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...

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

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.

Matryoshka

The first time I saw a set of the Russian nested dolls, I marveled at the very fine craftsmanship and how the tiniest was little larger than a grain of rice. I remember I gave a little giddy schoolgirl squeal each time opening doll and finding a smaller one inside. I don't know how my roomee (whose doll that was) put up with me.

Today, I was given my very own Matryoshka doll! They're painted red, they're very pretty and they traveled all the way from Russia! I tried not to squeal when I took them out of the bag, but I think I did... in delight!

Thank you, roomee, for remembering that I told you ten years ago that I wanted a set =)

Irony

Motivation talks / seminars, much like counselling and self-help literature, are not for everyone. I, for one, don't believe in counseling, and totally loathe self-help books.

When I was in college, the Vice-President once suggested I make a visit to the career counselling center to speak to someone who can help me determine my "ideal" choice of major. I complied, partly because I really respect and admire the man, and partly because he's my uncle and I always obeyed my elders... Anyway, I made an appointment with a counselor, bore with the stranger talking to me as if she knew me better than me, and then took a "career personality" test. Of course, I don't think it was called that, but this happened *so* very long ago, I really cannot remember the actual name. The counselor then had me booked for another appointment, a date a week or so later, to discuss the result of the test and the options she thought would suit me best. I didn't honour it. She called and I made up some excuses. I can't recall how many times she called, but eventually, she gave up and I never set foot in a counselor's office ever since.

Maybe I'm arrogant, but I earnestly do not believe a stranger knows me better than me, no matter how over-educated or highly-trained they are. (On a side note, someone's suggested I see a psychiatrist, but again, that someone doesn't know me better than me, so he doesn't get to decided whether I need therapy or not. Ha!)

So, as I said earlier, motivation talks are not for everyone. I'm somewhat neutral towards them - don't really mind, also can do without. As yet, I haven't heard one that conveyed what I don't already know. (So, actually, I prefer team-building camps with lots of intellectual and physical challenges... but I'll leave that for a future post) Many, of course, are receptive, accepting and downright passionate about these talks. Some, however, simply don't respond positively to such psychological manipulations.

I'd like to think that those who refuse to participate are not necessarily bad eggs, and those who are earnestly enthusiastic - well, absolutely good for them! However, if, immediately after a course, during which the principle of "no complaining" was repeatedly drilled into everyone's head, the enthusiastic lodged formal complaints about the non-participating, it becomes really clear why some people doubt the effectiveness of such seminars...

Alone

... with only a good book for company. We all need that every now and then.

Lost Monkey

There are times when a new piece of information sort of takes me by surprise for being fascinating, but at the same time doesn't actually shock me much for I've known it all along, somewhere at the back of my mind. I know this probably doesn't make much sense.

So, we were at the other side of Nanyang Wall, where I'd never been previously, and I'd foolishly (or bravely, if you will) failed two 6b (5.10c) routes. One of the guys then announced he wanted to do the Lost Monkey. This was the moment I felt that sudden wave of fascination at the fact that this route has a name, but then again, I'd always known that it is common that outdoor routes are named. In fact, some are downright famous.

The Lost Monkey is graded 6c (5.11b). The craziest thing about it, is not the overhang-all-the-way from the mid-point until nearly the anchor, or even the bit of almost-roof  just before the anchor, but the first several meters of ascent. This section is mostly slab, without bolts. That means a climber effectively does a free solo for several meters before getting to the point of the first clip.

The guy belaying asked with a laugh if I wanted to try it. I gave him what I believe was the involuntary wide-eyed, open-mouthed, flabbergasted look of you-gotta-be-kidding. Ask me again when I have muscles like you do. Ask me again when I am able to clean the 6bs without breaking sweat. If that could ever happen... =P