Horse With No Name on: Something Like Love

Over St Patrick's day, a week after disaster struck Japan's northeastern coast, the family and I had travelled to a small mountain town in Colorado. I was quietly sitting in a childcare centre at the area's ski resort, watching my younger daughter play with the other kids, when a grey-haired lady cautiously approached me.

“Are you okay?” she asked, her warm, weathered face full of emotion. I was pretty drained from the remnants of a bad cold, so I thanked her kindly for her concern.

She seemed lovely. Despite her age, her outfit belied her energy and obviously eccentric sense of humour: a festive green, tartan skirt, dark knee-high socks, with a green silk flower tucked into a bun in her hair.

But I was tired and distracted, and hesitant to be drawn into conversation. As she went on, I nodded politely, not really hearing her, until the words “quake” and “tsunami” shattered my reverie.

“Is the rest of your family alright?”

It was then that I realised she had presumed my daughter was Japanese, and read my grumpiness as quiet despair for my “fellow countrymen”.

A younger, snarkier me would have coolly pointed out that not all Asian-looking people come from the same country. For some reason, I didn't.

She looked confused when I told her I was from Singapore, which wasn't really in or near Japan. I felt her cringe as she realised her faux pas (It was obvious she meant no offense) and she tried to salvage the situation by asking if anyone I knew was affected by the quake or the subsequent nuclear crisis.

Not wanting to exacerbate her awkwardness, I mentioned I did have a friend with family in Japan, but they were safe. I explained where Singapore was, how far we were from the danger zone, and thanked her for her solidarity with victims of the quake.

She visibly lightened with relief. It was a short, if bizarre, conversation, but I sensed her heart was in the right place, and her sense of empathy was profound, even if it was directed at the wrong person.

I was packing for this road trip to Colorado the day the triumvirate of disaster hit Japan. It was surreal watching that unending flood of water smash through cities and towns, upending homes and annihilating everything in its wake. And the ominous ashy plumes over the Fukushima nuclear plant hung like the most godawful leaden feeling in my gut.

I felt that same way as a young reporter watching the horror unfolding on the news in 2001 and 2004, when New York's Twin Towers collapsed and massive waves consumed towns and villages in Indonesia.

It was a distant, hollow, helpless, sickening sensation. Followed by the need to offer solace to those who were hurt, but not knowing how.

I couldn't help but hear echoes of this sensation in the condolences offered by random Americans we met during our road trip. (Yes, green-skirted St Paddy's lady wasn't the only one who mistook my husband and children for Japanese tourists.)

There were the hotel desk clerks and a waitress at a small sushi restaurant in Utah, and even a stranger in a Colorado national park, who came up to my husband and politely introduced himself before offering (what my husband assumed to be) comforting words in Japanese to my very perplexed two-year-old daughter.

It would have been easy to be cynical about these little episodes. To dismiss them as small-town ignorance trying too hard. But something told me not to give in to the negativity.

Because the outpouring of sadness and solace from these complete strangers was truly astounding. Something in this tragedy had obviously struck a chord with these ordinary Americans. The people of this country are, after all, no strangers to natural disasters.

Seeing and hearing of the devastation heaped upon another nation, a developed nation, one so prepared and ready to meet disaster head-on... Perhaps they too felt that sickening sensation in their guts. And so they tried to offer solace, but didn't know how, or to whom.

At some point, I began to wonder if we weren't providing these well-wishers with a little catharsis for their well of emotions. One desk clerk we met in Holbrook, Arizona, was on the verge of tears as she recounted a group of stranded Japanese tourists she met in California during the week.

“They basically had nowhere to go. Can you imagine going on holiday and then finding out you have no home to go back to?” she asked, her downcast eyes shining with sadness.

These small encounters reminded me that even the smallest gesture counts for something in the grand scheme of healing. .

Because for every ounce of this positive energy, there will surely be those who mock other people's tragedies - dolts in the media who dole out hurt and negativity to bolster their own misguided agendas, anonymous Internet commentators who rejoice at some perceived cosmic vengeance enacted on their behalf.

What good are the good intentions of the ordinary in the face of such extraordinary cynicism?

How can simply feeling empathy compare to volunteers who get into the thick of things, like those I interviewed in the past who helped Indonesians affected by the 2004 tsunami rebuild homes and schools?

In the last couple of days since returning home, I've realised empathy is just the beginning. You need that spark of emotion to spur you into action. And if action is the enemy of helplessness, then there those in our midst already in the thick of battle.

And I'm not talking about the big charity or relief groups. While I ineffectually wrung my hands, wondering how or what to do, there were those who took what talents they have and translated them into ways to help and heal.

As a regular crafter, I often scroll through Etsy, an online market for handmade goods, for inspiration. Now, you'll find a growing number of sellers there donating 100% of their profits on certain products – from jewellery to art – to aid for Japan.

Then there's this craft-loving mama of three little girls. She grew up in Singapore and now lives in the US, and writes a brilliant, funny sewing tutorial blog called Ikatbag. Despite how busy she always seems from her blog entries, she created what she calls an “Owie Doll” for Japan, with proceeds going to a charity to aid relief efforts.

Even though the sale on the doll has closed for now, she mentioned on her blog that she might start it up again soon.

Similarly, a team of two ladies who run a children's fashion-and-toys start-up in South Africa are selling a specially designed doll, nicknamed Georgie, to lend a hand.

“My friend Aki is in Japan and over the last week I was frantically trying to get hold of her,” explained Devika Rosalind Muttiah, who along with Barbara Geldmacher, helps to design clothes and dolls for their company, called baba-dash.

Frustrated when she couldn't get help to her friend through expeditions that were heading to the disaster-ravaged country, Devika said a “lightbulb went off over her head” and she realised what she could do.

Coupled with Barbara's creative design of the doll, the duo are hoping to team up with a reputable South African charity through which they hope to send money from the sale of Georgies, which they are currently only selling in South Africa, to fund aid to Devika's friend and her friend's community in Japan.

