14?

So I browsed a lot of blogs and websites on what we term the Meaning of Life. Poor, pathetic Alex, lost in this constant state of confusion and lack of self-assertion, the unbearable heaviness and drowsiness of ennui, of the gross grey state, of absolute insecurity. Hey, let me live my life. It’s fascinating alright. The fact that we all have such different ideals and notions and attitudes. We are freaking magnificent.

Here’s one I particularly enjoyed by famed science writer Stephen Jay Gould:

“We are here because one odd group of fishes had a peculiar fin anatomy that could transform into legs for terrestrial creatures; because the earth never froze entirely during an ice age; because a small and tenuous species, arising in Africa a quarter of a million years ago, has managed, so far, to survive by hook and by crook. We may yearn for a ‘higher’ answer — but none exists. This explanation, though superficially troubling, if not terrifying, is ultimately liberating and exhilarating. We cannot read the meaning of life passively in the facts of nature. We must construct these answers ourselves — from our own wisdom and ethical sense. There is no other way.”

Guys, it’s 2014. I can say it out loud, though it’s a little hard. It’s hard for me to say things without fully coming to terms with its gargantuan impact. I have officially had this blog for (ok almost) a year now, and even though I still keep a diary for more personal recordings, for a more self-assured, sometimes hazardous and selfish reinforcing of a sense of self, I found that this online release has introduced me to so many amazing human beings, inspirations, really allowing me to delve further into my passions of food and science.

I wrote down my resolutions in my diary, but then put down my pen. Continued the lazy browsing.

Four-teen. Two thousand and four-teen. Note the hyphen. The break for perfect pronounciation in normal conversation. It’s that nascent trembling again, that time when you’re supposed to make, what, a list? God I love making lists. I really do. It’s not banal, it’s not perfunctory. To me, a list is the epitome of organised thought, aside from some brilliant novel. As I said, something in me made me stop the recollection. In short, we should, no, need to, differentiate between recollection and appreciation. I’m currently reading a book about Proust and how in many of his novels and his own life (you can find it here), we may digest a tremendous amount of life lessons. Things like how to listen properly and how to take your time, the sort of self-help (goodness gracious what on earth) book I foresee myself purchasing when I’m 80 and grey and run out of excuses for a good life. But anyways, there are so many resources informing us on how to live, how to learn, how to see. How to pursue our passions and live in the most fulfilling way possible. Satisfying our inborn needs and letting our surroundings complete us somehow. Funny huh, how we strive for utmost perfection in our individual ways. In the book, I came across this particularly striking notion, the sort which actually relates to people on a mass scale.

You know how when you see something and just.. Like it? You just do. The shine on a pink apple, the drab but surreal and enlightening tones of a winter tree, maybe the sudden faint smell of tobacco and peppermint, for whatever odd reason that may be. That is because it provokes or stirs up an emotion in you, triggering a beautiful or old memory of some sort. Maybe you just like the aesthetic/visual/aural appeal of that object. Whether you identify the psychological reason behind it or not, you like it. That is essentially a fraction of the explanation detailing what makes us who we are and well, the mistake we always tend to make. In our everyday lives, we cease to stop and look, and only really get hit by an object’s full impact when it’s separated from a particular context, when we look from the outside in. Sometimes the object is fully placed in its usual habitat, it’s just that this time our senses are so heightened that it is suddenly transformed into something so excruciatingly potent or beautiful. All the details of its beauty are caught out, which is why most of us get that sad nostalgia churning on the inside when we reach (again, again) the end of a year. We look at what we have done, what we have accomplished, what more we need to do to satisfy those inner needs or self-manifested benchmarks for worthiness and goodness. And then what happens? We want to put a label on the Meaning of Life so darn badly that we actually forget to live life. To appreciate. Live. I’m not going to resolve to ‘live life to the fullest’ or ‘be the best’- I’ve done that too many times and I bore myself with my pseudo-disciplinary methods. Oh, so bored. But I am going to be absolutely ridiculous this year. And what I mean by that is to really throw myself into the many factions of my life and all it has to offer, and handle things my way, be it intertwined with my weird study schedule, obsessive skincare routine or the way I make my coffee in the mornings. That may seem the same as living life to the fullest, but remember, I said ridiculous. Just as beauty to you is different than what it is to me, what I term ridiculous, or absurd, may be utterly different from your definition.

After all:

“We are here to laugh at the odds and live our lives so well that Death will tremble to take us.”

Happy New Year, you devils.

