Before this year I had never tasted a persimmon. But having a tree weighing heavy with fruit in your backyard leaves you more than slightly obsessed, totally consumed for one and a half months. The square ones in the supermarket look depressingly perfect and soulless by comparison now, with nary a scratch or sunburn.
I squandered hours and hours on the internet, reading through persimmon recipes in every shape and form. I still know woefully little about the fruits themselves, but I fell in love with them enough to feel pangs of wistfulness every time I saw a persimmon tree in someone’s backyard or a temple, branches full of lonely fruit waiting to be plucked. Continue reading
I have always been somewhat distrustful of carb-on-carb dishes, rather like a 6-year old facing a mysterious pile of kale or aubergine for the first time, every single time. Give me bread or potatoes, not a bloody chip butty. The idea of eating rice alongside a bowl of ramen still makes my stomach turn, as does the culinary travesty known here as yakisoba pan. It’s been 5 years now since I’ve been living and breathing all things Japan and I still can’t get behind stir-fried noodles in a bread roll. (WHY JAPANESE PEOPLE, WHY?*)
But crispy garlicky breadcrumbs on spaghetti – ah, now this is a dish I can get behind. Continue reading
Can you believe it’s almost October? I could’ve sworn it was still summer, but it’s already that time of the year for longer skirts and hot tea in the mornings. And I’ve been living in Kyoto for almost two months now, just pottering around the kitchen and occasionally nursing a twinge in my knees (courtesy of some intense hiking in Hokkaido). Before you know it I’ll be thirty and wondering where my life disappeared to, let alone this summer of 2015.
But onwards to what I really want to tell you about: avocado spaghetti with lemon zest, capers, basil and parsley.
Here is a summary of my life since March: moved to Japan for a new job at a multinational corporation. Hated the job. Left the job (and company housing) mid-June for an offer I couldn’t refuse. Lived out of a suitcase in an empty room in Tokyo for 1.5 months. Moved to Kyoto, where I’m writing to you from, right now. Continue reading
Where did spring go, where did the sakura blossoms disappear to? We’ve barely scraped past the starting point of May, and summer already has its sweaty grip on Tokyo. Today is a blistering 28 degrees, and I do mean hot enough to make my scalp sweat and my neck burn. I came to Japan to escape the tropical heat, and so here I am indoors and away from the blue skies, with a glass of mugi-cha in hand.
Today is one of my rare days off which fall on a Saturday. Working in retail means that I almost invariably work weekends, talking to an endless stream of customers with bullet train mouths. I mean this in the nicest way possible: save for the one or two who have squinted at my name tag and said, ah, you’re not Japanese… the customers at the store have generally been quite pleasant (or at least not unpleasant) to deal with.
So I am slowly settling into the daily grind of working life in Japanese retail, complete with scheduling uncertainties and lots of meaningless apologising. My working hours mean that my nights end later than most, and you might see me on the train with my head bent over a smartphone furiously catching up on the internet.
The relatively late start, however, means that I can have more leisurely mornings. Technically speaking, I should be spending some part of my morning putting on a full face of ‘natural’ makeup as required by my company dress code manual – to which I say, nay! I bite my thumb at thee! Since my (very nice) manager is your average Japanese dude and almost certainly has no clue as to whether I have makeup on or not, I tend to go without, and spend my mornings on breakfast instead.
Last Sunday morning, we woke up early to prepare for our all-day open house – there’d be stir-fried meehoon and turmeric cabbage on the home-cooked front. Dad came home pushing a trolley heaving with stock pots filled to the brim with mutton curry, fried chicken and gallons of chicken curry from Kari Guys in Lucky Garden*, as well as packets of nasi lemak and roti canai.
Me: There’s so much food…
Dad: You think we got five, ten people coming ah. A lot of people coming you know.
Me: Dad, there are 250 pieces of chicken. Do you have 200 people coming?
Dad: You think people only eat one piece is it.
Me: Dad! There’s so much other food!
Dad: Better to have more.
