The second time I returned to Singapore upon my moving back to the States was back in December 1999 (the first time was when I was 16 and a junior in high school). From December '88 till December '99, I hadn't spoken much Mandarin, on account of just about every Chinese person I had ever encountered speaking Cantonese. For those eleven years, my Mandarin started to deteriorate (weirdly enough, it was still passable when I went back when I was 16, but it went really downhill from there!).
As my mom, stepdad, and I walked through Changi Airport and into the arms of our beloved relatives (my Aunt Geraldine, Uncle Tom, my grandmother, and Aunt Winnie), we quickly fell into conversation about everything that was happening with us. Most importantly, I had really missed my grandmother and quickly took her arm as we started to walk out of the airport and asked her, in Chinese, how she was doing (mind you, my grandmother is a hypochondriac. Most of her ailments really are in her head, but they really stem from common aches and pains like arthritis and knee pain).
Me: "阿婆﹐ 你好嗎﹖ 你怎麼佯啊﹖" (Ah Po, ni hao ma? Ni zen me yang a?")
"Grandmother, how are you? How are you doing?"
Grandma: "啊呀! 阿婆身病啊! 我的腳痛。。。" (Aiya! Ah Po shen bing ah! Wo de jiao tong...")
"Aiya! Grandma's not feeling well! My leg hurts..."
At this point, I couldn't quite remember what "身病 (shen bing)" meant (which means "illness") but I knew something else which sounded similar and thought was what she meant. I then quickly cut her off with:
"阿婆! 你不是神經病!" (Ah Po, ni bu shi shen jing bing!")
"Grandma! You're not crazy!"
At this point, my grandmother saw fit to berate me through and through in the Arrivals section of Changi airport in the middle of a good-sized crowd come to pick up their friends and loved ones. She yelled at me for having forgotten my Chinese and that I was officially useless and was in serious danger of marrying a white guy.
Since then, I have worked hard to relearn my Chinese though there's still LOTS of room for improvement!
Tuesday, May 25, 2010
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
Hot or Cold?
Though the summer of '09 was, in general, relatively mild, there were a few weeks where it felt insufferably hot. It was a real bummer because Tyler was still in that "4th trimester" stage and therefore would've slept better if he was tightly swaddled (as per "Happiest Baby on the Block") or was a much happier baby if he was mostly naked (wearing just a cloth diaper). Swaddling became out of the question as all the blankets we had at the time were the 100% cotton ones from the hospital and weren't the thin muslin ones by Aden & Anais (mainly because I didn't know about the Aden & Anais ones till about October, when Tyler was already 4 months old). Forget trying to put him in anything other than a thin short-sleeved cotton onesie. Even shorts were out of the question. If he was to take a nap or be in a good mood, the ceiling fan or AC had to be on at FULL blast. That being said...
I often fought with my grandmother who complained that I was freezing my poor infant. Every time she held him in her arms, she would instantly cover him with blankets. Her reason was: his hands and feet were cold. Yet she would complain that he would be cranky whenever she held him. I'd often tell her that Tyler was quite hot, that it was quite normal for his hands and feet to be cool as those are the extremities. I even went as far as to point out the profuse sweat beading up on his head and nose and say: "Look, he's hot. Don't put the blanket on him or he'll be cranky." All this to no avail as she would insist that Tyler must indeed be cold as his hands and feet were cool to the touch.
This ongoing fight about hot and cold came to a head one afternoon over... a pair of socks. I came downstairs one afternoon to pass the baby over to my grandmother, making sure that he at least had a onesie. After having spent about 10 - 15 minutes going back and forth with my grandmother about making sure that she didn't put the blanket on my son, she then berated me for not putting socks on him. We then proceeded to spend another 10 minutes arguing over the importance of socks before she finally gave in and said: "Okay okay okay... no socks then."
