Meatball pyramid

My sister and her husband decided one day that they wanted a baby. 

'Are you sure?' I asked her. 'They are a lot of work & your nipples will get as big as hubcaps.' 

'They will not,' she answered. 'We're going to start trying right away.' 

Six days later, she called me again. 

'Guess what?' she said. 'I'm pregnant.' 

'Are you sure?' I asked. 'Maybe you just ate something that was dead too long.' 

'No it's true.' she assured me. 'The pink dot says so.' 

'It's impossible,' I said. 'Take another test.' 

'I've taken seven,' she asserted. 'Seven pink dots says you're going to be an aunt.' 

'What did you do?' I asked her. 'Put your ovaries underneath your pillow last night & wait for a visit from the fertility fairy?'

Funniest book I've read all year.

Paris, 1899

A continuation from here. 

Take time & imagine

A landscape, like hands, warm

& a plane melting into clouds

silently & beautifully as we watch

from down below,

Rose.

Imagine

A scene, like a film, unfolding

enfolding, embracing

tasting like mulled wine, in my mouth

on an autumn day

Cold tongues licking cold ice-creams

A divot, in the glass, in the kaleidoscope, in eyes

Colours aflame

Don't look,

see.

People in graceful waves

These houses must be made of paper, I'm sure

Buildings transform into

shades,

& well

There are a hundred ways to look at the city

but I like my view the best of all.

By the river

the birds cry out,

& the river begins to sing.

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A lot of the time, for me, poetry comes out of a single moment of intense emotion & flows out as if it were seamless dialogue between people. The greatest instance of this happening was in Paris last year, on a three-week-long backpacking trip with two dear friends. I remember we were sitting on the left side of the River Seine, taking photographs & savouring salted caramel & vanilla ice-creams that we had bought with the last of our money. Paris, in all its romanticism & sepia tones & language with its elegant twists & turns, is an inspiration in itself. I remember that it was very cold & the wind was very harsh (even though it was summer) & we were all laughing at the irony of eating ice-cream in such freezing weather, & the very posh & reserved Parisians were looking crossly at us but we didn't care & laughed anyway, & it was all very beautiful & at that moment I started making leaps into my notebook & scribbled masses of words, lines, stanzas. It was just a pity, to not capture that single moment in time on paper, if you know what I mean. I sent it home on a postcard to my family the very next day.

There's a lot that goes into the process of writing poetry, the conscious or unconscious aspect of it all, that's become very interesting to me. Over the course of this semester, I've realised that writers basically fall into two groups: those who sit down & dedicate a portion of their day to writing & mulling over ideas, carefully constructing poems over a duration & creating masterpieces & inspired projects. While I respect these people very much, it's an attitude that I can never hope to emulate because as said before, most of the time, inspiration for me comes from an image or an atmosphere, & transforms itself into a poem or a song. To be honest, it sometimes feels like I'm cheating, like I have snatched the line from thin air & made it my own...

Thursday.

Books Actually

@ No.9 Yong Siak St 

Tiong Bahru Estate 

On writers.

'Great House'

Nicole Krauss

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I love this extract where Krauss talks about the world of a writer. Taking an advanced poetry class this semester has been incredibly challenging, and different to what I had originally expected. While studying poetry spanning centuries has been wonderful, one cannot help but feel a degree of discomfort when exposed to something entirely novel, like this, and being told that it is poetry. 

I've learnt a couple of things though, about the process of creating poetry and the foundation of which it is built on. For aspiring poets and writers, the first thing to do is not to ask what qualifies as poetry but rather, what we can turn into poetry. It was difficult and tricky at first, of course, stepping out of my expectations of what poetry is supposed to be, and accepting that it merely is. It's funny, how at the beginning, I would ask questions like 'What does this line mean?' or 'What does the author want from this poem?' but along the way I've learnt that sometimes poetry doesn't have to be understood so much as it needs to be felt. 

I guess what I'm trying to say is that exploring and being exposed to the myriad of rhythms & forms & types is only the initial step that builds the foundation for your own poetry. To be exposed is to learn, but to only look at different poetry forms with disdain is to put your creativity and artistic style in a box, and I'm learning to accept all kinds, I'm learning to enjoy. I don't want to put my idea of poetry in a confined space. I'd like to believe that poets are capable of the fierce invention Krauss speaks of, that we create, alter and amend, and like many spheres of art, poetry is freedom.  

Haiku for Autumn

A lonely bird sings

the gaunt tree sheds red and gold

on a bare pavement

____________________________________________________

2012 is almost over. So here's a thought: If the earth is apparently coming to an end in less than two months, why are we wasting time writing terrible essays about things we don't care about, instead of travelling the world & going for all-you-can-eat-buffets? 

Alright, I know that's ridiculous. I'm just really keen on getting through the next three weeks. Godspeed, everyone. 

Dear Friend,

'So, this is my life. And I want you to know that I am both happy and sad and I'm still trying to figure out how that could be.'

