My husband YMed me this news article a few nights ago and being appreciably a twin, I found it amusing and spot-on. "Well, it's about time!" I thought back.
The news relates the discovery of semi-identical twins, a process which involves a rare fertilisation of one egg by two sperms and thereon split into two embryos.
As echoed by the researcher that "the current classification of twins is an oversimplification", I sometime have this nagging feeling that I might be one of the rare cases. But not ruling out anything, my suspected differences could also be due to the so-called epigenetic changes, which 'are the result of chemical exposure, dietary habits and other environmental factors.' So it all boils down to the reaction of our genes to external influences, be it social, spiritual, female bonding, exercise regiment and many others.
It seems like a no-brainer that outside factors will ease their ways into our physical health. After all, people have always attributed the degeneration of our bodies to heredity, recklessness or lack of proper care on our part. As such, the cumulative effects of a lifetime of experiences on a person's 'gene expression' should never be underestimated and taken lightly.
Back to the real world, I did ponder the possibility if my twin and I were in fact NOT identical twins. After all, I mean aside from the outward yet fleeting similarities in our physical appearance, we are two very different individuals. Fleeting in the sense that as soon as you get to know us better, you could detect the differences. Let me bring you through a slew of for examples: (a) her facial shape is oval and mine leans more on the squarish/roundish side, (b) she has a mole above the right side of her lips while I have a birthmark (or mole) on my left arm, (c) I have a long torso and a short pair of legs and the exact opposite for her, (d) her voice is high-pitched whereas I'm more that of a baritone, (e) my hair is curlier than hers, (f) she has poise, collectedness and a 'well-timed' reserved manner as opposed to my batty, rambunctious and scatterbrained disposition.
Predictably, we also share dissimilar interests such as in food (she loves beef, I love prawns), music (she likes R&B, I don't), books (contemporary vs classics), friends and even the type of men we love! (well, that is, save for Brad Pitt!). And no, for the record, as some people might counter, these variables are not borne out of a conscious-decision to be different. There are just the set of preferences we have nurtured and cultivated over the years.
Not that I'm complaining about our diverse qualities but for some people to make sweeping generalisations about us is annoying at best and judgmental at worst. I guess it goes with the territory of being twins. People compare. Based on the distinctive characteristics delineated above, I find the argument strong that my twin and I might be one of the long-lost semi-identical twins! Sigh...If only things were that simple.....
As my husband aptly put it, he has known me for so long as an individual - with no twin attached - before eventually meeting my twin. The first thing that came up was that "You guys are not the same at all. Similar but not the same."
Courtesy of the official website: View of the entrance
Ever since (the other) Tita raved about De Bakkerswinkel, we couldn't wait to pay this famous eatery a visit. We had previously wanted to go there with Tita but somehow due an inopportune timetable on both sides, that excursion never materialised. Again, we tried to make it as a day trip to Amsterdam when my Auntie Idai and Uncle Daud (residing in the UK) were supposed to come visit in mid-March. But that didn't happen either.
So we were determined to go there, by hook or by crook, before we flew somewhere else for a holiday (I'm being too cloak and dagger, eh?). And last Tuesday proved to be the most opportune and beautiful day with temperatures hovering in the mid-teens.
Sadia and hubby in train: straight above the window is the ventilation control for our seats - roll the control downwards to let the outside air in, and vice-versa
We trudged out to the nearby train station around 11 to catch the next 'sneltrain' to Amsterdam Centraal. It was a tad nippy outdoors but understandably so since it was still morning. The train ride to the tourist trap went rather smoothly for the most parts. The Dutch's flat landscape greeted us with its beautiful spring hues comprising tulips, begonias, gerberas, daffodils to name a few. All of us were transfixed by the sheer beauty of nature, oohing and aahing here and there.
Towards the last leg of the journey however, Sadia was getting sleepy and began acting up. Luckily, the indispensable aid of nursing quickly lulled her to sleep. And in time too, since we could use the quiet period to find and eat at Bakkerswinkel.
On arrival, the weather maintained its cold front - well, at least to me. It was windy although the sun shone brightly. We trekked on the permanently busy streets of Amsterdam which were teeming with tourists, Nederlanders and immigrants.
Guided by Tita's verbal direction - "it's near to Damrak" - and a Google map image we conveniently stored in our digital camera (hah!), we made our way to the alley where Bakkerswinkel stood proudly alongside a bevy of other 'interesting' shops. The alley to which we entered was relatively close to the department store, De Bijenkorf. With DB as a point of reference, I'd, in a heartbeat, able to direct you out of the maze of alleyways. Hehe!
As to be expected in liberal Amsterdam, a malodorous smell of hash from nearby coffee-shops-slash-marijuana-joints descended on my nose halfway into the alley. To say the least, I was more than relieved to take sanctuary inside the quaint Bakkerswinkel.
Upon entering the door, the rustic charm of its decor stopped us in our tracks and beckoned us to seat down. The bread-making slab of cold tile stood aloft on our right side whereas the take-away counter, filled to the brim with pastries, jams, breads and desserts galore was on our left immediately after we walked in.
Courtesy of website: View from the front door - we were seated at the first table on the left (visible in the middle of the take-out counter and bread-making table)
Beyond that were the seating areas to which we were asked to seat at the first empty table overlooking the front door. I didn't much like the fact we'd be disturbed by incoming and outgoing patrons but the seating arrangement was inviting enough with a cushiony lowback booth on one side and two chairs on the other. So you didn't hear a squeak out of me. :)
While waiting for the waiter to take our orders, we took in the sights of the place. A F&B serving 'island' sat appropriately in the middle of ALL the seating areas. Over the other side of the island and hidden from view was a long rectangular table - one you would normally see at a mess hall - conspicuously placed in the middle and flanked by other smaller dining tables that were pegged against the wall. And, at the far end of the cafe and visible from our table was a staircase leading to more dining tables and a special dining room adjacent to it.
Our lunch comprising a mozarella sandwich, a tomato quiche, cafe latte, cappucino, chocolate cake and scone. Oops, I almost forgot - a glass of whole milk for Sadia. ;-) We won't be coming there for a period of time so we might as well feast like royalties. Haha!
Desserts with coffee drinks: our table sits across this 'compact' booth seats
Jars of strawberry jam and sweet gooey butter (almost like Kaya) for the scones
Sadia woke up as we were about to chow down on our repast. We gave her the croissant - her current favourite - bought earlier at the train station and took turns eating. The mozzie sandwich consisted of big mozarella pieces, tomato slices, alfalfa sprouts and olive butter spread and, the tomato quiche came with a side salad. Unfortunately, the former was rather bland for my taste, but the latter hit the spot! If only the tomato slices were substituted with sun-dried tomatoes. Yummy!
