

2011. What a year, WHAT a year, really.

I worked my ass off to prepare for my PhD viva, survived plenty of sleepless nights and passed it (thankfully!). I started my new job and loved it. We travelled to Florence, slurped up scoops of gelato, wolfed down mouthfuls of heavenly pasta and chunks of Florentine steak, and even caught the Scoppio del Carro. A week later, we went on down to Murcia and Cartegena, and spent the weekend watching replays of the royal wedding on TV whilst scoffing down tonnes of jamon iberico. Before we knew it, we were off to Vienna and strolled along the romantic streets, enjoying the sights and each other’s company. We drove up to Oxford to see the inspiration for Harry Potter’s Grand Hall in spring and conquered the trails with fellow friends in the Forest of Dean as autumn morphed stealthily into winter. I scored a reservation at The Fat Duck after more than 160 calls and had the best meal of my life. I even met my pastry hero, Pierre Hermé. This summer, I became a proud aunt to my adorable niece, A, whom I’ve been anxious to meet since we learnt of the good news. Shortly after, I graduated and donned the strawberry shortcake hat that I’ve been ‘dying’ to wear for years (trust me, it ain’t pretty), and was teased mercilessly by my proud parents. I spent my birthday feasting in Paris with two very important people to me, my husband and my good friend, E. As 2011 came to an end, I appeared as the guest pastry chef for my friend’s awesome supperclub in London, Plusixfive and learnt more than I ever could than just cooking for the two of us. 2011 wasn’t a bed of roses of course, there were a couple of heartbreaking moments, that were lifted when my superhero survived a scary bump on the road we call life and hung in there, and for that I’m thankful. There were also times when I’ve struggled with uncertainty and times when I truly felt like throwing in the towel.

All in all, 2011 wouldn’t be 2011 if not for its people. I met new people via this blog and we became fast friends, friends that I wished I had met sooner (but as they say, it’s better late than never), friends whom I have come to rely on to keep my chin up. You know who you are, peeps.  My family and friends who have stood by me all these years, my rocks, what else can I say that hasn’t been said about them? Nothing that I have experienced in 2011 would mean anything if not for these very special people in my life. Nothing. So..I just want to say that it’s been an absolutely stunning year because of you, my dear friends and family, and I know that 2012 will be even better than before.

To good things, to those who wait, to all of you, I wish nothing but the best for you.

Happy New Year, everyone!

Be Thankful, Be Glad

For most of you, Christmas Day must be almost over. Well, it’s early Christmas morning where I am, 8am to be exact, and I’ve been up with jet lag since 5.30am.

We are settling down as well as newbies can be when taking to a new city, thanks to those who asked. The apartment’s really cosy, the city is beautiful, people are so lovely and friendly, my only complaint is that the weather is a tad freezing. My face tends to get rearranged in some sort of a weird mid-spasm expression when I’m out. It doesn’t look or feel comfortable, but I’m happy that the rest of my body stays warm most of the time.

As the year approaches its winter, its sunset, its finale, some thoughts are running through my head. Hopes, fears, dreams and uncertainties seem to exist in harmony, well, most of the time at least. This morning, as I watched the sunrise from our home away from home, the negative tipped the balance every so slightly; but when my husband woke up, shuffled out into the living room, looking quite the little kid with his dishevelled hair and sleepy eyes, and muttered Merry Christmas as he waved his hand at me, every ounce of negativity melted away.

Today, I’m thankful for him, my loved ones and my dear friends. They are the greatest gifts I could ever ask for and I wish the same for you.

Wherever you are, seize the day and tell the people you care about that you love them. You don’t know what tomorrow may bring, but today is the Present, the Gift, so tell them.

Happy Christmas everyone.

Saying Goodbye, For Now

The crisp winter air is getting chillier, and we are gratefully snuggled under a warm duvet on the sofa, listening to Christmas carols and watching holiday movies. Time seems to slow down as we take in the holiday cheer, and marvel at the simplest things such as the beautiful tree that is standing in our living room now and the pretty snowflakes that will soon grace the season. Even that mug of hot chocolate seems to be that much more special when tucked under your cold fingers. There is just something magical about the time that is Christmas. Everyone seems cheery despite the blistering cold. Shoppers smile as they bump into each other with their big bags in madly crowded stores. The lights are especially pretty, as if they were there to put the misery out of the shorter days and longer nights. The odd hum of a carol that pops in my head when I am  cooking. The thought of seeing my family warms my heart, this year especially as we are moving across the globe (albeit with one or two pitstops) within the next year. This winter, our fifth, our last, the finale, is no doubt the most beautiful.

Delighted as we are to return home soon, we will come to miss everything and everyone that defines London. Our dear friends who have become our family over here, the stories that we share, the good and bad times that we have been through together, even the bitter cold and annoying rain that drapes London in a depressing shade of grey. It seems befitting to celebrate the last winter with our friends. What better way to do so than with a party full of cheer, brimming with home-cooked food and copious amounts of drinks?

