A Curried Life

Wills grins sheepishly. This girl is more than a little surprise to learn of his secret passion at night. Earlier on, she confesses her secret sin of chocolate truffles at midnight. Over copious cups of Pu Erh tea, Wills narrates the plots and sub plots of the Hokkien tele-drama that he has been following into the wee hours of the mornings. “You’ve really turned into a housewife!” she retorts. The going on and shenanigans of the Taiwanese drama is a melting pot of who-dun-its, business takeovers and sibling rivalry over the same girl. Wills is a SAHD or stay-at-home dad. Sometimes referred to as a househusband or house-spouse, he is the father of two lovely boys age 9 and 12. He is the main caregiver and the homemaker of the household. After years of putting gruelling hours at the office which took a toll on his health and quality of life; Wills made a life changing decision. He quit his high paying senior position in a foreign bank. He relocates his family back to his home

“Dee, can you get the Yim Kai from the fridge?” Kay’s mother hollers from the kitchen. I look at Kay, who is equally blurred. Salted Chicken? We look into both fridges, opening and closing doors. There was a large turkey sitting in the chiller staring back. Maybe it’s a Cantonese tradition, Kay volunteers. Kay’s mother ambles towards us, she has the look of one annoyed with the foolishness of youth – that being Kay and I. She shoves pass us and takes the turkey out. “As plain as day itself and these two think they can cook it by staring at it!” or some Cantonese idioms to that effect. Both Kay and I are clueless. He doesn’t speak his mother tongue and I, being part Hakka am equally hopeless. Kay’s mother glares at us. “I thought you meant salted chicken, Mom,” Kay says. Kay’s mother takes out the bird and places him on a large enamel plate. “I had to book this Yim Kai from Ipoh. This one’s a big boy, about 6.5kg and cost RM50 per kilo, “she boasts. Yim Kai is a cast

Two weeks into her first make over, the good little disciple showed off her loot. Amassed over weekend splurges, she managed to mega jump from nothing to a proud owner of a paisley print twin pouch cosmetic purse. “Gosh, your handbag's heavier now,” cousin announced, as handbags were passed over the dining table  to pile on the spare seat. Tea time treats followed with a round of “Chopsticks” Massage. Cousin examined the loot; in it were lipsticks, with names like Rouge in Love, Simply Pink and Pearle Rosa. Crayon eyeliner Noir brun. Lip liner 02 Mauve. Apache Blusher in Posie Tint. A hand held mirror. Of course there were other purchases. A gentle and mild facial wipes. Cleansing Milk, Toner, Skin Toner, Intense Moisture Booster, Skin Smoothing Scrub, Eye Cream to dab and pat. A wonderful world of potions and serums. She liked the difference two little lines could do for her eyes. Subtly, she changes. “Death to Dee the Dog and Ava the Hound” Dr Ava laughed; toasting al

Dinner for six with the likes of empowered gusty women leaves this girl totally awed. The credentials of these women are nothing short of a small wonder. Dr Ava; read brilliant clinical mind that matches her mile long legs and amazingly well-proportioned honed body. Suri; read Glamour queen and kitchen goddess extraordinaire, a delightful Asian Nigella Lawson.  Suri’s friend; read technically sound, wizard of an architect able to hurl design thought balloons to lamblast contractors into quivering lipped ISO compliant responsible workers. Tracy; famed pioneer of “Peyton Place After Midnight” cardio-blast. This girl; read bookish poet-writer wannabe with stomach bigger than her myopic eyes and a strong aversion for sweaty construction types. A conversation of sort ensues: it leaves this girl feeling a little INADEQUATE. Now she knows how a man must feel in the presence of superlatives. He feels deflated. “He sorts of panics,” Dr Ava narrates the story. “It is

