I was going to call this post The Taste of Tea Eggs, and tell you all about how they bring back memories of rainy afternoons crossing the Causeway in the car when I was in primary school. That was back when Holiday Plaza was still a haven for people (like my dad) who wanted a cheap (read: pirated) software fix.
To his credit, he bought pirated software just to try it out - if he really liked the program, or thought it was useful, he bought the original.
Eating tea eggs when we went to JB was de rigeur. My indulgent paternal grandmother would buy them for me from the Chinese medicine shop at the back entrance to Holiday Plaza: she liked them too. I couldn't resist the smell, and till today I can't not walk past a stall with a slow cooker prominently displayed right in front and brown coloured eggs simmering gently in it without feeling like I need to buy one.
Finding a lady selling tea eggs at the bus station in Taiyuan made the fact that we were three girls off in the far north of China a little less frightening.
And on a rainy go to JB afternoon, holding the warm egg in cupped hands (after it cooled down and there was no need to transfer it from hand to hand or hold the plastic bag it was in at the top) was extremely comforting, curled up in a corner of the car looking at the rear lights of the car in front of us through the raindrop-spattered car windows.
If there was a traffic jam, I really counted those tea eggs as blessings.
The only fault I can find with them is that you never get any of the "tea" in the yolk to create that lovely yellowy brown slush one gets with hard-boiled eggs and soya sauce.
My maternal grandmother cooked up a batch of tea eggs on Sunday in honour of my maternal grandfather's birthday. She didn't crack the shells enough for the "tea" to seep into the eggs, but no matter. The fact that she cooked them is enough, because she hasn't cooked so much for some time due to her bad knee.
I also wanted to take a picture of my grandfather and my aunt at the small table next to the window in my grandparents' flat - the light was right, and she was cutting up his Bengawan Solo cake and he was eating a piece, slowly with his left hand, because he hasn't been able to move the right side of his body since he had a stroke when I was nine.
The feeling was right, notwithstanding Noisy Aunt and her family talking very loudly, at each other, certain other extended family members joining in the fray (read: naughty brother and cousin who enjoy baiting people who can't tell the difference).
But for once, my father had left Cammie in Muzzie (car).
So you shall just have to imagine the scene.
Today I checked out the name of the Bengawan Solo cake - it's very aptly called "Fruit Cake," and consists of jellied fruits atop a yellow layer cake (scented with lemon), with slices of patterned white chocolate around its sides.
I've blogged about another of his birthdays before, so if you remember that, good for you - and now you know what the cake is called so you can buy it too. It's a cheaper alternative and doesn't taste half bad, really!
Sometimes, I feel that visits to my maternal grandparents' on one of their birthdays, when almost the entire extended family is present, is like being in a Uniquely Singaporean indie movie.
And I know I'm bordering on self-indulgent by blogging about it like it is, but hey. What are blogs for, right?
***
Anyway, the title of this post is Polls About Punggol, so here goes:
To discourage Jon from harbouring notions that we are going to stay in Punggol, I have polled various people very loudly, usually in his hearing, as to whether they will visit us if we stay there.
Most people have, very encouragingly, said "No, unless _______________." "____________" is the usual nonsense, like "you buy me a car" or "you pay for my cab fare." And I pointed out to him that my father already KBKBs (pardon the French) about going to my maternal grandparents' in the East, so it is most likely that he will KBKB even more about having to visit me if I stay in Punggol.
(Multiply the KBKB by the distance from Marine Parade to Punggol to find out just how much I think he will KBKB.)
But today, my Very Own Brother the PoBe (Polar Bear, if you remember) unfortunately gave a resounding - and I mean resounding - "YES!" to the question, designed specially to discourage Jon from wanting to stay in Punggol.
Jon wasn't there because I asked PoBe this question at breakfast, but STILL. (PoBe didn't do Literature in secondary school, so Et tu, Brute? would be lost on him.)
His reason? "It's near Changi Village! I can go cycling! And after that I can leave my bike at your place!"