________________________________________________________




It's hard to describe in words, how much this novel means to me. I have read coming-of-age books like The Catcher In The Rye or A Tree Grows in Brooklyn before, but up till when I was fifteen, I don't think I've ever felt like a book really understood me. That is, until The Perks of Being A Wallflower.

I remember reading it for the first time and just being incredibly astounded and moved by the sheer profundity of this story, this small collection of letters. It was as if all the weariness & frustration & things I could never quite actualize into words were present in that text and the spaces in between, all the adolescent awkwardness I've ever felt was reflected in the protagonist Charlie. It's amazing, to see your own experiences come alive on a page.

I don't think it's fair for people to sneer and say that The Perks of Being A Wallflower is just another book about teenagers and sex and drugs, because these things don't make it any less important, they make it more real. And it's not all about the sex and drugs, because all of us have had Patricks & Sams & Bills & Mary-Elizabeths in our lives, and all of us have felt the bit of magic found in the three-minute space of a song. Some might think that there is no point in sharing or writing or reading about these stories because everyone else has experienced it before but there is, because sometimes, we just need to know that someone out there listens and understands and doesn't try to sleep with people even if they could have.


We just need to know that these people exist. 

Bites.

I'm the kind of person who thinks about dinner while I'm having lunch. Or the type of person who stays awake at night thinking about that a brunch buffet. I'd rather labour over a pesto recipe & a spicy tuna casserole for two hours than have a cup of instant noodles. I hope that doesn't make me a glutton; I just love food a whole lot :)

(I) If Comfort Were a Room

I like the look of my room.

It is what I imagine Comfort to look like,

If Comfort were a room.

Especially when it is raining outside.

When the sky is dark & weeping & heavy.

It’s a secret guilty pleasure I have,

enjoying the rain.

But there’s a certain melancholic sadness in watching rain fall

like watching a grown man cry…

Not that I would ever take pleasure from that.

(Who would anyway?)

I take pleasure in ordinary & simple things,

like Loneliness.

Loneliness is a wonderful thing,

if you let it be.

Most people haven’t really realized this,

Which is okay because we are all learning.

You’ll get there somehow,

But only if you want to.

Solitude.

'She slept with the door open every night. At one time, when she was more hopeful, she had thought: if Rey were to come back tonight, he would see right away that I was sleeping alone. That had been the logic at first, but now it wouldn't be truthful to say that she expected anything of the sort. It was habit, pure & simple, of the kind whose origin was vaguely recalled but which existed nonetheless, a constant & unchanging fact of life. Her door was open.'

Lost City Radio

by Daniel Alarcón

_____________________________________________________________

I'm done with a major essay. It feels wonderful to read for pleasure again.

Pears for Poaching

The first time I had a poached pear was in Switzerland, in a tiny inn off the side of a mountain during Christmas time. I remember it was paired with ginger cake & hot tea. Savouring that sliver of warm fruit nestled to the side, combined with the snow outside & the warmth within was absolutely magical. It took me a long time to figure out the perfect balance of ingredients, but it was worth it. The most amazing thing is how incredibly simple it is to make; anyone could do it.

I initially tried David Lebovitz's recipe for poached pears, but it didn't work for a number of reasons. First, it's near impossible to get the special type of pears that he uses (Bosc / Conference pears) here, which are of course great if you can get them, because they are firm & sturdy, perfect for poaching. The Asian pears, which are what we get here instead are very crisp & great for eating raw, but fall apart easily when simmered for a long period of time. The Anjou pear, a good in-between, can be found in Cold Storage fairly frequently throughout the year. 

Secondly, there were several adjustments made to the spices & other ingredients used in order to suit my own taste. I don't like to use lemons because it can overpower the subtle flavours of the other spices. I substituted it with an orange & cardamom seeds instead to retain the fresh citrus flavour, but feel free to experiment... you're the one eating them after all :) Perfect for a rainy evening, or for Christmas dessert.

Spiced Poached Pears

If served with a slice of cake or on top of a tart, the best thing to do is to reduce the remaining liquid & use it as a sauce/glaze. Otherwise, warm poached pears are perfect with some good-quality vanilla ice-cream, or even on its own.

Ingredients

1l water

1 cup of sugar

200g honey

6 medium-sized Asian/Anjou pears

1 orange

1 split vanilla bean OR 1/2 teaspoon of vanilla essence

1 cinnamon stick

3 teaspoons of cloves

3 star anise

1 teaspoon cardamom seeds

Ginger slices (optional)

1. Put the water in a large saucepan / pot under low heat & slowly mix in sugar & honey till dissolved


2. Meanwhile, peel & core the pears, cutting them into quarters or halves. (Halves take longer)

3. Slice orange into half & allow it to stew face-down in the water for a couple of minutes. 

4. Add remaining spices & oranges, constantly stirring & making sure the pears are fully 
submerged for an evenly-poached texture. You can also cut a piece of parchment paper to lay on top of the pears.

5. Simmer for about 20 minutes. Remove the pears & set aside.

6. Retain the liquid in order to keep leftover pears in. Or turn the heat up a little & reduce till it's concentrated to about half it's original amount (to use as sauce/glaze with accompaniment) 

Serves approx. 6-8 people for dessert