Hearing and reading of work like this, I'm slowly beginning to realise that even if I can't join a rescue expedition to Japan, I can still try to contribute. It's just a matter of harnessing what I do, what I have or what I know in order to move forward.

Like writing about those who are taking action, and giving their causes an extra voice.

Or gathering warm clothes my family no longer needs (thanks to the short Arizona winter) and finding a way to donate them to some of the hundreds of thousands now left homeless in Japan, many of whom are trying to salvage what's left of their lives while battling the frigid and seemingly unending Japanese winter.

“Are you okay?” It's amazing what three little words can do. That simple, innocent act of reaching out to a stranger, to make a heart-felt connection, might mean a world of the difference between individuals floundering in pain, and a global community trying to find its footing together.

Horse With No Name on Eat: Everything Old Is New Again

The extreme make-over. Is there anything more quintessentially American?

It doesn't just apply to blinging out your crib (translation: redecorating your home). You can pimp your ride (overhaul your car), upgrade your spouse's look, get your fine self into a kick-ass new wardrobe (no translation necessary there) and even give yourself a whole new face and body, if that's what you desire.

Even what's on your plate is spared no exception.

In my short jaunts across the US over the last year, I've become increasingly aware of the way restaurants here love taking the so-called “working man's meal” and transforming it into a gourmet sensation.

Take the humble burger, for instance. Perhaps the most iconic of American fast food. Just a buck and change will get you one of these at your nearest drive-through service.

It's a piece of meat between two slices of bread. But then you throw in a little of that American 'extreme make-over' magic. A little herb buttered bread, some wagyu beef, caramelized onions and crisp local vegetables, and suddenly Cinderella's a real dish, all decked out and ready to party.

Television channels like the Food Network, with their many competition-based programs, raise the culinary bar, and exemplify the way simple, everyday food is turned into almost haute cuisine.

There are examples galore of these old-school-meets-new-school transformations. Like pizza. While not officially American in origin, this dish has unequivocably been assimilated into the food culture. In fact, if American movies are to be believed, pizza is probably the official food sponsor of college fraternity houses nationwide.

Pizza isn't confined to the realm of simple doughy slabs with tomato and cheese toppings anymore. One bistro I visited in Scottsdale, Arizona – an upmarket part of the state – created a version with a crunchy, light-as-air base, topped with chi-chi sounding ingredients such as crimini mushrooms, truffled arugula and gorgonzola.

Pizza masquerading as fancy-pants food. Tasted like fancy-pants food. Amazingly, it did not cost me my first-born.

But by far the most interesting and exotic amalgamation of old-meets-new that I've encountered so far is the po'boy, a submarine sandwich made from Louisiana French bread. Wikipedia explains that it supposedly differs from your regular baguette in terms of its crispier exterior texture.

Hailing from New Orleans, Louisiana, the original po'boys - created in simple mom 'n' pop type stores for busy working-class folks of yore - held simple fillings of seafood and meats like sausages or roast beef. They're still considered one of the go-to meals in New Orleans for people on the go.

However, the version I had in California (in a mid-scale Disneyland eatery, of all places) had a slightly more swish spin on it. The po'boy here didn't look at all po', stuffed with filet mignon and “apple-smoked wood bacon”. I'd show you what it looked like, except Mr HWNN devoured the whole thing before I got the chance to take a picture.

The best part of these mind-bending, jaw-dropping creations? They probably cost about the price of having a simple doughy pizza with tomato and cheese toppings delivered to your door. Under $20.

Glorified mac and cheese from a San Diego restaurant. This is a kid's meal, by the way. Since I don't have a po'boy picture you'll just have to ogle this instead. Thankfully, this cost under $20. Just barely.

It made me wonder how would Singapore comfort food, our hawker centre favourites, would fare under similar transformations? Would they survive an extreme make-over? Or as a Singaporean might ask: “Upgrade already nice or not?”

Creature comforts

I reckon there are few sacred cows in our ever-changing Singapore society. But food, especially of the hawker centre-comfort food variety, is definitely one of them.

Singaporeans are mostly creatures of habit. If something tastes good, people faithfully return day after day, week after week to eat it. Queues at popular hawker stalls grow ever longer thanks to the mentality that “If got people queue, sure must be good one”.

Likewise, if the food changes even a little at said stalls, fans tend to be rather unforgiving, voting with their wallets to the rousing chorus of “Aiya, that place standard drop already lor.”

So I can't even begin to imagine what would happen if a suburban Singapore eatery pulled an extreme make-over on local food, because let's face it, while Singaporeans love food of any kind, most are obsessed with authentically Singaporean food.

Mr HWNN and I spent an hour tracking down this Asian eatery on a recent trip to Canada, just so we could have authentically Singaporean laksa and beef rendang. Just how obsessed are we? We missed our flight back to Arizona partly because of the massive detour we took.

Totally worth it.

But what does “authentically Singaporean” even mean? After all, if you consider Singapore's mish-mash of races and cultures, which have produced a constantly evolving mix of gastronomic delights, how far back in time would one go to verify said “authenticity”?

In order to understand this, I conducted a highly unmethodical, extremely unscientific, specifically selected survey of foodie friends. They defined “authenticity” of a dish as “something that takes you back to a certain time and place.” (Quote marks added to make it look like I've actually done some research.)

I take this to mean: Something is authentic if it tastes like what we used to eat growing up. So that's a pretty fluid definition to begin with, given that each generation may have its own idea of any particular Singaporean dish, and recipes do change as they are handed down over time.

Whatever the case may be, I'm beginning to think that perhaps we Singaporeans – in particular, the Singaporean diaspora - regard our food and our recipes as a way to stay rooted in a somewhat revolving-door culture.

Just a random glance at the Facebook pages of some Singaporean friends living in Arizona, and you'd understand just how passionately my fellow countrymen and women feel about our food. We religiously replicate Singaporean dishes and success is measured by how much these meals look and taste like those found back home.

That's saying something. Because anyone who has prepared an authentically Singaporean meal from scratch will understand just how time-sucking it can be – from preparing the myriad ingredients to the actual cooking of the food.