I couldn't believe my ears! My grandmother actually agreed to "no socks"! I then decided to take advantage of being without a baby to take a nice shower. As I was combing my hair after my shower, I realized something missing from the changing table: a pair of white infant socks. I wasn't sure if the disappearance of socks was a result of my recent mommy-brain (meaning that I had actually put the socks away and then forgot about it) or as a result of my grandmother sneaking into my room to steal those socks. I snuck down some steps and peeked around the corner to observe my grandmother situated on the couch watching some Taiwanese soap opera on TV.
There she was sitting on the sofa cradling my son, who was wrapped up burrito-style in a blanket and sporting a pair of white socks.
I often fought with my grandmother who complained that I was freezing my poor infant. Every time she held him in her arms, she would instantly cover him with blankets. Her reason was: his hands and feet were cold. Yet she would complain that he would be cranky whenever she held him. I'd often tell her that Tyler was quite hot, that it was quite normal for his hands and feet to be cool as those are the extremities. I even went as far as to point out the profuse sweat beading up on his head and nose and say: "Look, he's hot. Don't put the blanket on him or he'll be cranky." All this to no avail as she would insist that Tyler must indeed be cold as his hands and feet were cool to the touch.
This ongoing fight about hot and cold came to a head one afternoon over... a pair of socks. I came downstairs one afternoon to pass the baby over to my grandmother, making sure that he at least had a onesie. After having spent about 10 - 15 minutes going back and forth with my grandmother about making sure that she didn't put the blanket on my son, she then berated me for not putting socks on him. We then proceeded to spend another 10 minutes arguing over the importance of socks before she finally gave in and said: "Okay okay okay... no socks then."
I couldn't believe my ears! My grandmother actually agreed to "no socks"! I then decided to take advantage of being without a baby to take a nice shower. As I was combing my hair after my shower, I realized something missing from the changing table: a pair of white infant socks. I wasn't sure if the disappearance of socks was a result of my recent mommy-brain (meaning that I had actually put the socks away and then forgot about it) or as a result of my grandmother sneaking into my room to steal those socks. I snuck down some steps and peeked around the corner to observe my grandmother situated on the couch watching some Taiwanese soap opera on TV.
There she was sitting on the sofa cradling my son, who was wrapped up burrito-style in a blanket and sporting a pair of white socks.
Monday, February 22, 2010
Does Not Understand English!
My grandmother is quite fond of telling people that she doesn't understand English. If someone attempts to talk to her in English, she will smile and nod and then make some kind of a humorous retort in Chinese that she has absolutely no idea what that person is saying to her. Though she had spent quite a bit of time in California (not to mention that English is one of the primary languages spoken in Singapore), she will still maintain that she has no command whatsoever of the English language. In fact, she will really play this to the hilt whenever she comes to the US as a means of trying to get the Customs inspectors to wave her by (see "The Real Reason for Confiscation").
In fact, she had been so adamant about her not understanding a single word of English that my mom and I had pretty much believed her. On one of our trips back to Singapore several years ago, our whole family had gone out for a day of shopping. My mom and I started walking ahead of my grandmother and my aunt and uncle and had started teasing my grandmother in English.
"Make sure to really bargain your butt off with the shopkeeper if you're going to buy those things. Especially in front of grandma," my mom said.
"I know," I replied. "She's a bargaining machine. She gets so angry when she's bargaining to get the best deal it's absolutely scary! It's like the shopkeepers have to pay her to buy their items. I always get so embarrassed whenever she gets like that."
"I know," my mom said. "That's why we call her 'The Dragon Lady'." We started laughing rather hysterically.
"I heard that!" My grandmother yelled in Chinese from about five feet behind us. "I understood every single word you said!"
In disbelief, my mom and I asked her what we said. In verbatim, my grandmother recited (in Chinese, of course) everything we had said about her.
Needless to say, if you're going to talk about somebody in front of said somebody in another language, you better make damn sure that somebody REALLY doesn't know the language!
