Five-Spice Beancurd Skin – Best Ever Tau Kee

'Go for it! It's free!' the HR manager said.

The word 'free' reverberated through my head. If I were a cartoon figure, my eyes would have popped out. The HR manager was giving me the ultimatum for the medical check-up under company expense: use it or lose it, by year-end. So I used it, the first ever medical exam in my life.

I did the check-up towards the end of the year, when I was home for the festive season whilst working overseas. Inbetween the endless rounds of eating, drinking and shopping, I managed to find time to see my doctor. The various tests took half a day or so, and I just gritted my teeth and went through all of them. Except the one which involved the doctor wearing gloves. Eww! No, thank you!

On Christmas eve, I woke up just before noon – exhausted from the eating, drinking, shopping plus jet lag – to find five missed calls from my doctor. I called the clinic and caught the doctor's assistant just before she went home for Christmas. 'There are shadows in your lung x-rays!' She sounded panic-stricken, which I thought was quite strange. Wasn't she used to delivering bad news since she was working in a clinic? Please don't scare me!

When I saw my doctor after Christmas, she calmly but gravely told me I had to consult a specialist. So I trotted off to the specialist she picked, who sent me trotting off to do a CT-scan. With the scan in hand on New Year's Eve, he said, 'You have only one kidney.'

Huh? What? I wasn't expecting anything wrong with my kidneys! 'What do you mean I have only one kidney? Where's the other one? You mean it's shrunken?' Obviously, 'one kidney' meant one kidney rather than one normal plus one shrunken kidney but I was, you know, in a state of shock, jet lagged and hung over from Christmas.

The doctor confirmed that 'one' meant one, then moved on to the more important stuff. The kidney I was born without was just a by-the-way digression. What worried him were the lungs, which had three possible diagnoses: sarcoidosis, tuberculosis, and lymphoma.

He explained that sarcoidosis, an infection of the lungs which usually had no symptoms and required no treatment, was unlikely because it mostly affected darker skinned people like Indians and Africans. He also ruled out tuberculosis.

I felt like someone had just kicked me in the stomach. 'How do you know it's not TB?' I asked after taking a deep breath.

'Experience. It doesn't look like TB,' said the expert in cardiothoracic stuff, who was also an associate professor. Of the three lovely possibilities, he reckoned I had lymphoma, cancer of the lymph nodes.

Lymphoma – gulp! Wasn't that what Lee Hsien Loong had? CANCER?! Oh sh¡t! Sh¡t!! Sh¡t!!!

The next step was to confirm the diagnosis with a biopsy. So I trotted off to the appointments counter, which told me the first working day in the new year was available. Wow, 2 January! The whole thing was hurtling along way too fast! Between Christmas and New Year, I saw my GP, did a CT scan, got the results, consulted a specialist, who said he was damn sure I had cancer . . . . Followed by a biopsy on 2 January, the eve of my birthday? Do I really want to do a biopsy the day before my birthday? Well, it was either that, my birthday or 7 January.

'Ok, I'll take 2 January.' I wanted to know, asap. It was good I took the first date available because after I walked out of the hospital, my entire world ground to a halt. I was in a daze whilst I waited for the surgeon's knife. I went to all the year-end get-togethers but they were meaningless. It would have been easier if I had told everyone I was having a biopsy after the holidays but I didn't want to spoil the party mood.

On 2 January, I checked into the hospital for my first ever surgery, all by my little self. Just before I passed out in the operating theatre, the surgeon popped round and said, 'Happy New Year!' Great sense of humour, eh? What could be happier than starting the new year with an operation? And if anything happened to me on the operating table, at least I was in the hands of a surgeon who was funny!

After the surgery, I was crying as I came out of the anaesthesia. It was a funny feeling, crying before I was fully conscious. I didn't even know that was possible. I guess I was more scared than I was willing to admit. The rest of the day was spent resting, begging the nurse for a cream cracker, and rehearsing how I was going to drop the bombshell on everyone. I fell asleep that night practising 'I have cancer/lymphoma!' in various tones, from downcast to upbeat, matter-of-fact, businesslike and various combinations of these possibilities. I thought 50% upbeat, 40% matter-of-fact and 10% downcast was a good, realistic balance.