To actually go the extra mile and think up an extreme-make over for a popular hawker dish like mee siam (vermicelli noodles smothered in a spicy tamarind sauce), which takes me about three hours to make, is Iron Chef worthy, in my book.

Which is why I'm totally in awe of friends who are able to produce fusion cuisine on the fly. In fact, I wish I had that sort of culinary creativity. My cooking skills are still largely of the paint-by-numbers variety.

An original creation by a Singaporean friend living here in Arizona. Pan-fried spaghetti with chicken, fresh vegetables and a dash of curry powder.

Still, I think many of us in our 20s and 30s - adventurous as we are with trying out new-fangled versions of other people's cuisine – do still jealously guard our parents' and grandparents' recipes.

One foodie friend, Soh Wenlin of the Going With Your Gut blog, gave a good reason why: “I am indeed currently chasing down old-school recipes, mostly because the guardians of those recipes don't have much time left with us!”

Mr HWNN and I make batches of these delicious dumplings - called guo tie - each year, based on his mum's super yummy recipe. The practice of putting these dumplings together with the family started when he was a kid, and now we've passed down the tradition to our own kids.

Point taken. But in that case, would made-over Sg food ever successfully catch on? Will the humble Roti John (a type of omelette sandwich) commonly found in Singaporean hawker centres ever go the upmarket route of the po'boy? Would we want it to, anyway?

One friend offered an answer: “If it ain't broke...” And in addition: “You gonna pay $15 for a plate of fancy chicken rice? Crazy ah?”

Singapore-style chicken rice from the Vancouver eatery. Cost: $8. (expensive by Singapore standards) Good vibes after eating it: Priceless.

Copyright notice: All images in this story are strictly the copyright of the author, and may not be copied or used without prior permission.

Horse With No Name on Love: Home for the Holidays

Trimming the Christmas tree has always been one of my favourite things to do in the run-up to the holidays. As a child, it wasn't so much the anticipation of Christmas or presents that excited me, but the very act of my family coming together to put together something wild and crazy and beautiful.

But Christmas Day itself? Might have been one of my least favourite days of the year.

It wasn't that the holiday didn't feel special. It was always an amazing, spiritually meaningful day in my family. We looked forward to the wondrous spectacle of Christmas morning Mass, followed by lunch with friends and family. And every photo taken during that time will testify to how happy I looked opening my many, many presents.

But I always remember feeling emotionally drained by day's end, like an actor who has run through the same show too many times.

As it was each year when I was a child, before the family could get to the business of being shiny, happy people, the day would inevitably begin with some sort of unnecessary drama before we went to Christmas Mass. The fuss usually involved forces beyond my parents' control and is something way too complicated to get into in just a couple of paragraphs.

But trimming the tree and the whole run-up to the big shebang? I liked that just fine. It was neutral territory for everyone at our house. No arguments or emotional baggage. Just a bunch of tinsel and some plain ol' fun.

When you live away from family for a good long time, when distance dulls memories and tempers big, bad feelings, you begin to appreciate moments like these.

You remember that a family has the ability to come together and start afresh - to make things work.

You also gain emotional clarity. For instance, being away and raising my own child made me realise that my parents have always been the very definition for me of what family is and what family does. No matter how strong the adversity, or difficult the challenge, Dad and Mum held strong to their personal and religious beliefs, yet they remained patient, forgiving and sensitive to others.

During my first stint overseas with Mr HWNN, we always made sure to be home for Christmas and Chinese New Year. For me, it was important to be with my folks at these times because it meant alot to them to have us all together. Whatever residual memories I had of those difficult early years, I shoved them aside to have a good time with the people I hold dear, and to give my older daughter Sweet Pea the peaceful Yuletide that I longed for when I was her age.

What I never realised then, was the luxury of having any sort of emotional family upheaval to begin with. I mean, the very fact that I could experience Christmas each year with kin was a blessing that my silly younger self took for granted.

I was blind to the fact that no matter what sort of insane soap opera we might have been drawn into so long ago, we were all still together, we could still physically reach out to each other after, to mend fences, and most importantly, to show love.

Because there are folks out there who would probably give an arm and a leg to be with their families during the holidays, emotional baggage or no.

There are a good number of military men and women living in my neck of the woods in Arizona. Several of whom I now call friends and neighbours.

In the last year, I've met people whose spouses have been shipped off to Iraq for tours of duty, or neighbours who've returned from fighting in Afghanistan. Neighbours with toddlers the same age as my younger daughter Pumpkin.

And so, suddenly, the world spins into perspective.

These folks volunteer to put their lives on the line for their country. But I'll bet anything they would rather be spending the holidays surrounded by their loved ones. And every day, I am simply in awe of the incredible strength, resilience and grace their families members show, just going about their lives.

The few emotional barbs I might still remember from the ancient past absolutely pales in comparison to the sacrifices these folks face each day.

Last Christmas was the first I've had to spend away from Singapore. It was the first time ever that Sweet Pea didn't have her grandparents, uncles and aunts to fuss over her. And it was the first time ever that I spent Christmas morning speaking with my parents on Skype, rather than face-to-face.

It was the strangest thing, to be so excited about living in this new place, with so much potential for new experiences, yet teary at the prospect of going through the rituals of that big day without the two people who have always made it special.

Add to that their ill health over the years and I was wrecked with guilt for not giving my folks another Christmas with the grandkids.

But this year, something shifted. Perspective, as I mentioned, was gained.

As Mr HWNN, the kids and I were trimming our skinny little tree, I realised two things: One, even if my parents aren't here in Arizona with me, they still are. I see their expressions and mannerisms every day, reflected in my older child.

My family is with me. My children. My husband. I am immensely thankful for that fact.

The other thing I realised: Even if returning home is something beyond my control at the moment, and the kids are homesick as can be, I can take that feeling of helplessness and turn it into something good, the way my parents (and my new neighbours) have taught me, and teach my children patience and resilience.

Even though we can't physically reach out and hug grandpa and grandma, we are not bereft of solutions.

So we'll probably talk online Christmas morning rather than over one of my Mum's famous Christmas feasts.