When our desserts arrived, my husband whisked Sadia away to the other side of the 'island' with its long mess table, smaller nook tables and even a miniature long table for the children to play toys which were neatly organised on the open shelves and transparent boxes. The toys, amongst others (I later found out), kept her entertained. I savoured (my half of) the scone up to the last crumb. Simply sublime and scrummy! The moist chocolate cake, which was not cloyingly sweet, agreed with my sensitive set of teeth. Both desserts went down well with my cafe latte. My husband then relinquished baby-duty to me while he in turn ate his share of the desserts. Sadia pointed loudly towards the other side of the island, directing me to bring her there. Demanding indeed...I wended through the tables of oblivious diners and brought her to the chidlren's table. Sadia was however more interested in the solo ceiling fan rotating ever so slowly on top the high ceiling and hovering right in the middle of the mess table.
I even brought her upstairs and into the private dining room where a prosperous cat was sleeping on a chair beside a piano forte. She (or he) stirred when we came in and playfully stretched its front paws out. This must be Sadia's first close encounter with a feline in a land where dogs are far more visible and street-accessible. Sadia screamed as soon as I moved away from the cat. She was both intrigued and scared. We lingered for a while, looking out the expansive window next to the piano.
Satiated, we left Bakkerswinkel shortly after finishing Sadia's glass of cold milk. We were tempted to take away a scone (it's cheaper if you have it to go) but decided against it. So much food! Outdoors, warm weather finally made its appearance. It's so hot that some people wore only, sans coats and jackets, tanktops and t-shirts on top. Relying solely on herd mentality, we followed the crowd out of the alley and into the pedestrian square right in front of DB.
After bathroom breaks in DB, we spent our remaining time on Damrak Square (or 'Dam') watching a horde of birds pecking at food on the cobblestone pavements - much in favor of Sadia's ornithological interests - and window-shopping along the lively Nieuwedijk (the street parallels to and behind the busy main street Damrak). The day ended with a stopover at Ben & Jerry's cozy and hippy-chic ice-cream parlor situated on our scheduled train platform. The unplanned ice-cream treat was mainly due to the lack of waiting chairs outside on the platform. Also, the platform felt more like a makeshift wind-tunnel, assailing hapless, unsuspecting travellers with cold wind from all sides. We arrived in Delft ten minutes to 5pm, just in time before the rush hour started. If not, we would be in a train packed like a can of sardines! The continuing pleasant temperatures in Delft were like an icing on the cake of a fantastic jaunt into Amsterdam's Bakkerswinkel. One more for the road, come this scorching summer perhaps? ;)
If parents have access to manipulate the genetic configuration of their offspring, should a qualified medical specialist assent to their wishes?
Speaking of genetic manipulation, this fascinating read in the New York Times online tackles some ethical questions that are worth mulling over. The contemplative piece examines the premeditated choice of an embryo's genetic make-up by prospective parents.
It reveals the increasing incidences in the use of preimplantation genetic diagnosis or P.G.D. amongst couples who want to “to select an embryo for the presence of a disability."
P.G.D., as the name suggests, involves the in vitro fertilisation of a person's oocytes and keeping the embryos in culture while waiting for the outcome of the diagnosis. The Wikipedia informs:
It is also necessary to perform a biopsy on these embryos in order to obtain material on which to perform the diagnosis. The diagnosis itself can be carried out using several techniques, depending on the nature of the studied condition....These techniques need to be adapted to be performed on blastomeres and need to be thoroughly tested on single-cell models prior to clinical use.
As mentioned in the article, the two prevailing cases of 'disabilities' - purposefully altered at the embryonic level - are deafness and dwarfism. In the latter especially, more and more parents are opting for this method to select a gene that enables them to conceive a 'little one'. Due to the possible fatalities attached to carrying a baby to term for a dwarf couple, the heavy reliance on P.G.D to correct the 'double dominant mutation' problem provides these parents an easy route in choosing their preferred genetic material:
Preimplantation genetic diagnosis can identify embryos with double dominant mutations, so they can be discarded before implantation, while preserving embryos destined for either dwarfism or average height. In dwarves, then, P.G.D. could help avoid many doomed pregnancies if double dominants were never implanted. But then a choice would have to be made, since the genes are known. And many dwarves might select embryos for dwarves — although others might choose those for average-size children.
Enjoying the benefits of a 'shared, rich culture' has been cited as the pivotal reason that led parents to turn to science in perpetuating an almost esoteric level of closeness - an empathetic bond, a cultural heritage - with their next of kin. Another basis for consenting to the presence of 'defective' genes concerns the socially disruptive life to be faced by an 'average-size' child born to dwarf parents. The fear of being 'teased excessively', thus subjected to playground taunts and other negative scenarios later in life, has driven these parents - irrational and presumptuous in my opinion - to play God and fix the fate of their own progeny.
Another form of P.G.D. exploitation, with a high number of cases reported in the US, centers on 'family balancing' - selecting the gender of an embryo in a concerted effort to balance out the gender of children currently residing in one family. While this might be the excuse 'formally' stated, other occurences point to simply preferring one gender over another. In the patriarchal society of India for instance, sex selection of male embryo - although illegal in practice - has gained momentum in recent years.
From the Islamic point of view, I managed to ferret this fatwa out from the internet, which succinctly sum up Islam's stance for allowing in vitro fertilisation:
Fertilizing a woman’s ovum with her husband’s sperm outside the body and then transferring the fertilized ovum into her uterus.
Inserting the man’s sperm into his wife’s uterus so that the fertilization be made inside her body.
Notwithstanding these explanations, the verdict is still out on the permissibility of P.G.D. in Islam. A research paper on prenatal medical practices in Saudi Arabia explores P.G.D. as a valuable alternative to P.N.D. (prenatal diagnosis) in remedying the presence of genetic disorders. It concluded that most couples interviewed believe that P.G.D. technology is worth pursuing. Also, the discourse implies that better understanding about Islamic law among the younger and more educated segment of the sampling size compels them to have fewer concerns in trying out P.G.D.:
It has been assumed by policy makers that preimplantation diagnosis will be considered preferable to PND by Muslim parents, because it is done when embryos are only at the eight-cell stage and ‘breathing the soul’ has not occurred at this time.
Based on this premise alone, it can be generally inferred that Islam allows the P.G.D. technique. However, the current dearth of Islamic scholarly opinions on the many underlying agendas for P.G.D. suggests that we should tread on this issue carefully and by case-to-case basis. On a personal level, I find that P.G.D. is susceptible to genetic engineering where debased specialists are more than willing to do the client's bidding in exchange for a large sum of money. The evolution of so-called designer babies complete with a host of desirable physical, cognitive and behavioural traits might be just around the corner. Inasmuch as I agree that P.G.D. is acceptable in Islam in certain circumstances, a moral dilemma still persists in grasping the wide ramifications of such a powerful scientific tool.