And so we did. We came up with a menu that took all of what we experienced and loved whilst living in London, and entertained our friends with it. Grilled Camembert with tomato and chilli chutney, served with warm crusty bread and an assortment of cold meats. This was similar to what we had and loved during our recent trip to the Three Choirs Vineyard | An Ottolenghi-style salad of roasted aubergines with shredded roast chicken, pine nuts, pomegranate, basil and garlic yoghurt, something we have come to adore during our time here | Good ol’ steak, something that M has been crazy about after our trip to Peter Luger Steakhouse in Brooklyn, New York, and has mastered during his time here, served with creamy mash potatoes and homemade béarnaise sauce, a sauce that paralysed both my arms after some Olympic-worthy whisking when I first attempted it years ago, and now I’ve found a shortcut to doing them, sparing my wings from pain and agony | Moroccan leg of lamb with mint yoghurt and chickpea sauce, which I learnt to cook in my first year here when I was an amateur in the kitchen, after falling in love with Jamie Oliver’s recipes | Matcha tiramisu, a testament to how my eyes have been opened to the possibilities of reinventing traditional recipes.

After much nerves, and toiling in the kitchen, we’re glad to say that everything, including the monstrous leg of lamb, was cooked to perfection. It was the best dinner party we have ever hosted, and even we were very surprised by the success of it, because a lot of cooking had to be done in a tiny kitchen, and as we know, the tension runs high when two cooks with very different styles are working in a small space together. Our friends were duly impressed and we were even happier to know that they went home well-fed, drink-drank-and-ever-so-slightly-inebriated. Jokes were cracked, and embarrassing stories were let slip. We laughed till our bellies ached and I drank till I was hung over the next day. It was all in good fun and I’m really going to miss all the times we’ve spent together. Everyone’s going their separate ways come the heart of winter, so I guess it’s goodbye for now. Till we meet again, my dear friends, till we meet again.

Check out what’s cooking in my kitchen!

Also check out my other food adventures.

Back to Cooking

It feels soooo good to be back in the kitchen again. To feel inspired by sights, smells and flavours. To dream up things I want to eat and things I want to feed my husband. To chop, peel and grill. To present a beautiful plate of food. And most of all, to watch him tuck in happily.

You see, most of the time, M cooks for me. He is a wonderful cook, don’t get me wrong, and I’m very fortunate to have someone who tries his best to come up with something new, exciting and delicious on the menu everyday. Now it’s my turn and I’m gladly returning the favour.

I’ve been a little more cautious with what I eat lately, as I am getting older and it only makes sense to try and eat a more balanced diet in appropriate quantities. I used to have such a hearty appetite, even M was a little alarmed in the early stages of our relationship and casually mentioned that even if I don’t get fat, I might just eat till he and I are broke. After a health scare in my family this year, I’ve resolved to cut down on the quantities of food that I’m packing in, and surprisingly, it didn’t take much effort to do so – it’s the age thing I reckon, I feel full more quickly than I do before with the same quantities of food. But I have my weaknesses – the more-than-occasional chocolate,  the incredibly tasty stuff (i.e. anything tasty is usually high in carbohydrates or fats) and man, do I dislike vegetables. To make matters worse, I don’t see the point of eating fruits. My philosophy was (still is, actually), why make yourself feel bloated with fruit when you can have your rice and meats, and feel properly full instead? People say they feel cleansed after eating fruits, I say I feel stupidly bloated and uncomfortable.

Regardless, I’ve started to pay more attention to what I eat. I still have a bit of a battle with fruits, but I try to have more vegetables and less carbohydrates (rice usually makes me happy). And the only person who could make me eat more vegetables is….unfortunately not my mother or my husband. It is Yotam Ottolenghi. If everyone makes salads like he does, we would all be vegetarians, I kid you not. I first heard of Ottolenghi about 6 years ago, when I realised that M loved the chocolate cake and I asked his good friend to get a birthday cake for him on my behalf as I was living in Singapore. When I came to London for a holiday, I made it a point to drop by Ottolenghi to try the cake for myself, and it was good but I remember thinking how silly those ridiculous good-looking model-esque people were to queue for….salads. I was clearly not herbivorous then. Two years ago, my good friend D suggested for us to have lunch at Ottolenghi, boy was I skeptical but I was keen to try the cakes, so I agreed. That changed my life forever (D has a knack for changing my life, first with macarons then this). I had the roasted aubergines with saffron yoghurt salad and I was SOLD.

I took M to Ottolenghi after that, and he too agreed that the salads were wonderful. So this week, I decided to make the roasted aubergines salad for lunch. I had only two strands of saffron left in the pantry and it wasn’t enough to make the yoghurt, so I tweaked the recipe and added whatever I fancied to make it better. It was mostly aubergines, pomegranate, pine nuts, basil drizzled with a yoghurt-y sauce made from 0% fat Greek yoghurt and some seasoning. I couldn’t stay away from meat of course, so I added some roast chicken slices into the salad, and it was divine. I can’t believe I’m saying this but it is possible to have a delicious AND healthy meal, and this revelation is all thanks to Ottolenghi! Needless to say, M was happy to come home to a good lunch.

We do have sinful meals of course. Just the other night, I made one of my favourite things in the world – Chorizo Spanish Tortilla! Turned out perfect and we were happily fighting for the last piece.

So it isn’t so bad to be healthier, really. I’m back to cooking with more of a healthy focus than before, everything’s still pretty damn tasty and our bellies are happy. I’m looking forward to trying out more new recipes in the kitchen and feeding M. Looks like New Year’s resolution came very much resolved…..early!

Check out what’s cooking in my kitchen!

Also check out my other food adventures.