We'll take this short time apart to learn more about the world, so we have stories to tell grandma and grandpa when we return. We'll take this time to miss one another a little more and learn to appreciate the role of family in our lives.

Chances are, this time next year, we'll be together again. And whatever craziness that might come along with it, will come. I'll embrace every second of it. Because I've come to terms with the reality that my family and drama go together over the holidays. Like a tree and tinsel. Sure, I could do without that sparkly stuff, but then I'd have a very quiet, boring tree. And who the heck wants that?

Horse With No Name On Play: Hit The Road, Jack.

There's this massive, wrinkled, psychedelic map of the United States in my dining room. It's nothing fancy, just one of those flimsy educational posters we picked up at the store for a few bucks.

You can tell it's received a lot of love, despite the short time it's been up. There are folds and creases that crisscross the Rocky Mountains and run hodgepodge from Chicago to Alabama. Marks created by excited little hands and big hands making plans and dreaming up adventures.



The audacity of its colour scheme and its elephantine size drive me crazy sometimes – it takes up half the wall - especially on days when I descend into a Martha Stewart redecorating frenzy. Then the darn thing just seems like an eyesore, and I'm tempted to rip it down and replace it with something more professional looking. But I don't.

So it gets more and more of a lived-in, loved-up look. And the little red check marks my daughter has pasted on various cities across it have, over time, been proudly replaced by neon-yellow happy-face ones - a reminder of the places we've been, and those still on our bucket list.

Near the very top of that list was this one very important item, which I was able to tick off, nearly one whole year ago.



After what seemed like a lifetime of waiting, I'd arrived at the eventuality I always dreamed of: standing on the soil that my literary heroes could very well have once stood upon. Gazing at those same copper skies. I was in America.

Forgive me if I sound a little starstruck. Throughout junior college and university, I inhaled a steady stream of literary magic by American writers. Guys like F. Scott Fitzgerald and Jack Kerouac took up residence in my brain in a way that has made them impossible to evict.

Kerouac, in particular (and who was actually Canadian-American), seduced me with his wild, furious, melancholic insanity. Suddenly, I was close enough to touch that genius spark, breathe in its source and feel it infuse into my skin.

My first instinct was to grab Mr HWNN, jump into a car and speed off down a highway, Metallica blasting on the speakers, on the road trip to end all road trips. Unfortunately for our children, their father and I suffer from an incurable condition called romanticised-nomaditis. Our restlessness isn't so much an itch to travel as it is a genetic imperative.



Highway to hell. Ok, maybe not. It's the road to Death Valley, which is sorta close, metaphorically speaking.

When I was younger, I thought nothing of working several holiday jobs at a go just to scrape together money for an intercontinental flight. The fact that Mr HWNN – who was then boyfriend HWNN – was often overseas for work provided more than enough incentive for me to drop everything and catch a plane to anywhere in a heartbeat.

My lack of funds at the time often made for interesting sleeping arrangements, like crashing on the dorm floors of university mates, or bunking with a friend of a friend in an apartment so tiny, you practically had to sleep in the toilet.

But I was young and insane, and these road trips were simply heaven. I took them for nothing more than the sheer amount of life experience I gained from just going.

When our first child came into the picture, Mr HWNN and I emphatically declared that she would simply have to fit into our lives, not the other way around. That self-delusion worked, for a while. We carted our infant (read: hapless) child on endless road trips up and down the eastern coast of Australia. And baby HWNN learned to nap in car seats, strollers or strapped to my front in a sling.

Then six years later, we suddenly found ourselves in Arizona, with not just one but two children in tow – both of whom were now very vocal and very much the antithesis of what good travellers should be.

Crossing the desert to get anywhere really didn't help. Once the novelty of watching dirt go by their window wore off and boredom set in, one of them would inevitably start whining, then get phenomenally carsick, while the other would wail for hours in protest of her car seat, making a sound I can only compare to, say, a dying hyena.

We had several moments like these in the beginning, before we got smart and discovered magical spells involving “motion-sickness medication”and “portable DVD players”.

Prior to our enlightenment, I would try to entertain our young whinging overlords with a song or three. Usually something ridiculous, like Phantom of the Opera. Yes, I give you permission to laugh at the absurdity of it all. It was late. I was tired.

There was nothing on the radio.



After one of these particularly hairy escapades, I wondered aloud if we should give up on road trips forever and fly everywhere instead. Or even just be content to holiday at home until the kids were older. A little part of me secretly wondered if I actually would prefer that. Was I finally bone-weary of travel?

Thankfully, Mr HWNN has enough gung-ho for the both of us, and insisted we continue to choose the more trying, difficult route. And so our kids have braved those trips with us – whether two hours, or five, or 12, or even two weeks. Because there really isn't anything like it, seeing a country from the ground. Sure, aerial vantage points provide some stiff competition in looks department, but up there you kinda miss the point of it all:

You miss the dirt, the detail, the steady transformation of terrain, the tactile sensation of the land undulating beneath you as the car hugs the road. And you miss the humanity, oh, the humanity...





A bowling alley wedding (top) and an endearing family moment, seen during a pit stop in Santa Cruz, California.

Driving in New South Wales, Australia, it used to fascinate me how the view outside my car window could go from acrid desert to lush English meadow to concrete jungle and back again to barren wasteland in the span of a mere two hours.

I find myself noticing the same metamorphosis here. Nothing is ever truly static. Not when you see it up close. A tree is never just a tree. It's a tree juxtaposed against nothingness, or cradled in a cauldron of nature.





Rocks and boulders are no more large mounds of sand than the ocean is just a big cup of water; they present a universal history that is so ancient and profound, yet still changing, constantly in motion, in friction, all about us.

Even the most ordinary of man-made things, a little burger joint or forgotten hamlet in the middle of nowhere, hide untold stories, if you bother to stop and take a close look.





As the sign up top suggests, they take their produce seriously in somewheresville California. Below, Native American stalls on the way to Page, Arizona, lie silent in the dusty afternoon heat.