Posted on January 2, 2014February 21, 2022 by alexcrumb 1

Strangers’ Reunion

So I couldn’t find the door. The large glass door which lead directly to the light wood enclave so appropriately named Strangers’ Reunion. Let… Let me tell you a short story. I leave my house, take the bus to Tiong Bahru, get lost, hail a cab. Typical, normal, I would say. Nothing not very Alex-like. But I think the embarrassment peaked when I found myself floundering about like a complete and utter idiot even when I reached the shophouse. The words were clear, right there in front of me, I even saw my two cute and nice and short friends Celeste and Liz (probably laughing at my incapability as a human being) sitting in the corner. Not finding the door is just not acceptable. The whole time I was there I felt like lashing out at all the sensible people who were capable of opening the right door at the first try. Ha, they’ve probably been here before anyway.

You come in and the first thing which greets you is a jovial crowd, some bespectacled bohemians quietly, nonchalantly sipping away at their flat whites (or the more sophisticated with their espressos) behind the mysterious screens of their macs. Small tables aligned along the sides, all rather close to one another, all wooden and shiny, plastered with the faint drone of orange light. I? I was an SR virgin. I’ve seen pictures and things of course, all of crisp 6-inch wide browned buttermilk waffles with lashings of beautiful toppings accompanied by even more beautiful cups of coffee. We were already past the lunchtime-nigh, so tragically I wanted something savoury. Ordered and waited, the three of us chatting non-stop over various social situations and nonsense like the wonderful nonsensical beings we are.

cappuccino, $4.90 and iced mocha, $6.50.

Say hello to the long-locked ladies who lunch- Liz (left) and Celeste. Aren’t their smiles gorgeous? Don’t ask me why the camera focus is on the glass bottle because it just so happened to be that momentary mistake and regret. I ordered the cappuccino, seeing it only fit to try their famed milky concoctions, a little startled by the price but this surprise was stunted when I was greeted by the beautifully and intricately decorated image of a swan nestled in a large purple cup on a yellow saucer. Plater certainly knows his complementary colours. One of the best foam art works I’ve seen yet, almost perfectly symmetrical, the swan itself brimming with a delicate life, albeit the fragile wispiness. The coffee itself isn’t robust enough, and I didn’t finish it. Heard a myriad good things about it, though. Perhaps it was one of those one-off circumstances. Despite the (oh-so) tiny letdown, I was highly impressed by the quality of the bean, which I could taste in the first tender sip. Yes, it must be tender, because rushing through a coffee just isn’t very connoisseur-like now, is it.

Poached eggs on english muffin with a side of honey baked ham, $8.00+$4.00, eggs florentine with spinach, smoked salmon and hollandaise on ciabatta, $18.00

What I like is how you can choose from all the various sides as well as the type of bread you should like to nicely sop up all the yolk and hollandaise. Their hollandaise was a little on the thicker side, but the flavour was preserved with the right amount of tang, the butter not saying farewell to the well-whipped yolks. The poached eggs fared eggsellently. See what I did there. Yolks and more yolks! It was disgustingly yolk-y heaven. Rich and sodden, yellow and beautiful. One soft slip of the fork caused an outrageous, glorious burst of bright yellow, spilling over onto the sides, buttering the lonely spinach leaves, offering a soft glaze for the lovely salmon beneath. Everything mixed together in perfect harmony. I enjoyed this a little too much, but the one thing I regret not getting for myself was this baby right below.

‘Can I have a bite?’

‘Sure.’

And thank God for that.

Before you die of a visual orgasm, let me just make it clear that yes, this was both beautiful and delicious. A lot of beautiful things aren’t worth all the praise, but this… This.

Special of the day: Buttermilk waffles with caramel bananas, walnut crunch and vanilla ice cream, $14.90

You’ve heard of buttermilk pancakes, buttermilk scones, buttermilk in your pants. These buttermilk waffles are the lightest, crispest babies in the universe, and when fastened in that ridiculous, flawless, unbeatable, traditional (alright I’ll stop) combination of banana, vanilla and caramel, I warn you, you might cry. Yeah, in public. Everyone will watch you shed buttermilk tears into your perfect circle of yeast and flour and sugar- oh, sugar. Cut into it. Crisp, golden, carnal. It’s dangerous, it implores you to go on, zombie-like, to take your fork and smear a little of that ice cream on top, make it pretty with a sliver of caramel (note I say caramel, not caramelised, because that’s just the way they serve it, perhaps to make you feel a little less guilty over your pre-New Year gluttony, in an effort to kid yourself over your wondrous efforts to nourish that slovenly little body of yours) banana and walnut, go on, go on. I could go on, but that might be a little mean. When I say fluffy and light, I mean it. Too many a time I encounter stodgy, dense rocks with little square holes pricked in the middle to resemble (gasp) waffles.

Please just go and order this. I implore you.

Rating: 4.7/ 5.0

Strangers’ Reunion

37 Kampong Bahru Rd
6222 4869

Posted on December 31, 2013February 21, 2022 by alexcrumb 0

The Human Brain

I wanted to be a neurologist once, you know. Before the whole skincare obsession and dermatologist dream.

