Shine Supermarket - Korean Food mart

Before the concert this afternoon, B1 and I rushed over to Sim Lim to get some booty, me a new card reader (I don't seem to have much luck with them) and him a new graphics card. I decided to buy a pretty cute looking one by USBOnline. I hope it lasts longer under my destructive hands than the earlier ones (watch out for the trash talking update here if it fails).

I will pop over to Shine Supermarket at Burlington Square at least 90% of the times I visit Sim Lim Square. There I can get my favourite Korean Chili paste, miso paste and other stuff very important for cooking Korean food. Now and then it has special deals when the perishables are perishing fast, and yesterday was one of them. I happily bought up some snacks at 50 cents a piece, tomato instant noodles at S$1, and JaJangMyun (炸酱面) instant mee @ ~S$5. Yes, I can cook 炸酱面 cheaper, healthier and faster but I wanted to taste how the Korean version tasted, and I was betting with Vater that I could get a nicer one (the shop did have another JaJangMyun for S$8 something, but no way am I going to get that). Finally I bought some lovely Korean pancakes @S$3. Hopefully it was the delicious street food Hoddeok I fell in love with when I visited Seoul three years back, but this one seems to be filled with Honey, not cinnamon and dark sugar. Sigh. Will give it a try and see if it's nice!

The most lovely part of the shopping trip is that the uncle or the aunties will always give a lot of freebies (which are expiring quickly), tucking them quietly into your shopping bags. So sweet! I got some really lovely deepfried seaweed in grape oil the other time, but this time, they seemed to have wised up and split the freebies up, preferring to give a range of freebies instead of one particular type. This is how I ended up with some Vietnamese version of Kway chup (don't ask me why they have that in the first place), seaweed (always welcome, though I wished they gave me the whole pack, and skipped the rest of the freebies), and some dubious looking crackers.

Eats Shites & Leaves

While this book by Antal Parody (I think this is a nom de plume, considering the type of books written by said author) seriously needs some updating, it's pretty entertaining to read.

Example?

CONTEMPORARY PROVERBS

A fool and his money are soon partying.

Beauty is in the eye of the beer holder.

Late to bed and early to rise, keeps a twinkle in the eyes.

A thing of beauty keeps you broke forever.

Soup should be seen and not heard.

All's fair in love and golf.

The proof of the pudding is the box it came in.

All work and no play makes Jack a rich boy.

Where there's a will there's a family at war.

Behind every successful man, there's a woman telling him that he isn't so great.

God helps those who are caught helping themselves.

Gossip is the art of letting the chat out of the bag.

Does it improve your English? NO.

Does it make you laugh? YES.

Conclusion? READ IT.

Lai Lai Casual Eatery - service is pretty literal about it

I have been wondering whether Lai Lai Casual Eatery 来来红烧牛肉面 serves half-decent food, because I hadn't had an opportunity to do so, as everytime I am at Jurong Point, I am either rushing through, it's crowded (every Jurong Point eatery always is during meal times, else it's doomed), or someone else has decided what I must eat (which is never worth blogging about).

Finally I had the chance to, and the service sucks BIG TIME. We deliberately went there at about 5ish when it was less crowded (the best time to check the staff response). The four staff milling around all tried to ignore us and looked hopeful that their colleagues would help us instead.

I was vaguely annoyed but I was distracted by the Wolverine movie playing at the video shop opposite the eatery. I ordered Special Set A, which is beef noodles (I asked for soup version), braised intestines (at least 3 sides to choose from for every Special Set), and red milk tea. Since I was famished, I upsized the noodles to a medium (+S$1.50) and requested for half-meat-half-tendon (S$1). I find the latter option rather stupid, because you can see in the last photo that the noodles in the menu contains tendon and meat. And yet (1) the waiter still went to ask for the kitchen's permission to let me have that (2) frightfully obvious misrepresentation - attracting the customer with the more appealing picture and call it beef noodles in the menu. Is beef tendon not beef??? *haha* (3) charging me for that bloody misrepresentation.