>I wonder if the same thing could be said about my existence? What would Kerouac have written about such a life, with its seemingly clockwork minutiae of childcare and chores? Would he have seen something more under the surface? Something that was constantly evolving? Constantly shifting, resisting, growing, playing against the forces acted upon it? I'd like to think he would.

Because I never want to stand still.



Copyright notice: All images in this story are strictly the copyright of the author, and may not be copied or used without prior permission.

Horse With No Name on Shop: The crumbling of the great wall of HWNN

Just months after the birth of my second child, I decided to take on a life-changing challenge. (Because y'know, having kids was old-hat by this time. And sleep is for the weak.)

For too long, I had been a consumer, buying things on impulse. With news flowing in about an impending recession and a rash of toxic toys invading the market, I felt compelled to do something.

Something that would help save money, protect my kids from the Big Toy Companies with no quality control, and free me from the shackles of wanton consumerism.

I was going to teach myself to sew, on a sewing machine.

I was going to make all my kid's toys. Yes. All of them. And maybe a handbag or three.

Well, hello dolly! Ok, she may look like a crazy mistake but she's not. Seriously. Nettlie here, one of the first toys I made, was inspired by my daughter's computer game character. The fuzziness comes from all the love she gets!

I've always loved making stuff with my hands. It's therapy for the frazzled brain. For my junior-college theatre project, I taught myself to work power tools, designing and building an entire convertible stage set with nary more than a couple of theatre-craft books and a lot of foolhardiness to guide me. And I LOVED every insane minute of it.

Hammers? Power saws? Pshaw.

But sewing? Dude, that's just dangerous. You could impale your fingers on fast-moving needles. Lose your hair from ripping it out in frustration. Smash furniture because you cut your last yard of cloth the wrong way.

Despite this inherent threat to life and limb, there I was, the very visage of crazy determination, losing precious nap time wrangling a bub and kid in the day, and losing beauty sleep wrangling my mum's persnickety old Singer machine at night.

But I persevered. All the while, I chanted my mantra: this will help me to live more and consume less.

And before I knew it, I was in complete love with my new hobby. But you know the problem with puppy love...

It's so, so naive.

Look! Soft blocks for baby! Started circa 1911. Will finish them in maybe another 100 years.

Sew long, and thanks for something swish!

The thing about starting a new hobby is that you inevitably end up needing to purchase things - kits, accessories - that would enable said hobby to come to fruition.

I don't have to spell it out for you, but I will: That meant shopping.

Now before you think I'm some sort of raging shopaholic tai-tai, I'm not. I've never bought an article of designer anything ever. I only buy clothes on sale and I still own clothes from when I was 18, which I still wear. I recycle or give away what I don't because it's a total waste to buy what you don't wear and hoard what you don't need. So, not a big shopper, am I.

But hobby shopping... that's a whole new ball game, buddy.

How not to pass the buck – use a credit card instead.

When we moved to America, I discovered The Ultimate, Super, Dee-Duper, Craft Store Of My Dreams, That Also Sells Fabric! That's not what it's called, but it should be.

The best part is, there are two other somewhat Super Dee-Duper competitor stores, all within a quick drive from my home. It was like finding out Willy Wonka opened ten candy stores on my doorstep, and included a winning lotto ticket in every pack of sweets.

And the bester than best part is? The salespeople at above-mentioned understand craft speak and Can. Actually. Help. You. What a concept. (Yes, I'm talking to you, grumpy sales-aunties from Spotlight.)

There are days when I find excuses to visit these craft/fabric havens, like when Sweetpea has after-school classes nearby.

Despite my strict consumer diet, I find myself haplessly immersed in the delicious world of fat-quarters and jelly-rolls. (Curse you, evil fabric-naming people!)

And the toys you can cut these up with! Talk about appealing to my inner Inspector Gadget!

Rusty old scissors from your home-ec days? Gaze, my friends, upon the rotary cutter. It has a blade which protrudes at your command, and glides up and down your cloth, slicing as if by magic! Scratch up your table with that blade? Never again! Behold! Cutting mats that mysteriously heal themselves!

They sound like power tools to me!

Thus, I regularly sail the fabric/craft aisles with the air of a love-struck teenager, my inner monologue practically berserk from fighting the wanton consumerism.

“Oh, I mustn't. I know I mustn't. But it's so pretty! And it'll come in handy if I ever need to sew an invisible zipper into that custom-made diaper bag/make-up pouch/sparkly party clutch. What, it's on clearance? You don't say!”

Next thing I know, I'm at the register, card at the ready, pen in hand, willpower in the toilet.

Yes, it's pink. With flowers. I know. Shut up. It's still a power tool.

And the bester than besterest part? Everything here is heaps cheaper than back home. Which means... I get to stock up on things I don't need and hoard things I will never use! Kidding. I totally use everything I buy. Or I will. Someday.

But for now, I try very hard to ignore my husband's pained looks as my closet steadily fills with box after box of “scissors that cuts pretty patterns!” or “cloth I picked up on sale!” or “ten thousand yards of cotton batting for when I learn to make quilts for our grand kids!”.

Could I be addicted? Well, sewing enthusiasts don't call it a “stash” without reason. And I have American craft stores to thank for enabling, I mean, assisting me in keeping my brain frazzle-free.

Ooo... lookit all the purty colours...

The upside? At least Mr HWNN, darling breadwinner of the family, can sleep easy knowing that his super low-maintenance wife isn't spending that money on a new designer handbag.

I'll just make it myself! Once I master sewing on a curve! Without losing my thumbs!

Horse With No Name on Love: It Takes a Bit of Yuck

Whoever said nothing much happens in the desert obviously hasn't visited the HWNN corral.

We've been blighted with high drama when we least expect it, usually when Mr HWNN is away on business, leaving me to saddle up and take the reins.

It usually involves one or all members of the family falling ill from some debilitating virus or infection, at a level of intensity never experienced before when we lived in Singapore.

Pumpkin, who turned one in April, is at that age where everything and its cousin winds up in her gut. So it's no surprise that she often plays the role of screaming femme fatale, fending off some mysterious B-grade bug that's decided to inhabit her tiny system.

