He turned 70

It is difficult to think the uncle turned 70 on Christmas Eve. He is every child's favourite uncle - always cheerful, always kind, always happy to take the child to the playground, always ready with a handy treat.

There has been many stumbling blocks to happiness in his life that included an irrationally critical sister-in-law (Mother), a demanding older brother (Father). Mostly, it was having to live with, deal with, and in later years, care for, a strict and old fashioned father who demanded absolutely obedience.

Whatever the hardships, the uncle kept his peace and silence. Today, the old patriarch is gone. The uncle's own children are grown, married and have children of their own. The nephews and nieces he so fondly helped to care for are mostly married with grown children.

The uncle looked content. Happy. At peace. Proud of his brood. Still looking after the family's young children whenever they needed babysitting.

He will forever be my favourite uncle. And I am very, very happy for him on this, his special day which he celebrated with all every family member who could come.

I wish him many more happy and good years ahead.

Unnecessary and Irksome

Like that engrish sign over Orchard Road, she continued to irk me. Even a whole week after she left. Her card arrived soon after, like 3 days later.

We did meet; I let her speechify and preachify, All the people she criticised as irresponsible and self-centred I still cannot help but like. Deep down, I guess I even admire them.

On her last day, she messaged me to say she will be back at 6pm to begin packing and I could call her if I liked (oh thank you). I waited a decent 15 minutes past the assigned time and called, and of course she has not made it back yet. I did not bother to try again because by then she would have really been frantically packing, and I got to being busy in the kitchen.

I messaged her the following day wishing her a good flight and safe arrival. Nothing came back. I sms'ed a Christmas greeting to her. Nothing came back.

Yesterday, she texted me in the late afternoon announcing she was free to talk. Well, I was not.

Today, she rang while I was busy tucking into my favourite lunch of dim sum. I did not pick up.

Did she really think I would be free and available to tend to her at any time? Especially this time of the year?

Well, she'd be wrong.

Just like the engrish sign is wrong.

And because neither is necessary in the first place, I find them unforgiveably irksome.

Another year over

So this is Christmas
And what have you done
Another year over
And a new one just begun

John Lennon
Happy Christmas, 1971

A lot actually.

I got rid of useless emotional baggage and feel no guilt. And after an appropriate grieving period, I feel no pain.

And because my load is lighter, I now have the luxury of giving more time and care to the things/people that matter.

I am happier than I have been for a long time.

That is a lot I have done, actually.

The sweet Christmas season

The approach of Christmas brings harassment and dread to many excellent people. They have to buy a cart-load of presents, and they never know what to buy to hit the various tastes; they put in three weeks of hard and anxious work, and when Christmas morning comes they are so dissatisfied with the result, and so disappointed that they want to sit down and cry. Then they give thanks that Christmas comes but once a year.

Mark Twain
Following the Equator, 1897

I have been on baking duty for the past week. I have been doing little of anything else except bake and getting the cakes, brownies and cookies delivered to the people who have made this a wonderful year for me.

And in the hours that I am in the kitchen, the mind wanders to Christmases past. The lovely friends I had spent this special season with. Each of us busy with the cooking to come together for a special dinner, each bearing the dish we specially requested of each other because she does the best this or that. I know all is well with them, even as many of them are living elsewhere these past 10 years. And if things go according to plan, I will see a few of them again next month in the old hometown.

I am happy to have spent the days leading up to Christmas in the kitchen instead of joining the shopping crowd at the malls. And more happy to know that the people who matter will have the confectionery of their choice at the end of their dinner tonight.

A nice sweet start to the holiday season. I like that.

I don't even really care anymore

I don't get it. And I don't even really care anymore.

Do people still send postcards instead of sms or email? Especially when time is of the essence? And to send postcard from an inefficient European country where there is a strike every other week?

Anyway, so the woman shows up here and phones me asking to meet up. I had exactly the one afternoon free for lunch, take it or leave it. And at a location near my home, not somewhere on Orchard Road with the mad Christmas crowd.

We did manage to meet. And it was a couple of hours of torture, listening to her preachifying to me about the waywardness of today's youth, criticising our peers who are under-achievers, and praising her own endeavours at making a meaningful life.

Sigh. Alright. I let her speak her mind. I don't really bother to counter the falsehoods she belabours.

Because her mind is made up. And like the unthinking youth, the life-long bum-abouts and the rest of us who try to live meaningfully, we will each carry on doing exactly what we set our minds to do.

Only one thought stayed with me: this woman who thinks she is the paragon of everything righteous and proper, does she even realise she is the only one who does not sms or email (or even phone), but chooses to send postcards? In this day and age? When time is of the essence?

She will never admit she cannot handle sms or email. But that's neither here nor there. She is above all shortcomings.

Whatever her problem is with the world today, I don't even really care anymore.

