Since the foreign maid levy is reasonably affordable to many households back home, a good portion of us have domestic helpers who would prepare our meals when we eat in. Since it is so affordable to eat out back home, most of us are happy to visit hawker centers or coffee shops for many regular meals. Above all, since the food at these eateries is so delicious, why bother to break a nail or into a sweat when the result of our efforts may not even come close in taste to our kopitiam (coffee shop) takeout?
The Singaporean girl is therefore in a culinary crisis when she packs her bags and moves abroad.
I remember an aunt of mine who left for Scotland in the 80s and was regularly sent boxes of Maggi Mee (instant noodles). My sister who was moving to New York in the late 90s received tens of packets of Hainanese chicken rice sauces and claypot mixes. I was packed off to Italy in the new millenium with bags of bak kwa (barbecued pork jerky).
I remember an aunt of mine who left for Scotland in the 80s and was regularly sent boxes of Maggi Mee (instant noodles). My sister who was moving to New York in the late 90s received tens of packets of Hainanese chicken rice sauces and claypot mixes. I was packed off to Italy in the new millenium with bags of bak kwa (barbecued pork jerky).
But all these were band-aids in the bigger scheme of things: a temporary solution to ease the pain. When the rubber meets the road, we need to cook. The problem is that this is a tall order for many Singaporean ladies. We don’t cook. We can’t cook. We never had to! Life is too good in Singapore.
The first time I ever turned on a stove was during my second week in Italy. I had been eating out until then but soon realized that my wallet could not take a twice-daily assault in a ristorante. After a late morning Italian-language class, I stopped by the grocer’s and picked up a box of Barilla spaghetti and a jar of pasta sauce. All I needed to do was to cook the dry pasta, heat up the sauce, and serve. Easy, isn’t it?
Not when you had never even boiled rice or fried an egg in your life.
Unsure of how to turn the yellow sticks into yummy spaghetti, I ended up spending 45 minutes at the kitchen table, manually translating the basic recipe on the box from Italiano into English with the help of my trusty Oxford dictionary. After that, I experimented with adding the pasta into the pot in varying amounts, and at varying temperatures, just because I wasn’t quite sure what to expect cooked pasta to look like in a pot. When I eventually settled down with the plate of pasta two hours later, it was a moment of triumph that I savored for days.
Unsure of how to turn the yellow sticks into yummy spaghetti, I ended up spending 45 minutes at the kitchen table, manually translating the basic recipe on the box from Italiano into English with the help of my trusty Oxford dictionary. After that, I experimented with adding the pasta into the pot in varying amounts, and at varying temperatures, just because I wasn’t quite sure what to expect cooked pasta to look like in a pot. When I eventually settled down with the plate of pasta two hours later, it was a moment of triumph that I savored for days.
My first Barilla -- "spaghetti cooked in eight minutes" for those who know what to do with it
Being in Europe for a few years literally forced me to cook, since eating out was so expensive and good Asian cuisine was largely non-existent. I was no Iron Chef, but I made edible things without piling on the pounds.
Unfortunately, the cooking-to-stay-alive gig lasted for only three years, ending when I decided to move to America for work. New York, to be specific. The land of takeouts. Delicious yet affordable takeout. I quickly fell back into my pre-Europe habits of eating out and buying takeout. My kitchen was hardly touched and the bottle of canola oil I purchased at the beginning of the winter was still sitting on the shelf when summer drew to a close.
My body told me I needed to regain a grasp on my body’s food and nutritional intake, a tall order when I have no control over the ingredients in the prepared meals I bought. With an authentic Chinatown thirty minutes away by train, I often thought twice or thrice about preparing any Chinese meal.
Perhaps my most frequent excuse for not cooking was that my Chelsea kitchen was barely larger than a broom closet. There was no counter space, the high ceiling lamp was broken and the sink constantly looked at risk of leaking and flooding.
So when I finally moved into my new uptown apartment, I could feel the new kitchen laughing at me, as if to call my bluff.
More than twice the counter space, enough room for two persons to lie down on the floor without ending up on top of one another, with a functional kitchen light and a reliable stove running on electricity. Isn’t it time to dig out the ol’ apron?
The loudest hint came in August when Un Ragazzo and I visited his family to celebrate his birthday. In step with the family’s birthday tradition, his mom made his all-time favorite meal: chicken tetrazzini. Now, having lived in Italy not that long ago, I was initially annoyed with myself not to have known this dish. That is, until Internet research revealed that it is an American dish named after an Italian opera star, Luisa Tetrazzini, in San Francisco about one hundred years ago. Chicken tetrazzini is diced chicken fettuccine combined with mushrooms, onions, wine and cream, then baked in an oven pan with parmesan sprinkled on top.
Unfortunately, the cooking-to-stay-alive gig lasted for only three years, ending when I decided to move to America for work. New York, to be specific. The land of takeouts. Delicious yet affordable takeout. I quickly fell back into my pre-Europe habits of eating out and buying takeout. My kitchen was hardly touched and the bottle of canola oil I purchased at the beginning of the winter was still sitting on the shelf when summer drew to a close.
