The place where happy people meet

Friday night's dinner at Miss Clarity's.

Many a flogger has written about Miss Clarity Cafe, where happy people meet. Should Nora or anyone else at Miss Clarity's ever get to read this, do accept my sincerest thanks for providing such a truly happy place for people like me to hang out at.

I know that in writing this entry, I risk being parrot-like, simply repeating that which has already been said by many of this much-praised cafe. So, I hereby present to you my very own reasons why Miss Clarity Cafe certainly lives up to its claim to be the place where happy people meet.

Reasons
#1 My happy friends and I met at Miss Clarity's for dinner! On both ocassions, Miss Clarity's had the effect of causing us to become happier- happier than the already happy people we are! Isn't that remarkable? And, if you have read the posts of other floggers, they were made happier too... and the other people I saw eating at Miss Clarity's? They looked really, really happy too...

#2 Miss Clarity's uses Varlhona chocolate, both in its Chocolate fondue and in its assortment of Chocolate desserts. Varlhona chocolate is very many percent cocoa solids and since chocolate encourages the production of endorphins by the brain, and endorphins are 'happy hormones', which person, who is wise enough to order a chocolate dessert, can leave Clarity's after a meal, not happier than when he sat down?

#3 Miss Clarity's is unpretentious. There is nothing haute, nothing uppity, nothing posh about Miss Clarity's, and so I am perfectly comfortable being myself there too. This is in term of its deco, furniture and Nora and gang, who sometimes make me feel like they are serving me out of their own home kitchen.

#4 Miss Clarity's has a happy chef, who cooks confidently and passionately, treating the preparation of each Chicken Ballotine, each Burger Special, not just as a task in a line of tasks to be done, a portion out of a hundred portions that have to be served in a day. It is only a chef who is passionate about the food he cooks, and probably the whole process of cooking, who is able to cause each dish to taste and look the way they do. If a chef is not happy cooking, it shows through the food.

#5 Miss Clarity's always has a nice surprise in store for me. I look forward to receiving my Garlic Crusted Dory each time, because I get to speculate if I'll get an oblong or a round plate, if the sauted veggies will be hidden under the dory of sitting by the side, if I'll get cauliflower or cucumber, if the potatoes will be mashed or roasted... Then I look forward to looking in the dessert shelves for new Chocolate creations, new nameless creations...

Addendum: "Happy" is a word that has taken on a whole universe of connotations, memories haunting and bittersweet over the past maybe two months. I wonder how is it that some mysterious part of me instinctively knew, when I used this word so many times (I'm tempted to count how many) in this post written almost two months ago. Strangely enough, the reason why this post was slated for editing instead of being posted immediately was because I felt using the word 'happy' too many times would somehow dilute the essence of its meaning and intensity of the emotion it would convey, if just used once. That's still probably true, but now I feel even more strongly than ever that what remains most important is that no words, errorneously chosen or imperfectly-expressed, would be able to authenticity of emotion really present. The heart knows best, and sometimes, that's all that really matters.

Forgiving Cookies

Forgiving Cookies peering out of a box

I am starting to really enjoy taking photographs of the food I cook. Finding just the right table-elements, just the right place in the house and just the right mix of flourescent and yellow light all add to the creative experience.

The photographs I take are forgiving when I tend to be exacting. So when the taste or the texture of the cookies fail to meet my *extremely high* expectations, I take *warm* comfort in seeing the food on metaphorical film, looking better than they taste. Self-deception? Or simply missing the point altogether, which should surely be the taste of the food rather than the way it looks?

I am the less deceived. Should cooking be aimed at the way the dish or baked-thing turned out in the end? Should the endeavour be written off as failed simply because it tasted average-ish, and was rife with imperfections? Not in my experience, no. Cooking, if it were to have any meaning for me at all, would be a pleasurable process, all about creation. My purpose in the kitchen will not be to insist on perfection from dough or batter, especially not first-time perfection. In the kitchen, I will set about learning about celebrating the process. There will be mistakes and mis-estimations, unexpected turn-outs and mishaps, but through it all, I will celebrate the process, and from thence derive as much joy as I possibly can.

And in the process, perhaps, just perhaps, I will learn about acceptance of situations and people just as we are, with all our imperfections. And in the process, perhaps I will learn, as I am learning with the baked-things, to see each person or situation as beautiful, God-revealed, through the eyes of grace that only God can give.

Apricot Kernal and Snow Pear Infusion

"Perhaps, they are right. Perhaps those who laugh at me inwardly, calling me a fool to try to do this, are right. Perhaps, they may be right," Or so I thought, with the hint of nervousness as I pounded away, and then assembled ten little sachets of Apricot Kernal and Snowpear Infusion.