My painful experience with the possibility of a down syndrome baby also piques my interest in the developments of reproductive assistive technology. The specific area of interest relates to the aneuploidy screening utilised during P.G.D. available for "couples undergoing IVF with an advanced maternal age and for patients with repetitive IVF failure." Since the chances are high for chromosal disorders (aneuploidy) in women over 35 years old, this screening helps - emotionally and physically - by circumventing the likelihood of an aneuploidy.
In our case, the doctor might, as bluntly put by my twin sister, be using the blood test result as a means to make more money from us. That is, through the expensive and unclaimable amniocentesis procedure. But as a first-time mother, we'd rather err on the side of caution. In the end, we were satisfied that we'd exhausted all efforts possible and readily left it to God's will.
As for preserving the so-called culturally-enriched lineage, it is undoubtedly a blessing to have a baby that meets your own set of expectations - whatever they may be. Yet, the undue focus on the genetic component of baby-making will eventually create an environment where people either strive for 'perfect' offsprings or recruit their child into various 'disability' clubs. Those who cannot afford the expensive procedure will feel ostracized and subsequently eliminated from the 'superhuman' rat race, not unlike the futuristic, Utopian world depicted in Gattaca. For this purpose and before it is too late, a governing body should be formed to guide, intervene and weigh the necessity of genetic engineering purely for non-medical reasons.
Dr Sanghavi ended his essay in the New York Times by rallying the readers' support to advocate a society in which you won't, for example, be judged by your height or the language you speak. While I salute his commendable aspiration, I tend to think he has somewhat missed the point. Isn't it supposed to be the other way around - societies are an extension of family relations? After all, a person's bearing is a reflection of his or her upbringing. Last time I check, education begins at home.
We vowed to escape from the humdrum of Delft into the diplomatic playground of Den Haag today, barring weather conditions.
The alarm clock on the sidetable showed 9:00 when I finally stirred from my slumber. It was a tiring week. What with my mom in the hospital, Sadia having a terrible cold and a number of sleepless nights.
So we ventured downstairs as wont to prepare Sadia's breakfast and ours. French toasts, it's decided since her cereal mixed with formula milk has been out of favour for two days now. Unfortunately, the eggy taste was duly rejected by her fastidious Royal Highness.
Suddenly, in the midst of gulping my coffee, my husband exclaimed, "It's almost 11!" He was referring to the digital clock on our Mac.
What? I didn't believe him at first since we had just woken up. Has time passed by so quickly that we took 2 hours to eat breakfast? It's quite discombobulating!
While he hit the commode, I flipped through the tv channels and overheard on BBC someone on the morning cook show saying something to effect of 'turning back their clock'. Can it be? I wonder.
I pressed the Ceefax transmission of BBC to put my temporal confusion to rest. It confirmed my suspicion. The UK time on the Ceefax page was in sync with the time in the Netherlands! That's impossible! After checking the internet on the date during which the clock changes, I quickly informed my husband who was dressing up upstairs. It's true then! The time was brought forward an hour. The Mac laptop even knew better than us. Talk about artificial intelligence!
Despite having to rush for the Den Haag-bound train at noon, I am glad daylight savings has come, well, to light. It means extra daylight outdoors to engage in more activities! The downside to stretching the daytime means Maghrib comes at 8ish!!! And I have quite some days to replace my Ramadan fasting....Oh well, I'll just sahoor close to 5am! :)
Written on Sunday night, published Monday 10:15 am (or 9:15 am in 'old' time) comic credit thanks to cartoonstock.com
Due to a constructive criticism levelled at the aforementioned post, it behooves me to clarify my random rambling on this 'worrying' subject. The sudden interest in this worrier matter was wholly sparked by my reflection of the years gone by. More importantly, taking stock of those pivotal moments, milestones, and phenomenal events which have caused me to move some goalposts and rearrange my priorities. What have I achieved so far, what causes me to sidetrack, what hinders my progress?
Since I wasn't forthcoming previously about the factors behind my incessant worrying, it's now apropos to lay the cards on the table. In psycho-babble, I attribute my hang-ups to a combination of genetic make-up and external triggers. Still vague? Allow me to elaborate.
Through my keen childhood perception, I can tell that my mother has her worrywart moments. I must've gotten the worrybug from her then since my dad's easygoing mannerism failed to imprint a similar trait on me. As my mother grows older, she has learnt to let go of things that are beyond her control. Perhaps, her reprimanding my behaviour was due in part to that 'familiarity breeds contempt'. She means well, like all biological mothers do.
As for the environmentally-induced causes, they range from the earth-shattering news to conflicts of a personal nature. For instance, possible separation with a loved one owing to an anticipated job placement overseas. Or, hoodwinked into attending a collegiate get-together which entails a BYOB (Bring-Your-Own-Beer) party.
Of course, there are numerous other examples which have besieged me throughout my 30-odd years. Looking back, I could easily fall by the wayside and consequently turn into this bitter, untrusting, cynical monster. Alas, what doesn't break you, makes you stronger is a great mantra to live by every single day. I am learning, albeit slowly, to let bygones, by bygones and go on with the show. Yes, I was hurt by those who couldn't fathom the extent of damage done. But, by harboring continued resentment towards them clueless and callous ones only detract from letting go and reaching closure.
To sum it up, harping on immaterial issues is a result of genetic manipulation (cop-out!) and exposure to a series of unfortunate events (double cop-out!). Yet, that is the truth and I've sworn to tell the truth and nothing but the truth (in the style of the over-excited and overbite Tom Cruise in A Few Good Men).
For an online test to measure your level of worrywart-ness, please click here.
Discovering the opening of the first European chain of Abercrombie & Fitch in Saville Row, London on 22nd March - actually it's more hubby's cup of tea but I welcome the spillover effect
Sadia eating heartily her meal following a day of being finicky
Your capri pants falling nicely on your hips more than a year after giving birth!
Follow your bliss wherever it might be pointing to next!
I have to confess that, despite my outwardly cheerful disposition, I can be a tiresome worrywart.
There are times when I would fret over matters inconsequential in nature, or that have yet to manifest in real life, much to the detriment of my emotional health.
My worrisome streak has given my mom a cause to scold me in turn. This is largely owing to the fact I'd usually unload my host of 'potential problems' on her! "What if..." "But then..." "I wonder if..." My almost endless whining is a sore subject in itself. :)
Inspite of my childlike relapses, she's both my confidante and my voice of reason. She has a way with words that would imprint on my psyche, for a considerable amount of time. Or if I'm lucky, a lifelong stamp.
The thing is I can be over-analytical for my own good. I pore over issues that have, on hindsight, easier and straightforward solutions. I tend to worry, after the fact, if actions that I had taken would aggrieve the receiving party. 'Let bygone by bygone' was a difficult saying to live by.
Compounded by my proclivity for nitty-gritty details, you could say I am able to run away with my fret-full thoughts. It's just by parsing an event that had occured, a behaviour detected or even a sentence uttered, I feel relatively at ease that I've left no stones unturned.
