So people say the Mayan calendar implies.
True, the Maya were very clever with numbers and all. They said the world is currently in its "fifth age" - there were four previous "ages", each destroyed before the next started - and will now be similarly destroyed. But they also said that someone or something must be sacrificed to ensure the sun rises every day.
Good night, world.
See you all in the morning! =P
Friday, December 21, 2012
Tuesday, December 18, 2012
Mid-Term Assessment
It is no secret to anyone who's read a bit of what I write here, that I tend to complain about badly behaving students. I checked my posts - twice I had written about poor attitude regarding/during tests/exams (read about them here and here). Although those posts were written years back when I was teaching at a place different from where I do now, the truth is, I've never really stopped being irritated by similar behaviours I observed... until last week.
I cannot put my finger on what I'm doing differently this term - my teaching style, my interaction with my class, my attitude towards everyone in general - so I'm attributing it all to the students themselves. I have the good fortune of teaching, what I think, must be one of the best-behaved groups I've had in as long as I remember, perhaps, ever! They are attentive, obedient and never unruly. They actively participate in class and answer all the questions I throw at them. To a certain extent, I can tell that they strive to take responsibility for their own learning like I want them to.
On top of that, for their mid-term test which I conducted last week, no one was absent. Not a single person. Reader, if you think I'm being irrationally elated over full attendance for a test, for you think that is how it should be, let me say this - in all my years of teaching, with the exception of very small classes (of less than 5 students), this is the first time I've had no absentees in a test.
Some may shake their heads, thinking that I've simply been so continually disappointed that I should feel such wave of wonder and gladness at what should be normalcy. Perhaps. Nevertheless, I am very happy. =)
I cannot put my finger on what I'm doing differently this term - my teaching style, my interaction with my class, my attitude towards everyone in general - so I'm attributing it all to the students themselves. I have the good fortune of teaching, what I think, must be one of the best-behaved groups I've had in as long as I remember, perhaps, ever! They are attentive, obedient and never unruly. They actively participate in class and answer all the questions I throw at them. To a certain extent, I can tell that they strive to take responsibility for their own learning like I want them to.
On top of that, for their mid-term test which I conducted last week, no one was absent. Not a single person. Reader, if you think I'm being irrationally elated over full attendance for a test, for you think that is how it should be, let me say this - in all my years of teaching, with the exception of very small classes (of less than 5 students), this is the first time I've had no absentees in a test.
Some may shake their heads, thinking that I've simply been so continually disappointed that I should feel such wave of wonder and gladness at what should be normalcy. Perhaps. Nevertheless, I am very happy. =)
Wednesday, December 12, 2012
12.12.12
First, I went on for about half an hour on background stories, what had been done, what still needs to be done and what I shall do about all that. Then, I let them question me left, right, center, up and down.
After that, I had planned to conclude:
I mean, most research do in fact aim to make this world a better place in their own unique manner. *Ahem* You see, Reader, even if my proposed work does not amount to anything useful (which I hope not!), I would have at least shown that this particular approach likely leads to failure, so future grad students will know to avoid it! Right? The world will be a better place either way!
However, I was told beforehand that a conclusion isn't necessary for this defense. Oh, well... it's fine.
And now, I'd like to extend my deepest gratitude (publicly, for fun) to all who supported me through this, especially those who physically showed up! I cannot even begin to describe how much I appreciate your efforts. =)
This is, however, only the beginning, so I'll need everyone to work harder to keep all that support coming my way! (I'm actually joking, but if it isn't too much of an inconvenience, please please please do...) I'm fortunate I have a great supervisor, so I'm hopeful (I mean, I'm hopeful that she won't give up on me!) =P
Happy 12.12.12 to anyone whimsically gleeful about these "special" numbers!
Tuesday, December 11, 2012
Adventure
For life to seem interesting, every task, no matter how mundane, should be perceived as an adventure. Really. If one can't live in in pursuit of constant exciting outings, one should try to view routine ones as somewhat exciting. Once in a while, at least.