The morning after – D-day! I got up bright and early to wait for the doctor, who came around half past seven. As he flipped through some papers which presumably contained the biopsy results, I almost stopped breathing. Out of the three possible diagnoses, he said, I had – drumroll please! – sarcoidosis! Phew! I was gunning for the consolation prize, TB, but I got the jackpot instead! I wish it was more dramatic but that was it. After all the hand wringing, it was over in two seconds. I didn't have cancer. I had an infection in the lungs which, if I hadn't gone for a medical check-up because it was free, would have been undetected.

Needless to say, after the emotional 10-day roller-coaster ride, I had the mother of all birthday celebrations. After that, I went on a massive shopping spree and maxed out two credit cards, the first and only time ever. I had a great time looking for necklaces to cover the surgery scar between my collar bones. I still have the necklaces but the scar is barely visible now, even when I look for it.

A couple of years after the cancer fiasco, I asked the specialist for a medical report because I was buying medical insurance. He sent me something that roughly said, 'Blah blah blah sarcoidosis was suspected, and confirmed after a biopsy.' What the hell! There was no mention at all of lymphoma, and the torment he had put me through! I know the details were irrelevant for the purpose of the report but still!

And where did the dish of beancurd skin or tau kee come in? That was what the hospital served for lunch while I waited for the check-out. It was the best meal in my whole life, bar none!

One last thing: Mom, Dad, if you're somehow reading this from up there (or down there, whatever the case might be) . . . .

YOU LEFT OUT ONE KIDNEY! HOW COULD YOU?!

Black Tuesday

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'Is it Monday morning already?'

Actually, it's Tuesday. You slept through Monday.
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'Five more minutes. Gimme five more minutes . . . .'
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Almond Toffee – Harder than Hard-Ball

One Saturday morning, about seven o'clock or so, I was woken up by the offer of the century. 'THREE FOR TEN DOLLARS! THREE FOR TEN DOLLARS!' Someone was using a loud-hailer set at what sounded like the highest volume. Even with my windows closed and a pillow over my head, I couldn't block out the enthusiastic hard sell for, I later found out, cheap durians at 7 am. I was on the third floor; the loud-hailer was on the other side of a two-lane road, right outside my bedroom window. It went on and on and on. 'THREE FOR TEN DOLLARS! THREE FOR TEN DOLLARS!'

The little street I lived in didn't always have a durian seller. There were a few shops which, on a busy day, might have a grand total of three customers for pet stuff, hardware stuff, etc. It was all pretty sleepy, but the peace and quiet disappeared overnight when the old market nearby was shut down for reconstruction. A temporary one was erected some distance away, and that totally changed the neighbourhood's pedestrian flow. My quiet little street turned into 'High Street' because it was the only road that led to the temporary market. With the increase in human traffic, new tenants were brought in not just for the shops but also the pavements just outside the shops. The cause of my misery, Mr 3-for-$10, was amongst the newcomers.

I figured confronting the durian seller myself wasn't a wise move, so I called the police. And then the town council, NEA, police again . . . . Over the next several weeks, I made maybe 20 calls to the three authorities which all gave me the run-around. They basically said there was no law on noise pollution from a loud-hailer.

The annoying wake up calls happened only on Saturdays and Sundays. Nonetheless, they were driving me up the wall after rudely interrupting my beauty sleep over several weekends. I need a different strategy! I decided to call the police one last time.

The officer who answered my call was Sergeant XX, who could probably recognize my voice by then. I certainly recognized his. He gave me the usual drivel: blah blah blah.

'Sergeant XX from YY police station, right? You're saying there's no law against the use of loud hailers in residential areas before 10 pm?' I turned on my read-my-lips-you-moron voice and continued, 'Ok . . . does that mean . . . I can come to the police station . . . stand outside your window . . . with a loud-hailer . . . set at the highest volume . . . and yell at you? And I can do that so long as it's before 10 pm which means – what? – any time from midnight till 10 pm!'

I think Sergeant XX was caught off guard by my audacity, and interpretation of 'before 10 pm'. There was a shocked silence of a second or two before he said, 'You can't do that!'

'WHY NOT?' I shot back. 'Someone can use a loud-hailer outside my house but I can't use one outside a police station? Are you telling me police stations are more important than private residences? Or policemen are more important than tax payers?'

