People have been asking — what do you do with all this bread you're baking?
To which, I have my own question: Have you seen my behind lately?
But the truth is, I don't eat all, or even a quarter, of my bread. Giving it away has been a sound strategy. And, I have a freezer full of brioche, waiting for the day when a handsome bread pudding recipe comes along.
When I made challah, however, I broke the rules.
The moment I set eyes on my braided loaf, I knew French toast was a must.
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.
They say that you can’t go home again.
Over a snack of mutton murtabak and Malay ginger tea, scalding hot and satisfyingly milky, the phrase suddenly popped into my head. And my mind immediately banished the logic.
I had been bemoaning my rudimentary photography skills to my friend KF Seetoh, a Singapore TV food host (the Saint Anthony of Southeast Asia, really), when I confessed, “I just learned how to focus.”
The camera, that is. And this would be, oh, after four years of owning the darned thing.
In fact, I’m the only person I know who can take a picture of a perfectly delicious specimen of food and somehow produce a vision that is capable of inspiring nausea and thoughts of never lifting morsel to mouth ever again.
My problem, always, has been the hunger.
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