In fact, she had been so adamant about her not understanding a single word of English that my mom and I had pretty much believed her. On one of our trips back to Singapore several years ago, our whole family had gone out for a day of shopping. My mom and I started walking ahead of my grandmother and my aunt and uncle and had started teasing my grandmother in English.
"Make sure to really bargain your butt off with the shopkeeper if you're going to buy those things. Especially in front of grandma," my mom said.
"I know," I replied. "She's a bargaining machine. She gets so angry when she's bargaining to get the best deal it's absolutely scary! It's like the shopkeepers have to pay her to buy their items. I always get so embarrassed whenever she gets like that."
"I know," my mom said. "That's why we call her 'The Dragon Lady'." We started laughing rather hysterically.
"I heard that!" My grandmother yelled in Chinese from about five feet behind us. "I understood every single word you said!"
In disbelief, my mom and I asked her what we said. In verbatim, my grandmother recited (in Chinese, of course) everything we had said about her.
Needless to say, if you're going to talk about somebody in front of said somebody in another language, you better make damn sure that somebody REALLY doesn't know the language!
Thursday, January 21, 2010
The Sagacious Granddaughter?
When I was a child living with my grandmother in Singapore, we used to take the train to Kluang, Malaysia almost every vacation to visit family. It was such a huge highlight because the train tracks would actually go through some of the more rural parts of southern Malaysia (as well as the obvious urban parts) where you would actually be passing right through people's backyards. One got to see laundry hanging on the clotheslines and even people bathing in their bathing area in the back of their house. One of my favorite sceneries was going through the farms with cows, the rubber plantations, and even the jungle.
It was during one of these trips that I noticed that there were different colored cows. Namely, there were black cows and there were white cows. I turned to my grandmother (because to me at that age, my grandma knew EVERYTHING) and asked: "Grandma, why are there different colored cows?"
"I don't know," she said. "They probably make different kinds of milk."
I remember having thought really hard about her response before asking her:
"So do white cows make white milk and black cows make chocolate milk?"
I also remember my grandmother pausing for a moment before saying: "Yes. Yes, they do."
I am a Sagacious Grandmother-in-training.
It was during one of these trips that I noticed that there were different colored cows. Namely, there were black cows and there were white cows. I turned to my grandmother (because to me at that age, my grandma knew EVERYTHING) and asked: "Grandma, why are there different colored cows?"
"I don't know," she said. "They probably make different kinds of milk."
I remember having thought really hard about her response before asking her:
"So do white cows make white milk and black cows make chocolate milk?"
I also remember my grandmother pausing for a moment before saying: "Yes. Yes, they do."
I am a Sagacious Grandmother-in-training.
Thursday, January 14, 2010
Poo Explosion Reason #2
Exploding poop in infants is an awesome thing. Several of my mom friends have packed several outfits into their diaper bag only to go through each outfit in a matter of a few hours. It's really nothing to be concerned about, although cleaning up can always be an adventure ("how did poop get over there?!"). This being said, we've never really chalked up exploding poop to the amount of ice in one's drink (see Poo Explosion #1), nor have we really attributed it to the foods that we nursing mothers consume. Though foods can certainly have an effect on the quality (and sometimes the quantity) of milk produced for our baby, it would take something really special to produce breastmilk that would act as a laxative. More often than not, the way the poop can come out (and the amount) is usually due to a constipated baby. Nary a mom will venture outside her house if her baby hasn't pooped in a several days.
This being said, after yet another lovely poop explosion upon my grandmother, she scolded me. "Why is this always happening? What do you eat when you go out for lunch? Junk food???"
I rolled my eyes and attempted sarcasm: "Yes, grandma. I eat McDonalds EVERY DAY for lunch."
"You see? Too much junk food! See what happens when you don't listen to me???"
"Grandma! I was just kidding!"
"No you weren't! You need to eat better, okay? No more junk food! That stuff is so bad for your baby, he's going to get diarrhea!"