'Because the police station isn't a property under the town council.'

'Heh! I'll assume what you just said is true. I'll go look for a Neighbourhood Police Post. Are they in town council properties? I'll use a loud-hailer outside their windows, and I'll say Sergeant XX says I can do so!'

'No! You can't do that!'

'Why not? I'll use a loud-hailer outside the Istana if I want to!'

'You'll be arrested if you use a loud-hailer outside the Istana!'

'WHY? Are you telling me there's one noise pollution law for the President's house, and another law for my house? Before you answer, let me warn you: this conversation is being taped!' Of course, I wasn't really taping anything. I was just bluffing him.

'. . . .'

'I want that loud-hailer outside my house to stop. I don't care how you do it. I don't care what you do. If I hear that loud-hailer again, I will come to the police station. I will bring a loud-hailer. And I will use it outside your window. PAK!' I slammed the phone, hard.

After the phone call, Mr 3-for-$10 stopped using his loud-hailer. I don't know if Sergeant XX had anything to do with it and as I said, I don't care.

When sugar is heated, it goes through a series of changes as the temperature rises. Toffee is made with sugar that's been heated to 150-155ºC, which is called hard-crack because it's brittle when it's cool and can be 'cracked'. A couple of notches below hard-crack, at 120-130ºC, is hard-ball. That's when the melted sugar forms a ball that holds its shape.

Sometimes, playing hardball isn't good enough. Hard-crack is better.

Check these out:

Oyakodon	Beetroot Soup	Sesame Chicken	Black Chicken Soup

Here's an interesting video on the secrets of making Almond Toffee:



Secret #8: age toffee for one week to develop the flavour and grain! If anyone manages to keep homemade toffee for a whole week, please let me know if this is true. I've never managed to keep any for that long!

ALMOND TOFFEE (Makes about 70 pieces, 5 x 2.5 cm) 250 g salted butter 220 g sugar 100 g almonds, toasted and roughly chopped Line 33 x 23 cm baking tray with parchment paper. Put butter and sugar in a pot. Add 2 tbsp water. Over medium-low heat, stir till temperature reaches 150ºC on a candy thermometer, or colour looks like milky coffee or tea, 7-8 minutes. Turn off heat. Add almonds. Mix quickly. Pour into baking tray. Spread with spatula into an even layer. When cool, remove parchment paper. Break into small pieces. If you prefer regular shapes, cut with scissors before toffee hardens completely. Refrigerate in airtight container till served.

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Chocolate Muffins – Fresh from the Oven

I was wandering around Heathrow Airport, waiting for my flight, when I spotted some muffins still in their baking pans. 'Ooh, freshly baked muffins,' I thought. Who can resist muffins fresh from the oven? Not me, especially when it's early in the morning, before I've eaten anything. I bought one, found a seat, and sat down to enjoy my breakfast. After I took a bite, however, I was disappointed. The muffin was so-so, not fantastic. I ate half of it and threw away the other half.

After chucking the unfinished muffin in the bin, I made my way to the gate for my flight. As I was walking past the farther side of the circular cafe, I saw something which made me laugh. There were trays and trays of muffins, each individually wrapped and sealed in a plastic bag. A worker was busy unwrapping the muffins, then placing them in muffin pans.

'What the . . . !'

The muffin I had just came out of a plastic bag, not oven! No wonder it didn't taste good. The pans were used to make the muffins look like they were baked on the premises. But they were in fact made god knows where, ages ago.

The cafe lured customers with muffin pans as bait, which I swallowed hook, line and sinker! Oh, stupid me; clever them!

What the cafe was doing would have been stupid if it were located elsewhere, because you can fool customers only once. But since it was at Heathrow where there was a constant flow of first time customers, the strategy was quite smart. And it wasn't cheating anyone, strictly speaking, since there wasn't a sign that said 'Freshly Baked'.

Who would have thought a cafe at Heathrow could give me a lesson on marketing and business strategy? The money on a lousy muffin wasn't wasted after all!

Wanna make your own muffins? That way, you'll know for sure they're freshly baked. I made some chocolate ones with a recipe from Delia Smith. Step this way please if you want the recipe.