Aches and Pains

Of late, I find myself whinging to friends in my age group about various aches and pains in my body. The knees creak, cackle and pop when I get up from a sitting position. My shoulders stiffen if I slept in an awkward position. Nowadays I even wake up with pain in my wrist and finger joints.

Some of these are from sports injury of long ago. Others are from present day lifestyle. The rest are I guess just part and parcel of growing older.

And most of the friends feel the aches and pains too, just in different places and in varying degrees of severity. We have a grand time discussing what to do and what to take to minimise the trauma of living with pain.

Mr Chubby who has been listening in all this time finally puffed up his chest and cheerily said, "You know, everybody who were sports jocks in their younger days seem to live with some sort of injury. I, on the other hand, was always a couch potato. I must be the only one among us with no chronic pain problem from sports injury. I must be in the best of physical condition compared to the rest of you. Heh!"

You know, Mr Chubby Couch Potato has a point there. But shaddup already. I am in pain here, okay?

Dancers and Dance on Us

The place is Azzucar. The school is Dance on Us.

The performers are students and instructors. Some are professional dancers. Most are still finding their place in the world of dance.

But for this one night, every dancer came together as equals to strut their stuff in front of their peers, friends and family.

I love dance school recitals. There is always the nervousness and excitement among the dancers. And after they finished their turn, there is the applause and approval from the crowd.

Above all, there is honesty and pride in their delivery that never fails to touch a special place in my soul.

An evening at Shiraz

It has been a while since I was at Shiraz.

The review about the food continues to be mixed. Diners tend to be hung up on whether the restaurant serves authentic Persian fare rather than Middle-Eastern. Does it truly matter? My input is that the food is definitely good, whether one thinks it's Persian or Middle-Eastern.

The review about the bellydance performance continues to be generally unkind. Similarly, comments tend to focus on whether the performers dance Arabic or Persian. Again, does it truly matter? The performers are entertainers, and they do the best they can with a less than ideal stage.
The bellydance show changes every few months.

The current dancers are Fatema (a winner of several bellydance competitions) and Angelina (a favourite with local media and events).

Shiraz is located at:
Blk3A, #01-06 Clarke Quay
Tel: 6334 2282

It really is always about the the food

Like my blogger friend put it in a recent post, it is always about the food. Really. And it makes for a happier world.

I enjoy baking. I enjoy making extra to pass them on to people I know who enjoy them: friends, the cleaning crew at the condo, the dance aunties at the cc...

Then there is this small staff of three who work extremely long hours in a neighbourhood mall. I have been bringing them cookies, brownies and cakes. Each time, I'd watch with amazement as they put away the entire tray within minutes. Without any drinks. Without any hesitation. Without any more critical review beyond "Thank you. This very good" between their mouthfuls.

Then the man decided to be really nice to them. He made a huge plate of woh tieh (pot stickers), taking care to arrange the 30 pieces in perfect nautilus-fan pattern, and rushed it over to the crew. He expected them to go oooh and aaah over the fancy arrangement, to ask how he got only one side of the woh tieh fried perfectly brown and the other side remained a steamed white, to show curiosity as to what the filling was, to wonder how we managed to make the perfect pleated folds.

The three grinned at us, thanked us as usual, grabbed their forks and started to dig into the food. Between "Thank you. This very good" and shoving the pot stickers into their mouths, the platter was cleaned out within minutes.

As we left them, the man turned to me and said, "They never noticed the perfect fan arrangement. They never realised the woh tieh were handmade. They didn't even wonder how come the woh tieh were still warm!"

And I said, "They are hungry. They are happy to see us, they are happy about the sale they make off us. But in the end, it is always about the food."

And we are happy if it makes their long day just that little bit brighter.

Coco and Coco

We felt like watching a movie at home. We dropped in at the nearby video store, and to my delight, I saw Coco Chanel on the shelf. We had missed the movie completely when it was playing in town.

We popped the dvd into the player. We quickly went through all the set-up options and settled in to what we expect would be a delightful evening of further expanding our experience of all things French.

First we were puzzled the voice-over at the start of the movie was in English. But, what do we know? Maybe Coco is a Hollywood flick after all. So we went back into set-up to remove the English subtitling. And quickly forgot all the incongruency between what we've heard and read about the movie and what we were watching.

The movie was thoroughly enjoyable. There was the august Shirley MacLaine as a festy older Chanel and someone I didn't recognise as the younger Chanel. But two and a half hours later in the wee hours of the morning, we were struggling to stay awake; the movie did not look like it was anywhere near ending! We soldiered on till the end, some near four hours later!

I only figured out today, after checking around with friends and imdb.com that there is the big-screen Coco avant Chanel, and there is the made-for-mylifetime-TV Coco Chanel.

Now I have to get my hot little hands on the French movie version...

November

was the month
- It began to look a lot like Christmas everywhere.

- Orchard Road got all glitzed and lit with Christmas kitsch. I am particularly tortured and haunted by the huge banner straddling the road at Patterson that reads "A Christmas all decked out". Where is the signage police team when you need them?

