I Love to Eat!

On Friday morning, I received a phone call from Debs. She rings me from Singapore every now and then and I have to smile at the way she identifies herself in her youthful almost kitten-like voice … ‘It’s meeee". The oldest treasure in my sisterhood of friends - for I have known her, loved and of course argued, laughed and cried with her for as long as I can remember - called from home this time, and to my delight, she handed the phone over to her mother.

Auntie Anne sounded exactly as I remembered, twenty one years just melted away as we cackled and reminisced. And then it happened … the topic of food just spontaneously began. Within minutes of our first hellos, we were discussing with typical Singaporean enthusiasm – a comforting variety of curries, homemade pasta, cutlets, my step-father’s to-die-for moussaka, our shared total disdain for belachan (shrimp paste), and my beloved dodu (crazy) brother-in-law Keiron’s cultivation of kachang panjang (long beans) in Western Australia. Then without me even asking, she began to recite to me her recipe for Corned Beef Curry, using canned corned beef - a pantry cupboard staple in every Eurasian home - no matter where in the world. I quickly jotted it down on the spiral notepad with biblical quotations that I had recently brought home from work. I glanced to the top of the page … Love is always patient and kind. I smiled and nodded my head as I wrote down her instructions “be generous with the onions” - which I underlined. Auntie Anne has always been kind to me.

There were many occasions in high school when my friend Jennifer or Fi as we have always called her, Debs and I would spend time together after class. We were in the morning session which meant classes were over by 1.00pm. Spending time at each others' homes inevitably meant lip-smacking hot curry and rice, girlish chatter about boys that we would never in conclusion even utter a brief hello to, where to shop for the grooviest clothes and of course choreographing our versions to those funky 70’s disco moves. Homework was never even remotely on the agenda. Fi and I loved Auntie Anne’s cooking and so whenever Debs invited us over … we would gleefully always accept. Debs will remember how Fi was ever ready with her favourite word “Come!” meaning "Let's go!" whenever something was suggested. And so Fi would look at me, her eyes animated and with a slight wag of her head say, “Come! Maybe Debbie’s mum might cook putchree?!” (a spicy aubergine dish)

Decades later, after we had married and moved away, Fi and I upon meeting up some years ago in Perth, lamented that nobody makes Chicken Vindaloo or Putchree like Auntie Anne. Her recipes would always - in our expert assessment for we have tried many versions of both - remain the best. I can still hear Fi’s voice saying “The world!” That meant ... the world over.

A couple of months ago through Debs, Auntie Anne very generously bestowed me with the secrets to both the precious recipes of the mouth-watering yearnings connected to the memories of my childhood taste buds. *bbsigh* I have cooked these gems several times since and always enjoy the process because I have different memories each time of those precious school girl days.

Need I mention that when Fridays telephone conversation was over, I suddenly felt fully energised and immediately wanted to cook? I pulled out the box of onions in the pantry … I had to make this Corned Beef Curry. Typical, isn’t it how the mere mention of a dish that I know will tickle the fancy of Alan’s and my palates is all that is needed to propel me into action straight away? Nadia are you laughing? And to think, I was sick with the ‘flu and had already defrosted chicken as I was going to cook Chicken Tikka Masala as well.

This of course then got me thinking that I had to write a blog entry about food. Alan and I hardly watch TV, but I “literally” (to quote Jamie Oliver and the word should be read with his accent in mind) have my mobile phone set to remind us weekly when our Food Safari or celebrity chefs like Jamie Oliver and the Domestic Goddess, Nigella Lawson are on.

http://www.sbs.com.au/food/

Please check out Food Safari with Maeve O'Meara and Feast India with Barry Vera for a taste of our favourites.