Warning: Pornography!

Last Sunday, after dinner, my nephew showed me his new phone. I played around with it for a bit, and glanced through the photos he had taken. I was about to compliment him on his choice of phone when I saw something I shouldn't have.

'Aaaaargh! Naked photos!' I yelped loudly, holding the phone away from me with just two fingers, like it was really filthy.

'Where?' He snatched the phone and quickly looked through the photos.

'No clothes at all! Stark naked females!' My eyes were wide with horror and disgust.

'Where?' He said again as he clicked the phone frantically, desperately looking for the naked photos I had found. There was panic in his eyes and his father, who was sitting nearby, was looking in our direction and frowning.

'PORNOGRAPHY!'

'WHERE?'

'They're not wearing any clothes . . . ! The . . . cats!'

He gave me a how-could-you-be-childish look and rolled his eyes. 'Of course cats are naked!' he said at the top of his voice so that his father could hear him. 'It's photos of Mac and Mel,' he added for good measure.

Hey, I didn't say I saw photos of naked humans, right? But he probably has a stash of those somewhere, judging from his reaction!

Hmm, do I talk too much about cats? Here's a video on dogs for a change (warning: adult content):


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Check these out:

Year of the Tigress	'C' for Cat	Boxing Tigress	Mac's Evil Eye

Cinnamon Popovers – Sweet!

If cinnamon were Romeo, sugar would be Juliet. And butter would be the match-maker. Romeo and Juliet were meant for each other, as are cinnamon and sugar. (I know sugar is rather promiscuous since it goes with a lot of things but let's not spoil the analogy, ok?)

I love cinnamon sugar with everything – buns, toasts, doughnuts, pretzels, body wash, body lotion . . . . What? You haven't heard about Cinnamon Buns body wash? Well then, you need to step this way, order yourself a big bottle, and use it before your big date. I guarantee you'd be delicious in more ways than one!

Didn't I say before it's a strange world we live in? Well, I'll say it again. It's a strange world we live in.

Besides smelling like cinnamon buns, how about making some Cinnamon Popovers? Some people say popovers are called popovers because they rise spectacularly and 'pop over' the tins that they're baked in. I reckon they're called popovers because you 'pop' one in your mouth and it's 'over', in the blink of an eye.

Popovers are Yorkshire puddings Americanized and sweetened. They're fabulous with a cup of coffee or tea first thing in the morning, the kind of thing worth getting up for. And anything sweet is fair game for dessert, especially when it requires no skill whatsoever! Unless you're trying to make a two-legged popover like mine, that looks like a space ship. Now that requires great skill! How do I do it? I'm not telling ya ('cause I haven't the foggiest).

Check these out:

Teriyaki Spareribs	Drunken Prawns	Kou Shui Ji (口水鸡)	Asparagus with Sesame Miso

CINNAMON POPOVERS Source: David Lebovitz (Makes 9 pieces) 30 g unsalted butter (2 tbsp), melted 3 large eggs, at room temperature and thoroughly beaten 240 ml whole milk (1 cup) 1 teaspoon salt 1½ tsp sugar 140 g flour (1 cup) Coating 65 g sugar (6 tbsp or 1/3 cup) ½ tsp ground cinnamon (or to taste) 60 g unsalted butter (4 tbsp), melted Preheat oven to 200ºC (400ºF). Grease non-stick popover or ½-cup muffin pan with softened butter. Whisk melted butter, eggs, milk, salt and sugar till smooth. Add flour and whisk till just combined. Divide batter among 9 greased moulds, filling each ⅔ full. Bake until deep brown and crispy, about 35 minutes. Remove from oven. When cool enough to handle, unmould with butter knife or teaspoon. Mix sugar and cinnamon. Taste and adjust if necessary. Brush popovers with melted butter. Dredge to coat with cinnamon sugar. Serve.

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AAAAAARGH . . . !!!

I was having a late lunch at a hawker centre yesterday, and decided on a bowl of 'spare parts soup'. Which is, for those who don't know, a Teochew soup made with salted mustard greens (咸菜) and various parts of the pig, from the meat to 'spare parts' or insides such as the liver and maw/stomach.