B1 ordered another Special Set of small mee sua (he was grousing about how oysters should be offered in the menu as Lai Lai is obviously a Taiwanese wannabe eatery, and oyster mee sua is a damn proliferate in the Taiwanese eating culture. He ended up choosing chicken slices which turned out to be chicken slivers), a century egg tofu and red milk tea. Btw red milk tea is bubble tea containing milk, red tea and (in Lai Lai's case, half-cooked) sago pearls. Such sins committed by the kitchen!!! Half-cooked sago pearls make for a disgusting shock when you bite into them.

I would say that the braised intestines were the pièce de résistance for this meal. Served with fresh ginger slivers (cut correctly *nod nod*) and braised in a light soya sauce, they had a delightful creamy consistency yet savory sensation. Marvellous. The difference between the small noodles and medium noodles is quite significant, as evidenced by the different sizes in soup spoons. B1 was relieved by the small size of his mee sua, which also highlighted the fact that it probably wasn't that nice, and would be a even nastier memory if served in a larger portion. I had a taste, not particularly impressed.

My beef noodle soup was peppery and tasty with lots of slices of meat and tendon. Served with a scrumptious preserved veggie side to accompany the largely tasteless noodles in the spoon. Thank god the chef was more careful with the salt shaker for my noodles, though someone must have had a lot of fun playing with our kidneys using the very sweet bubble tea.

The century egg tofu concoction was disgusting. They topped the cold appetizer with bonito flakes (dude, you don't have to serve bonito flakes just because they are there). I cringe even now, just recalling the very saltiness of that dish.

The meal was bloody expensive, ~S$40 I think. I might go back there and buy the intestines as a takeaway, but the rest of the meal? You're better off getting it at a food court.

Up - A Love that Transcends Time

Disclaimer: Spoilers Alert!!!

B1 and I went to watch the long awaited "Up". I knew it would feature the old man, Carl Fredrickson's mourning the loss of his wife in spite of the time that has passed, but I didn't anticipate how touching it would be (but then again, this cartoon is done by the same people who convinced us that if you persist in stalking your prey despite her violent resistance, she will fall in love with you... eventually, i.e. Wall -E).

As a shy and fat boy, Carl met the very spirited and hairy Ellie, who shared the same love spirit of adventure as he did. She showed him her adventure book, which contained anecdotes and adventures she had encountered so far, and a page “Stuff I’m Going To Do” for all the empty pages behind that she was going to fill up later. She made Carl cross his heart and swear that he would get them to Paradise Falls some day.

They grew up, got married and moved into their old clubhouse, which they refurbished and outfitted together. Obviously they led a simple and poor life selling balloons at the zoo, but it was a life yet rich in love and happiness. They especially liked climbing up a grassy slope with a picnic basket before lying down in the lush green and making out shapes of clouds in the sky to each other. After receiving the devastating knowledge that they couldn't have a child, Carl and Ellie started saving for their Paradise Falls trip by painstakingly feeding a jar, which they found themselves breaking for other emergencies that needed the money more urgently.

When a much older Carl came across the jar one day while cleaning, he decided to make true his promise and bought two air tickets. When they were climbing up the slope that day with the basket and the surprise tickets hidden inside, the usually more sprightly Ellie could no longer make it up the climb. Unable to go on their adventure and after a sad goodbye, she left Carl behind to mourn her loss, trudging home alone with a sad blue balloon in his hand.

It was apparent throughout the story that Carl felt guilty about not fulfilling his promise to her, that even later when he ended up at Paradise Falls with their house and the neglected Russell, as he flipped the pages of her adventure book in total silence, he laid a heavy hand on the words “Stuff I’m Going To Do”. It was then that he discovered that there were actually pages filled out after all, behind that page.

They were filled with pictures of them together, as children, as newlyweds renovating their new home, as an old couple sitting closely together despite on different chairs, and her looking wistfully out the window. Her final words thanking him for the adventure they had spent together and encouraging him to have his own new adventure lent him courage to conquer the odds, and become the father figure in Russell's life, while giving himself new meaning in life.