A brain surgeon didn’t sound too bad either, until I went on a medical internship in 10th grade and decided that, dear lord, if it takes 7 hours of stamina standing by one table with a scalpel in one hand and a patient’s life in another, count me out. For goodness sake, you need to live! You need to go out there and buy a damn sandwich and enjoy your children and read a book. Surgeons pay the ultimate sacrifice, in my opinion. They really do. My dad is one and sometimes I worry he is transforming into a glass sculpture by the day, the toils of other people clinging onto his flesh and making it fragile to the touch, all the weight bearing down on his shoulders, so perhaps one day when I happen to be in a crappy mood and push his mental limits, he might fall apart. I’ll never fully understand what it takes. Medicine, ha.

That’s him down there, my dad. Yes, he’s a smoker, tragically, ironically. I remember being at the Colosseum, snapping, jaws lolling, with him and our photography guide. She told me never, NEVER to smoke like he did.

And with that, she popped out a box of tobacco and started rolling her own cigarettes.

I came across an article by the NY Times yesterday on the human brain, and my awe for those 3 pounds of jelly and fat was reignited. It was basically about how bigger does not mean better; a bigger pink jelly blob does not equate to larger intellectual capacity, contrary to popular opinion. I’ve heard of this before, but never really looked at why. You can imagine how relieved I was, seeing I have a small head and all (I kid I kid, alright). Over the years, our ancestors’ brains expanded, tethers ripped apart, allowing our neurons to form new circuits, broadening our intellectual depth of field, our capacity to think and process. Our brain is made up of cortices, regions which control different senses (visual, aural etc), where neurons relay the appropriate signals. But you see, us as humans are pretty special. In other animals, during growth and maturity, different cortices expand and more neural connections are made, however in humans, it is the association cortices which develop, or the cortices between the other main sensory cortices. Furthermore, the wiring is sort of like the Internet, with many branches and tributaries, giving us wild majestic creatures the ability to reflect and foresee and well, go crazy with the many train tracks of thought. Which would explain why I could practically kill myself at night, what with all the thoughts and horrors of the 21st century strangling my brain, keeping me from sleep, from the satisfied opening of my eyes in, what, 5 hours or so.

So it made me think about why people like my father would go to extremes, throw themselves into the deep end for the sake or health of another. An animal would have more rapid, predictable responses, but us as humans are rather selfish, don’t you think? We are better at lying, deceiving, murdering, taking. That being said, we are also insightful, intuitive beings. We are so ridiculously special. And some of us, in this life, aren’t all as selfish as what human nature allows. Perhaps that is why.

Posted on December 28, 2013February 21, 2022 by alexcrumb 0

VeganBurg

Ha. Vegan, you say? Not so fast. Get up from the floor laughing. I know most of you would scramble at the thought of soy-and-tomato or mushroom-based patties. Maybe throw in a lettuce or two. Give it a little flair with a dollop of organic (shock horror) mayo. Oh! And organic cola to go with that. Or organic limeade and Pimm’s. If all else fails, we have some broccoli roulade and orange reduction to throw on a piece of (organic) bread. Bit of mayo won’t hurt. Who are we kidding right.

I have been meaning to (yes, I was actually looking forward to making this purposeful trip) try this place out ever since it opened. Boxing Day, free day, day with family. A super late lunch it was. It was more than half empty when we got there, Paul McCartney posing in front of the doors with his ‘favourite meat-free fast food joint’. That was enough to get my meat-hungry DAD feel a touch more enthusiastic. I could feel his sighs and bemoaning make the air heavier. Once again, not so fast dad. Just… I believe in the power of vegan. I believe. McCartney believes. So you must believe too.

Sat down, but got up again just to look at the menu. The words ‘cracked pepper’ and ‘hawaiian teriyaki’ shone their little delicate vegan beams onto my glazed eyes. I was hungry just looking at the pouches of sauce oozing from the fat sides. Came across the phrase ‘smoky BBQ’ at the bottom and I was good to go. And then. The God-awful service. There was only one teenage waiter with black stud earrings, orange hair and a I-don’t-give-a-f sort of attitude looking at us placidly since the beginning. Frustration mounted before I even settled on my order. Almost peaked, but I kept a steady calm. Doubts rose.