Note to self: do not practice any more sarcasm with Sagacious Grandmother.
This being said, after yet another lovely poop explosion upon my grandmother, she scolded me. "Why is this always happening? What do you eat when you go out for lunch? Junk food???"
I rolled my eyes and attempted sarcasm: "Yes, grandma. I eat McDonalds EVERY DAY for lunch."
"You see? Too much junk food! See what happens when you don't listen to me???"
"Grandma! I was just kidding!"
"No you weren't! You need to eat better, okay? No more junk food! That stuff is so bad for your baby, he's going to get diarrhea!"
Note to self: do not practice any more sarcasm with Sagacious Grandmother.
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
The Earring
At a cousin's wedding in August, my grandmother and I were seated at the same table as my cousin's other relatives. These relatives have pretty much known me since forever and I'm still in awe of the fact that their eldest children are about to graduate from college when I still think of them as being little toddlers. Two of kids at our table are brothers with a bit of an age difference, with the younger brother not in his teens yet. The elder brother is quite affectionate towards the younger brother, and is very patient. In fact, my husband and I made a note of how wonderful it was to see that between siblings.
The elder one is about to graduate from college and actually presents himself very well. A very good-looking young man who carries himself very well around others, Joe and I felt very sure that he was going to do well in whatever he wanted to do with the rest of his life. My grandmother also felt the same way and started a conversation with the young man. She asked about his school, what he was studying, and what he wanted to do. She praised him for being so loving and attentive to his younger brother and also praised him for being such a good son. She of course then asked him if he had a girlfriend and if he didn't, to not worry because she knew of a few very available young women back in Singapore and Malaysia. He replied very courteously that he wasn't attached to anyone.
"Well then you shouldn't wear that earring, young man," she declared (maybe a little too loudly), referring to the little stud he had in his earlobe. "Wearing an earring only shows that you're a troublemaker. It shows that you have no respect for other people. You should take that off!"
Mortified, I tried to stop my grandmother from berating the poor young man in front of his parents but it was like trying to stop a runaway locomotive. I quickly apologized to my poor young cousin (because technically, he IS my cousin even if the only way we're related is through our cousin the groom) for the fact that my grandmother speaks without a filter. I then made a mental note to NOT give my grandmother any more wine (she had 1/4 glass of white wine) at parties. By the way, have I mentioned that the happier my grandmother is the louder her voice gets? Rest assured, she was quite the happy great-grandmother who was only made happier with a little bit of alcohol. I definitely caught glances made in our direction by guests seated at other tables several tables away.
It was definitely during that time when I wished I was a part of the Southwest Airlines commercial for "Want to get away?". Where's my "ding", dammit???
The elder one is about to graduate from college and actually presents himself very well. A very good-looking young man who carries himself very well around others, Joe and I felt very sure that he was going to do well in whatever he wanted to do with the rest of his life. My grandmother also felt the same way and started a conversation with the young man. She asked about his school, what he was studying, and what he wanted to do. She praised him for being so loving and attentive to his younger brother and also praised him for being such a good son. She of course then asked him if he had a girlfriend and if he didn't, to not worry because she knew of a few very available young women back in Singapore and Malaysia. He replied very courteously that he wasn't attached to anyone.
"Well then you shouldn't wear that earring, young man," she declared (maybe a little too loudly), referring to the little stud he had in his earlobe. "Wearing an earring only shows that you're a troublemaker. It shows that you have no respect for other people. You should take that off!"
Mortified, I tried to stop my grandmother from berating the poor young man in front of his parents but it was like trying to stop a runaway locomotive. I quickly apologized to my poor young cousin (because technically, he IS my cousin even if the only way we're related is through our cousin the groom) for the fact that my grandmother speaks without a filter. I then made a mental note to NOT give my grandmother any more wine (she had 1/4 glass of white wine) at parties. By the way, have I mentioned that the happier my grandmother is the louder her voice gets? Rest assured, she was quite the happy great-grandmother who was only made happier with a little bit of alcohol. I definitely caught glances made in our direction by guests seated at other tables several tables away.