So, here it is. I had to make a payment of EUR500 and I couldn't use my credit card because the payee did not reply my email about their pay-by-credit-card link on their website being broken. The only other way is to make a bank transfer, which, unfortunately, I was informed I couldn't accomplish via online banking, probably because the recipient account is of a foreign bank. Long story short (I say this a lot, but it never really is short, is it?), I had to physically go to the bank.
I should add that I don't go to the bank, ever, unless I really have to, which adds up to maybe once in a year or two.
It was early because if I were late, I'd never get a parking spot in this crazy town I'm proud to call mine. The bank would not open for at least another 15 minutes or so by the time I reached it's front doors. I stood outside of the building, waiting for the doors to open. A minute or so passed and a man came. He pushed the doors opened and walked right in... it dawned to me that although the bank hadn't opened for business, the main doors were actually never locked, so customers can have access to the ATMs inside at all times. A metal gate separates the ATMs area and the inside (actual counters) of the bank. That gate was still locked, indicating what I already knew... I had to wait several more minutes for the bank to open.
I felt foolish, abashed, but I entered the building holding my head up high all the same. An old man stood near the entrance. He looked at me. I thought it odd that this bank likes hiring old men for security guards... I remember the other one I'd seen for several years prior, a man probably in his 70s, who always greeted customers in friendly manners and helped direct us to the right counters. Anyway, since this old man was looking at me, in what I think must be a friendly manner, I took the initiative to greet him.
He replied in Hakka, a Chinese dialect I can understand rather well, but haven't spoken since I was a little girl. He told me the bank isn't opened yet. I replied what I hoped was "I shall wait then".
An obscure side-door was unlocked a little while later and a uniformed employee beckoned the waiting customers in. I walked towards it. The old man did likewise, along with a few others. He was no security personnel - just a fellow customer like me. I wanted to crawl into a hole.
I was in the bank. It was, or wasn't, quite as I remembered it - I could't even tell. I stood still a moment and looked around, just reveling in the strangeness that was me in a bank. The old man, right behind me, tapped me gently on my shoulder and pointed out the counter from which I was to take a number. Obviously, he thought I was at a loss. I could see in his eyes he saw in me a silly little (as always, I'm referring to my size, not age) girl who'd probably never done any banking in her life. I wanted to bang my head on a wall then crawl into a hole.
There was a lady making inquiries at the queuing-number counter when I got to it. I stood in line and waited, keeping a courteous distance between myself and that lady. Before I knew it, an old woman pushed past me and got into the "line" right in front of me. She was followed by another. Then, by an old man. By the time I realised there was really no "line", four or five senior citizens had gotten ahead of me. In hindsight, I do think there usually would be a line... but not for the old folks. *Ahem* The serving staff at the counter saw it all, but I think she shared my sentiment - they were all grey and bent... if they actually waited in line behind me, I would have gladly, willingly let them go ahead of me anyway. Still, it's rather amusing that the elderly take for granted courtesy that they cannot be sure is granted.
I got my number, I filled up the forms and when it was my turn, went to the teller counter. The bit of paperwork was completed, signed, counter-signed and when it was all about done, the nice lady teller gave me a concerned look.
"What are you transferring this money for?"
There was caution, and some suspicion mixed in with the concern in her voice. I shouldn't wonder. A silly little girl who didn't seem to know her way in a bank would be dumb enough to fall into the scam artist's trap. For all she knew, I was giving away my life savings, in secret and/or against the advise of family and friends, to a foreign "lover" I'd never met. I appreciate her diligence... really, I do.
"Conference registration fee."
Satisfied by my answer, the transaction was then quickly completed.
So much for a half-hour errand on a bright weekday morning.
So, here it is. I had to make a payment of EUR500 and I couldn't use my credit card because the payee did not reply my email about their pay-by-credit-card link on their website being broken. The only other way is to make a bank transfer, which, unfortunately, I was informed I couldn't accomplish via online banking, probably because the recipient account is of a foreign bank. Long story short (I say this a lot, but it never really is short, is it?), I had to physically go to the bank.
