I hate to use the “F” word. But I fear the husband and I may be becoming Fat.
Perhaps it was the many fromages of Paris or the endless plates of fried noodles in Singapore.
He says I am crazy, of course. And I, too, tell him, Oh no, no, no — not you. (The things people say to each other.)
Nonetheless, we’ve decided, it’s time to take the devouring down a few beats. And so we’ve been turning to another dreaded “F” word: Fish.
It always comes to this, a mad race to the finish.
I knew I was in trouble when I found myself slurping up the remnants
of a big bowl of beef ball noodles last week while plotting, mid-bite,
to have a second dinner at Swee Kee, a Hainanese chicken rice joint that’s been drawing crowds for decades.
There’s never enough time when it comes to eating in Singapore. And my last days there before heading back to New York are always filled with crazed eating marathons as I frantically squeeze in that one last bowl of prawn noodles, that one last dish of Hainanese curried squid, all to tide me over until my next trip back.
Inevitably, when I return to New York, there has to be a break.
The palate must be cleansed; the body needs a rest.
This time, I’d come back eager to rev up my stove again after weeks of squatting in my aunties’ kitchens. But, what to make?