The said presentiment never did occur, as Apricot Kernal and Snowpear infusion turned out just fine. Three cubes of rock sugar, as it happened, were just sufficient to provide a tinge of sweetness but not wash out the bitterness of the Gan Cao.

Rather sheepishly had I gone to the Chinese Medicinal Shop that morning, shy about my ignorance about TCM, the Next Big Thing in the Asian culinary world. I asked for advice on preparing an infusion for curing a sore throat, but really, I already really had in mind what I wanted in that infusion. I asked for Apricot Kernals and empty sachets, and I asked if the propreitor could be so kind as to grind the kernals for me as I intended to fill the sachets will ground Apricot Kernals and some other supposedly cooling ingredients. The proprietor, steeped in his art and years of experience, cast me a strange look and almost dismissively told me that the flavour (did he also mean curative properties?) of the kernals would not be sufficiently released should the sachets only have the ten minutes in mugs in which to infuse the boiling water. I should, he suggested insistently, expert to novice, boil the ingredients in a pot over the stove for a while.

The Chinese Medicinal Hall was crowded that Saturday morning- and I was quick to notice that it was not a suitable moment for me to attempt engaging him in a long discussion about either assembling concoction ingredients, nor explain the method behind my apparent madness. After all, it would certainly make more economic sense, both in terms of money and convenience, for me to * place the infusion ingredients in a large pot and boil the infusion over the stove for some time.

Sometimes, though, that is just not possible. It is not possible when you want to send comfort and care over oceans, beyond continents, to soothe the throat and heart of another. You are not there to (see *) , and so you just try to find the next best method. You suddenly remember when you were a student, studying in a cold land (in Summer we are back in warm Singapore), and receive in the post, from an Aunty, sachets of home-assembled cooling tea, largely Chrysanthemum... voila! There's your solution! And so it was for me, as off to the Chinese Medicine Shop I went.

And so, discouraged I was not, when the proprietor raised his eyebrows and wrinkles, and discouraged I was not, when my uncle (who happened to come visiting when I was assemblying the sachets at home) bode a thin-tasting fate for my infusion sachets. These sachets were going on an Important Mission to Bring More Than Curative Properties, and so they had better just be fine.

After the whole assembly process was completed, I made myself a hot infusion of Apricot Kernal and Snow Pear, and it was as I would have liked it, cloudy and thick with almondy-flavoured apricoty essence, bearing the nuanced flavours of Chrysanthemum and Snowpear. It turned out that the reason why it worked was the pounding, using motar and pestle, of the Apricot Kernals. Perhaps, all that the proprietor was skeptical about was just this- this fragile-looking young lady pounding Apricot Kernals to a powder? I don't think so!

Well, sir, for all your propriety, look what I made!

Apricot Kernal and Snow Pear Infusion

Ingredients:
100g Apricot Kernals , pounded to a powder, using a motar and pestle

50g Dried Snow Pear

100g Dried Chrysanthemum Flowers

50g Gan Cao

100g Rock Sugar

10 Empty Sachets

I assembled these, including 2 dessertspoonfuls of ground apricot kernals, 2 slices of dried Snow Pear, about 7 Chrysanthemum Flowers (because seven is a nice number), 1 strip of Gan Cao, 3 cubes of rock sugar in each sachet. To seal, press a moderate iron over the open end of the sachet. Alternatively, tie, old-fashionedly, using string and attach a home-made infusion-tag.

Rainy Day Chicken

Or perhaps, Family Dinner Chicken.
Since this is meant to be a place for the sharing of thoughts and experiences of an undemanding, rainy-day (read: comforting) nature, it is only fitting that the first recipe, piece of food-art, and kitchen-based creative moment be of such a nature too.

Rainy Day Chicken is a simple, unpretentious steamed chicken dish without a patent. Chinese households Singapore-over- and probably Asia-over too- have their own version of this versatile dish, which they vary according to whim, fancy, but perhaps just habit and convenience. Dried mushrooms, garlic, ginger and sesame oil are ubiquitous occupants of the Asian store-cupboard, while chilli and coriander are present in the fridge (or kitchen garden!) of every good Asian cook.

Yes, convenient. There are those who claim that convenient love is not really love at all, but then again, isn't it also true that those who love genuinely must love to the extent of accepting those who love them conveniently? How can human beings bear to tippy-toe about each other all the time, afraid to offend and hurt all the time? That would demand so much, require so much presence of mind- too much for human beings, who are always in a process of learning to love.