Mmm... strep-throat virus... tasty...

Most times, she stars in re-runs of “The Endless Throat and Ear Infection of Terror”. But older sis Sweet Pea, never to be outdone, will follow that up in true diva style with “A Clockwork Stomach Bug” - the sequel to “Naked Lunch, All Over My Pillow”. (I won't give away the ending.)

Occasionally, both of them collaborate on a not-so-original but highly underrated version of "Fever of Scary New Heights”.

It took me a while to get used to the health-care system in Arizona. For one thing, there aren't any walk-in general practice clinics in our area, something we tend to take for granted in Singapore.

The handful of pediatric clinics nearby are strictly by-appointment and are usually booked solid. The only thing in between that and the hospital - in terms of levels of health care - are the urgent care facilities, where you sometimes wait two hours or more to see a doctor (or assistant physician) about vomiting/minor injuries/high fever situations.

In our early days here, I would often find myself having to make the the rounds of no less than three of these health-care facilities in order to figure out what new bug we were facing and how to beat it.

It was one of those hair-tearing, gut-wrenching experiences that I've now to come to terms with. Mostly because I have little hair left to tear out, and not much stomach left to spar with medical staff.

After months of trudging through the muck of pill bottles, bags of sick, and enough ice packs to stop global warming, I composed a long and angry tirade about the state of health care here in AZ. In summary: They no likey give out medications here, especially for de little kids. You mommy go pharmacy buy whatever you think is good for 40 degree fever... like ice pack. Or Ibuprofen. Okie dokie? Bless you.

Psst... hey buddy. Need some nasal spray? Check the pharmacy in my kitchen cabinet.

So why have I only posted the gist of it, and not the whole thing? Well, I thought shaking my fist (and certain unnamed digits) at the medical system would make me feel better. Truth is, it didn't.

After re-reading that post about 120 times, I thought, gosh, what a lot of whinging and moaning going on... to what end? What was the point of all that anger, when the medical practitioners I was angry with probably don't even read these posts?

So I decided it was more constructive to think like a virus: whatever doesn't kill us only lets us live to multiply and become stronger and more evil, and perhaps take over the universe. Right?

Let me illustrate: One time, the girls were running a back-to-back marathon of "The Stomach Flu Trilogy", when my body decided it wanted in on the action too. Because Mr HWNN was away (of course), I had the pleasure of driving us all to the doctors (three), the pharmacy (two) and the grocery store (just one) to pick up pills, pedialyte and porridge. All while battling a 39 degree C fever.

Now before you think, “poor HWNN”, I ask you this: which family hasn't gone through this sort of thing in some sort of permutation? Some of you reading this may have even gone through worse on your own. (I can tell you're nodding vigorously, going – Yeah, we went through all that AND we wound up in the ER too! With NO MONEY, OR PANTS! Hah!)

I suppose I could have asked for help. But I have this bad habit of preferring to soldier on until my limbs fall off, because that's just how we do things in my family.

Despite my stubborn idiocy, I think the girls and I were remarkably fortunate to have weathered that madness as well as we did.

And here's the coming out stronger part: No matter how tired, angry and frustrated I might have felt then, I don't want to post a story about what an awful time we're having.

Because we're not.

See, here's Sweet Pea, none the worse for wear, and up way past her bedtime painting a little surprise for her friend. As I watch her - all dizzy with excitement over what colour she's going to use next - I'm grateful.

Grateful we came through that mess in one piece. Grateful that I'm blessed with lovely friends and neighbours, who messaged or Facebooked me during my radio silence to see if we were all still alive. (One of them even came to check on us, just when I had about given up and was having a silly sob fest, bless her heart.)

I'm grateful to the one good doctor out of the tangle of doo-doo-heads we met, who rang me up after hours when everything was falling apart, and called in medication for me to pick up, so that I wouldn't have to wait for hours in long queues with two very sick kids.

I'm even grateful to the grocery store delivery guy for being so polite and helpful when he brought us our much needed weekly supplies. (Yeah, it only took me a million years before I discovered a grocery store here that made deliveries!)

I'm grateful to the pharmacists who took the time to reassure me that things were going to be okay, who explained in detail how that the multitude of medications we were on weren't going to make us see little spiders crawling on the ceiling. (A deep-seated fear. And very real!)

I'm grateful to my parents, who Skyped us very day to keep our spirits up. And even though Mr HWNN missed all the action, I'm actually grateful he was away. Seriously. Because he escaped the big bad bugs and came home healthy and whole and ready to sweep me off my feet.

On a side note: To the unhelpful folks I encountered, those who told me they couldn't do anything for my sick kids, or ignored my pleas for help or doctor's appointments, I'm going to say, peace be with you. And guess what? I'm grateful to you too, because you've taught me that I have even more unknown reservoirs of emotional strength than I thought.

The miracle of ice-packs. They make you think you're on-snow.

Through the haze of sick, the kids and I had our own brand of fun. We had a Sesame Street revival, curled up on the sofa amongst blankets and buckets, watching endless old episodes and laughing at the way Pumpkin got super excited at the theme song.

When she wasn't screaming from the fever-induced headaches, Sweet Pea and I would time how fast ice packs melted against her hot, hot, hot forehead. (Turns out, REALLY quickly!)

And we had slumber parties every single night, all squashed in my bed, the kids taking turns to snort or snore warm, slimy breaths down my neck, while I stayed up to check temperatures and administer medication.

In hindsight, it was glorious to spend this time with them. Because really, who needs that much sleep anyway? Not me.

Now, as Sweet Pea puts the finishing touches on her little project, I'm grateful that my beautiful girl is back to her effervescent self. And when I get annoyed at her hyperactivity, I try to remind myself of the time when she was a limp dish towel, and how un-fun that was.

As one very wise seven-year-old once told me: Sometimes it takes a bit of yuck to make you see the good stuff.

It most certainly does.

Horse With No Name on Eat: Feeding the Soul in a Fast-Food Nation

Comfort food: It's the quintessential pick-me-up for any jaded traveller.