Probably this is the other conceivable weird trait that I'd failed to mention.
This continual struggle to shed my worry bug was later met with a different type of setbacks when I got married. A whole, new dimension for me to harp on. Gosh! When will it end! Even with my husband's entreaties and clearly spousal support, I was still being a fusspot. How wretched he must have been! Worrying has become a second nature to me that I need to 'unlearn' it on my own.
Then, on one of the days when I was engulfed with anxiety over my growing list of worries, a revelation hit me. I wasn't living my life fully. I've forgotten to smell the fragrant, abundant roses. I dither and wither, when I could have been really happy and sappy.
Also, with a baby added to the fold, I cannot afford to niggle my way out of a situation. I'm always on my toes with Sadia anyway to idle away whatever remains of my 'Me' time.
I do not want to hide behind a cheery facade anymore. I resolve to be true to myself. Sometimes a clown has to rub off her greasepaint, to discard her circus act and face the music. She has to learn a new bag of tricks, paramount of which is walking steadily on the balance beam.
By balancing the need to be concerned and the motivation to be contented, I ironically 'look forward' to the day when I will proudly say "I have fully-lived my life".
Have you ever wondered why a sycophantic, spineless co-worker is able to guffaw at your superior's joke whereas all that you could muster is a slight quirk on the corners of your mouth? Certainly, the said colleague is seeking some sort of approbation in his or her attempt to foster a camaraderie with the boss, but that doesn't explain the other cases involving just you and the boss? What possesses you to laugh along with his outrightly lame punchline?
Turns out, there is an explanation for this bizarre phenomenon, as elucidated in John Tierney's engaging New York Times article dated March 13th. He pointed that the approach used by well-known philosophers and psychologists like Kant, Aristotle and Freud leans heavily towards dissecting humor, when they should concentrate on the crucial component of humor which is laughter. According to the research findings, laughter acts an inextricable, instinctive and innate form of social lubricant that strengthens group solidarity and distil a nervous energy.
Occasionally we’re surprised into laughing at something funny, but most laughter has little to do with humor. It’s an instinctual survival tool for social animals, not an intellectual response to wit. It’s not about getting the joke. It’s about getting along.
The scientists further elaborated that women are more likely to be the ones laughing whether they are the speakers or the listeners. In the former case, they use the laughs as punctuation for their sentences. As for the latter, the listening women are caught laughing more if the speaker is male as opposed to female. Conversely, if the male speaker delivers the laugh line, both male and female listeners are more prone to laugh along with him than if they were with a female speaker.
When we substitute the role of listener to that of an underling, and of speaker to a boss, the same results were recorded - the boss' one-liner will elicit more laughter to the underling (male or female) while the boss is more likely to hold his/her composure when the subordinate cracks the joke. However, when a new co-worker joins the rank, she will laugh at the wise-cracks made by her female or male colleagues.
When you’re low in the status hierarchy, you need all the allies you can find, so apparently you’re primed to chuckle at anything even if it doesn’t do you any immediate good.
Adding another layer to the experimentation is the gender hierarchy involved in laughing. Despite making headway in the sexual revolution, women at large still find themselves relegated to a lower social status compared to their male counterparts. Since their social positions are ostensibly inferior to the men, women subconsciously 'hard-wired' their behaviour to laugh in presence of men, particularly high-ranking male. This sounds fairly plausible in my case when I felt compelled to laugh at the Big Male Boss' joke eventhough on hindsight it was not even a smidgen funny. Everyone else was laughing as well to think of it. On the other hand, in the case of my immediate female superior, the gales of laughter were genuine and instilled a healthy feeling of esprit de corps. I attribute this rarefied connection to her need to establish a close rapport and an alliance with her subordinates as well as to the 'automated' female bonding in a highly patriarchal company.
However, I believe other variables are absent in the explaining the gender gap in laugh-o-meter. An interplay of one's religious or spiritual background, refined cultural experiences (or lack thereof), level of education, upbringing, geographical location and a string of other tangible factors will provide a more complete, if not comprehensible, picture to the socio-psychological motivations behind laughing. This postulation and many other worthy food for thought are duly noted in Tierney's blogsite.
And naturally, another reason for a woman laughing her heads off at a man's joke lies in her primordial response (i.e., laughing) to a man whom she is attracted to. This reaction works for the man who are attracted to a woman who yuks it up at his gag line. So everybody wins.
To paraphrase a commenter at Tierney's blogsite who quipped that laughing best serves as a 'mood-enhancer', a must-have complement, in promoting common geniality and ensuring a woman gets the attention that she greatly deserves: "...women may laugh at/with men more often because it is an easier and more effective way to communicate with men (you know, better than using all those words, half of which men ignore!)"
So the familiar adage "Marry a Man who Makes You Laugh" does have its merits, after all. I can safely bear testament to its truth since my husband's witticism garnered some heavy points in the list of traits of a desirable lifemate. :)
We, women, the so-called fairer sex and empathetic half, have the innate propensity to laugh at our menfolk's funny story because we are more in tune to a man's need to be found funny. Now you know why we are called a complex creature!
Holland is enjoying a long respite of warm weather since last Saturday. The air is crisp, the birds are chirping, flowerbuds are jutting out. Yesterday, we took the chance to amble leisurely on Delft's cobblestone roads - especially to the parts of town we'd yet to tread on - with the habitual stop at a local cafe for a cuppa and lolled around as if time had stood still.
A suspension in time frame, you ask? That's how I feel nowadays. Days seem to merge with one another that I, more often than not, confuse the timeline for which a series of activities have taken place! Did we buy this today or two days ago? When did we cook nasi goreng - yesterday or this morning? Those kinds of mundane, everyday things. Ahhh, either my grey cells have slowly whittled away or my slow-paced lifestyle in picturesque Delft has yielded a Sybaritic attitude towards life in general. To pun a hackneyed saying - 'Such is life!'
In any case, despite the intermittent sunshine peeking through the clouds in the afternoon, the weather has gone to the 'darkside', preferring to cloud us over in a state of gloominess.
As I gather my thoughts for a weekend of our customary sortie, I know for a fact there's nowhere else I'd rather be in the world than here with my family.
Hubby with Sadia with the famous cube houses on the background
If it were not for a fellow Malaysian's invitation, we would not have made the effort to step our feet into Rotterdam. At least, not in the nearby future.
So when my husband's PhD colleague of the same Malaysian company, Ahmad smsed him to check out the famous Rotterdam's weekend market last Saturday, we quickly came on board.
We needed the change of pace and scene from rustic old-town feeling of Delft and Rotterdam's metropolitan skyline and modern architecture feel like a breath of fresh air. Moreover, my husband needed a break from his thesis and exam.
My husband's study colleague, Najo and her husband, who live in Den Haag, were also invited for the outing. We convened at Delft Station for a rendezvous with Ahmad and his family at the Rotterdam Blaak station.
