Noodle/Pasta/Rice

Curry Laksa

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If you haven’t heard of “Nyonya”, chances are you have eaten it instead.  Yeah.  It may not have been as justly popularized as Thai or Vietnamese, but its low-key awesomeness is in every Southeast Asian restaurant.  The word itself means the union between Chinese and Malays, and the fushion cuisine thus born which is PURE MAGIC.  So then… why am I struggling to finish this post after writing then tearing (…symbolically) and rewriting again?  Because I JUST can’t escape the thought that people would come, and see, and “huh??” and just FADE OUT.  And I’m exhausting all my aren’t-really-there writing skills in an attempt to make this sound like a Rachel Ray’s which has let me to a desperate conclusion to say that… it isn’t.  Yes, it is complicated and consists of a blinding array of exotic ingredients.  And chances are if you weren’t those who have true affection for a bowl of spicy noodles, I’ve lost you somewhere along the second sentence.  BUT if you are those like me, it would be worth the while.

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“Rice Pie” It Is

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And I really don’t have any other better ideas so “rice pie” it is.

I’m sure we’ve all suffered from this.  From Cantonese clay-pot rice, to Korean bibimbap, to Spanish paellas.  All are different cuisines of rice plus whatnot, cooked in a sizzling vessel that forms a “burnt crust” of rice on the sides and bottom, which many would argue is the essence of such dishes.  OK, now here’s the “suffering” part.  What’s the point… of creating those wonderful, delicious, toasty crusts… if all they ever want is… to STICK TO the cookware!?  Like taking a lovely prospect to a bar to get’em drunk and they ended going home with the bartender…  No?  Nobody’s ever suffered from this?  It’s just me?  OK, well fine.  I DON’T GET IT.  I like those burnt bits, too and I was there first!!  How can it choose the pan over me?!  It’s heart-breaking that after my useless HACKING and SCRAPING at an innocent cookware that really don’t deserve this violence, I call it quit and just watch them still happily and ever-so contently clinging onto each other while I ponder with frustration, “why?”.

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Octopus 8/2

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HuuuuuGE~!  And, no.  I couldn’t help it.  I know I’m supposed to be nurturing baby tartlets, or summer fruitcakes, or at least an icy cocktail because that’s just the kind of things people like to lust over this time of the year.  Not some giant 8-legged sea monster that they rather watch strangling the Empire State Building, than laying dead in their kitchen sink.  But, no.  I.  Just.  COULDN’T.  Help it.  Have you ever tasted a great octopus?  If pure culinary bliss doesn’t do the trick, let me appeal to sentiments.  This beauty instantly brings me back to my fond memories of that wonderful and sunny day in Nice, when Jason found a specialty food shop that gave us the most succulent marinated octopus to snack with on the way strolling back to the hotel.  And I thought to myself, “Nevermind craving this back home because I would NEVER find a quality, freshly octopus… ”  Well… hello there~.

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Best Thing Out of a Can

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I’m back from my 11 days trip to Hong Kong and Taiwan and find myself dealing with something that I assume everyone’s familiar with. The fridge is and should be vacant or otherwise nurturing some… organic, furry things.  Oooonly-a-few-days-expired dairies usually get tossed in the trash after reason finally overthrows desperation (hopefully).  Remaining options hover between the 24hr McHot-line or Mr. Cup Noodles.  Don’t get me wrong.  They are both great contributions to mankind and deserve a standing ovation, but guilt is calling for something homemade.

Boy do I have a solution for this.  One of my absolutely favorite pasta and it makes in no time.

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Taiwan in a Pot

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I mean, really.  Taiwanese or not, if looking at this doesn’t induce some watering in the mouth, I’m afraid we don’t have anything in common.  Just imagine that gelatinous pork belly coated in DARK, CARAMELLY AMBER SAUC… wait.  It looks more like blurry, grainy, monotone photo that’s seen too much UV light?

Ooooh… haaa.. ha… you know… Instagram being SO happening and all… ha.. I thought it’d be cool to do a little “retro” look.  Just kind of keeping up with the tech world… kind of thing…  BUT HEY, not fond of distorted view of the world behind diffused lenses?  OK.  We’re back.

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Magic Shrooms

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OK, I sort of bashed it in my previous post (as if it matters), and stripped its right for photos (as if they care).  But maybe I didn’t make myself as clear as I should have.  What I meant was, the tourist-trappy pre fixe we ordered SUCKED, yes ( “Ma’am, this is Robuchon’s signature this… Robuchon’s signature that…”  Pfffffff!!).  BUT everything else the local French were eating beside us looked SUBLIIIME!!  If only we had another €300 dangling in our pocket, we could have theoretically rewrite our Robuchon memory.  Or if only I grew a layer of cowhide thick enough to ask for a picture, “excuse… eh.. moi?…  flash, flash oui?”, I could have at least showcase that beautiful morel pasta here.

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A Confused Chicken Rice

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I assume people meant my ethnicity, not the city I currently live in, but even that has no easy answer.  Three decades of my life so far are sort of evenly spent in three different locations.  The country I was born in but haven’t lived in for more than 2 decades.  The country I spent all my teens therefore granted me a citizenship of.  Then there’s the city I feel most at home, where it shaped me into an individual and till this day, still defines me.  So which one are they talking about?  Oh, and of course this shithole place where I’m currently residing in for the past 3 years, where I don’t even want my name to go anywhere near the close proximity of.  I think it’s safe to say that I’m a product of the environment of a shrinking globe.

 That I’m suffering from identity crisis.

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You.. Dirty Dirty Pasta

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Then came the effort the correct it.  And then, TOTAL insomnia.  As I tried pushing through the day without submitting to the brain-paralyzing exhaustion, the nights remained sleepless where I go in-and-out of consciousness and wake up feeling even more tired than the day before.  The cherry on my cake was, on top of this build up of 14 days without proper sleep,  that my oldest son, 11-year-old Maltese, Dumpling had to go through a completely unexpected surgery yesterday.  If I haven’t properly introduced myself, this IS the top three on my worst-things-that-could-happen list.  So all in all, the past week has been… really shitty.

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