It was definitely during that time when I wished I was a part of the Southwest Airlines commercial for "Want to get away?". Where's my "ding", dammit???
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
It's all about presentation...
I have to confess... I love food. I love the smells of food. I love the taste of food. I just love the very look of food. Which makes it all the harder for me to be the kind of foodie I want to be (sigh... I will sadly never be an Iron Chef judge) because of my allergy to certain foods, though this actually makes my husband quite happy on account of him being able to eat more of what I can't and won't eat (I've only lately started eating cilantro again and it's barely... LONG story there!).
I've never quite possessed the taste buds necessary to be a badass chef, nor have I the skills (though I'm very proud that I made little flowers out of carrot slices for a particular clay pot once). Suffice it to say that the food I cook is definitely edible and considering I haven't had much time to really indulge in fine cooking, the fact that I can put anything together at all has been a feat in itself. Fortunately for me, my grandmother being the awesome cook that she is, gave me a great lesson in cooking. I had made dinner one night in an attempt to NOT consume the usual grandmother-fare (see "Hazards of Salad") which was very simple: steamed rice, steamed chinese sausage, steamed eggs, and stir-fried cabbage with dried shrimp. Granted, two out of three were steamed and didn't really require any extra effort on my part but I DID cook the cabbage (stir-fried with some garlic and a little bit of chicken broth)! In fact, my husband and I agreed over dinner that night how nice it was to have a simple dinner and how refreshing it was to eat a plain vegetable dish. I had made quite a bit of it that night and was, in fact, the only thing remaining as leftovers.
The next night, I had come home a bit later than usual and even though I had told my grandmother that I would cook dinner, I had returned to find dinner already made. One of the items I saw cooked and ready to eat was my leftover cabbage, only it wasn't really my leftover cabbage. It resembled my simple stir-fried cabbage dish of the night before except that this one seemed to have huge chunks of chicken in it along with a visible layer of oil coating just about every nook and cranny.
"Grandma, did you recook my cabbage?" I asked rather incredulously.
"Yes, I added some chicken!" She replied happily.
"Why did you add the chicken?"
"So the dish will look prettier!"
So there you have it.
I've never quite possessed the taste buds necessary to be a badass chef, nor have I the skills (though I'm very proud that I made little flowers out of carrot slices for a particular clay pot once). Suffice it to say that the food I cook is definitely edible and considering I haven't had much time to really indulge in fine cooking, the fact that I can put anything together at all has been a feat in itself. Fortunately for me, my grandmother being the awesome cook that she is, gave me a great lesson in cooking. I had made dinner one night in an attempt to NOT consume the usual grandmother-fare (see "Hazards of Salad") which was very simple: steamed rice, steamed chinese sausage, steamed eggs, and stir-fried cabbage with dried shrimp. Granted, two out of three were steamed and didn't really require any extra effort on my part but I DID cook the cabbage (stir-fried with some garlic and a little bit of chicken broth)! In fact, my husband and I agreed over dinner that night how nice it was to have a simple dinner and how refreshing it was to eat a plain vegetable dish. I had made quite a bit of it that night and was, in fact, the only thing remaining as leftovers.
The next night, I had come home a bit later than usual and even though I had told my grandmother that I would cook dinner, I had returned to find dinner already made. One of the items I saw cooked and ready to eat was my leftover cabbage, only it wasn't really my leftover cabbage. It resembled my simple stir-fried cabbage dish of the night before except that this one seemed to have huge chunks of chicken in it along with a visible layer of oil coating just about every nook and cranny.
"Grandma, did you recook my cabbage?" I asked rather incredulously.
"Yes, I added some chicken!" She replied happily.
"Why did you add the chicken?"
"So the dish will look prettier!"
So there you have it.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)