My body told me I needed to regain a grasp on my body’s food and nutritional intake, a tall order when I have no control over the ingredients in the prepared meals I bought. With an authentic Chinatown thirty minutes away by train, I often thought twice or thrice about preparing any Chinese meal.
Perhaps my most frequent excuse for not cooking was that my Chelsea kitchen was barely larger than a broom closet. There was no counter space, the high ceiling lamp was broken and the sink constantly looked at risk of leaking and flooding.
So when I finally moved into my new uptown apartment, I could feel the new kitchen laughing at me, as if to call my bluff.
More than twice the counter space, enough room for two persons to lie down on the floor without ending up on top of one another, with a functional kitchen light and a reliable stove running on electricity. Isn’t it time to dig out the ol’ apron?
The loudest hint came in August when Un Ragazzo and I visited his family to celebrate his birthday. In step with the family’s birthday tradition, his mom made his all-time favorite meal: chicken tetrazzini. Now, having lived in Italy not that long ago, I was initially annoyed with myself not to have known this dish. That is, until Internet research revealed that it is an American dish named after an Italian opera star, Luisa Tetrazzini, in San Francisco about one hundred years ago. Chicken tetrazzini is diced chicken fettuccine combined with mushrooms, onions, wine and cream, then baked in an oven pan with parmesan sprinkled on top.
After eating three portions of tetrazzini, a satisfied Un Ragazzo turned to me and teased, “Maybe I should ask my mom for the recipe for you?”
An embarrassed me decided there and then that this was my wake-up call to cooking: I would make this dish the following Sunday. I suck at cooking, but that means it can only get better!
That weekend, armed with a tetrazzini recipe printed off the Food Network website, I went food shopping at Wholefoods. I bumped into my neighbor on the way back and decided I’d invite her over to check out my new apartment and also to try the dish: if this “dinner rehearsal” went well, I will invite Un Ragazzo over the next evening.
“Shall I bring something along?” asked Third-floor Tracy. “An appetizer or dessert, perhaps?”
“Oh don’t, but bring something to drink if you like,” was my reply.
Two hours later, just as I was starting to stress over the mountain of ingredients on my counter-top, Third-floor Tracy came by with two tall glasses of homemade pina colada.
That was exactly what I needed: a little ice-cold alcohol to help me relax and get through the ordeal without killing anybody -- or myself -- in the process.
As I carefully read each line of the recipe, Tracy chatted about her work day, her disastrous date from earlier in the week, and the men she met at the neighborhood bar the previous night. The lighthearted atmosphere helped me get through an otherwise taxing solo time in the kitchen, with Tracy giving occasional words of encouragement to help me along: “That smells amazing... mmm, the fettuccine looks perfect...another pina colada?”
The end result was a pleasant surprise. My chicken tetrazzini tasted very similar to Mama Ragazzo’s, and looked somewhat like the real deal too. Grateful to Tracy for her love and support, I opened a fresh bottle of pinot grigio to celebrate the meal.
So this is chicken tetrazzini
The following night, when Un Ragazzo finally tasted a new batch of tetrazzini, he was full of praise and rather moved that I’d make his favorite dish.
“Next Sunday, let me make you your favorite comfort food,” he said.
This kitchen adventure is turning out better than I’d thought! Now, I was going to be rewarded with a home-cooked meal of my choice!
And so it was decided that after the Asian made Italian-American, the Italian-American would make Asian: Yang Chow shrimp fried rice.
Despite being a newbie to cooking Chinese food, Un Ragazzo was a good student. In preparation for Asian Sunday, he read various online recipes on how to make the perfect fried rice, watched several YouTube videos and read up on what separates an authentic plate of fried rice from that served as a side dish in Chinese-American take-out restaurants.
Asian Sunday evening finally arrived. When I entered Un Ragazzo’s apartment, the fragrance that came from the busy wok in the kitchen was unmistakeably shrimp fried rice. The dish, when served, was coffee-shop worthy in both taste and smell -- a huge compliment, considering how much I missed Singaporean hawker fare. In making this dish, he had taken care to cook the rice the previous night, a crucial step that then allowed for the individual kernels of rice to be able to soak up the oil while in the wok. The use of fresh large shrimp which adds a definite crunch to the experience.
Un Ragazzo's wok-fried shrimp fried rice
After three plates of fried rice over which we chatted enthusiastically about what other Italian dishes I could make, and he Asian, the idea of fusion Italian-Asian came to mind.
Now, that’s a true challenge!
Before we got the better of ourselves, we geeks decided a lot more research needed to be done before a char siew (roast pork) tetrazzini or proscuitto fried rice could be attempted.
For now, we shall relish the second successful Sunday cook-off and round up the night with Masterchef, Gordon Ramsay’s newest culinary show on amateur chef. I'd let the Singaporean Ah Nia bask in a little glory of having at last come of culinary age.
Durian panna cotta, anyone?
A subsequent Una Ragazza attempt to try making Japanese on her New York china. Verdict: pretty and edible!
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