The reason why I couldn't stop the tears from flowing at both sequences (even now, tears are flowing down my face *damn, I am feeling emo today) was because the show reflected my deepest fear. That when you love a person so much, and so deeply that one day, when he is gone, you will never be able to get over the loss. Yet you wish you'd able to encounter this love, because it is always better to love and be loved like this before.

[source: Norke]

ich liebe mein B1

Icing Room

What's a fun way to pass a lazy afternoon? Decorate a cake in the middle of a crowded shopping mall.

An iced sponge cake PLUS

Some colored icing and biscuit flowers EQUAL

The Icing Room, another new venture by Breadtalk Group Pte Ltd, allows you to DIY decorate iced sponge cakes. Prices differ according to sizes, for example, 4" for S$11.80 (such as displayed).

Tasting was a relatively positive experience. One bite of the brick-like fruit cocktail layer, and a brain-frozen me could immediately tell how long the cake has been stored in the freezer. Yet the sponge itself remained a perfect light, crumbly mass. I refuse to grade the cream, because I am sure it was softened because it sweated for some time in the open while we arrayed its front with cute biscuit flowers, and equally colorful icing, and not because it was that excellent in the first place.

THE ICING ROOM
#B1 -105 Jurong Point

The Flamboya Tree by Clara Olink Kelly

As a student, I used to love reading war stories, esp World War II ones. To me, they were inspiring, yet very human tales of bravery, kindness, love and wisdom. I was always awed by the people's ability to go any lengths to protect themselves and their own, during difficult times. My favourite reads included especially The Upstairs Room by Joanne Reiss, the House of Sixty Fathers (fictional read) by Meindert DeJong, etc. I was unfortunately traumatised by Anne Frank, perhaps because of all the war biographies I read, she was the only person who didn't survive.

I came across The Flamboya Tree one day while looking through the library book shelves. Reading it, I discovered that it was more of a tribute to a very brave, young mother of three (one a baby of six weeks) who managed to stick her kids through a Japanese concentration camp for nearly four years, without the support of her husband (who incidentally was later found to be cheating on her, and further prolonging her and the children's misery by not applying for their passes to return to Holland as soon as possible but chose to continue establishing trading connections around the British refugee camp in Bangkok. Indirectly causing his wife to nearly die of malaria, and the children, of monkey pox while keeping his wife in the dark about both situations. Selfish Miserable Bastard)

Claartje's (Clara) mother herself hobbled along, her legs infected and swollen from an advanced case of beri beri, exacerbated by imposed and self-inflicted starvation which she saved her own miserable portions of gray rice for her always hungry children. Claartje's (Clara) mother later told her children that they kept her going. The Flamboya Tree painting, which she bought as a young bride in Ceylon and brought along to her new home in Java with her husband and children, would later comfort her, "restored her soul when times got ugly" at the dingy garage in the concentration camp. Her children valued the painting as well, with the protagonist herself clutching the painting like a precious cargo when they finally returned home to Holland, to the disgust of her grandmother.

Ironically the most awesome anecdote of Clara's mother's bravery was when they were starving at the Margriet Kamp (refugee camp) after the war, trapped there by her arschloch husband's selfishness. The children had come down with monkey pox and were transported to another hospital some distance away. The two younger children, Clara and her younger brother Gijs, were so ill they couldn't eat (and their older brother ate their portions after cajoling them to eat in vain. I also didn't like the older brother much.) Their mother taken ill by Malaria before them, wasn't allowed to follow them and later after not receiving word after their condition since they left, visited them at the hospital with her errant husband. She was probably worried sick by her children's delirum and refusal to eat even their favourite sweets, that she came to rescue them the next day by herself.

"The next day our mother returned by herself. Having obtained a special pass to leave camp, she had made the long and arduous trek by bus. Starting early in the morning, she had waited in long lines for tickets, then had to transfer several times. The rickety old buses were uncomfortable and dirty. The broiling sun turned them into tin ovens, made worse by the many hot bodies pressed close against hers. She had crossed sluggish brown rivers teeming with mosquitoes and flies, and stopped in many kampongs, small villages, where more passengers crowded into the already overloaded vehicle. By the time she reached the hospital in the afternoon, she was so exhausted and dehydrated she almost collapsed. But she was on a mission and nothing was going to stop her. She had come to fetch us and take us home. She knew we were dying and nobody seemed to care.

