The thing about returning to New York from a long trip halfway across the world is, your body does strange things. Like, popping awake all sparkly and chirpy the first moment the sun nudges it.
At 7 a.m., I call the Sis. “Let me guess–Mike’s still asleep and you’re jetlagged and bored.” She is, as we two say, corright.
I’m not quite sure what to do with myself that early on a Saturday. So I slip out to look for sausages.
There is a deep belief in these parts that the dead may be dead — but that little detail shouldn’t get in the way of serving them a good meal.
And so in Singaporean wet markets, alongside stalls selling vegetables and plump pigs’ trotters, you’ll find little places that hawk food of a different kind. Shelves will be filled with boxes of paper dumplings, chicken feet and other dimsum treats — the idea is to burn them as offerings so your deceased loved ones will get them on the Other Side.
I hadn’t seen one of these in a while, mostly because when I’m in these markets I tend to race over to stalls that sell food that I can actually eat.
Like, now. Not when I’m in the Big Upstairs shamelessly flirting with River Phoenix.
File this under the “all food porn and no substance” category:
It’s a gorgeous, sun-drenched afternoon in Singapore. The sky is impossibly blue, there’s a light tropical breeze rolling through, humidity feels non-existent.
All this called for an impromptu backyard picnic of home-made kaya (Singaporean coconut jam) on walnut bread.
A good life, indeed.
I have new-found respect for bak-zhang hawkers.
I’d never given the pyramid-shaped, glutinous-rice dumplings much thought — until I learned how to make them.
And boy, let me tell you, if you’re not naturally gifted in the ways of origami, you’re really in for it. (Unless you enjoy hearing the pitter-patter of rice beads skittering across the floor as clumps of braised pork pelt your toes.)
Anyone tailing me over the past few days might come to this conclusion: That Cheryl, she’s just a big whore.
It’s these red-light districts. I just can’t stay away from them.
Not that I’m dissing the world’s oldest profession, but it’s actually other afternoon delights that have been the draw for me in these neighborhoods.
In yesterday’s case, it was Kok Sen Coffee Shop‘s crispy harjeong gai, a Singaporean dish of chicken marinated in prawn paste and then deep fried. (A particularly apropos lure considering “gai,” or chicken, is local slang for “prostitute.” As is “fishball girl” in some corners, for that matter. I’m not even going to speculate why.)