- I finally got my head around the fact that when our venerable national newspaper announces any grand plan to better look after the senior citizens, third-agers, retirees who might outlive their savings and should consider returning to work now, it is talking about me. And I shudder to think of the fate that awaits me.

- I started baking for the festive season ahead. Suji cookies is my favourite confectionery to make this year.

- I started making a list of the parties that await me in the weeks ahead; I am carefully checking it twice to make sure I don't get trapped into going to the dud ones.

- I knew everthing was going to be alright.

Dumb foreigner in our midst

I really do make a genuine and brave effort to not show my instant dislike for people I take an instant dislike to.

Even when the person is a smug pompous ass. Even when the person has an unfounded sense of superiority of herself and her nationality. Even when I find her usage of the term "expatriate" to describe her presence in Singapore offensive and obnoxious. (These days, they are all foreign workers to me. They come in two packages - the too-well paid and the less -well paid).

I stoically let her bend my ear as she rattles off all the wonderful activities she is involved in to promote/preserve her country's culture and language in foreign Singapore: coffee mornings, bridge afternoons, golf days with her fellow country folk.

Then she mentioned that her foreign club also offers mahjong games.

Out of curiosity, I asked the most basic but pertinent Chinese question of this most Chinese of all games: what sort of stakes do you play?

The foreign bitch practically spat her answer at me: "We do not play mahjong to gamble! We play for enjoyment and for the social aspect of the game. We talk about anything as we play."

Stupid me thought to give her one last chance to bridge a cultural gap here, saying, "We do all the social parts too when we play mahjong. But if no money is involved, you take nonsense risks and throw the game. And you don't have to keep the winnings. The winnings can be collected over time and donated to charity."

I would have accepted, by way of concession to my point, a lame reason like it would create problems if money is involved because they are a social club. But noooo...

Foreign bitch said with rabid self-righteousness, "It is illegal to gamble in Singapore!"

Sigh. She has used up my be-nice-to-dumb-arrogant-foreigner quota for the evening.

Without further fuss or flap, I simply turned my back to her and started a tentative conversation with the stranger sitting to the other side of me.

On living with wrinkles (or not)

A woman will tell you about her sex life, or how much money she has, and then you say, 'Did you do something [to your face]?' and you get, 'Of course not!' ... How nice it would be for women to say to each other, I've done this and you can do it too.

Joan Rivers on the Rachael Ray Show

It would be nice, wouldn't it? To know that a woman need not grow all wrinkly into old age.

But instead of understanding and support, the focus is invariably on cosmetic surgical procedures gone horribly wrong.

It will not stop me from seeking surgical intervention when I get tired of looking like the old woman I will grow into.

The nay-sayers can wear every line and wrinkle they will gain over the years with all the pride and bravado they can find in themselves.

I am not that proud nor am I going to pretend to be brave about wrinkles.

Aunties and Tattoos

I put together what I thought was a real nifty costume for the folkdance party at the community club.

By mixing and matching different bits of several bellydance costumes I have collected over the years, I managed to pull together a look that's somewhere between Taiwanese tribal and middle-eastern ethnic.

And for the finishing touch - I covered my right arm with a tribal tattoo arm glove.

The aunties at the dance party LOVED the glove. They kept telling me all evening long that it looked "so nice". And I thought if there was a prize for best folk dress accessory, I would be winner many times over.

Then one of the aunties asked me if I could get a pair of the arm gloves for her.

Of course I can, I gushed.

Oh wow, maybe I have even started a trend with the folkdance community I thought.

Shamelessly fishing for more compliments, I said, "The tattoo glove is nice, isn't it?"

The auntie nodded enthusiastically in agreement and said, "Yes! Very nice. Very clever also. They are perfect for covering up all the age and liver spots on OUR arms!"

Coffee, Cakes and Conversation

It has been many months ago that I last saw any of the girls. So it was a real treat for the small group of us to put aside demands of work, husband, children and get together for an afternoon of coffee, cakes and conversation.

It is particularly heartening to know everyone is doing well in her life, personally and professionally. It is amusing to share common complaints of the men in our lives. It is enlightening to catch up on gossips of certain personages of notoriety. But above all, it is refreshing to take the time for ourselves and just enjoy friendship and companionship for a few precious hours.

I managed to sneak my suji cookies into the cafe so everyone had exactly one cookie. They loved it, and I had regrets that I didn't smuggle a few more. But that would have been a really tacky thing to do, even for me :)

By the time we left, we have new resolve to get together like that on a more regular basis. I think we will make it happen.

Coffee, cakes, conversation, and maybe some home-made cookies for good measure. We all need to take that break for ourselves from time to time.