The appointed time was estimated at 11am but Ahmad et all missed the train that we boarded and would be delayed for 15 minutes. As a result, we decided to venture on our own first and dispersed shortly after arrival at Rotterdam Blaak.
The 'Blaak Market' lives up to its name selling, amongst others, trinkets and bootlegged merchandise at knock-off prices. And it covers a vast area, as far as the eyes can see, with approximately 450 stalls. The market also sells perishable products like cheese, fish, meat, fruits and vegetables and of course street food!
Actually, Ahmad's sales-pitch for the weekend soiree centers on the 'Mosselan' or mussels stall which offers fresh, steamed mussels with a choice of three dipping sauces - Mayo, Thousand Island and Garlic. As we trudged along the expansive row of stalls, we spotted the mussel stall and immediately dug in for a bite. At Euro4.00 for a heaping plate of mussels, it was fairly-priced an a great winter snack! My husband - an aficianado of anything shell - ate most of it.
Thereon, we walked further afield towards the end of the row of stalls and crossed the street in search of a cafe to relax our feet. The urgency to find a resting place also corresponded with Sadia's antsy mood which signalled to us that naptime was imminent. Following some difficulty to find a 'Niet Roken' (No Smoking) cafe to hang out in, we settled for the municipal 'Bibliotheek' (Library) and spooned Sadia's lunch at the lobby seating area.
An annexed cafe to the Library looked inviting enough to sip our coffee but the bustling atmosphere made it next to impossible to holler for the waiter. Sadia was getting more listless with the beehive activity so we placed our bets on the outdoors to calm all of our frayed nerves.
The elements proved to work in our favor. Mild weather with the sun beaming down spurred us to saunter along the bevy of shops and explore the new territory. Sadia even dozed off peacefully in her baby carrier, much in time for us to eat our lunch.
Figaro Cafe, just off the Blaak Market, enticed us with its warm and cozy interiors and a large number of patrons. My husband and I splitted a generous portion of Mozarella sandwich with tomato soup on the side, while for drinks, I chose 'Koffie Verkerd' (or Cafe Latte) and hubby, a strong kick of espresso.
Fully sated, we strolled further down the cobblestone roads and ended up in Rotterdam's latest shopping venue comprising a few malls and the famous 'Beurstraverse' (Stock Exchange Traverse) which is also known as 'Koopgoot' (literally translates as 'Buying Gutter'). The Gutter description refers to the low-lying position of a row of shops below the street level. Chainstores like Zara, Esprit, Hema, H&M, C&A mostly reside in the Gutter with other shops and malls housing anchor department stores like V&D and Peek & Cloppenburg, on street level. At the far end of the Gutter, we entered the lower ground level of luxury department store, De Bijenkorf. Its stand-alone building crossed the busy main street, Coolsingel, at street level. After scouring DB's ample floor space for some rare finds, Sadia finally woke up just in time for her diaper change.
We sat down at the DB's extensive gourmet food court to rest our weary feet. Located on the 3rd floor, the food court's large high-ceilinged double-glazed windows look out to some magnificent views of the city, including the famous iridescent white, Erasmus Bridge. By the time we seated ourselves however, a queasy, nauseous feeling came over me. My stomach began to churn badly as well, but primarily I wanted to hurl. I informed my husband of my icky condition which prompted us to rush for the next train home. However, as accustomed on weekends, there were not as many train services running. 20 minutes before the next one coming. Oh gosh! Coupled with the acute stomach ache, my desire to vomit had worsened at this point so much so that I was desperate to use the public toilet, serving the populace of Blaak Market.
Thanks to Ju, Ahmad's wife, who guided us the toilet's whereabout, we found our way to the much sought after lavatory. The 30-cent-per-entry toilets are situated inside an elevated metallic color 'trailer' where you need to scale a steep series of steps to gain access.
What a reprieve! Whew! In the nick of time, too! I was, figuratively and literally, relieved to get rid of abdominal discomfort. And the toilet was VERY clean. Malaysia should learn from the Dutch! My headache instantly disappeared thereafter and our journey home was not marred by any physical ailment whatsoever.
That is, until the very same night, my husband was taken ill and remained in bed for the most parts of the day on Sunday. Poor soul! Fever, chills, unpredictable bowel movements, nausea, the whole works! He was diagnosed with stomach flu. Only today, he has regained back his appetite, a sanguine complexion and his penchant for sarcasms. :) As for the culprit for this food poisoning, we narrowed it down to either some 'bad' mussels or the luncheon tomato soup, which I only sipped but he had gulped down. I guess it must be the latter since I didn't get the same symptoms, save for that urgent toilet trip near Blaak Market. That, or I have a really strong gut. ;)
Swallowed two Panadol tablets two nights ago. Tonight, sleep eludes me even though my eyelids are becoming heavier with each passing tab on this keyboard.
After downing those aspirins, I quickly dozed off to slumberland, accompanied by baby Sadia (or should I say toddler Sadia). Burning the midnight oil, hubby was busy finishing up 'school work' which he needed to submit by next week.
It's past midnight now and the pain I felt the previous night has lessened somewhat. Yesterday, after lathering my hair with shampoo, I felt a throbbing sensation on certain parts of my noggin. To be exact, the upper left side of my head.
On Wednesday morning, I was unloading the dishes from the dishwasher machine (it comes with this furnished Uni apartment - makes life much easier!) when, lo and behold, my head struck the cupboard's door directly above me. I had opened the door as wont to put the dishes in. Ouch! What agonizing pain!
I was still recovering from that blow in the morning when another unfortunate accident literally knocked upon my noddle. In my chase of Sadia under the dining table, I miscalculated the height of the table and tried coming up prematurely from underneath. Double wham-my!
The morning after these hapless incidents I had totally forgot about the physical distress if it were not for my rigorous shampooing. As a result, the upper left side of my head felt sore and bruised. Afterwards, the spasm rippled to its neighboring spots, thus rendering me a full-blown headache. I transformed into a grouchy, sulky person.
Thanks to those lifesaving Panadols, my comportment has reverted to a state of normalcy, although some tenderness still lingers. Try as I might not to whinge my way out of this mishap, I can't help but recall another accident that befell me almost 10 years ago.
Back then, relatively fresh out of college, I was still staying in a small room together with my other two sisters - my twin and my younger sister. In Shah Alam, I occupied the top bunk of a bunkbed, with my twin at the bottom whilst the other slept on a single bed.
The bunkbed faces a series of open shelves and cupboards which store our teenage's treasure troves and the occasional new novels us three had the luxury of purchasing. The cupboards start from the eye level up to the ceiling whereas the open shelves, at foot and knee level, cover the length of one side of the room.
One fateful night, I was standing up on the topbunk to get a personal memento that I'd hidden on the topmost cupboard. Living within the confines of a crammed and overstocked room, you do need to find those nooks and crannies to stow away personal items like love letters and whatnots. I had, on other occasions, stood on top of my hovering bedpost to retrieve knickknacks from that same cupboard and was careful not to come into contact with the overhead ceiling fan that rotated ever menacingly.