I should add that I don't go to the bank, ever, unless I really have to, which adds up to maybe once in a year or two.
It was early because if I were late, I'd never get a parking spot in this crazy town I'm proud to call mine. The bank would not open for at least another 15 minutes or so by the time I reached it's front doors. I stood outside of the building, waiting for the doors to open. A minute or so passed and a man came. He pushed the doors opened and walked right in... it dawned to me that although the bank hadn't opened for business, the main doors were actually never locked, so customers can have access to the ATMs inside at all times. A metal gate separates the ATMs area and the inside (actual counters) of the bank. That gate was still locked, indicating what I already knew... I had to wait several more minutes for the bank to open.
I felt foolish, abashed, but I entered the building holding my head up high all the same. An old man stood near the entrance. He looked at me. I thought it odd that this bank likes hiring old men for security guards... I remember the other one I'd seen for several years prior, a man probably in his 70s, who always greeted customers in friendly manners and helped direct us to the right counters. Anyway, since this old man was looking at me, in what I think must be a friendly manner, I took the initiative to greet him.
He replied in Hakka, a Chinese dialect I can understand rather well, but haven't spoken since I was a little girl. He told me the bank isn't opened yet. I replied what I hoped was "I shall wait then".
An obscure side-door was unlocked a little while later and a uniformed employee beckoned the waiting customers in. I walked towards it. The old man did likewise, along with a few others. He was no security personnel - just a fellow customer like me. I wanted to crawl into a hole.
I was in the bank. It was, or wasn't, quite as I remembered it - I could't even tell. I stood still a moment and looked around, just reveling in the strangeness that was me in a bank. The old man, right behind me, tapped me gently on my shoulder and pointed out the counter from which I was to take a number. Obviously, he thought I was at a loss. I could see in his eyes he saw in me a silly little (as always, I'm referring to my size, not age) girl who'd probably never done any banking in her life. I wanted to bang my head on a wall then crawl into a hole.
There was a lady making inquiries at the queuing-number counter when I got to it. I stood in line and waited, keeping a courteous distance between myself and that lady. Before I knew it, an old woman pushed past me and got into the "line" right in front of me. She was followed by another. Then, by an old man. By the time I realised there was really no "line", four or five senior citizens had gotten ahead of me. In hindsight, I do think there usually would be a line... but not for the old folks. *Ahem* The serving staff at the counter saw it all, but I think she shared my sentiment - they were all grey and bent... if they actually waited in line behind me, I would have gladly, willingly let them go ahead of me anyway. Still, it's rather amusing that the elderly take for granted courtesy that they cannot be sure is granted.
I got my number, I filled up the forms and when it was my turn, went to the teller counter. The bit of paperwork was completed, signed, counter-signed and when it was all about done, the nice lady teller gave me a concerned look.
"What are you transferring this money for?"
There was caution, and some suspicion mixed in with the concern in her voice. I shouldn't wonder. A silly little girl who didn't seem to know her way in a bank would be dumb enough to fall into the scam artist's trap. For all she knew, I was giving away my life savings, in secret and/or against the advise of family and friends, to a foreign "lover" I'd never met. I appreciate her diligence... really, I do.
"Conference registration fee."
Satisfied by my answer, the transaction was then quickly completed.
So much for a half-hour errand on a bright weekday morning.
Sunday, November 25, 2012
The Bonesetter's Daughter
This, much like many of the other posts, is long over due.
There is something about unraveling a mysterious past, discovering the origin of seemingly inexplicable habits and finally getting all the answers, that I find incredibly appealing and irresistible. Plus, the telling of a story within a story within a story, and the completely satisfying wrapping up and tying all loose ends by the conclusion - I have not a single complaint about this book.
I cannot decide if the main protagonist should be Ruth, the typical modern working woman with a live-in boyfriend and his two daughters from a previous marriage, or LuLing, her immigrant mother with a seemingly closed mind and strict adherence to Chinese tradition and superstition. The title, however, really refers to the enigmatic Precious Auntie, LuLing's disfigured nursemaid, who, within the first few pages of the book, is revealed to be her mother.