Sure, you can expand your horizons any which way when you touch down in new territory; eat where the locals eat, try out strange and exotic cuisine. But when you've had your fill of curious things and world weariness sets in, the palate craves something familiar.

That's been the case for the HWNN clan. Four months into our stay, having grazed on a steady diet of Western food, we began to look and feel a little like the meat on our plates.

We love Western food. We love our burgers, our pastas, our buffalo wings, our haute- and even not-so-haute pizzas (Hi Dominos!), even plain ol' grilled cheese sandwiches. Thing is, as comforting as some of these dishes are or can be, they can't beat the makan of our Singaporean childhood.

I'm talking about Hainanese chicken rice, chai tao kway (tapioca starch cubes fried with egg), fish-head curry, Indian mee goreng (fried egg noodles) and the créme de la créme of fatty, luscious, heart-stopping (literally) comfort food – char kway teow.

Can you feel your arteries clogging at the mere sight of this? I can. Mmmm... clogged arteries...

Whose cuisine reigns supreme?
Now, so magnificently satisfying yet scrumptiously unhealthy is this dish, that CKT deserves at least a paragraph or two all on its own. So I shall digress for minute. Join me on this delightful detour: CKT, or 'fried rice cake strips' (Thanks Wiki!), belies the intense, almost orgasmic experience of consuming it.

Slathered in a rich, dark sauce, drenched with the fat of Chinese pork sausages, often accompanied by a volcanically spicy and pungent shrimp paste-chili blend, and moistened with a squeeze (or three) of lime, CKT hits all the right notes in a sour-sweet-savoury-spicy quad-fecta. It is the epitome of Singaporean comfort food – in my book at least.

For a period in my 20s, I made it my life's work to try any and all CKT dishes across the country. Leave no hawker stall unturned. Yes, I was a woman obsessed.

So now, four months without this, my king of dishes? Left me just a little crazy-eyed.

Potato Potahto
Arizona has its fair share of Asian restaurants and we've found a couple that are our go-to places when we're too lazy to cook at home. But even their menus feel generic and foreign at times because most of the flavours seem to cater to an American palate. A lot of sweet and sour in everything; unspicy, often lacklustre curries and unfamiliar, tongue-twisty stuff like Moo Goo Gai Pan. Say what?

The only thing that might occasionally hint at Singapore is something folks here call Singapore noodles – a dish commonly found in Asian restaurants across the world, but not in Singapore. Think Mongolian Beef and you'll understand what I mean.


Sweet and spicy/sour anything. A staple at American-Chinese and Chinese-American restaurants.

So comparing a meal at any of these establishments to lunch at my favourite food court back home is like saying a ham sandwich and a hot dog are the same thing.

They are NOT.THE.SAME.THING.

Bereft of authentic options, I often turn to my own culinary heritage for inspiration: my late maternal grandmother and my mum are revered in our family for their supreme Cantonese-style cooking. On my father's side, I unabashedly declare that my aunts would easily win in a throw-down of Eurasian/Chinese cuisine. The stuff of legends, really.

So whenever a hometown craving takes hold, I cross my fingers and spring into action in the kitchen, hoping some of this culinary genius will genetically find its way into my food.

Note, springing into action in my case involves more of a gentle skip rather than a colossal leap because it's difficult to find the right ingredients at the local supermarkets to engage in aforementioned springing. (Also, eating of many burgers makes girl chunky. I'm sure Confucius said that.)

Most of the supermarket chains here devote a column of an aisle, but not an aisle in itself, to Asian sundries – by which I mean several types of instant noodles, some very small, very expensive bags of jasmine rice and about a hundred brands of soy sauce.

Note to supermarket stockists: Asian food is more than just soy sauce.

The COFCO Chinese Cultural Center in Pheonix appears to be the closest thing to a sort of Chinatown around here.



Essentially a strip mall, it is also home to an international supermarket that stocks a boatload of Asian groceries.

To be fair, the Asian population in my neck of the woods is far smaller than say, in Sydney, where we lived for four years.(For those interested in details, Arizona's Asian community makes up just 2.5% of the state's population of over 6 million people, so says the US Census Bureau's 2009 estimate. And most of that population isn't located in my city.)

In Sydney, Asian culinary influences were duly reflected in the way the large chain supermarkets like Coles bestowed huge segments of their stores to fresh and imported Asian foods.

Freshly-grown mangoes and longans, emerald green bok choy and kangkong, curries from Malaysia, sauces from Thailand, dried goods from Indonesia and India. The weary traveller could feel right at home.

If one craved even more exotic fare, there was always the large Asian supermarket in Pitt Street, located in Sydney's central business district, and close to the city's bustling Chinatown. A trusty port in a homesick storm, this supermarket carried everything from fresh durians to the most obscure dried Chinese herbs for soup.

The equivalent of this treasure trove in AZ would involve at least a half-hour's drive from where I live to one of three far-flung suburbs. However, once you get to LeeLee's Oriental Supermarket you will, no doubt, be stunned by the choice and variety of Asian and international foods available in small-town Arizona. It's like finding a reservoir in the Sahara.

Makan mecca: LeeLee's Oriental Supermarket in Peoria stocks all manner of Asian eats and treats.
And even some familiar household items and icons.

My only gripe (yes, so Singaporean) would be its lack of Singapore-specific food brands, like Glory or Ya Kun kaya - a rich, coconut-egg breakfast spread that I'm totally addicted to. There is no Singapore aisle to be found! Gasp. So I substitute. I improvise. I trawl the other nation's aisles for items that bear a fleeting resemblence to the ingredients I need to make my comfort food.

Which brings me back to char kway teow.

Culinary (mis)Adventures
Newly invigorated by a friend's awesome blog post on her family's char kway teow recipe, Mr HWNN and I did an 'Amazing Race'-style run through LeeLee's, hunting and gathering everything we needed to put this coveted dish together.

Because we couldn't find ingredients imported from Singapore, we made do: Japanese fishcake, Vietnamese 'Chinese-style' sweet sausages, thick and wide Vietnamese (or Thai) flat rice noodles made the grade.

