No frogs, please

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Thursday, August 5
Kathleen picks us up for a morning in the office. Finally, my grading - Phase 1 - is done and returned. Grading is one chore I'd never put off until later... it doesn't become any more fun because of a delay.

The chef at Mr Prata doesn't make butter chicken, in spite of it being in full color on the wallboard. But after talking to other staff, they decide they could try it for us.

"Do you mind a little waiting?" The breeze is ruffling our hair as we sit under the shade canopy outside the open-walled restaurant. The waiter flips a switch and turns a strong fan our way, just in case we are warm. W waves his thanks and earns a smile.

A short, heavily-muscled old man cycles up and sits at the next table, taking off his helmet, leaving on his skullcap, propping his expensive American racing bicycle against the wall. The first Youth Olympic Games are coming to Singapore next week, and the island is buzzing with people working out (sympathetically?) and new sports venues are in place.

In less than a half hour, we have a dinner plate of white rice in front of each of us. Then come the presentations of our two dishes. I've ordered chili prawns - ah, a crimson heap of ginger, lime, cardamom, cream, green peppers, hot red peppers, and onion. W's tender butter chicken is equally red, a spicy brew soothed by cream and butter.

"Which do you like better?" W sighs, savoring the food. "Do you have a favorite?"

I don't. The flavors are exquisite. "This chef would make a fortune in Seattle!" The prawns are cooked just crisp, swimming in a red curried sauce with complementary spices. On the other hand, as a vegan, downing so much cream and butter with chicken, I'm feeling wildly indulged!

"Oh, I think this might be our best meal yet!" W finishes the dishes after my stomach registers full, full, full already. We are ready for a nap when we get back to the flat, almost dopey from the rich roundness of our lunch, the perfect mix of taste and texture.

After resting, we walk the neighborhood to a plastic bag/ stationary store. W already found plastic ziplock bags for credit cards, passports, and American money. How about tracking down the best size for Singaporean bills? Why not? But we walk home empty-handed; the fit is not close enough for him.

Malaysian friends CK and Mimi pick us up at 7.45pm. "A million dollars, at least," CK values our flat, which is for sale.

"I'm unworthy!" I think every time I look around. We revel in the views to the ocean from our thirteenth floor LR windows, the greenbelt out the bedroom windows, the big pool, and beautifully kept grounds. We haven't even stuck our heads in the squash courts or used many amenities, but we've ridden the complex's shuttle to various malls and the MRT many times. Luxury.

We drive 20 km to the Geylang main street, lit from side to side with colorful decorations for upcoming Ramadan. Signs on the mosques announce services, and the streets throng with residents and foreign workers.

Several restaurants filled with customers boast names like Frog Porridge and Exquisite Frog Claypot. Oh oh, I think I'm in trouble. CK parks the car, while Mimi, W, and I stroll to the jam-packed Chinese eatery. We are the only Caucasians in sight, maybe for blocks. Sure enough, there is frog on the menu.

"Everything looks good, but... not so much frog," I point to the "frog" section of the menu. "I had pet frogs, and cannot eat them. Otherwise, everything looks delicious." Mimi nods and passes along the bad news when CK comes. He looks a bit disappointed. He's brought us here to sample an excellent porridge, probably frog-flavored. (Wish I could, know I can't.)

Instead, CK orders five other dishes for our feast and puts samples in our plates. He chats specifically with the waiter. "Yes, he is very fussy with food, but finds out exactly what is in the dish," Mimi enlightens me. CK gets up to fetch fresh bowls and soup spoons for the various dishes, and passes us the two fork/spoon cutlery sets left by a waiter, while he and Mimi use the two sets of chopsticks.
  • Whole red snapper in yellow plum and ginger broth - how to describe this fabulous, clear, sour soup? The white flesh melts in our mouths. 
  • A wide-noodle, baby bok choy, and beef oyster sauce dish that provides dark, savory satisfaction. 
  • A sweet potato leaf, seasoned with tiny fish bits. 
  • Hong Kong duck in carmelized sweet sauce.
  • Whole deep-fried prawns covered in buttered pork floss, as deliciously flakey and rich as the dish is unhealthy. 
 "Is heaty, will warm body. Need cooling after." We are drinking a longan juice that should do the trick, according to Mimi. I leave the heads and bodies of the prawn on the plate, but have several tails.

W puts me on the spot, asking, "Which do you like best?"

I point with my fingers in a fist, thumb across the top, "This is my favorite fish, this is my favorite duck, this is my favorite prawns, these are my favorite noodles..." How can I choose just one? The fans whir overhead, melding the fragrances and spices with warm tropical night air, conversations, and traffic.

We have prayed for years that this couple could have a child, and Mimi is pregnant. We are so happy for them, asking God for a healthy, happy baby that will come to know him personally and bring the family into relationship with him.

This weekend, CK and Mimi are headed 4 hours north in Malaysia to tell their parents the good news. We hug goodbye when they drop us off at 10pm, looking forward to our next meeting in a year or two.


Friday, August 6
It can't be our last weekend! Already.

W's off to record 3 final online classes, but I get to sleep in until 9. It's time for a swim. I've missed the pool, not swimming since the kids left 2 weeks ago (busy grading, China trip, flu). I churn across the longest trajectory of the connecting circular pools, until the groundkeepers with kerosene insect foggers come around.

"Cough, cough," and choke. I scramble out of the warm water, rinse under the outdoor shower, and pull on the ugliest batik I own, a floor-length shift of dark green, black, and white squiggles (the least awful one available from a street vendor, much worse than the photo, left.) Toss in a load of laundry, some reading... and it's 1pm.

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