The story begins with that of Ruth - her busy days managing her work, family and her mother's increasing forgetfulness suggesting of dementia. Flashbacks include scenes from her childhood with her mother as a single parent and her mother's many peculiarities which she couldn't understand nor accept. These are eventually explained through LuLing's telling of her story growing up in Immortal Heart, a small village in rural pre-WWII China. Within her narration, the heartbreaking tale of Precious Auntie is unfolded.
Thereon, the dots start connecting, and there was no way I could put the book down till the end...
Monday, November 5, 2012
Baking Without A Recipe
Reader, if you enjoy watching the Chef At Home series as much as I do, you'll have an idea of what the post title alludes to. I love everything about the show - Chef Michael Smith, his kitchen, his pantry, everything in his kitchen and his pantry, and most of all, his warm, casual yet charismatic manner of presenting his culinary creations. I hope he wouldn't mind me "borrowing" his catchphrase to modify into a post title... especially since this post has none to do with him. *ahem*
We didn't so much bake without a recipe, but it was nearly so. Let me explain.
A few months ago, my friend, the Outdoor Expert, took me to a baking class, and we made macarons. He had since done up his kitchen and gotten a mixer that didn't look like a toy to complement his large and impressive built-in oven. Such then, when recently I finally managed to get decent candy thermometers and we are therefore (theoretically) capable of cooking sugar, he suggested we try our hands at those challenging macarons once more.
We prepared the required ingredients (plus a packet of "macaron mix" for Plan B) and I made my way to his kitchen. We laid the eggs, sugar, ground almond, butter etc. on the counter, placed the printed sheet of recipe right next to them, then started discussing the delicate art of approximating weight...
... because the Outdoor Expert doesn't have a kitchen scale!
I think this pack of ground almond is about 230g, I told him. He took that in one hand, the pack of powdered sugar in the other, and concluded that the sugar feels heavier.
Then, it must be around 250g, I said - one of the most ridiculous, baseless conclusions ever, I'll admit. Nevertheless, we went with it.
We needed 125g of each. I took one of the packs, squeezed my fingers around its middle, and asked him, "This is about half, right?"
"Yea, about," he replied, after a 2-second glance, "We don't have to be super-accurate."
It's not like we have a choice... =P
So, I scooped about "half" the pack of powdered sugar, and a little more than "half" of the ground almond. These I combined with 2 egg whites. Are 2 egg whites about 50g? We'll just assume so.
As if the totally insane way I was handling the recipe wasn't enough, when he needed to cook 125g of granulated sugar, he simply poured out a small bowl and estimated its weight on his hand by comparing with the half-pack of leftover powdered sugar, purportedly exactly 125g.
Now, as if all that messing up the ingredients was still not enough, we were *both* not familiar with his oven, and so, the first tray suffered a casualty when we poked at one before it was done. We then left the poor shells in there for an additional 10 minutes or so, and they totally over-baked.
Long story short (not so short I guess, but it could have been longer!), our macaron shells looked like they've been through a train wreck, had no "legs", were all crispy and not chewy on the inside - like regular cookies, thoroughly discoloured... well, simply an epic FAIL .
They tasted really good, though. My family (who would always look past the ugliness) couldn't stop eating them.
Later in the evening, I executed my Plan B - the pre-mix. The instructions on the pack say to whip the mix with 50g of water (yes, I have a digital scale in my kitchen!) for 5 minutes then bake for 20 minutes.
Imagine - just that! Whip for 5 minutes! No paste, no meringue, no cooking sugar syrup to 117 degree Celcius!
And what did I get? These:
It was a *slaps forehead* moment for me. However, truth be told, these pretty little things were extremely bland and void of any hint of almond. They're the kind of dessert nice to see, tempting and everything, but which you won't want a second helping.
Our train-wreck version was *so* much better. Now that the Outdoor Expert had put "one kitchen scale" on his shopping list, next time, we might make them prettier too... =D
We didn't so much bake without a recipe, but it was nearly so. Let me explain.