It was a cowboy movie that she picked that up from. It felt “cool”. She took to practising this. A quick dart of her tongue to moisten that left corner of her lip was the “glue” needed to keep that tooth pick hanging without falling out. She was deliberately being cheeky. Annoying even. Smoker ignored her and tapped absently at his new pack of Lights with menthol. A fore finger scrapped the edge of the peel tape and with a fluid motion, he unravel the pack. He flipped it open, out of habit; he ran a finger over the top row of the twenties twice. Smoker stopped in the middle and pull out a ciggies. He began to tap it, filter side down. He took more than his usual three taps, to condense the tobacco. With a flick of his lighter, he lit up. Drew in a little at first to fire it up. Then he drew in deeply and held that breath and slowly released it through his nostrils in a steady stream. Smoker leaned back, closed his eyes and drawl. “Why do you annoy me so?” Non-Smoker Girl ro

I was at evening mass last week and this was part of the homily that the priest read to the congregation. It was a very touching story on marriage that I’ve heard… When You Divorce Me, Carry Me Out in Your Arms When I got home that night as my wife served dinner, I held her hand and said, “I’ve got something to tell you.” She sat down and ate quietly. Again I observed the hurt in her eyes. Suddenly I didn’t know how to open my mouth. But I had to let her know what I was thinking. I want a divorce. I raised the topic calmly. She didn’t seem to be annoyed by my words, instead she asked me softly, why? I avoided her question. This made her angry. She threw away the chopsticks and shouted at me, you are not a man! That night, we didn’t talk to each other. She was weeping. I knew she wanted to find out what had happened to our marriage. But I could hardly give her a satisfactory answer; she had lost my heart to Dew. I didn’t love her anymore. I just pitied her! With a deep sense o

The Purple Wall via Internet Finally at 25, I had my first site. It was a double storey detached house that I had designed from scratch. The owner a youngish Chinese man, with a unisex hair cut was what one would call nouveau riche, having made his millions in the past three years. With a lucky streak and a bull run, suddenly Mr Man had more than he was accustomed to. After the new cars, new wardrobe, accessories and new wife, he bought an old house in an old neighbourhood. Mr Man decided on an “English” sounding address and chose York Road. Definitely dignified. As the design grew, I began to understand what Mr Man wanted in his home. He’s been reading up design magazines and bought stacks of architectural books with pretty pictures for my reference. Sometime he’ll just tear out a few pages, fold these into little squares and stick it in his breast pocket to show his friends over lunch. What I’ll get later is bits of glossy paper with food stains that he’ll drop off at my

A favourite Stream. Photo by Doris Lim Still boys will be boys. One day, those two went missing the entire afternoon. My mother and my aunts could not locate them. They just vanish into thin air. My mother was so worried that she cried. My aunts wailed and frightened each other with endless horror stories. My sisters and I were very quiet. I was clinging to my mother. At three, there was not much that I could understand except that something bad happened. I barely doze off to sleep when the commotion woke me up. There they were standing at the front door, totally drenched from head to toe. My mother screams and hugs and kisses them all at the same time berating loudly. Eldest aunt went to smell their clothes, squeeze a little of the water out and tasted it. “It’s sea water!” she exclaims. “What?” Mother was perplex, shock,” what do you mean sea water” the closest body of water was our “river” and it was more of a muddy creek than flowing stream. The boys refused to answer

“No one has a show kitchen in their home,” Mother glances around and tut-tuts disapprovingly. I cringe, feeling like a three year old who’s caught stuffing chocolates in her mouth and forgetting to wipe the evidence from her lips and cheeks. So this girl keeps quiet. Mother walks around prying at the drawers, she shoots a stare. I quickly curl my fingers and pull slightly beneath the drawer. “It’s one of those hidden handles,” I volunteer sheepishly, “Equip with spring mechanisms for closing and opening that prevents slamming little fingers, only a light tap will do, err…” Mother stares hard at me: So lame. Arrghh…. “If you were rich and moneyed,“ Mother starts, “you wouldn’t even spend money on such frivolous things. Putting up mirrors in the kitchen some more.” Mother pauses, “Siao!” she exclaim for maximum effect. Tempered Glass on the walls was a bad idea. Mike the architect and his kitchenology! This will be the death of moi, yet. That man has brilliantly plan anot