Of course I grew up eating Eurasian food. I have readily admitted, in a previous blog entry I never truly enjoyed it very much after the death of my grandmother. How many of us can remember our grandmothers ever opening a recipe book and reading from it? They all cooked from memory over hot fires using charcoal or arang as fuel, in belangahs (earthen-ware pots) that had been seasoned with flavour from the years of everyday use. I cannot help but wonder how much was lost in the oral history of these Eurasian recipes that the great old ladies of the past handed down to their children.

Mama believed ingredients had to be fresh and began everything from scratch. Chickens, ducks, geese and turkeys roamed freely in her backyard. Something Jamie Oliver would thoroughly approve of, I might add - what with his latest ruffling of feathers on Jamie’s Fowl Dinners. The only thing I ever remember in mama’s little freezer, were Magnolia ice-creams in cardboard cartons and metal trays of ice-cubes.

All her spices were dried, lovingly hand sorted and sieved herself, then taken in calico pouches in a bechak (trishaw), with me in tow, to the mills. There she sternly eyed the Indian man who was perpetually in a turmeric stained checkered dhoti, as he ground her precious seeds of coriander or cumin, dried chillies etc. She made me watch him as well, for she was paranoid and always ready to accuse him in Tamil of adulterating the spices. She bought fresh gragok (shrimp) from the old Katong Market, dried them in thin layers on tangoks (woven trays) in the sun, together with other items like sliced mangoes and vegetables that she would pickle. When the gragok was dried, she would mix it with salt and knead it all together. I am sure she added an elixir to the mixture, but of course I never paid close enough attention. Finally she would form several extra-large rosy pink coloured patties of the mixture, and leave them to dry through. These were her beautiful belachan patties. She would smile at me in satisfaction. “Don’t forget, take one home for mummy this evening okay. Ahh .. plus take the salt fish achar also." All my childhood, she had been the sole provider of these delicacies. She was famous of all her pickles and belachan.

I still remember after we had finished the last piece of precious pink belachan after mama had died, and my mother came home with the store-bought version. I had never seen store-bought belachan or chin-chalok (a shrimp delicacy) or even pickles before. I silently watched, flabbergasted as mum rather reluctantly sliced a piece of ink-black belachan to toast for our sambal and a prawn curry she was making. Why was it black - isn't belachan supposed to be pink? It smelled fetid and I felt my stomach heave. I shut my eyes to what was unfolding before me, I had cried myself to sleep so many times since mama’s sudden death, now I grieved for all the flavors and cooking aromas she had worked so hard to create that I always took for granted. Never again would I hear her sing-song voice call out “Juuude! Qui vous te farse? Beng naki oh - help mama tumbok some sambal belachan.” (Jude! What are you doing? Come here and help mama to pound some shrimp paste sambal.)

I began to grow jelak (limited in choice) of Curry Devil, Feng, Smoh, Curry Captain, Curry Singang or Stew Pie to name a few of the stock favourites that became the standard offerings at every single Eurasian gathering. Plus, I think I always measured everyone’s cooking, including my mothers against that of my grandmother.

Thankfully Mum never cooked Eurasian food often for she loved to experiment and so Sharks Fin and Wanton soups and a variety of beautifully steamed and deep fried dumplings were what I remember from my very early childhood. Mum loved throwing dinner parties and always used to cook a variety of Peking and Sichuan dishes when she was going through her Chinese phase. And then it was French with Duck a l’Orange for instance instead of Curry Devil the Christmas of 1972, and the whole variety of terrines and pates that followed after that. I loved it.

When Alan and I began dating in the early 80’s I think he was awfully surprised that we hardly had Eurasian food at home for he had been brought up feasting mainly on Eurasian and Southern Indian food. He claimed with a big grin to mum “Auntie Val, I’ve led a very sheltered life." And then quickly added, "But I love to eat!"