So, the bowl of piping hot soup came and I paid up. Then, I dipped my chopsticks into the soup to fish out the liver before it was overcooked. I found a slice, looked at it as I held it up, and . . . .

'AAAAAAARGH . . . !!!'

I jumped out of my seat, horrified. Was there a cockroach in the soup? No. A lizard? A RAT? No, no. I almost wish it was one of these since that might mean what I found hadn't been deliberately added to the soup. But no, it was a slice of liver . . . with . . . a friggin' . . . BITE MARK!!!

'AAAAAAARGH . . . !!!'

I looked at the semi-circular mark closely, hoping it wasn't what I thought it was. Not a chance! Someone had bitten off part of the liver, leaving little indentations that were clearly teeth marks – AAAAAAAARGH . . . !!! – in a semi-circular curve.

With my stomach heaving, I summoned the lady who served me. I was, understandably, a bit loud. Holding up the piece of half-eaten liver, I yelled at her, 'THIS HAS BEEN BITTEN BY SOMEONE!!!'

Of course, she denied it. The boss came over, barely glanced at the evidence, and also denied it.

'Then why is there a curve? Why is there a round part missing?' I asked.

'Liver has curves, you know?' he replied.

^%$mother¡!!!FFF!!! Yes, the edge of the liver is curved. But those curves are big whereas the bite mark was a small semi-circle. And the edge of the liver is covered by a membrane whereas the bite-mark was an 'open wound'. And liver doesn't have teeth marks, for god's sake!!!

'^%sons$¡!!!FFF!!! ^%$mother¡!!!FFgrandmotherF!!!'

'Sometimes, the liver isn't cut properly, so we tear it apart.'

'You can tear a semi-circle in a piece of liver? FF**^%$father¡!!!FFF!!!'

Anyways, the argument was going nowhere. I demanded a refund and stormed off.

I guess the good thing was that I saw the liver before I ate anything! What a close shave! But I'm so traumatised from the incident, I don't think I would eat pork liver ever again.

^%$mother¡!!!FFgreatgrandmotherF!!! ^%$father¡!!!FFgrandfatherF!!!

Check these out:

'WHAT is that?'	Baby Mel	'Only one can of tuna?'	'Phfft!'

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Almond Shortbread – Gone in a Flash

Did you know that for every 10 married couples in Singapore, two are divorced?

Let's take a look at the equivalent data for some other countries:

Sweden – 5.5

Finland – 5.1

US – 4.6

Australia – 4.6

UK – 4.3

Canada – 3.7

Japan – 2.7

(Click here for source of data, which has divorce rates for 45 countries.)

Compared to most countries, Singapore's divorce rate is quite low. Should we be proud that more married couples here stay married than, say, in Sweden which has more divorces than anywhere else in the world? Sorry, no. In fact, a low divorce rate is bad because the real problem is not divorces but failed marriages. A failed marriage is a failed marriage. It doesn't become a successful marriage because there aren't divorce papers to say it's failed. When people in a dysfunctional marriage can't or don't want to get out for whatever reason, they turn into miserable sods who can't be good workers or good parents. And that's a big problem.

A low divorce rate is a good thing only if those who stay married are happy with their marriages. Do Singaporeans know something about married life that the Swedes, Americans or Australians who have higher divorce rates don't? Of course not. I don't see any evidence of Singaporeans being smarter, more tolerant or more communicative when it comes to marital issues. They just don't divorce as readily because housing costs are cheaper for married than unmarried people.

Even in countries with high divorce rates, not everyone who is dissatisfied with their spouse choose to end their marriage. In the UK, for instance, the divorce rate is 43% but 60% of the people are unhappy with their spouse (story here). Looking at my friends, I would say 60% as the failure rate for marriages is probably about right. In other words, only four in 10 married couples are happy; four just grin and bear it; and two divorce. The two divorced couples may or may not be happy. But I'm sure the four grinning are really bleeding inside.

One of my friends has just decided to leave her husband. Since she made the decision, she's been really happy. It's like a burden has been lifted off her shoulders. She's proof that divorces aren't necessarily bad. Just pick up the pieces, eat some buttery cookies, and move on!

Check these out:

Banana Bread	Staverton Ewe Marmalade and Jams	Chocolate Chip Cookies	Chocolate Tarts