However that night, I didn't know what came over me that in my haste to find what seemed to be so important I took a few steps back - possibly to get a better view of the cupboard's content.
As soon as I backed away, one of the fan's blades hit my head with a loud thud. Kerplunk!!!
In an instant, I turned to the 'safe' side of the bed but it was too late. Blood was already spurting from the very spot that got sliced by the blasted fan. And the pain - God only knows! My parents and siblings all came to the rescue and we rushed to SJMC's (Subang Jaya Medical Centre) A&E. In the car, while I was crying my heart out, my twin (or was it my mom?) pressed a 'kain batik' to the wound to aid in stopping the blood flow. By the time we arrived at the hospital, the cloth was already doused in crimson red, from all the oozing blood.
I already imagined the worst - that the blade cleaved into my brain matter, causing irreparable damage. And yes, it did occur to me that, you know, THAT was it. With my mom's timely imploring, I had uttered the Syahadah and recited a few Surahs.
At the A&E, the doctor on duty quickly inspected my injury and thereafter informed me that the fan thankfully only hit my thick skull. The malevolent contact with the plastic blade was too brief for it to leave a deeper mark. In fact, I remember the doctor saying that it's just a superficial wound. JUST?!!! Try being in my shoes, doc! (On hindsight, it's probably a medical term that my case wasn't that life-threatening and I was fortunate - Alhamdulillah!)
He later explained that a nurse would come shortly to dress and stitch my wound. Since the A&E was packed with cases that very night, the nurse took a while to attend to me. As I waited on my hospital bed, in the throes of head trauma, I moaned and groaned loudly like a little girl that my mom berated me for causing a scene in the A&E. Trust my mother to keep my behavior in check even while I was lying in the emergency ward.
I couldn't recall exactly how many stitches were needed for my head affliction. It numbered between 5 to 7 but less than 10. The doc issued me a two-week of convalescence leave (much to the chagrin of my cold ex-boss but that's another sadistic story). I had to come back in a week's time for him to examine the healing wound and stitches.
The stitches naturally sloughed off from my noggin within that two weeks but alas, this particular freak episode has transmogrified me to a fan phobic-neurotic. Don't ask me to stand so near to the fan - ceiling or standee - or I might jump out of my skin!
Or so they said. But as widely exhibited in Dutch's culture involving moneyed transactions, the reverse is more likely true.
My introduction to this cultural phenomenon took place as soon as we arrived on Dutch flatlands. We were stocking up on grocery and being quite slow in adjusting to a new place, I was asked by my husband to line up and pay at the cashier.
Whether I like it or not, I have to acclimatize to my new surroundings sooner or later. So, I summoned the courage to deal with foreign-looking people - let me paraphrase that, gigantic, scary foreign-looking people - by engaging in a harmless act of purchasing perishable goods.
When my turn came, I waited eagerly for the transaction to finish. The cashier uttered the amount in Dutch but I kept looking at the total shown on the till instead. So, it's Euro11.58. Unaccustomed to the Euro notes, I doublechecked my money before handing it over. Euro12 - a crisp Euro10 note and Euro2 in coin.
She gave me the change together with the 'bon'(or receipt) and I immediately counted the change. It was ONLY 40 cents. Where's the rest of the money???
I felt cheated out of my money and demanded an explanation. Actually, it didn't sound as harsh as that but I inquired rather incoherently in English as to the whereabouts of my two sought-after nickels. The cashier's forehead furrowed in genuine bewilderment. She didn't understand what the fuss I was making. And glancing shyly at the long line forming behind me, I decided to give it a rest. Perhaps it's a one-off thing. Turn out, I was grossly mistaken....
In Malaysia, the places which usually practice this kind of blatant disregard of returning exact change are fast-food chains. When the food service person said while extending the change into my open palm "Mintak maaflah Kak, duit satu sen kitorang dah habis" ("Sorry madam, we have run out of one cents"), I would invariably reply in a sarcastic tone, "Kalau macam ni selalu, kayalah korang! ("If this is always the case, you guys will end up rich!").
It's not a matter of me being stingy about a measly one cent - as others might be quick to judge - but it's a matter of principle. Why do you charge an odd-number price on your merchandise or in this case, food, if you are not able to give back an odd-number change to your customers? It defeats the purpose. Why don't you just round down or up (more likely scenario to account for service tax) the price? At the expense of our loose change, why do we have to fatten the coffers of an already filthy-rich food establishment?!
If I were to carp at the hapless cashier for this customer disservice, the manager in charge would come to the rescue and gave me a change higher than the one quoted. Naturally, not before giving me a sourface for my disgruntled public display. :)
Back to Holland, I observe this widespread and prevalent practice of non-exact change almost everywhere in the polder-rich country. That is, when the transactions are odd-number-ed. And not a single soul gripes about their wealth frittering away by the greedy, capitalist Big Brother. Unless of course, you're a clueless emigrant or tourist in the Netherlands...
Don't get me wrong, one cents are currently being circulated in the country but the Dutch seem, at least to me, to deny its existence as a legal tender. I however realise this 'system' works for the residents because it's culturally acceptable and more importantly, there's, literally, a sort of 'checks and balances' to this peculiar custom. The total odd-number amount is either round down or round up according to its nearest 5-cent. Let's say, your transaction comes to Euro4.53, you can easily give Euro4.50 to the cashier without being harassed for the remaining 3 cents. Conversely, if the traded goods amounted to Euro11.58, you are expected to shell out Euro11.60.
Despite the inartificial balancing acts, I am still peeved by another type of price fixing - the ones that end with .99. When buying goods like clothing items and DVDs, we incidentally must pay an extra 1 cent owing solely to this non-exact change rule. Perhaps, is it because these products are deemed as 'controlled merchandise'?
So in a country that 'foolishly' (to borrow from my abovementioned adage) dispense with its one cents, one only has 'one' option in this pecuniary matter. Join the Dutch club! And a word of advice, always, always make sure you pay the lower of the stated odd-number total. For that purpose, always have a pocket calculator on your person. ;)
Browsing through my favourite online newspaper, The New York Times, I stumbled on this enlightening article which centers on a series of scientific findings that males, like the female counterparts, have a biological clock.
On a cellular level, the research highlights that, in a man's lifetime, the cells that produce the sperm go through a continuous process of dividing and replicating that "by the time a man reaches 50, the cells that create his sperm have gone through more than 800 rounds of division and replication." Such vigorous, clockwork-like division and replication is bound to cause a likelihood of an error occuring.
“It’s like a light-bulb factory,”.....“You can manufacture a billion light bulbs, but some fraction are going to be impaired. When you’re manufacturing something so frequently, in such large quantities, the chances of an error are very high.”