His “I love to eat!” is probably how we began and it was the fabulous Chilli Crab at Red House along the old Upper East Coast Road when it used to be on the beach that did it. Sitting under the night sky with the sand between our toes and the lights strung haphazardly across the trees – electricity tapped from the old bungalow. The red bungalow from which the amazing, sizzling hot seafood dishes appeared. Alan and I happily ate with our hands – it was only our second official date for I cannot include the times in the years before as part of our courtship days. Mum had chided me for suggesting something so messy so soon in the relationship, but I was only being sensible for I felt the man I would choose to spend the rest of my life with had to know how to eat with abandoned enjoyment. Alan earned his wings that evening, he passed the test with flying colours!

At home today, Donny excels in what I call contemporary food and superb fine dining meals - mainly Italian and French. Alan bakes cakes for I am useless in the dessert course. You see, I fail when I have to measure. Alan's Key Lime Pie is out of this world especially when he compliments a slice with fresh cream and one of his fabulous ‘handmade’ café lattes. Bliss is the only way to describe the experience! As for me, I dabble with abandon. With a Shah Rukh Khan movie playing in the back ground and a cup of coffee within easy reach, I indulge in Indian, Thai, Chinese, Moroccan and lately Vietnamese cuisine. I love pounding all the spices by hand and inhaling their heady aromas. I base all my amounts on loving deduction and never according to the measured instructions in my cookbooks – for the cookbooks are there for the pretty pictures and to acquaint me with the ingredients required. I am breathing, I am in the moment.

Mama, I hope you are proud of me.

Mama's Friends

If you have been with me from the start of my blogging journey, I think it has become abundantly clear just how much my grandmother Winifred Pereira meant to me. (In particular refer: I am Indian - Part 2 and Peace One Day.) I have also mentioned her ‘quirky anthology of friends’. During the week of my birthday celebrations, I thought a lot about mama and her friends, and I think it's time I introduced you to two of them.

Mama’s best friend was a Bibik or Nonya. Meaning lady or madam, in Singapore it refers to a Peranakan woman. Peranakans are part Chinese, part Malay and are descendants of the very early Chinese migrants who intermarried with the local people of Singapore and Malaysia. They are also referred to as Straits-born Chinese, named after the Straits Settlements which in turn referred to the collection of territories owned by the British East Indian Trading Company.

This Bibik’s name was Melanie, but would you believe for all of my childhood that I had been acquainted with her, I never knew that. Neither did any of my cousins nor did our mothers or their friends. The reason for this was her name had always been mispronounced. It was only when she had passed away and the notice of her funeral had appeared in the paper, that my mother found out. All our lives before then, we knew the good woman as … Merlarni. For the purpose of keeping her authentic in this blog entry, I will spell her name as it has always been pronounced, for that is how we knew and loved her.

Aunty Merlarni was an infinitely tiny woman, I am sure she was under 5 feet in height – most Nonyas are petite. She was married to the caretaker of the convent school close to my mama’s house in Karikal Lane. Merlarni and her husband, ‘Uncle Caretaker’ whose real name I could never remember, lived in a house behind the school. She conversed mainly in Malay with a generous sprinkling of English and some token Chinese expressions. She was always immaculately dressed in a Nonya kebaya – which is the traditional dress of the Peranakan and Malay women in Singapore.

A Nonya kebaya blouse is at least mid-thigh to knee in length. It is typically made from sheer lacey material and held together with ornate brooches called kerosang. A kerosang set consists of the ibu (mother) and two anaks (children) sometimes attached to each other by a chain. The blouse is worn over a colourful sarong – often an elaborate batik print - that is stylishly pleated to perfection. It is a stunningly sensual looking piece of clothing as the blouse is never lined and the women wear beautiful bras or corsets underneath. Although difficult to imagine that an older lady wearing something so sheer would be pleasing to the eye, trust me when I say, the Nonyas of Katong (the quiant Peranakan district where my grandma lived) always wore their kebayas with an air of cultured refinement.