...With her arms around our middles and our heads down, we dangled at her sides like limp rags as she plodded slowly back along the sandy path between the high grasses. The sun beat down, and our mother's arms were slippery with perspiration. A couple of times she sat us down in the shade of a tree and gave us all a drink from a bottle of water she had brought with her. She cooled our faces by wetting her hand and wiping it across our foreheads. Nobody spoke. The heat was too oppressive.

...It was night by the time we returned to camp. Our mother was so exhausted from having to carry us on and off buses all day long that she collapsed on the lawn in front of our barracks. "

A Dog Named Christmas by Greg Kincaid

It's a simple, Chicken-soupy book about a stray called Jake, which preferred roaming over sleeping over an open fire, and ostensibly about the young, developmentally challenged man who begged his Viet war veteran dad to allow him to pick a stray from the local pound to stay over Christmas week, as advertised over the radio.

The father wanted to teach his son a lesson, making sure his son, Todd, learn responsibility and return the dog at the end of the week as agreed. Instead Todd picked out Jake (renamed as Christmas) and taught everyone, neighbors and relatives, around him a lesson on giving.

Meanwhile the story becomes less about the son, and more about the father. He revisited his painful memories about the loyal dogs he once had, Tucker who accompanied his fatherless days and died waiting for him to come back from Vietnam, Good Charlie who ran ahead of him and saved his life by dying from a landmine. Like all war veterans, he came back damaged from the war. His physical wounds healed to a stiff leg and throbbing pain, but he could not allow anyone be good to him, despite remaining a good and giving father, husband and member of the community.

As part of the deal, the son agreed to return the dog after Christmas, and it became the father who was reluctant to let Christmas go. When he finally made up his mind to bring back the dog, the dog disappeared again. Full of regrets, he sat in the barn and moped, when a yellow ball rolled to his feet. He looked up and it was Christmas.

How to Spot and Avoid the Men and Women in your Crummy Life

Taken from Daily Mail article "A definitive guide to the lovers you should avoid at all costs" on 4th June, which was an excerpt from the book, Bullies, Bitches and Bastards by Eileen Condon and Amanda Edwards. Disclaimer: words in red are written by Yours Truly, and not part of the article or the book.

THE MEN
THE ENORMOUS BABY BOYFRIEND

(Relevance: The cardboard collectors and otakus)
Never grows up. Even if you have your own babies, he'll be a bigger baby than any of them. Mooching about in skateboard gear, he will text, text, text, text, text, plug into iMacs, iPods, PSPs, Wi-Fis and, when not hooked up to a gadget, take to his bed to preserve his energy for downloading iTunes. He is 42.

WHAT HE SAYS 'Bagsie me first!'

WHAT YOU NEED TO DO Become a fully qualified childminder - you'll need a certificate to hold up in court when he tries to sue you for lack of attention.

THE MAN FROM ATLANTIS
Disappears. On your birthday, at Christmas, during spring and most of autumn, at weekends. Occasionally, he turns up on a Friday. Where has he been? Buried under a ton of silage? No. More likely, he's discovered the fabled missing city of Atlantis, along with thousands of other men who refuse to acknowledge clock or calendar.

WHAT HE SAYS 'I'll always be here for you.'

WHAT YOU NEED TO DO Go on a missing person's website. You'll have a much more fulfilling relationship with someone who really has disappeared.

THE MOODY B*****D

(Relevance: The competitive sufferers)
Has his emotional barometer set on heavy weather. 'Going into one' is his full-time occupation, and his extra-curricular activities include sending you to Coventry and Stomping Off. Apparently, he 'doesn't need the hassle'. If he worked in a Prozac factory, he'd still manage to create an air of despondency.

WHAT HE SAYS 'OK, what do you want to talk about?'

WHAT YOU NEED TO DO Learn to enjoy the sound of silence. There will be a lot - interspersed with heavy sighing.