I hate telephone calls too

We got home to find the telephone ringing. It is a sound that both of us detest, and there is always a certain amount of maneuvering to see who can avoid answering it. We have an innate pessimism about telephone calls; they have a habit of coming at the wrong time, and they are too sudden, catapulting you into a conversation you weren't expecting. Letters, on the other hand, are a pleasure to receive, not least because they allow you to consider your reply. But people don't write letters anymore. They're too busy, they're in too much of a hurry or, dismissing the service that manages to deliver bills with unfailing reliability, they don't trust the post. We were learning not to trust the telephone, and I picked it up as I would a long-dead fish.

A Year in Provence, Peter Mayle, 1989

I feel exactly the same way about telephone calls. Fast forward twenty years to present day and I dare say snail mail is even less likely.

My sentiment is if it is a matter that did not need my instant response (and what does?) I will appreciate email or sms.

Suji : A Sweet and Simple Cookie

Suji cookies: it's one of those old-fashioned cookies I remember with great fondness from my childhood.

It's simple and sweet; the more luxurious version even carries a faint hint of almond or vanilla. I remember how I loved the way they would melt in my mouth, teasing the taste buds with a crumbly sweetness that is so decadent and comforting all at the same time that the day's worries are pushed away for the moment.

And like so often is the case, the simpler things in life are hard to come by. Store-bought suji cookes are either too coarse, too fine, too sweet or totally tasteless. I finally decided to try making my own.

They really turned out good for a first try, almost like the ones I had in the good old days:)

I have a question: why is this cookie called suji cookie when there is no suji in it?

Some table manners please?

I am fully aware that table manners differ widely with cultures.

I accept using hands instead of utensils; slurping long strands of noodles; making smacking noises or letting out a loud burp to show contentment. But all in context.

Where dinner utensils are provided, I really think it should be de rigueur that they are used properly.

I have stared horrified at all manner of faux pas at dinner tables. It makes no difference whether it is an elaborate dinner prepared by michelin-starred chefs at michelin-starred restaurants or at more casual bistros and cafes.

I see the man in a suit across the table use his left hand fist-like to stab and pin down the food, use the knife in right hand to saw (back-forth, back-forth) then spear the still-bigger-than bite-size food with knife and bring food to mouth!

I see the perfectly coiffed and made-up woman in designer evening-wear pin down a piece of dinner roll with fork, saw the bread, stab the smaller half of bread, use knife to smear butter on it then proceeded to take bites at the bread from fork.

I see diners put their entire face to the plate to get mouth nearer to food.

And others who wave their knives in your face while talking to you with their mouths full.

I think some portion of corporate or government money spent on leadership training or public-speaking or how to close deals should be spent on how to eat in a civilised manner at dinner functions.

Some Stupid Sales Spiel

GEMS (Go the Extra Mile for Service) was launched in 2005. Now the government will be pumping millions more dollars to launch phase 2 of the movement.

I am not totally convinced about a top-down approach to improving customer service. It is the front line personnel that the customer meets. Oftentimes, the sales person says the most stupid things just to get rid of the product or the customer, or preferably, both. Oftentimes, these sales people ought to be chopped into minced meat and fed to scavenging feral birds.

A recent episode involved one of the big names in comfort shoes. The sales rep happily suggested I try a pair one size smaller because "hor, your size no more stock". I shot him a withering look. (If looks could kill, oh he'd be struck down that very minute). I was really proud of my self-control; I walked out of the store with not another word said. Because, what I would have spat at him would have been, "You moron! You don't ask your customer who is looking at shoes costing upwards of $200 to stretch her shoes with her feet!" The irony that he is dealing with comfort shoes escapes him.

I studiously avoid clothes that are "free size". I am too tall and too big for these clothes to fit, but the sales person will tell me the item is "very stretchy" and it is the fashion now to wear "fitting clothes".

Then there was this fishwife of a sales woman hawking shawls and scarves at a department store. She actually managed to convince one woman to buy a scarf. Then she went on to berate (I exaggerate not) the customer that these are excellent buys and nobody but nobody buys just one. "Sure you regret if only buy one. Why not you buy for your friends? They are good presents for your friends" she shrilled at the woman. I think she lost the sale. At least I hope so.

I think front line sales personnel has to be made aware that service is customer-centric, not sales-centric. And the first step will be to train them to stop talking nonsense.

Julie Julia - the movie

The movie Julie and Julia is one of those rare gems that is enjoyable at so many levels.

There is post-war Paris: the world may be reeling from the devastation of WWII, but in Paris, it is still a world of fabulous clothes, fine food and wine, cigarettes, architecture and scandals. There is present-day Queens NY: a world of over-worked citizens living out their over-crowded soul-less existence.

The movie tells the story of two women from two different generations who lead very different lives. The common thread is their love for cooking.

I am much more interested in the Meryl Streep-Julia Child-Paris parts of the movie; the Julie Powell-Amy Adams-Queens NY bits is just the vehicle to make Julia Child relevant today.

I enjoy cooking. I especially enjoy cooking for friends. But I am not of the Julia Child school that dictates that every dish and course must be a masterpiece, although I adore her motto i.e. "No matter what happens in the kitchen, never apologize". I maintain that I am not a restaurant; I do the best I can to the point when I can still enjoy having friends over for dinner.