Merlani was no different. She combed her hair into a very neat kondek (bun) at the nape of her neck and held it together with just one large diamond studded gold hair-pin. On her feet, colourful hand-beaded slippers caught the sunlight as she took her graceful hurried steps. I used to watch her coming down the sandy lane lined with beautiful Flame of the Forrest and Angsana trees that towered above her tiny familiar frame. Like my grandmother, she was always in a hurry and never left her home without her payong – an Asian umbrella made out of oil-treated cotton – and a pretty basket that looked like it was made from starched lace. Closer inspection revealed it was really hard plastic simulated to look like the real thing. Merlarni had two or three in pastel shades.

Her eyes would light up when she saw me, her lips turning into an infectious smile. Her face was always powdered with bedak wangi, a white face powder popular with Asian women then. This whiteness only heightened the Lantern Red shade of lipstick both she and mama were so fond of. She always smelled of Two Girls Brand Florida Water Cologne and in spite of the long sleeves of her lace-work blouse and her constant hurrying, I cannot say that I ever remember her perspiring.

Merlarni was one for latak. How would I even being to describe latak to my friends who were not raised in Singapore? It’s a kind of exclamation. You know how sometimes when we are surprised or shocked by something we might say “Oh my God!” or “For heaven’s sakes!” Latak is similar, only extended and using non-religious vernacular. For example, if she or my grandmother dropped something – they would exclaim something like “Oh-puchuk-mak-jatoh-pulot-hitam!” It gets lost in translation but means something like “Oh-fragrant-root-mother-fell-down-black-rice-pudding!” It is nonsensical in any language.

They were almost as bad as each other but I think Merlarni would have to take the prize as Queen of Latak. She was extremely devout for she had grown up in a convent. When attending Mass at the Church of the Holy Family, she regularly would sit with my grandmother and her family. My mum liked sitting at the end of the pew on the side of the main aisle and so whenever Merlarni would genuflect next to the pew, mum would stay on the end and move her knees to one side so Merlarni could move into the pew. On one occasion when the time for communion arrived, the organist played a quiet heavenly hymn as everyone remaining in reflective prayer, made their way forward to receive the body and blood of Christ. Merlarni, of course, also got up, rosary in hand and began to make her way out of the pew. Somehow she managed to unhook mum’s handbag, which was hanging off the side of the pew in front of her. It landed with an echoing thud onto the old grey and blue mosaic floor, Merlarni in turn not to be outdone, let out a loud latak that reverberated throughout the church “Oh-pantat-pantat-mak-pantat-jatoh-pisang.” Loosely translated meaning “Oh-arse-arse-mother’s-arse-the-banana-fell-down.”

Just about everyone stopped in their tracks and turned in horror to look at Merlani – who very calmly simply picked up mum’s handbag and hung it back onto the pew. She joined her hands together in prayer, bowed her head, kissed the crucifix of her rosary and blissfully unaware of the scandalised looks she was receiving, proceeded down the aisle to communion. Mum who had been a couple of feet in front of her was very embarrassed and remained rooted to the spot. Merlarni walked past saying very nonchalantly and almost just as loudly “Come Valerie, tunguh apa?” Meaning "Come Valerie, what are you waiting for?” Priceless!

Mama made friends with everyone – age, colour, sex, standing in the community was all irrelevant to her. She who at sixteen married my grandfather and came to live in Singapore, leaving Malacca and all her family behind had very little education herself. She took delight in people, so it is not in any way surprising she was also friends with a little five year old girl. I am not entirely sure how it all started between Mama and the little girl, but one day while Mama was drying my wet hair after my bath – she started telling me about her. I had not gone to kindergarten that day for I was sick with flu symptoms and Mama always used to say when I was sick "Presta oh Jude, go have a bath and wash your hair." As she divided my hair into sections and then to curl each one into locks, she began a story that introduced me to the girl I would grow up with and come to love like a sister.

