The last hot drink you had:
Earl Grey with Honey
Thanks to Rozie, for reminding me all the way from Klang, “Sebaik-baiknya di solstis musim sejuk (cikgu Geografi la konon) ini banyak-banyaklah makan madu, supaya badan lebih segar, selain mengurangkan kahak dan selsema.” And I honestly did feel like tea with honey tonight. It at least refreshed my campus memories with dear Rozie.
The last ‘I Love You’ you said to:
KaCher, on sms.
If I could make up for the loss of many more I-love-you’s we were supposed to hear from Mom, I would. But I believe that every thought we think and every word we write is an ‘I love you’ tribute to Mom, sis.
Me Monchies, after saying good night.
Kitreena would usually say, “Sleep tight Mom, make sure you go straight to bed.” Yeah right! Who’s going to run the dishwasher? Who’s going to refill all the 3 humidifiers? 🙂 Who’s going to post an entry on Questa è Enida? Who’s going to bermimpi bercanda di pasiran pantei ama Kang Broery? And Edrick would say, “Good night Mommy. Don’t let the bug spread! I love you.” Every night for the past 3 months I have been trying to correct him… bite, not spread. But I think the bug has spread and he won’t recover from his own quote for a long while. Quote unquote.
Your last frustration:
Peeling Onions
The skin was unbelievably thin and dryer than the thirstiest nomad crossing Rub’ Al-Khali on kamikaze cum harakiri mode (luper lalu mbawok bochowng air, awok nte). If onion skin can go soft like Nori (sushi wrap) when cooked, I would have gladly stir-fried a full 2 cups of it with my bean curd tonight.
The last flattering thing you heard:
Good cooking, Mommy. Deeleeeeeecious!
Edrick would only eat rice if it comes with tofu, or bean curd or fish. Rice porridge to him is only edible if it comes with tokyu (soy sauce), chopped spinach or steamed broccoli. So you can imagine how flattering the word ‘deeleeeeeecious’ is… coming from a not-so-big-of-a-fan of rice.
The last smart idea you came up with:
A Krazy Lazy Cooking Method
Well, well, well… what can I say. My krazy lazy mind-set has truly plagued me these days. So horridly krazy-lazily lazy, that the only thing I am not lazy doing is thinking of ways to be even lazier. And another thing you have to know about me is, I dislike cooking anything that would make me smell like what I just cook. A divorcee friend once disclosed to me about his ex-wife, “She always smelled like bawang goreng (sautéed shallots/garlic). I don’t mind that smell in the kitchen or dining room. But not in my bed.” Yeeessshhh, crazy but true. A woman is supposed to be tasteful, not tasty!
So yesterday, out of desperation to guttle my newly bought salted dried old fish, I came up with this idea: instead of pan-frying or deep-frying the stinky-o-smelly fishies, I oven-broiled them! To avoid from having to scrape the baking pan in case the fish would stick to it, I shaped a piece of baking paper into a ‘bowl’, poured half the amount of oil I usually use into the baking-paper bowl and voila! Into the oil the fishies swam and into the oven they broiled for about 25 minutes at 200°C. No stirring, flipping, flapping, spattering, splattering, and spatula-ing involved the whole 25 minutes.
And the tiptop feat of this krazy lazy methodology was not only that I saved the whole house from the smell, I saved myself from smelling like fried salted dried fish! My husband is not home this week anyway. By the way, ladies and some gentle men… did you ever notice that of all that we wear when cooking, the aroma’s favorite part to stick to and stick on is our bra? So ehem, did you sauté any shallots or garlic today? Ahak ahak ahak ahak! *gelak ada makna, tu yang kening sebelah dok teghangkat tu*
Your last Facebook status:
An Original Quote
I know many people who do not share my principle of ‘keeping it right’ grammatically and grammatolatrily. Well, I worship words, alright. While I don’t speak many languages, those I do speak and write in I make sure I speak and write in relatively properly. And that means no saying that’s mean when I mean to say that means. You know what I mean? Whats make it uncorrect and disproper are ones’ attitude towards improofment itself, usualy…………………… Espfcially if 1’s is rspnsiblty to educates de lang. 2 de yang ones, k???!!!