Of the Julie Powell part of the movie, the one line that caught my attention was when she wailed "Julia hates me!" when told that Julia Child was not interested in her blog. What is the truth behind this seemingly uncharacteristic response from Julia Child? The answer lies here.

October

was the month
- I got re-acquainted with people I drifted away from years ago. For the most part, I am very happy to have come full circle and be with people whom I've shared so much history. I am unsure about my feelings regarding a couple of them though.

- I realised that there is a direct correlation between insanity and intelligence. (Think Dr. Hannibal Lecter). What is chilling to me is that I finally understand and believe that the insane mind is many times more intelligent than the sane.

- I made the most hideous lemon meringue pie imaginable. All three parts of the pie - baked pie crust, lemon filling, and meringue - were inedible. And to think I used to be able to bake that pie practically with one hand tied behind my back! A sympathetic friend offered that humidity has to be accounted for. So what is it I was to do about that factor she did not offer. Sigh. Time to refresh basic pie making skills.

- I had two crank calls from Mother, and one crank call from her daughter-in-law. I actually managed to file the experience into the "no action required" compartment of my brain. It did not stop me from being agitated and irritated with the two of them for several days after though.

- It is beginning to look a lot like Christmas at the shopping malls. Soon Christmas carols will fill the air. Oh joy.

Coffee with an old friend

We used to meet up with each other fairly regularly.

Then one day, I packed up and left the town I had called home for 14 years. Only a handful of the closest friends were aware of my imminent departure.

It took me 9 years back in Singapore before I started to think of the many people I walked away from with no word of farewell.

The recent visitor is one of them. I am glad we finally had the chance to meet up after 9 long years.

Over coffee and familiar desserts, we filled in the blanks for each other. So many changes, mostly for the good, and we are grateful. So many constants, some we wished could be different, but if that was not to be, we will live with them.

Later, as we said our goodbyes, we realised that we have found our destiny, and with it, our peace.

So till next we meet, I will treasure the memory of this special friendship that has survived time and distance.

And we shall meet again my friend.

Eating with Friends

This girlfriend started her circle of eating friends - school friends, former colleagues, uni mates etc. - when she started work.

I joined her group on and off over the years. Of late, I have started to look for them more frequently.

After years of going my own way, sorting out my life, trying to make a connection with so many different people, I find myself drawn back to the familiar. I know their quirkiness and their sincerity. Over the years, I got to know every line on their faces - creases that came from years of sharing evenings of laughter with good friends.

The circle of eating buddies have lasted 30 years. And I know we will carry on for many many more years ahead.

Because, in the end, it is not about the eating at all. It is about getting together for an evening with good friends.

Thank you, girlfriend, for starting this group and thank you, group, for your active participation.

I have come back to take my place at helping to keep a good thing going.

Two nights of dance

I am finally back into the swing of things. And very much looking forward to the two events coming up in November.

And as always, I admire the hard work and dedication that went into bringing these small local dance events to the public.

Date: 7 & 8 November (Saturday & Sunday)
More information here.

Date: 12 November (Thursday)
More information here.

How was your holiday?

Seven posts in my blog since I got back from the most stupendous holiday in a long time.

Seven posts in which I waxed lyrical and eloquent about the places I went.

Seven posts in which I painstakingly put together collages to show the best of the vacation.

And the woman emails me : "Drop me a line to tell me how was your holiday."

I think I will do just that; the line will read:

I had a GREAT time !

Postcards from France

It is one of the most enjoyable and memorable holidays in recent years.

Paris, Lyon, the French Riviera were just names I came across in books, films and travel programmes on cable. Now, when I actually walk those grounds, I walk with awe and delight in equal parts.

Paris

Paris is my favourite city of great cities. The sights and lights re-awaken the sense of old world grace and beauty often dulled by the demands of daily living in a compressed urban setting. Parisiens take time to unwind and enjoy the end of the workday with wine, food, music and friends.

Vieux Lyon

Vieux Lyon is the largest Renaissance district in Europe. The majestic medieval buildings, the quiet courtyards, the cobble-stoned walkways. Everywhere, everything about this town evokes the sense of historic pride and splendour that have survived the ravages of time and modernisation.

Monaco

Monaco - the traditional playground of the rich and famous. The Monte Carlo Casino - made famous in so many movies. The glitz and glamour is all there, even if somewhat frayed around the edges.

Cote d'Azur

Cote d'Azur has to be the jewel in the crown of France. Long reputed to be the Mediterranean resort of choice, this part of Southern France is an endless stretch of brilliant blue sea and sky. Homes nestled into the hills enjoy the view of spectacular sunsets, and come evening, the twinkling lights from the coastal cities below reminds one again that this has to be one of the most perfectly beautiful places in the world.

Home on the Range

The highlight of our trip is staying with friends in their farm house in Roybon. (Where is Roybon?)