Mama had been fascinated and amused. For a few weeks now nearly every afternoon she had been sitting outside in the shade on her white wrought-iron swing, watching a bechak (trishaw) go by with a little girl sitting inside. Fascinated, because the girl looked so much like me, and amused because the child would be preening into a mirror or combing her hair. To mama this was one of the most enchanting regular occurrences that she had begun to look forward to. One day mama called out “Hello furiadah!!!” Furiadah is the Portuguese-patoi term for vain pot! The little girl turned around and looked at mama in total surprise as mama just cackled in delight. This soon became a regular banter between the two – as the little girl in turn would call my grandmother “Furiadah!!!” as the becak drove past. Her name was Debra.

I remember staring at her in disbelief the first time I saw her, for mama was right, she did look like me – we could have been sisters, same features and same hair. Mama continued to see her every school day – sometimes from the swing, sometimes from the front door where she used to sit and sift her many spices, or from the tall windows upstairs, as she combed her own long dark hair. I attended a different kindergarten, so I rarely saw Debra again for many months. The following year we found ourselves in the same class at the convent in Opera Estate where all the lower primary girls went. Even though at the beginning we played in different circles – Debra was always there. Sometimes it was like looking into a mirror, and maybe that is why I cannot pin-point when our actual friendship truly began.

Debs as we lovingly call her, still lives in Singapore, and when I asked her in an email just recently if she could remember how we began, I found she had exactly the same memories. My mama was her friend long before me. And she remembers seeing me for the first time in mama’s garden, the two of us staring at each other. That was just under forty years ago. And then after that, I too was just always there. I am sure when she reads this blog entry, she will agree with me when I say that as we got older, we became more aware of each other and of how we were destined to be connected - what we have can never be separated by distance or time. Teachers used to often ask if we were sisters even though we had different surnames – I think some people probably even wondered if we just had different fathers – for it was truly uncanny how many things about us were similar. When we were in high school, we even discovered the baffling sameness of our baby photos. Identical dresses, in near identical poses and with identical hairstyles even though our mothers never knew each other.

My mama, whom I loved completely has been gone for 34 years, along with Merlarni and most of the older people from so long ago that she had treasured as her friends; yet my memories of her remain infinitely clear. And they always include how through her ability to find friendship in the most unlikely fashion, Debs became family.

Debs … my mama loved you.

Family Handbook of Phrases

The things people say sometimes stick with us. It could be something that initially makes us laugh and although it may not be necessarily funny to others – we will find it terribly comical and become fond of repeating it. Then before we realise it, it becomes a part of our family handbook of phrases. I am sure it happens in all families.

One such line that we use a little too often began about twelve years ago. I used to work with this rather marvelous woman – a migrant of colour very much like myself – wacky and with a rebelliously wonderful sense of fashion. Rachelle from Zimbabwe … or Zims as she used to fondly refer to the country of her birth, was honest and beautiful. She used to say the funniest things, although I have to admit that other folk probably found her more unusual, even peculiar rather than funny. We were great friends and even though we no longer stay in touch, Alan and I remember her and her husband, Hilton with much fondness, and always with a dash of … well, I guess the word is amusement.

Rachelle was one for telling great stories. A simple outing to dinner for her, Hilton and a couple of people that he worked with, for example would prove to be an entertaining topic of conversation for her and me the next day at lunch – simply because Rachelle just had a natural gift for comic timing with a choice of words that brought hilarity to every situation she conveyed. I absolutely loved listening to her. One such story was about how a brand new car belonging to Hilton’s boss had been stolen. It happened so long ago of course, and consequently I cannot remember the details of the conversation except that it was a Monday and it was in winter. She and I were boarding one of those gorgeous silver CAT buses on St Georges Terrace at lunch time when she suddently started to tell me about it. She was obviously feeling very sorry for the boss, but as usual the way she related the event to me with all the particulars in her infectious accent, it made me want to laugh.