When you’re having an open house, the old adage ‘less is more,’ isn’t. More is more is more. Speaking of which, I often hear this gem at the buffet table: “it’s ok. No problem one. This kind of thing, only eat once a year one.” (The speaker is often shovelling their nth scoop of curry onto their plate as they say this.) You’ll hear this at every event which occasions a feast: Chinese New Year reunion dinners and the accompanying 200 open houses, Ramadan, Deepavali, full moon dinners, weddings. It’s technically true, I suppose. These events only occur once a year. Each. Continue reading
In China the Lunar New Year is referred to as the Spring Festival because it heralds the coming of spring. No such luck in tropical Malaysia, where the weather all year ranges between ‘hot’ and ‘Jesus fucking Christ on a stick it’s hot.’ Around Chinese New Year it’s always blazing, and this week has therefore been blisteringly hot, hot enough that even KL denizens – not just me – are complaining about the heat. Thank goodness for air-conditioning, harbinger of climate change and vice that will eventually rip apart the ozone layer – to which we say, sod that. It feels like a sauna in this town. Any port in a storm…
This year was the first year we didn’t return to Raub for the annual reunion dinner. My sister and I dodged many bullets there, including the inevitable “you lost/gained weight is it” and “got boyfriend or not” type questions. Because of my interest in Japan, my uncle will sometimes harangue me about what the Japanese soldiers did to the Chinese in Malaya. (Trust me, I know…) The only thing I can actually do – short of answering back – is smile and nod. But compared to many Chinese families, I think my extended relatives are generally less nosy. Relatively speaking.
Ever since I began studying Japanese at university, I’ve become accustomed to the inevitable barrage of
questions well-meaning advice from aunties and uncles: wah, you studying Japanese is it. SOAS? What is SOAS? Oriental and African Studies ah. You studying African is it. Why you study Japanese in London? You going to be teacher is it? Oh, you moving to Tokyo. Work there is it. Very clean hor, Japan. Very nice there. The people very polite hor. They ah, bow to you all the time. But the men ah, aiya. Tsk tsk. Better don’t marry a Japanese man. They treat their women like what kind only. Later you have to walk behind them. But ah, the food very good. The shoo-shi ah, wuuuahhhh. Best, man, I tell you.
Chinese New Year is all about this: smile, and nod. Rinse, and repeat. Continue reading
This space has been a little quiet, though I assure you my headspace has been anything but. It’s been a strangely eventful few weeks – my grandmother’s hip surgery, a brief sojourn to Bandung where I ate some bloody amazing porridge, a whole lot of writing. Not all the writing has been especially good, but what they say about the practice is extremely true – the more you write, the easier it gets. The words begin to spill in small spurts, rather than agonising trickles.
Anyway: I’m mighty excited about a new project I began a few days ago – it’s a weekly newsletter featuring excellent long form writing (and interesting finds generally) across an eclectic range of subjects. Furochan Reads will feature essays on food, of course, but I’ll also share writing on art, sex, gender issues, politics, fashion, literature, film, science – anything that has caught my fancy. I never was good at focusing on just one subject.
Sometime last week, Dave Chang of Momofuku fame declared ramen dead (in the States). You can read his diatribe in its entirety over at Lucky Peach, but he makes several ludicrous claims there, including, “Access to instantaneous information from the Internet has killed innovation in ramen,” “Ramen was always a fringe pursuit in Japan” and, most absurd of all, “Ramen is not supposed to be about shared experiences; ramen is food for those who don’t want to be part of the mainstream.”
This is, of course, a whole crock of horse shit. Continue reading
We’re exactly halfway through the first month of 2015 – where did the past two weeks disappear to – and that realisation alone was enough to frighten me into writing. I tell people I don’t believe in New Year resolutions, because some arbitrary calendar year transition shouldn’t be the driving force behind the changes in your life. Nevertheless, on January 1st, I pulled out my brush pen and a piece of paper, and scrawled down a list of things I wanted to do. Not for 2015! Just, you know, because. That’s what I told myself while I wrote use actual camera more often and make travel zines. Write more.
For the next two weeks I did everything but those things: read Infinite Jest, binge-watched anime, made Romesco sauce (which is the bomb), wandered around malls in Singapore wanting desperately to smash everything with a sledgehammer.