THE 'I'M NOT YOUR BOYFRIEND' BOYFRIEND
Insists your relationship is casual. He doesn't do holidays or dinner parties, and definitely not Sunday lunch with your parents. You have now not been going out for five years. Honestly, you'd think he was a playboy with his own key to the Hefner mansion, having far too much fun to settle down. But he lives in a bleak flat with his pants stuck to the radiator. What a catch.

WHAT HE SAYS 'I'll see you Friday night. But it's just two friends having sex and then you go home.'

WHAT YOU NEED TO DO Tell him you really are 'not going out' with him. See ya!

THE SNAKE CHARMER
Cuts the compliments and drops the adoration the minute he's got you where he wants you: under his thumb. You're an intelligent, independent woman - since when did you become someone who blends in with the floor mats? He turned from charmer to snake midway through your wedding reception when he looked into your eyes, whispering: 'Your bridesmaids look stunning.'

WHAT HE SAYS 'Hark at you with your opinions! Just kidding.'

WHAT YOU NEED TO DO Get drunk at his work do, blurt out: 'Have you seen his man boobs? Go on - show them.'

THE EGO WARRIOR
Fights for his right to be selfish. When you brought baby number one home and lovingly placed her in the Moses basket by your bed, he moved her to the sound-proofed nursery complex at the bottom of the garden. His priorities are clear: 1) Me. 2) Myself. 3) I.

WHAT HE SAYS 'Can't we do Christmas without the children this year?'

WHAT YOU NEED TO DO Whatever you like. He won't notice.

THE WOMEN
THE INTERROGATOR

Follows your every move. Quizzes and questions. Everything you say and do will be scrutinised. That time you gave her a 'funny look' in 1994; the day you didn't answer your mobile because you were having an MRI scan: it's all in the file marked 'Vengeance'. You'll have to account for your every move - including fag and toilet breaks.

WHAT SHE SAYS 'I'm not one to read into things.'

WHAT YOU NEED TO DO Get philosophical - when she asks 'What are you doing?', reply 'Hmmm…interesting - are we anything when we are not doing?'

THE UTTER NUTTER

(Relevance: Me)
Arranges 43 soft toys on her bed. Your one niggle is that her bichon frise dog 'understands' her. A few months later, the dog is the least of your worries. You are regularly woken at 3am by one of her 'I'm leaving - come and get me' scenarios, which results in you driving along the kerb looking for a dishevelled woman in her nightie.

WHAT SHE SAYS 'I love you, too - hold me. Get your hands off me!'

WHAT YOU NEED TO DO Emigrate.

THE 'WHAT'S YOURS IS MINE' GIRLFRIEND

(Relevance: Typical local girls, esp those above 30s with "careers")
Studies your asset portfolio; your salary, house, car, pension. The only way you'll woo her is if you lay your cards (credit, debit, Visa) firmly on the table. If the figures balance in her favour, you might see a flicker of attraction. Till death us do part? Till wealth us do part, more like.

WHAT SHE SAYS 'Ker-ching!'

WHAT YOU NEED TO DO Tell her you've given all your worldly goods to the newly formed Church of the Heavenly Three Lions (Founder: Wayne Rooney).

THE EMASCULATOR
Shouts, barks orders and demeans you. A lot. You couldn't be more emasculated if you were standing in your local market in a loincloth with a board round your neck reading: 'Eunuch.' You can't even park the car without her demented ear-bashing instructions: 'What are you doing? Reverse, REVERSE!' But when you finally make a stand, she's one step ahead. 'Oh, shut up. It's like being married to a poodle. I'm off.'

WHAT SHE SAYS 'No, he won't. No, he doesn't. No, he can't.'

WHAT YOU NEED TO DO Make a detour to LA on your U.S. fly-drive and leave her to try her male-bashing with the local gangs.

THE TOWN CRIER
Town crier: Always turning on the water works
Spends so much time bawling, it's a wonder she doesn't drown. She's just so sensitive. Actually, she's not - she's more expert at manipulation than a chiropractor. You soon learn to let her have her own way. It's all going to end in tears - yours.