A few months ago, my friend, the Outdoor Expert, took me to a baking class, and we made macarons. He had since done up his kitchen and gotten a mixer that didn't look like a toy to complement his large and impressive built-in oven. Such then, when recently I finally managed to get decent candy thermometers and we are therefore (theoretically) capable of cooking sugar, he suggested we try our hands at those challenging macarons once more.
We prepared the required ingredients (plus a packet of "macaron mix" for Plan B) and I made my way to his kitchen. We laid the eggs, sugar, ground almond, butter etc. on the counter, placed the printed sheet of recipe right next to them, then started discussing the delicate art of approximating weight...
... because the Outdoor Expert doesn't have a kitchen scale!
I think this pack of ground almond is about 230g, I told him. He took that in one hand, the pack of powdered sugar in the other, and concluded that the sugar feels heavier.
Then, it must be around 250g, I said - one of the most ridiculous, baseless conclusions ever, I'll admit. Nevertheless, we went with it.
We needed 125g of each. I took one of the packs, squeezed my fingers around its middle, and asked him, "This is about half, right?"
"Yea, about," he replied, after a 2-second glance, "We don't have to be super-accurate."
It's not like we have a choice... =P
So, I scooped about "half" the pack of powdered sugar, and a little more than "half" of the ground almond. These I combined with 2 egg whites. Are 2 egg whites about 50g? We'll just assume so.
As if the totally insane way I was handling the recipe wasn't enough, when he needed to cook 125g of granulated sugar, he simply poured out a small bowl and estimated its weight on his hand by comparing with the half-pack of leftover powdered sugar, purportedly exactly 125g.
Now, as if all that messing up the ingredients was still not enough, we were *both* not familiar with his oven, and so, the first tray suffered a casualty when we poked at one before it was done. We then left the poor shells in there for an additional 10 minutes or so, and they totally over-baked.
Long story short (not so short I guess, but it could have been longer!), our macaron shells looked like they've been through a train wreck, had no "legs", were all crispy and not chewy on the inside - like regular cookies, thoroughly discoloured... well, simply an epic FAIL .
They tasted really good, though. My family (who would always look past the ugliness) couldn't stop eating them.
Later in the evening, I executed my Plan B - the pre-mix. The instructions on the pack say to whip the mix with 50g of water (yes, I have a digital scale in my kitchen!) for 5 minutes then bake for 20 minutes.
Imagine - just that! Whip for 5 minutes! No paste, no meringue, no cooking sugar syrup to 117 degree Celcius!
And what did I get? These:
It was a *slaps forehead* moment for me. However, truth be told, these pretty little things were extremely bland and void of any hint of almond. They're the kind of dessert nice to see, tempting and everything, but which you won't want a second helping.
Our train-wreck version was *so* much better. Now that the Outdoor Expert had put "one kitchen scale" on his shopping list, next time, we might make them prettier too... =D
Tuesday, October 30, 2012
Open Sea Fishing
This is not a post about an exciting trip out into the open sea to fish.
I had loved fishing since I was a little girl. I would go fishing with my father and the ponds we frequented were filled with fishes that kept biting. I didn't even know why people said fishing requires lots of patience. There was once, while casting a line, the weight broke off and was lost. My father then switched to the spare rod and I was left to play with the decommissioned one. (Yea, back then, parents weren't paranoid about their children possibly getting hurt - like, if I was dumb enough to pierce my fingers, or any part of my body, with the hook, then I totally deserved it) I dropped the line with the baited hook into the shallow water right at the edge of the pond - for fun - and within minutes, a wee fish took a bite! It was a baby - no bigger than my girlish hand. Imagine my glee! We released it, of course. Eventually, after having gone to ponds with inhabitants neither that hungry or greedy or both, I realized the truth about the relation between patience and fishing. Nevertheless, I still loved the idea.