Thankfully, LeeLee's carried the right condiments and vegetables to go with the dish. Best of all, we managed to find a massive block of Malaysian-style belachan, or dried shrimp paste, to make the accompanying chili sauce. Now THAT was the ultimate trophy. I was so happy, I held the smelly thing up in the air and did a dance of joy, right in the middle of the dried goods aisle.

Then we went home. And we cooked.


Rocking the sweaty-Ah-Seng-hawker-with-grubby-handtowel-on-shoulder look.

The result? Orgasmifying. I know, that's not a real word. Just humour me here, okay? After an hour of hard stove work, Mr and I spent 20 minutes in complete, utter heaven. Eating, that is. What were you thinking??

But as with all first-time experiments, I mean, attempts, at a new recipe, there were teething problems. Thanks to Skype, I could call my walking cookbook, I mean, Mum, for immediate advice.

Mum: So how was your char kway teow? Looked good on Facebook.

Me: It was super. And the sambal belachan was fantastic. Except it was so hot it nearly took out a chunk of my head.

Mum: How many chilis did you use?

Me: Um... 30?

Mum: Thirty?? Are you crazy? Did you de-seed them?

Me: ...Oh.

So much for that genetic culinary genius then.


Flaming Sambal Belachan of Evil Doom. Rare item: Does -50 damage to Health, -100 to Fortitude, -50 to Intelligence, guaranteed to send enemies screaming for a glass of milk.

Group Rojak Timeout: We are Sing-ah-pore, Sing-ah-poree-aaans!

August. It's that time of the year. No, not monsoon season. The only floods here are those of red, white and starry patriotism - celebrating Singapore's 45th National Day!

So the girls at ESPL togged up, ditched any lingering feelings of homesickness, and headed out to National Day parties in their new adopted towns. Food, friends, more food and loads of fun. Sounds like a genuine down-home Singapore extravaganza!

Shakeleg in Jakarta opens her vocal chords to share her rendition of NDP favorites:



In Washington DC, Una Ragazza visits the funky Newseum building on August 8, one day before Singapore's National Day. Among the daily exhibition of newspaper front pages from around the world, she finds a copy of The Straits Times!



And in New York, Cirrus Cloud teams up with Una Ragazza to pose as citizen photojournalists at the Singapore Consulate's NDP party:



Just in time for the anthem and pledge!



Spot anyone you know? Singaporeans just have a familiar look. We'd recognise them anywhere.



Of course, there's food. A lot of food. It's a Singaporean shindig, remember?



Commemorating NDP in red and white (handbag included).



Inside the goodie bag: We heart the Yeo's satay sauce and Singa the Lion!!!

Meanwhile, Horse With No Name braves an excessive heat warning in the sweltering desert to take in the ND celebrations in Arizona.



Hot so what? Hot can still eat. So just eat lah!



No party is complete without a bouncy castle! (Bouncy kids not included.)



The Singaporean young'uns get in the spirit with a super cute song and dance routine.

A big birthday group hug from us at ESPL to our fellow Sg-ers around the world. We'd love to know: How did you celebrate National Day this year?

Rojak Timeout (by Horse with no Name)

We're getting right into the dog days of summer and the afternoons are getting increasingly muggy. School's out and fun is supposed to be in. Except most days, walking out the door is like stepping not so much into an oven anymore, but a sauna – wearing a full-body, wet burlap sack.

Back when we lived in Australia, we escaped the dry, fiery summer months from December to January by heading home for Christmas in cooler, monsoon-ridden Singapore.

There's no escaping the heat this time.

In early June, when the weather was scorching hot but the air was not so thick yet that you couldn't breathe, I'd find new excuses to stay in, eschew chores or writing, sit on my balcony (or patio, as they call it here?) and while the day away. Except I have two kids, remember? While-ing is a thing of the past.

Fortunately, the older child, Sweetpea, has a curious streak. Loves learning. As a former bookworm myself, I am bereft with joy. It gives me an added excuse to sit indoors and surf the Net, I mean, enjoy the A/C, I mean, TEACH her, about anything she fancies.



The great thing about living someplace new is that you never have to stray far from home to discover something new: Birds that flutter past your window with their tails held vertically instead of horizontally. Plants with bumpy flower buds that never seem to bloom, and that sprout strange cactus-looking fruit. Bugs with forked tails that skittle across the bathroom floor.



Adventure is everywhere.

So our curriculum varies: one week we drifted through books on the different methods of seed dispersal. Another, dinosaurs and early mammals of the Cenozoic era. It's a heady combination.

I rather like our little ad-hoc home-schooling schedule. We're not rushing about, as we usually are back home, to go to the kid's gym, or go to the water park, or go to the million and one classes I would have signed her up for by now.

Occasionally, when a mild breeze would kick up in the late afternoon, we'd venture out on field trips around the compound. Sweetpea would trot ahead collecting sample bags of whatever caught her eye, objects of simple beauty which she would later dutifully tape into her notebook and artfully label.

Pumpkin is just excited to be outdoors. Everything is fascinating to a one-year-old, even dirt.



One not-so-hot day, we ditched housework and learning, grabbed some bottles of soap and a bubble wand that cost me just a buck from Target, and headed downstairs to play. We soon attracted a crowd of kids. The bubbles were forsaken for a screaming game of tag.

As Sweetpea dashed about in the gleaming warmth, I walked with Pumpkin – whose unsteady gallop isn't quick enough yet to keep up with her lanky older sis - and I wondered when it would be her turn. When I would hear her little voice piping up from above my knees asking me why the sky was so blue or why the grass felt prickly on her fingers.



We stopped near the playground, listening to the sounds of big sister chasing the other kids, and spent a minute staring at the carpet of clouds that had begun to creep across our usually clear sky.

Pumpkin grabbed my hand with one tiny fist and gestured upwards with the other. “Rain,” I said gently to her. “The clouds say rain is on the way, sweetie.”

I see these questions forming, without the words to match just yet, in her baby brain. It was gorgeous to witness the first go around, with Sweetpea, and I'm glad I have the opportunity to witness it all over again.