WHAT SHE SAYS 'Whaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!'
WHAT YOU NEED TO DO Take out shares in Gore-Tex.

THE 'AIM TO TEASE' GIRLFRIEND
Flirts with every known species of male, bar one - you. Sure, she looks hotter than Cameron Diaz. In reality, she's colder than Vostok. If you so much as move in for a quick cuddle, it's: 'Get lost! I've just done my lip gloss.' Your envious mates think you've got it made, but the second you're alone, she issues her warning: 'Don't get any ideas about coming over my side of the bolster tonight.'

WHAT SHE SAYS 'What sort of woman do you think I am?!'

WHAT YOU NEED TO DO Dump her - but not before you've told everyone she's a virgin.

The New and Improved Sembawang Plaza

We went to the new Sembawang Shopping Centre today. They refurbished the place last year, and the only shops I missed there were the Thai seafood restaurant "Taste of Thailand" and the Funland (with all the machines leftover from the other closed outlets). I had loved parking my car secretly in the landed residential area behind, and playing their Para Para there, because no one ever visited that place. The new and improved Sembawang Shopping Centre now has a weekday lunch hour shuttle to the industrial area, and all-week shuttle to Khatib, Yishun and Sembawang train stations. Amazing service.

On top of that, they have slightly less predictable tenants, like Ashton's Specialties (long queues. Their sides aren't too bad, but NEVER order baked potato. You will get mayo, bacon bits and spring onions a little pat of sweet butter. Yuk!!!), MOF cafe, Daiso (another post) etc. And... the family-friendly they have a Splash Park. Haha. They have a cute little "car-wash".. where the kiddies can dash through. Even B1 was impressed, after his initial reluctance to check it out.

Arrogant or Insecure? Hitching Rides with Buddha

Will Ferguson likes to ask the helpful yet hapless Japanese who offered him a ride, if Japanese people are arrogant or insecure. Most said insecure, some said arrogant and insecure. Finally he encountered Katsuya-san.

"Arrogant or insecure? Or?" He looked at me as if to say, Well, there's your problem. Perhaps the problem is in the question itself. "We Japanese," he said confidently, "are not arrogant or insecure, we are both. You know, it is possible to be insecure in a very arrogant way - and vice versa. Look at America. I have always thought that you Americans manager to be dumb in a very smart way. Very smart." (Note: Will is Canadian)

I initially thought he asked this in retaliation for all the "harros" and "zis is a ben" announcements by annoying brats and "Japanese is number one" comments from the equally annoying adults. He also likes to retaliate to patronising xenophrobes who compliment him on his people's (apparently all white people are Americans) girth, by coolly replying that it wasn't because they, meaning the Americans are big, but that the Japanese are ...

Maybe Will asked the question because he considered the Japanese a paradox. They politely, hospitably treat Will and include him in the group, and yet remind him now and then that he is a foreigner, that he is different. Will will always be an outsider looking in, no matter when he is carrying the shrine with them, soaking in the bath with them, or even singing "Diane" in the Karaoke with them.

I have to say that Will himself is a paradox, he resents the invisible wall and yet he also takes advantage of it as well. He doesn't mind freeloading on the free rides, the free food the drivers ply on him and even sneaks into a bar behind a group of salarymen, hopeful that they would notice and include his horny self in their play. He did succeed, but he did not manage to touch a free thigh, because the salarymen were only interested in drinking, singing, bitching about office politics (conveniently whoever was on in attendance) and in the vice senior supervisor's (he is higher ranked than the senior vice supervisor, don't ask me why) case, promoting everyone, even Will.

One of the funniest incidents in the book occurred when the very pissed (do not read: angry) inn manager in Hokkaido, Mr Saito, became very worried that Will would not be able to sucker anyone into giving him a ride (disregarding the fact that Will had already made it across land and water all the way from Kyushu to Hokkaido). In fact it is quite ironic how all the Japanese drivers who stopped for William are adamnant that other Japanese people would not stop for him. Mr Saito scrawled drunkenly on a cardboard, this message in gradually smaller script:

HELLO EVERYONE!

I AM WILLY FROM AMERICA.