Give-and-take is what our elders advise us- and that means forgiveness and acceptance. So, tonight, I forgave myself the absence of Chinese Shaoxing wine in the kitchen store-cupboard, and the fact that the Chicken was not deboned, the way I would have prefered it. On another night, I might find Kaffir lime leaves in the fridge, or spring onions. Those would be good too, a Rainy Day Chicken with a Thai touch. Rainy Day Chicken will still prove homely, nourishing, and comforting.



Rainy Day Chicken

Ingredients:
2 Chicken legs
3 Dried Chinese Mushrooms
3 cm Ginger, cut into fine strips
3 cloves garlic, chopped
1/2 Chilli, sliced on the diagonal
1 tsp Salt
1 tbsp Sesame Oil
Some chopped Coriander, for garnish

Chop each chicken leg into its drumstick and thigh parts. Rub ginger, garlic, salt and sesame oil all over the chicken thoroughly, stuffing some ginger and garlic under the skin. Lay the chicken pieces on a dish and throw the chilli and Chinese mushrooms over. Place the dish on a steaming rack in a large steaming pan (or a wok, or a steamer), after the water in the pan has come to a bubbly boil. Steam the chicken pieces for 20 minutes, throwing in the coriander no more than 5 minutes before the end of the steaming time.

Enjoy, with loved ones. (Preferably with the TV off!)

Surreptitious music

The night air is a blend of the strains of piano music- very likely Chopin's Nocturne in E flat- and the distant rumble of thunder, sleepy, like the cats with half-closed eyes. Apart from the stealthy pianist and her snotty feline audience, there is no one else at home.In stealth she plays, furtively; like rag dolls, My Little Ponies and Action Figures come alive at night, long after all other members of the household have fallen deep into sleep, like school girls on a midnight feast- clandestine and secretive. It is the only way she will have it, the stealthy closet pianist.

That was I, the pianist-only-when-no-one’s-looking.

And yet, the fingers have their reason reserve knows not of. A new piano has just been placed at the newly opened tuckshop extension, and has immediately become a source of delight for students. Piano performing diploma holders, Richard Clayderman fans, Chopsticks players alike find they have to have their tuckshop-piano moments.

And so do I, the pianist-only-when-no-one’s-looking.

I have touched those keys but once, one late school day when there was nobody but the odd student around. It mattered little that I have a piano at home I can play anytime, very often to an audience of two cats; touching those keys was just not the same. Yet it was almost essential, instinctive: the only reason my fingers know of the piano’s presence is connection- what meaning otherwise?

And so it is with this blog. After a year of being a faithful blog skulker, leaving the odd hint here and there of my presence in the form of the rare comment, after months of wanting to participate in Blogging by Mail, Book Swaps, IMBBs, SHFs and WCBs, even this stealthy keyboardist just had to brave the challenges of the animate audience, the less-familiar keyboard.

There was no possibility of taking a walk that day

There used to be a book I owned as a child with the title '101 things to do on a rainy day'. I used to love rainy days. Rain meant that there was no pressure to go outdoors, no expectation that I should be out somewhere engaged in some other more vigorous or seemingly more exciting activity. Rain meant that I was meant to stay home, ensconced in a velvet arm chair, or breathing in a Tchaikovsky symphony while creating frangrances in the perfumerie otherwise known as the kitchen. I love home; I love being at home. For a person like me, rain meant a sudden liberation from any expectation to be someone apart from who I truly was.

Rain, furthermore, is sensory pleasure. There is the chattering of the window-teeth from the pre-rain wind, and its whiny howl; the whispered, yet insistent rush of raindrop-sheets; the inconsiderate yet non-negotiable, authoritarian thunder shouts which would wake me up at night; the toad and cricket chorus rehearsals which would stretch long after the rain has ended. Rain was cool- that mattered because Singapore is usually warm. To a child, it was the closest we ever got to snow.

I eventually lost the book- it was leant to a school friend with whom I probably lost contact- but I vaguely recollect a few project-suggestions: Growing carrot tops, magic tricks, maybe making my own newsletter. Rain meant, and still means rainy-day projects. Rain still means the same to me now. How can it mean any different when the child who once was me, is still me?

Yet, children grow. Rain attained its fair share of associations and connotations for me.

rain: blue, cold, wet, grey, clouds, damp, disappointment, defered walks, dull...

Then think of all the moods that are associated with rain, which, coincidentally, rhymes with pain. Reason told me that this was not without sense; yet while ten-year old me might have been disappointed that rain could not embody happier sentiments, her grown-up counterpart now knows that pain and its associated emotions need not have to exist without sunshine and joy.

rain: water, growth, life, dewdrops, rainbow...

The rainy moments in life, too, can yield its spots of beauty and joy. Rain on, then, and let the rainy moments bring growth and life.