The location is truly remote. The nearest important towns - Vienne and Valance - are 50 kms away.

In true farm house fashion, the home comes complete with farm dogs and a wood-burning stove.
The family gets most of their fresh fruit and vegetables from their own backyard. Additional grocery supplies can be got from the farm truck that drives up to their front door twice a week.
And, finally, on the farm, day is done when the cows come home.

Where is Roybon?

Town	Roybon
Insee code	38347
Postcode	38940
Latitude	45.2583140
Longitude	5.2415020
Altitude	From 436 to 729 meters
Surface	67.31 km2
Population	1278 inhabitants
Density	18 inhabitants/km2
Chief town	Grenoble (at 63 km, 50 mn)
Department	Isère
Region	Rhône-Alpes Source: http://www.france-voyage.com/en/

to market to market

to market to market to buy a plum bun
home again home again market is done

Mother Goose

I love the festive excitement of outdoor markets, particularly the ones in small country towns. It is a treasure trove of the best of all things local - from farm-produce to mouth watering home-made jams, happy fresh-cut flowers of the season to quaint arts and crafts.

The Saturday market in the medieval renaissance town of Uzes is such a one. Except this one is huger than any I have ever been to. Set up in Place aux Herbes, it covers several blocks radiating in all directions, filling streets, vaulted archways and buildings.

After 3 hours of poking around hundreds of stalls, I found that I had barely covered a quarter of the marketplace. By then, it was 1 pm and the stalls were starting to pack up for the day.

Note to self : I will have an earlier start and not loiter in any one place for too long the next chance I have to return to this fascinating market.

The Food in France

If I were asked to name one best thing I will remember forever about France, it will have to be her food.

From the traditional to nouveau, farmhouse to 2-star Michelin, I ate my way through Paris, the French Riveria and Provence. It is the ultimate gastronomical experience. - it is gourmet eating down to the last lick of frommage blanc avec miel.

Every meal was special, every bite was memorable.

Sacred Love

I am not a religious person. The spiritual experience that is expected when one walks on hallowed grounds of significant places of worship eludes me.

But I am in awe of the sheer size and architectural beauty of the cathedrals I visited in France.

I think of the kings and lords who commissioned the works. I think of the architects who designed the structures. Above all, I keep thinking of the builders devoting their entire lives to building these monuments.

Today, centuries later, worshipers from around the world who continue to come attest to the power of faith. And the lasting strength of a love beyond all else - sacred love.

Notre-Dame Cathedral, Paris

Le Sacre Coeur, Paris

Basilique Notre-Dame de Fourviere, Lyon

Sidewalk Cafes of Paris

There are many fun, cultural and exciting things to do in Paris. There are many institutions of pop, historical, religious or educational significance to visit. And of course, there is the shopping.

For me, the most Parisien thing to do is enjoy a cup of freshly brewed strongly aromatic coffee in one of the many, many sidewalk cafes with a good friend and spend an afternoon people-watching.

Le Bonaparte@Place Saint-Germain-des-Pres

September

was the month
- of several get-togethers with the friends who will be our travel companions and guide through Provence.

- of checking the Paris-Lyon-Provence weather forecast daily so that we ended up packing, unpacking and repacking our luggage numerous times.

- of clearing the refrigerator of leftovers, and shutting down the home in stages.

- and finally, we were on our way to a long-awaited carefully-planned exciting vacation in a - to my mind - a truly foreign country: France.

Away

I shall be away from blogging from now till October 10.

I wish my Muslim friends selamat aidilfitri.

I will be thinking of my dear friend as she breaks new ground in her professional life this weekend.

I will be thinking of the rest of you (from time to time).

A firm maybe date in Singapore

The lousy friend who went all silent on me when I broached the possibility of visiting her is in town for a week-long visit.

I told her first chance I could, when she called, that I would be here only the next 4 days of her stay. I would be leaving for Europe on the weekend.

Let's do lunch or something, she suggested. As soon as she got a few urgent business out of the way, she qualified. I said yes, let's, and to let me know when in the next 3 days. Alright, she said, and said her goodbye with let's play it by ear then. A rather redundant pronouncement, I thought.

I will put this aside as another firm maybe date. I will also put aside the very glaring omission on her part to mention the months of silence from when I wrote her about visiting.

I guess she took that as only a firm maybe arrangement.

I think I am beginning to get the hang of dealing with firm maybe's...

Pretty Lights

We really were quite happy when we finally installed the mosque lights over our dining table.
But the friends kept referring to the centre piece as a disco ball. We have to agree the orb did not quite fit in with the pretty lights around it.

So, on our recent trip to Bali, we hunted down a Moroccan lamp to replace the odd ball.

It was the single shining moment of our trip. At least for once, the entire exercise followed expected custom when in Bali.

We were in a cab on our way to somewhere when we chanced upon the lamps and lights shop. We abandoned our original plan and settled for poking around the shop. We found the lights we wanted.