I CAN SPEAK JAPANESE A LITTLE.

PLEASE TAKE ME TO SAPPORO.

I AM AN ENGLISH TEACHER.

I CAME ALL THE WAY FROM KYUSHU.

REALLY, I DID.

THANK YOU VERY MUCH.

I AM SORRY TO BOTHER YOU

let's be international friends!

The title was concepted from the Zen saying "If you meet Buddha on the road, kill him." According to the Ordinary Mind website, The idea was that the historical Buddha, Shakyamuni, realised upon enlightenment that all beings are Buddhas, while the road is two-fold; the road outside where the road outside where we look outside ourselves for the ones who have all the answers, and the inner mind road, where we set up all the "shoulds" we must obey to turn ourselves into the Buddhas we don't believe we already are, but think we must become.

So "killing the Buddha" means killing or wiping out this fantasy image, and "the road" is two fold: the road outside where we look outside ourselves for the ones who have all the answers, and the inner mind road, where we set up all the "shoulds" we must obey to turn ourselves into the Buddhas we don't believe we already are, but think we must become.

Living without the omnipresent China

With the recent furore over China's dubious milk products, Yours Truly (who is very bored and about to do the "Cocker Spaniel" act) pondered on the mystery of human cheese, soya cheese (she is truly cheesy), and now she has read "A Year without 'Made in China': One Family's True Life Adventure in the Global Economy" by Sara Bongiorni.

She, husband Kevin, son Wes, and daughter Sofie, embarked on a year-long crazy adventure of literally, trying to continue American consumerism while boycotting Chinese products and Walmart (her great hate for destroying family-run shops, landscape with their empty storefronts, and squeezing vendors) in 2005.

I would say it was a beautiful ideal, but an ideal it is. It is certainly not infallible, when Sara had to cajole her sister-in-law to circumvate her rebellious husband's demand of a play pool for the kids by giving him one China-made on his birthday. Often even when the product does not come from China, the box it came in was from China. And does one consider "Made in Hongkong" as "Made in China"? These were some of the many "trying" issues they encountered while crippled for gift ideas, resorted to a Mexican pinata, a tiny German doll and Taiwanese swords etc.

Apparently gifts, even though China-made, are acceptable, even very appreciated by the family. In fact the biggest obstacles often happen on the toy front. The children even subconsicously "monkey see, monkey do" copied their mother, by picking up toys in the shop and frown while saying "China". The irony was not lost on Kevin, when Sara's narration of her toy-starved children's antics at the mall to her friend, who cried and gathered up all the abandoned toys left in an empty hurricane shelter, and gifted them to her kids.

"Well, that's just great," he says. "We've become a charity for deprived children".

Like Sara concluded herself at the end of the year long adventure: "But is a lifelong China boycott what I really want? I am not at all certain that it is. On the one hand, it's been satisfying to learn firsthand that China really hasn't taken over the planet, or our lives, at least no entirely, although sometimes it looked that way, especially in the toy and electronics aisles and at the shoe store. Of course, we're not out of the woods yet. I have a feeling China is just getting started when it comes to world domination.

On the other hand, we have a broken blender, a stuck kitchen drawer and a television that's fading fast, all problems that seem to demand Chinese solutions, We are still boiling water for coffee in the mornings because we don't have a coffeemaker, and if we don't give up the boycott then maybe we never will. Lots of little things in life come from China: birthday candles, squirt guns, light swords. These are small, inconsequential things that cannot properly be described as important, but I'm not sure I'd like to live my entire life without them..."

Toast: the story of a Boy's Hunger

Nigel Slater chronicled his childhood culinary angst in Toast, 247 pages worth of yolked torment, chocolate pleasures and way, way too many initiations into the other camp. It is bittersweet in some places, weird in others while remaining extremely engaging from cover to cover. I found the part about his family most riveting, from his railing at his ailing mother that he hoped she would die not knowing that she would do so a few days after that during Christmas, his father marrying a working class woman and ultimately being killed by her excellent cooking.