Above: Smoky BBQ, $7.90 on its own or $11.80 as a set. I got the set, along with their ‘citrus cooler’ and seaweed fries. Military-style, in a mess tin (which by the way, you have to empty out yourself when you’re done with the grub)

Which apparently contains beta-carotene. I’m up a level in the Vitamin A department, guys! More molecules with beta rings. Hallelujah. Their buns, jokes aside, are made from ‘organic wholemeal grains, unrefined raw sugar, distilled water and sea salt’. Now, imagine if they didn’t add the word distilled. All hell might break loose. I like how they put the words ‘unrefined’ and ‘raw’ in the same sentence. Talk about redundancy. But they hit the spot, this burger. The bun was soft, pliable and fluffy. More so than a Mickey Dees’, I would say. Yes, even so. I’m pathetic because I forgot to take a shot to show the sides; excuse me because I was too busy enjoying it, too busy to lift my greasy fingers off the damn thing, wipe them, pick up my camera, find the right angle, aperture, shutter speed and focus, and take a good shot. I could have, but I didn’t. Right now I’m trying to deal with myself on this one. Please.

The thing about burgers is that… it’s only subjective to an extent. You cannot deny a good one. Compared to last time’s experience at &Made, these were brilliant. I tried my sister’s ‘hawaiian teriyaki’ ($10.80 as a set) and my parents’ ‘creamy shrooms’ ($11.80, set), and both were flavourful in their own individual ways. Having originally contemplated the hawaiian teriyaki, I was still satisfied with my BBQ choice, with sufficiently sweet and slightly spicy BBQ sauce leaving a generous coat between lettuce, and yes, there were onions. My annoyance lay in the fact that there weren’t caramelised. But that’s only because I’m picky and a bother when it comes to onions. I don’t mind raw, but boy, if they were caramelised… Munched through alfafa sprouts (say it five times), tomatoes and lettuce. All organic of course. All the burgers are actually identical, little groups of twins and triplets, if it were not for the sauces hiding underneath those tender buns, or the slight textural differences in patties or degree of vegetable doneness.

Yes. Mushroom and soy-based patties. Hyphae growing on my tongue. No, just kidding. These tender, rather thin patties boasted more flavour than I expected. Probably because they were more textured and slightly sweeter than what you would find in an average red meat burger. Didn’t provide the same gutsy bite, but nevertheless, I can’t fault the flavour. The shroom and teriyaki burgers beat mine hands down, but hey, it was a first. My sister got the hotdog, which, considering the whole meatless factor, tasted pretty impressive. Meatless, but tastes almost of chicken. Alright, more like 51.54%. And I say this for all the patties. Pale, slightly chewy little discs. As for the citrus cooler, it offered a refreshing break between bites, though was a little diluted for my liking. These guys should offer a carbonated option. Oh, the service.

I might be back.

Only if that waiter throws away his apron.

Rating: 4.4/5

VeganBurg

200 Turf Club Road #01-32
Singapore 287994

Phone: 6462 1281

Posted on December 26, 2013February 21, 2022 by alexcrumb 0

Magic (and some Rome shots)

We have reached the point of magic.

Friends, Christians, Romans (ha ha), the magic has bloomed and taken over us all right now. It’s broken down from an anticipating cloud into a million little sparkles, drenching us from the inside out. As I swoon over all my presents, as I write letters and notes on what I got from who, it strikes me just how much we take for granted this one day. I went upstairs to my room’s cupboard, or what I label my storage cupboard, and rummaged through the years’ accumulation of boxed-up presents and toys and stuffed animals. Sitting on their bums. Nonchalant state, blind, hell, probably bored, but sparkling with the memories born of yesteryears. In Singapore right now, there’s no frolicking in conifer-laden forests, no restless gallivanting in the gelid (I learnt this fun word today, which basically means wintery or cold. Accomplishment number one- done) snow. Pity, isn’t it. I haven’t posted any shots of Rome yet, so please enjoy the cigarette smoke you see streaming out of this man’s hole, as well as the crazy espresso culture I immersed myself in.

Pictures. Nothing more, nothing less, but so profound through my lens.

Yes, I’m the blur-eyed thing on the left.

My mother got me something quite wonderful this Christmas, something I can’t bear to disclose here because the excitement and giddiness is both frustrating and overwhelming. I’m angry, so angry at her for spoiling me this way. It actually hurts. Materialistic goods are for the faint of heart, or perhaps those overly ridden with the frivolous joys and majesties of this intrinsically materialistic world, and yet here I am gushing about the latest bag or my new New Scientist subscription and recipe book. No critics allowed here, please.

Sometimes I forget how small I am. In the midst of two-metre tall letters, bundled up in winter gear, heart thumping, internally applauding the graciousness of God made real and beautiful in the gold, ornate interior of St. Peter’s Basilica. Slivers of light to greet us, the warmth and holiness of hundreds of years preserved for us to revel in.

I’m so happy I shall make some rum-spiced tiramisu.

Yes. Right about now.

Posted on December 25, 2013February 21, 2022 by alexcrumb 0

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Author: alexcrumb

14?

Strangers’ Reunion

The Human Brain

VeganBurg

Magic (and some Rome shots)