I believe that the beauty of learning (and using) a language is mastering it so one can ‘manipulate’ it while keeping a high respect for the language itself. Of course it applies to learning anything, really. Cooking, for instance – just like a language – is a skill one first has to master before one can create new recipes. Wiz and Lish – language trainers turned bakers friends of mine – I bet can vouch me on this. (Wiz & Lish, ken lee tulibu dibu douchu, ken? Too loon.)
Nobody says it is easy teaching a language, especially a language that should be spoken the way it is written. Nobody. I still keep catching myself making mistakes with the ‘third-person pronouns’ she and he when I speak in English. Not that I have to give this excuse, I know, 🙂 but in my mother tongue (Bahasa Malaysia) third-person singular pronouns are not gender-specific. She is dia, he is dia. So unsuperciliously, I keep correcting myself. Appreciatively, too, I keep being corrected by people who care and who have genuine passion for correctness. Though I don’t believe that I can achieve perfect bilingualism, I do have faith that bilingual correctitude exists.
Thus, Enida says…
“Those who have no desire to learn from mistakes should not fake their passion for correctness.”
Eh enough already! I really should go straight to bed before the bugs spread.
good-listeners heaven if I hadn’t adopted the technique fast enough, though.
“Setau sei, namo pokan kito ni Kolopilah, tak jauh dongan Juasseh. Ko dah tuka namo eh jadi Jeddah? Kono blaja la sei ni bahaso saudi yo? Takpo. Sei tunggu ekau pakai jubah putih kepalo belilit seghoban petak-petak, datang skolah naik unto. Pandai lah nanti sei ni tanyo soklan selain marobbuka.”
Tak berjaya membukak satu balang, saya cuba balang peach yang lain. Ada tiga balang semuanya dalam gobok yang saya baru beli di kedai Grand Mevel yang terletak di Persiaran Leningradsky dalam wilayah Khimki nun di saaaaana bah. Akan tetapi kesemuanya sama ketat, sama sendat. Kudrat saya yang sudah tinggal dua pertiga itu pun akhirnya luput. Ibarat kaca terhempas ke batu, sirna harapan saya hendak menghidangkan dessert buah peach yang tidak dicampur gula itu kepada Monchies selepas makan tengahari. Setelah asa saya putus, saya pun cuma memotong sebiji buah epal untuk pencuci mulut Monchies. Padan lah tak bersih-bersih mulut mereka.
Dalam pada itu, kerja menangis ini pada saya sebenarnya paling sesuai dijalankan di kamar mandi (shower). Bak kata tagline iklan ‘Daun’ zaman 70an dulu… “Tak siapa pun akan tahu.” Jika itu tidak dapat menyembunyikan tangisan, cepat-cepatlah ke dapur dan mulakanlah gerakerja memotong bawang.
Between getting up and getting out of the rink, I had a mouthful of blood and a cashew-nut size of flesh from my upper lip hanging, waiting to be spit out. And when I finally did get out of the rink, get a little hole dug in the one-foot snow into which I could get the mouthful of blood spit out… I realized the lip flesh is still in tact and could not just be pulled off. Blood came rushing out when I tried to get rid of it.
I miss those little ‘Hey you!’ and ‘Don’t hug me, I stink!’ greetings in the morning at the school parking. I hugged you anyway. I miss those little ‘I see you at 3!’ and ‘Don’t drive too fast!’ goodbyes when we walked from the canteen or past the security post. I drove fast and drove you crazy anyway.
The thing is, I don’t cry anymore. Not the way I used to cry with you. Sad stories were told with smiles on our face back then, when we realized we were just two little doves trying to mend our hearts and fix our wings. No matter how cruel love was treating us, we were saved by each other in that corridor. We kept on flying.
Questa è Enida 