The vendor named his price. We counter-offered with our price. Back and forth. We settled on a happy compromise. The lights were carefully bubble-packed, and we went about our merry way.

So now, voila!
The impressive centre piece with four small matching mates surrounded by mosque lights.

When will they ever learn?

Where have all the rooms gone?
We booked and paid for our accommodation online, with specific requirement that it be on the ground floor with its own terrace. We showed up at the property to be told the room we requested was not available. They would, however, upgrade us to a deluxe room on the second floor.

The man asked at the front desk three different times what the f*** happened to our reservation. He got three different answers from three different staff:
(a) your reservation never came to us, sir.
(b) your travel agent submitted your reservation late, sir.
(c) there was a computer error, sir.

The uninterested staff seemed to think that giving us a minimum upgrade should shut us up. Of course we were not one bit mollified. They never admitted they double-sold their rooms, and then they would tell any kind of lie to make the problem go away.

Where have all the butter gone?
I told myself I would sleep off the aggravation, and looked forward to the buffet breakfast. My needs were simple and straightforward. Coffee, and pancakes hot off the griddle, some maple syrup and butter, and I would be happy. I would not even gripe about the pretend bacon and breakfast sausages.

I got the coffee. I got to the pancake counter. I got the pancake guy to make me a short stack of pancakes. Poured the maple syrup. Went to the bread section for butter. The container for butter was empty! There was actually a some-kind-of-waiter-body standing at the the bread section, and he let the butter run out! So by the time the chain of command worked its way to the kitchen and back, I had cold pancakes made soggy by the syrup and my mood just got more foul.

Where have all the clothes gone?
Against our better judgement, we had made this 3-day 2-night trip for the Paul Ropp sale. We got their invitation to attend their sale preview and thought that we would have a nice time cherry picking through the inventory ahead of the sale crowd.

We were disappointed at the small selection put up at the preview. And then we were disgusted to find that a lot more different styles were made avaiable the next day, the first day of the 5-day sale event.

We did not do as much rummaging through the clothes stacks as we would have liked. We had a plane to catch. No, we could not bear the thought of staying an extra day/night to deal with the ineptitude that is endemic to that island.

When will they ever learn? When will we ever learn?

A maybe firm date in Paris

She's one of those frequent return-visitor friends whom I see year-in, year-out. She enjoys generous hospitality from everyone she looks up. She has, for years, been saying we should come to Paris so she could return hospitality.

The famous day of reckoning approaches. She is here, I am here. I gleefully tell her I shall, incredulous as it may seem to her, be in Paris for 5 days and 4 nights. When would she like to see me?

Now I watch her start to squirm and vacillate. Well, she begins tentatively, that's the weekend she might have to be in the UK to settle her daughter in the university. But she would be back by Monday. Tuesday at the latest. So I helpfully suggested: Shall we settle for dinner on Wednesday then, and I leave for Lyon the next day? Yes, but she isn't totally sure she'd be back by Wednesday. Is there possibly anyway I delay going to Lyon.

No, there is no way I stay on in Paris for a maybe meet-up with her.

We left it as a firm maybe for Wednesday. She will, she promised, let me know as soon as she gets back to Paris and sort things out with husband and daughter. That will be best, I expansively agreed.

Do we have a firm date in Paris finally? So she can return hospitality after all this time?

Yes. Maybe.

August

was the month
- when travel plans finally started to fall in place.

- when we decided to we make a mini trip to Bali for the Paul Ropp sale.

- when we got together with friends to make concrete plans for travel to Paris-Lyon, then cover several towns in Provence.

- when Mother called me twice. Each time she dominated the entire phone conversation prattling on and on about what's happening in the lives of people I don't know.

- when my sister called to let me know she took the parents out to dinner and she never opened her mouth once the entire evening. And the parents never noticed.

- when the sister too has reached the end of her wits in trying to be a dutiful daughter trying to do the right thing with the cranky and crazy old people we call parents.

- when I got to see several friends who were visiting. Some of them I was so happy to see again; others I was not so thrilled but I did it out of a sense of obligation.

- when I was reminded all over again how important it is to have good people to count on and good friends to trust in times of need.

Lousy woman, lousy man

A long, long time ago, this lousy woman fell in love with this lousy man.

They dedicated many years to keeping their relationship a secret from the public through lies and deceit.

Then they got married and he carried on with the lying and the deception while she carried on hiding.

Then, at the funeral of an old man, the lousy man finally admitted to the existence of the lousy woman in his life.

But they are not yet telling the world anything else, especially whether there are children in their lives.

Should I be optimistic and think that one day soon, they will live happily ever after like a normal married couple? Do I even care?

I really do not.

Back to Paul Ropp

I look at the poster. The Paul Ropp vibrancy bekons. How did I find the will power to resist the last two sales in January and April this year.

I mean I am talking Paul Ropp here - the man who designs clothes for "people who want sensual freedom and movement or prefer to be naked".