The most shocking genetic correlation with respect to aging fathers revolves on autism and schizophrenia where studies have concluded that a biological mechanism accounts for the higher incidence of these disorders in offsprings of aging fathers.
Skeptics notwithstanding, this discovery proves to be a milestone, both on the cultural and medical front, since it is instrumental in dispelling the current long-standing perception that a woman's biological clock is, by default, the culprit behind the failure to conceive.
In almost every corner of the globe, it is a societal norm to point the fingers to the female half of a partnertship when things are awry in the 'production' department. The onslaught of callous remarks and nosy questions which prevail thereafter can be more than a person is willing to hear. Granted, they can be well-meaning but in a delicate situation such as reproduction, I believe it is better to 'butt out' before you're given the greenlight to 'butt in'.
Compared to the average Malay woman, I got married quite late. As such, I did harbor some misgivings over my tick-tocking biological clock. In fact, having a baby was high in my priority due to the skewed generalisation that hinges on women's fertility levelling off at a certain age. After experiencing much distress, an epiphany hit me - I should just leave it to God AlMighty. I mean, following all efforts possible, I have to 'redha' (readily accept with faith) with His answers. After all, He's All-Knowing what is best for His servants. The Truth set me free!
So when this article came to my attention, I was more than relieved to jettison the old-age idea that a woman must be married by so-and-so age lest she'd imperil her maternal chances, thus going over her 'sell-by-date'! That a woman's worth (or marriageability) rests heavily on her biological make-up, is culturally ingrained in today's society. So much so that some women are on their toes to risk everything and anything in order to become pregnant.
As quoted in the article, this new evidence will help to "level the playing field between men and women in the premarital dating game." I couldn't agree more.
Lying in bed while turning Sadia down for the night, my husband and I would usually engage in conversations that range from the serious to the most trivial. Nowadays however, the topic of choice veers heavily towards food - or more specifically Malaysian food. Our food confessions would ALWAYS start like this: "Tiba-tiba teringat XXX (insert favourite eatery)" (Translation: "Suddenly I remember...")
Being in the Netherlands since September last year (excluding the short trip we conveniently took for Raya), we have to survive on local staples like patats (french fries), apple-filled pastries, doners and turkish pizza. That, or we end up cooking at home our favourite dishes and FINALLY trying out new recipes on the stoves or the oven.
In Malaysia, you are spoilt for selection of the array of delicacies to pick and choose from. You can just walk down from your apartment complex or out the frontdoor of your house to the nearest stall selling hot nasi lemak and a diverse choice of kuehs. Or, you can just drive off to your favourite mamak restaurant to enjoy the crispy planta-rich roti canai with your favourite all-time winner of a beverage - nescafe tarik, teh tarik, teh O, etc.
As such, to satiate my food cravings for all ingredients and condiments 'Malaysiana', I hereby reveal the Top Twelve (12) food establishments that we have missed since we alighted on foreign soil:
However, before I proceed further, I'd like to forewarn the exclusion of Starbucks from the list since it's a widely known fact that Starbucks is my proverbial lifeline. :] Also, the fast-food joints - McD, A&W, PizzaHut, Domino's, KFC, Shakey's, Burger King - are a given owing to their Scrumptious, Quick Service and not to mention, Halal appeal.
1) Warung Mak Bedah, Ampang Situated across from the Petronas Super Station which houses, amongst others McD and Lecka Lecka and a stone's throw away from Ampang Point/Jalan Memanda shopping area, this warung (or small family-owned outdoor restaurant) never disappoints our hearty appetite, nor does it burn a hole in our pocket. Great and affordable line-up of food greets you like clockwork and the amiable Makcik Bedah and her efficient crew are always ready to serve you the moment you waltz into their humble food-shack. Open from 7 am to 5 pm on Monday till Saturday, the place is even a hit with the expat kids studying in the nearby international school! It is almost always packed to the brim during lunch hours. Hits The Spot: Karipap, Seri Muka, Nasi Goreng Pedas, Ayam Goreng Rempah, Lala Masak Cili, Teh Tarik Halia.
2) San Francisco Coffee Cafe, KLCC Without fail, we often find our way here on either Saturday or Sunday morning for breakfast. Especially when we get sick of the usual roti canai and nasi lemak fare for brekkie. Time-wise, the earlier, the better - in order to avoid the massive shopping crowd that throng the mall when the regular shops open at 10am. On the weekends, it open slightly later at 7:30 am compared to 7 am on the weekdays. Unlike the yuppies filling up the tables talking shop on the weekdays, I love the quiet ambience on a Sunday morning in KLCC, savoring my brewed cuppa with loved ones and perusing through the compact editions of The Star and NST. Hits The Spot: Onion Bagel with Cream Cheese, Big Sugared Donut, Cappucino, Americano, Freshly-Squeezed OJ.
3) Restoran Insaf, Jalan Tuanku Abdul Rahman We like to traipse our way to the traditional shopping hub that is Jalan TAR early in the morning for the same reason we sit down for breakfast early in KLCC's SF - to avoid the multitude of eager shoppers. And after dispensing our cash on some chiffon, cool cotton or silk, we make our way to Insaf for arguably the best roti canai we've tasted this side of the Klang Valley. It's crispy on the outside but soft and pliable in the inside. Most importantly, it's not oily - oh well, make that less oily than other RC I've bitten into. Down it with their frothy nescafe tarik with just the right hint of evaporated milk and sugar, you're instantly in Mamak heaven! Other Honorable Mentions: Nasi Beriyani Ayam Madu, Kurma Ayam, Murtabak Ayam, Murtabak Daging, Mango Lassi.
4) Restoran Ampang Yong Tau Foo, Ampang Located in one of the row of shophouses in the shopping enclave of Ampang Point, this eatery might easily turn off those who expect proper table setting - table cloth, napkins - decorative knickknacks hanging on the wall and the overall cozy ambiance well-suited for a restaurant. But don't let the superficial flaws get in the way of relishing Ampang's famous halal yong tau foo joint. The fast service - taking order and food preparation, hard-working waitresses (no waiters!), and value-for-money factor are some of the extra incentives to eat here. Or, you can always bring your various yong tau foo 'stuffings' - fishballs, fritters, okra, bittergourd - home in sturdy plastic bags and containers. Other Honorable Mentions: Yummy Chicken Wings (A Must-Try!), Chilli Ikan Kembong (Indian Mackerel), Soya Bean Drink.