Milk (Excerpt from Toast, pg 61)

My first glass of milk, in truth just two mouthfuls, had ended with my being violently sick over my new sandals. There had been odd attempts to encourage me to try it again, but none had succeeded in getting me to do more than dip my finger in it and shudder. If it looked as if I might be pushed further, a mock heave usually brought the matter to a close. At break times, Miss Poole, our mild-mannered, grey-skinned, grey-clothered form teacher allowed any unopened bottles of the compulsory milk to go to the first to finish.
One cold, flat morning in September I moved up a class. My teacher was now to be Mrs Walker, a woman so stern-faced, so unwaveringly strict as to be used as a threat by the other teachers. She was a stout bulldog of a woman, her unwashed hair pressed tight to her head, dressed as always in a knee-length black skirt and grey twinset. As I picked up my pencil case, my set of twenty Caran d' Ache crayons in their flat tin, my English books with their spelling tests and essays entitled 'An Autumn Day' and 'My Ten Favourite things', to move up to Mrs Walker's class, someone whispered, ' She makes everyone drink their milk'.

One week after milk had yet to pass my lips. I started offering my small bottle of milk to any girl who would show me her knickers. After getting ripped off a couple of times by girls who failed to keep their part of the bargain, I worried I might have to start paying people to drink my unwanted white stuff.

'Can I have your milk if you don't want it?' asked Peter Marshall one morning break. So I said, 'Show me your dick first', and with that set a precedent for the whole term. None of the girls wanted an extra bottle enough to give me a quick flash, but the other boys were queuing up for it and perfectly happy with the deal. I think this was the first time I realised food could be a bargaining tool.

Nothing prepared me for how ill a bottle of milk could make a boy. Mrs Walker caught me pretending to drink my ration while waiting for someone to finish theirs. 'Come and stand at the front.' I put my milk on the desk and walked towards her. 'No, bring your milk with you. I've been watching you for days and now you are going to drink it in front of everyone'. Uncertain of just how much of the milk game she had seen, I half wondered whether she was going to make the girls show their knickers to the entire class.

I stood in front of the class, head bent down, my stomach flipping and diving. I worried not about the shame of being caught but simply that I was going to to have to swallow the wretched, wretched milk. Please God, don't let me have to drink this stuff. He didn't answer. 'Drink it all,' said Mrs Walker, her eyes narrowing like a lizard's in bright sunlight. I put the straw to my lips and sucked, sticking my tongue over the open end. 'We will sit here all day until you have finished every drop'.

It was a warm day, mid-September. The milk had been standing in its crate in the sun for a good hour before she sent Robin Matthews to drag it into the classroom. The tinkle of the bottles and scrape of the metal crate always filled me with fear. I sucked. A great bubble of warm, creaming milk hit my tongue, then filled my mouth. It was like vomiting backwards. I tried to swallow slowly but my throat closed tight and then something acid, almondy, welled up from my stomach.

The vomit came so quickly I didn't have time to move the milk bottle. The straw shot out across the floor the bottle fell with a clatter and I closed my eyes. Partly to block out the horror of it all and partly because I always close my eyes when I throw up. The puke spluttered down my green school pullover and onto the floor , it splashed the bottom half of the bookcase with its Conan Doyles and Kiplings, Sylvia Mountsey's satchel and a marrow on the harvest festival display. At least it missed my bare legs. When I opened my eyes there was milk over the floor, running under the radiator and Mrs Walker's desk. There was thin, milky-yellow vomit over my shoes and the bottle, whole and unbroken, had rolled under Peter Marshall's desk. 'Go and sit down,' she yelled, ignoring the fact that one of her students had just been violently ill down himself. She evidently intended to leave me to stew.

I skulked towards my chair, surrounded by a sea of shy smirks and dropped heads. I bent down to pick up the stray bottle. I got down on all fours and crouched under the table. As I stretched to reach the bottle, something moving caught my eye. It was a flash of three pairs of green knickers and Peter Marshall's dick, fully erect and waving back and froth like a child's flag at a royal walkabout.

PS. Nesquik was my parents' last ditch attempt to make me drink milk. Orange, strawberry, chocolate. The only thing that changed was the colour of my puke.