I think it's time to revisit an old friend...

Can you recommend

... a good pediatrician?
... a good specialist?
... a good restaurant?

... you get the drift. As if, in the first place, I would otherwise recommend someone/something/someplace bad.

Sigh. So I have to ask for basic information before I could even begin somewhere.

- the pediatrician: how old is the patient, what is the medical condition to be looked at.
- the specialist: a specialist in what?
- the restaurant: the list of pertinent information is so long. Occasion, budget, type etc.

I don't bother with the ones looking to me to recommend a good boyfriend/husband.

Other People

Grown children of friends are, in my opinion, just "other people". And frankly speaking, I am not interested in them as people.

So it distresses me greatly to have to listen to my friends in their role as proud mothers telling me glowing stories of their children. Especially when the friends don't live here and we have a small amount of time to catch up during their brief stay.

So when the girlfriend despaired that she had forgotten to bring photos - of her "lovely girls", of course - I was hopeful I was going to be spared the boring stuff about them. I should be so lucky. The woman dove into her super sized tote-bag and whipped out her camera. Then she insisted we sat cheek-to-cheek making me peer into the 4cm X 5cm screen as she scrolled through the thousands of pictures. She stopped at each picture to give me painfully detailed information.

I had to stop her at around 50. I begged to leave her sooner than planned, pleading other pressing errands to run. I made some vague polite noises about seeing her one more time before she leaves.

I don't mean to keep the date. Not if she is going to torture me all over again with stories of her grown children.

Like I said, grown children of friends are just "other people" to me. And I am not interested in them as people.

Should I or should I not?

I am still baffled by the constant question, "What do you do now that you are no longer working?"

I don't seem to be able to give a satisfactory answer.

How do you explain what a luxury it is to be able to take your time reading the papers with your morning coffee. Instead of having only 10 minutes to scan the headlines, gulp down the coffee and rush off to get dressed for work.

How do you explain you really appreciate not having to put up with demanding and unreasonable people who show you no respect in your professional capacity because they are paying for your time? And you still have to be tactful and diplomatic with them? I love not having to handle insensitive and rude people in my private life.

How do you explain it feels so good to have time to pursue your own interests. I like not having to rush through leisure activities.

Put in the most simple way: I love having my life back.

Then it dawned on me how ridiculous that this particular woman keeps carping at me about "not working any more."

She never worked but for maybe 5 years when she first left school! What does she do with her time all these years, I wonder? Besides taking sadistic pleasure in torturing me with her incessant questioning whenever she blows into town?

I should ask her that when I next see her, like maybe one day next week.

Then again, maybe I should not. I just remembered the woman talks non-stop even without a topical point!

I am not in the mood to be at the receiving end of her verbal diarrhoea.

Random conversation

We've not seen the guy for nearly 20 years. It was, needless to say, a joy to catch up with him during his short visit recently.

Everyone in the family is doing well, says he. But his father, he laments, is getting increasingly forgetful in his old age. And he, the caring and filial son, has been giving the old man long lectures on how to cope and be "less forgetful".

The old man must have already realised that his failing mental acuity is irreversible. He finally turned to his son during another of the lectures and said, "Why are you telling me all this? It's going to be your problem."

We will miss the old boy's sharp wit...

The Vanity Fair Split Cover edition

Yes, I made it a point to get the special split cover edition of Vanity Fair 2009.

I love them both, the covers and the personalities.

No, I did not give in to the impulse to grab both.

I agonised for several long minutes.

I finally decided on my selection based on choosing artistic merit over nostalgic sentiment.

It was tough to leave the other on the shelf.

They cannot read, They cannot write

I should have left things well alone. I have located them in FB, now I see their one-liners and the blast of holiday pictures, party pictures, family pictures.

But, for whatever reason, I feel like I short-change them with my silly quiz results (that is about all I ever post in FB). So, I mention my blog to the handful of people from long-ago years.

I got the most stubborn and unnecessarily gruff and ungracious reply: I'm afraid no blogging for me... Let's stick to emails.

My reply: Yes, let's.

My thought: Not only do these people not read nor write, these people probably cannot read or write!

Bread - Home baked

It isn't that we are particularly picky about our dinner rolls. It's just that we have not found any that we like enough to go through the hassle of shopping for it and then having to stand in the long line to pay for one loaf or half a dozen pieces of rolls.
So on a whim, I thought to make our own. The kitchen always has the basic ingredients : flour, yeast, salt, sugar.

It really turned out good for a first attempt. I have not reached the stage of proficiency that I care to identify what kind of bread I baked. It is just bread, with a crust, that came out of the oven in time for dinner.

Happily, we slapped butter on the still warm home-baked bread, and savoured it with our dinner of cold cut beef roast, mash, and slaw - all home cooked and prepared.

The faint smell of yeast and baking still lingering in the kitchen as we sat down to dinner was simply heavenly.