5) Restoran Mahboob, Bangsar We were introduced to Mahboob by my Aunty Bae, who had served us on a few occasions, the famous delectable nasi beriyani in her home. Mahboob's nasi beriyani is by far mouth-watering delicious, cooked to perfection with spices and ghee, to create beriyani rice that are so soft and fine that it's bound to dissolve inside your mouth. With our favourite accompaniments of ayam madu or ayam masala, we are always fully satisfied customers by the time we leave. Other Honorable Mentions: Roti Canai, Roti Bawang, Murtabak Daging, Nescafe Tarik, Teh Tarik. 6) Uncle Lim's, Ikano Center The Kopitiam's culture has regained popularity, thanks in part to the pioneering geniuis, Uncle Lim's which fuses traditional fares (like charcoal-toasted bread slathered with homemade 'kaya' (jam made from coconut milk and eggs) and butter, and 'Kopi Kau' (literally Thick Coffee)) with modern, copacetic surroundings. This type of comfort food appeals to the masses by bringing them together to enjoy simple, affordable grub minus the suffocating pretense of expensive, worldly cafes. By the way, we love the kaya toasts immensely with a side order of half-boiled eggs and Kopi Cham Ais (iced coffee mixed with tea!). Other Honorable Mentions: Nasi Lemak (Chicken), Chicken Porridge, Otak-Otak.
7) Kluang Station in Ikano Center or Tesco Ampang Following closely on Uncle Lim's heels is Kluang Station which was eponymously named after the famous roasted coffee from Kluang in Malaysia's state of Johor. Besides its decadent aromatic coffee drinks, it also serves the familiar toasted bread or bun with kaya and butter and hardboiled eggs. For us, it's their killer Cham Ais that draws our patronage every single time. The harmonious blend of their signature coffee with equal part tea and condensed/evaporated milk delivers its caffeine kick to our morning languor or rejuvenates us from those long mall strolls. And of course, you HAVE to try their generous portion of Fried Chicken Thigh. It's marinaded in a flavorsome spicy concoction in order to churn out a crispy golden texture on the outside and juicy tender flesh inside. A Winner! Slight Hiccups: If you come too early in the morning, some items on the menu may not yet be available for consumption. Probably, they have since rectified this 'delayed gratification' problem (have they?). Also, my cellphone went missing after eating at their Tesco Ampang branch so I have vowed not to return to that particular store...well, maybe until we return ;) 8) Madam Kwan's, KLCC Some rave reviews on the Net describe it as a 'Kopitiam' but I beg to differ. I think it's too posh a setting to be called a Kopitiam. Save for the alfresco 'deck' overlooking the mall's walkway, its interiors have a 'Peranakan' feel with understated teak trimmings. A favourite amongst both the locals and foreigners since its opening, this Madam Kwan branch (others are in Bangsar and Mid-Valley) is still going on strong, considering the high turnover of shops due to the expensive rental space of KLCC. Our grub of choice would predictably be Nasi Goreng (Fried Rice) served with tiny flakes of anchovies on top a heapful serving of fragrant rice. My only gripe concerns the service - sometimes the waiter 'discriminates' on which patrons he or she wants to serve. Probably the sweeping generalisation that foreigners tip has to do with this tacit selection. Other Honorable Mentions: Nasi Bojari (Yellow-colored rice with condiments such as half hard boiled eggs, cucumbers, assam prawns, beef rendang and deep fried chicken drumsticks), Nasi Lemak, Cantonese noodle, Hokkien fried noodle, Sago Gula Melaka, Fried Bananas with Ice-cream. 9) Little Penang Kafe in Mid-Valley, KLCC or The Curve Another household favourite - referring to my old family as well as my new family. Since the first store opened in Mid-Valley at the beginning of the new millennium (somewhere thereabouts), the whole family would congregate for a delicious bite on the weekends. After I became a Mrs, we in turn would frequent the one in KLCC owing mostly to its proximity factor. However, like some long-standing restaurants, the quality and flavour of some food have slightly waned. Hopefully, the owners will realise this carelessness and continue serving great Penang hawkerfood to its loyal clients. Hits The Spot: Lam Mee (favourite!), Mee Kari (Mama's favourite), Rojak Buah (all-time favourite), Nasi Lemak Penang (yummy sambal fish), Penang Lobak, Red Ruby dessert.
10) Cozy Corner Restaurant in G.E. (Great Eastern) Mall When we don't feel like cooking, the nearest choice of great food at speedy service is Cozy Corner. An offshoot of the original, evergreen Cozy Corner of Ampang Park, the restaurant's open-air ambience is both inviting and relaxing. The expansive booth seats, which overlook Jalan Ampang below, are our preferred vantage point for dining. The all-women operation (with the exception of the cook) might contribute to Cozy's efficiency and bustling success. Hits The Spot: Cantonese noodle, Nasi Goreng Ikan Masin (Salted Fish Fried Rice), Broccoli Spears in Cream Sauce, Battered Squid with Lemon Sauce, Iced Jasmine Tea, Fresh Mango Juice.
11) Mark's Assam Laksa in 1 Utama If my memory serves me correctly, we discovered Mark's during one of our dating excursions. As the name suggests, the Assam Laksa is a succulent recipe to be reckoned with. It comes with a generous portion of bite-size 'ikan kembung' hidden underneath the thick fishy gravy. The gravy in turn has that extra spicy 'zing' without being too overpowering. As my husband puts it, Mark's is the best assam laksa he has so far eaten. Yet, with the increasing cost of living, they have skimped on the 'ikan kembung' bits available on each bowl of Assam Laksa. Other Honorable Mentions: Nasi Beriyani with Ayam Rendang (Must-Try!), Nasi Lemak, Soursop Dessert and Drink.
12) Dusit Villa, Ampang Point area My husband brought me to this Thai haven shortly after I'd settled into our 'love-nest'. Trivia time : this long-established restaurant had even been featured in one of Malay local dramas (hopefully they didn't drink the the predictable orange juice - hehe). Celebrity aside, the restaurant boasts a myriad of Thai or Thai-infused gastronomical delights that are prepared according to the spice quotient requested by the patron. We highly recommend downing Lime-flavoured Barley drink, a nice contrast to your hot, scrumptious dishes. Price-wise, it's quite inexpensive compared to other upscale Thai fusion places like Tamarind Hill. Hits The Spot: Pad kaphrao (beef stir fried with Thai Holy basil), Tod Man Pla (deep-fried fishcake), Pad Thai (pan-fried rice noodles), green-curry chicken (Hot,hot!), batter-fried squid, glutinous rice (pulut) with mango slices and cocounut milk sauce.
Now that I have listed the eateries we are hankering for back home, my mouth salivates and my stomach grumbles. In the mean time, home-made nasi lemak, nasi ayam, bubur kacang, laksa sarawak, Kopi Cham would satisfy this indiscriminating palate!
Born in Kota Bharu, Kelantan (to a pseudo-Kelantanese father and a homegrown Kampung Baru mother) and bred in Shah Alam, Selangor of Malaysia, half of a twin, US-educated, politically-inclined, religiously-biased, felines-crazed, florally-motivated, caffeine-recidivist, nicotine-averse, cinema-addict, dictionary-phile. The smell of freshly-mown grass, the smell that precedes a downpour as well as my baby's au naturelle smell are God's infinite gift of endorphins to me.