My father once went out to sea, on a boat, and spent the entire weekend fishing with his friends. I was in university, away from home, at the time and after the trip, he called and bragged about his catches. I was indignant that he didn't take me along. He brushed me off, saying it was a men's trip, and continued bragging. I would *so* have loved to go fishing in the sea with him, but we were never to have the opportunity.
So, recently, when a friend mentioned taking a boat out to the sea for a day-long fishing trip, I asked to join without second thoughts. Well, I wouldn't fish - for my life philosophy has shifted towards non-killing, as much as possible, even for food - but I could sit in the boat, watch the men, smell the sea, take photographs of anything and everything... it'll still be a grand adventure!
"Are you sure?" my friend asked me, wide-eyed, when I told him excitedly that I want to go with them in the boat.
"It's going to be really, really hot... like, the whole day, under the scorching sun."
I could slap on loads on sunblock. I could wear a gigantic wide-brimmed hat. I could even carry an umbrella, since I wouldn't be holding a rod...
"The sea might be rough. The boat is small, you might get sea-sick."
I know they sell anti-sea-sick pills in pharmacies...
"We're going on a little sampan so obviously, there's no toilet facility on board. We men will just pee into the sea."
I balked...
"You could probably get through the day if you don't drink so much of water, but you might end up dehydrated..."
Well, well! I have to drink, and I have to pee... It's not that I really mind peeing into the sea like the men will do (I know, I'm not a man, but I *can* find a way... don't roll your eyes!) but I do very much mind peeing in front of the men.
So, I change my mind. No spending an entire day on a toilet-less boat with a bunch of men for me. And that is why this post isn't about an exciting trip out into the open sea to fish.
I had loved fishing since I was a little girl. I would go fishing with my father and the ponds we frequented were filled with fishes that kept biting. I didn't even know why people said fishing requires lots of patience. There was once, while casting a line, the weight broke off and was lost. My father then switched to the spare rod and I was left to play with the decommissioned one. (Yea, back then, parents weren't paranoid about their children possibly getting hurt - like, if I was dumb enough to pierce my fingers, or any part of my body, with the hook, then I totally deserved it) I dropped the line with the baited hook into the shallow water right at the edge of the pond - for fun - and within minutes, a wee fish took a bite! It was a baby - no bigger than my girlish hand. Imagine my glee! We released it, of course. Eventually, after having gone to ponds with inhabitants neither that hungry or greedy or both, I realized the truth about the relation between patience and fishing. Nevertheless, I still loved the idea.
My father once went out to sea, on a boat, and spent the entire weekend fishing with his friends. I was in university, away from home, at the time and after the trip, he called and bragged about his catches. I was indignant that he didn't take me along. He brushed me off, saying it was a men's trip, and continued bragging. I would *so* have loved to go fishing in the sea with him, but we were never to have the opportunity.
So, recently, when a friend mentioned taking a boat out to the sea for a day-long fishing trip, I asked to join without second thoughts. Well, I wouldn't fish - for my life philosophy has shifted towards non-killing, as much as possible, even for food - but I could sit in the boat, watch the men, smell the sea, take photographs of anything and everything... it'll still be a grand adventure!
"Are you sure?" my friend asked me, wide-eyed, when I told him excitedly that I want to go with them in the boat.
"It's going to be really, really hot... like, the whole day, under the scorching sun."
I could slap on loads on sunblock. I could wear a gigantic wide-brimmed hat. I could even carry an umbrella, since I wouldn't be holding a rod...
"The sea might be rough. The boat is small, you might get sea-sick."
I know they sell anti-sea-sick pills in pharmacies...
"We're going on a little sampan so obviously, there's no toilet facility on board. We men will just pee into the sea."
I balked...
"You could probably get through the day if you don't drink so much of water, but you might end up dehydrated..."
Well, well! I have to drink, and I have to pee... It's not that I really mind peeing into the sea like the men will do (I know, I'm not a man, but I *can* find a way... don't roll your eyes!) but I do very much mind peeing in front of the men.
So, I change my mind. No spending an entire day on a toilet-less boat with a bunch of men for me. And that is why this post isn't about an exciting trip out into the open sea to fish.
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