I don't like to use emoticons, but in this case I think there's one which sums everything up succinctly:
To his credit, he bought pirated software just to try it out - if he really liked the program, or thought it was useful, he bought the original.
Eating tea eggs when we went to JB was de rigeur. My indulgent paternal grandmother would buy them for me from the Chinese medicine shop at the back entrance to Holiday Plaza: she liked them too. I couldn't resist the smell, and till today I can't not walk past a stall with a slow cooker prominently displayed right in front and brown coloured eggs simmering gently in it without feeling like I need to buy one.
Finding a lady selling tea eggs at the bus station in Taiyuan made the fact that we were three girls off in the far north of China a little less frightening.
And on a rainy go to JB afternoon, holding the warm egg in cupped hands (after it cooled down and there was no need to transfer it from hand to hand or hold the plastic bag it was in at the top) was extremely comforting, curled up in a corner of the car looking at the rear lights of the car in front of us through the raindrop-spattered car windows.
If there was a traffic jam, I really counted those tea eggs as blessings.
The only fault I can find with them is that you never get any of the "tea" in the yolk to create that lovely yellowy brown slush one gets with hard-boiled eggs and soya sauce.
My maternal grandmother cooked up a batch of tea eggs on Sunday in honour of my maternal grandfather's birthday. She didn't crack the shells enough for the "tea" to seep into the eggs, but no matter. The fact that she cooked them is enough, because she hasn't cooked so much for some time due to her bad knee.
I also wanted to take a picture of my grandfather and my aunt at the small table next to the window in my grandparents' flat - the light was right, and she was cutting up his Bengawan Solo cake and he was eating a piece, slowly with his left hand, because he hasn't been able to move the right side of his body since he had a stroke when I was nine.
The feeling was right, notwithstanding Noisy Aunt and her family talking very loudly, at each other, certain other extended family members joining in the fray (read: naughty brother and cousin who enjoy baiting people who can't tell the difference).
But for once, my father had left Cammie in Muzzie (car).
So you shall just have to imagine the scene.
Today I checked out the name of the Bengawan Solo cake - it's very aptly called "Fruit Cake," and consists of jellied fruits atop a yellow layer cake (scented with lemon), with slices of patterned white chocolate around its sides.
I've blogged about another of his birthdays before, so if you remember that, good for you - and now you know what the cake is called so you can buy it too. It's a cheaper alternative and doesn't taste half bad, really!
Sometimes, I feel that visits to my maternal grandparents' on one of their birthdays, when almost the entire extended family is present, is like being in a Uniquely Singaporean indie movie.
And I know I'm bordering on self-indulgent by blogging about it like it is, but hey. What are blogs for, right?
***
Anyway, the title of this post is Polls About Punggol, so here goes:
To discourage Jon from harbouring notions that we are going to stay in Punggol, I have polled various people very loudly, usually in his hearing, as to whether they will visit us if we stay there.
Most people have, very encouragingly, said "No, unless _______________." "____________" is the usual nonsense, like "you buy me a car" or "you pay for my cab fare." And I pointed out to him that my father already KBKBs (pardon the French) about going to my maternal grandparents' in the East, so it is most likely that he will KBKB even more about having to visit me if I stay in Punggol.
(Multiply the KBKB by the distance from Marine Parade to Punggol to find out just how much I think he will KBKB.)
But today, my Very Own Brother the PoBe (Polar Bear, if you remember) unfortunately gave a resounding - and I mean resounding - "YES!" to the question, designed specially to discourage Jon from wanting to stay in Punggol.
Jon wasn't there because I asked PoBe this question at breakfast, but STILL. (PoBe didn't do Literature in secondary school, so Et tu, Brute? would be lost on him.)
His reason? "It's near Changi Village! I can go cycling! And after that I can leave my bike at your place!"
I don't like to use emoticons, but in this case I think there's one which sums everything up succinctly:
-.-
Now, if only we could answer exam questions that way. Gives new meaning to "succinct," doesn't it?