The next day, as I was racing through the Hay Street Mall near Dymocks on my way home I heard a familiar voice on the Target side of the mall saying “Some bloody idiot stole the bloody boss’s car, mate!” (car pronounced ‘core’) It was Rachelle. I looked to see whom she was telling the story to and realised ... she was alone. She had obviously been thinking about the ‘core’ situation and her thoughts had somehow freed themselves from her consciousness and through her distintive vocal-chords entered the world to mingle with the throng of people rushing to get home. I started to giggle but as I was in a terrible hurry to catch my bus - I did not cross the mall to tell her what I had heard. As soon as I walked through the door at home, I laughed out loud and told Alan about it for he was ever recptive to hearing about Rachelle’s antics and stories as much as I was.

Some bloody idiot, mate - soon become a part of many a sentence in our home, we find it irresistibly useful. If Alan is late getting home, I’ll say “Some bloody idiot is bloody late getting home, mate.” Or if Donny forgets to do something … Alan might say “Some bloody idiot still hasn’t put away his bloody clothes, mate.” Then one day we came home from our evening walk and found that Alan’s car Laadoo (as in the Indian Sweet) was not in the driveway. Donny had arranged to use Laadoo to drive to work that evening as he had just sold his Jeep and was not going to be able to collect his new car until the following day. But in the hour Alan and I had been out walking and talking, we had for a brief moment forgotten. Alan looked at me and said very seriously that things had finally come full circle. I didn’t understand. Then he said with a Zimbabwean accent “Some bloody idiot stole the bloody boss’s core, mate!” How we laughed and laughed! Somehow, we are quite certain that "Some bloody idiot, mate" is not a part of Rachelle and Hilton’s family handbook of phrases. I really wish I knew how to contact her for I would love to thank her for the many years we de Souza’s have taken such liberties in finding new situations to use those words in.

Quotes from films and TV shows are of course used by just about everyone. Even our teacher Ajahn Brahm who no longer watches programs still remembers lines from the days when he was young and sometimes will use a quote during his Dharma talks. We increasingly use quotes from Hindi films that we watch repeatedly. Are any of you actually surprised? I find it really quite delightful when the words in Hindi come out of Donny’s mouth. "Ar-re, tum pagal hoga kia?" (quote Diwale Dulania Le Jayenge) It means something like "My goodness, have you gone crazy?" You see, it is something my child regularly asks me.

In our home we use references from Donny’s films, almost automatically. Of course, until Donny is famous they will remain hidden references that only his parents and the friends involved in making these films will be aware of and are able to laugh at. He completed the script to his first film in just one day. He was sixteen and already had such a quirky sense of humour, he intentionally wrote some of the most awkward lines which have become tremendously memorable – for they were delivered with much bravado and conviction by the lead actor, Justin Keogh. It amazes me that we are able to use them in daily conversation, especially since the film was called The Attack of the Invaders from Outer Space. Need I ask again ... are any of you actually surprised?

It almost makes me want to say “We’re Addams’s” (quote The Addams Family)

Happy Birthday Week

On my 40th birthday, Alan came up with what has become known within our family as the Happy Birthday Week celebrations. It does not matter which day of the week our birthdays fall on, celebrations begin on the Saturday morning before and go through the entire week until the following Sunday night. It is a wonderful thing to be so completely celebrated and loved. When I say this to people, often the reaction I get is something along the lines of - doesn’t it get expensive and tiring having to celebrate for a week? Sadly, I think they have missed the point.

This year Alan began indulging me with attention as soon as he got home from work on Friday afternoon. For a start, he did the simplest thing – he changed into an outfit he knows I just love because it makes him look and feel very cuddly. Then we sat down with steaming hot cups of tea and made plans for the weekend.

I have loved every moment of my Happy Birthday Week celebrations so far, and I am sure it was not calculated on both our parts, but somehow it has been a fusion mini-version of the things we (ab) normally get ourselves into while we are on holidays. For those of you who have journeyed with us and read the 42 travel blogs from The Travelling Story of Two Small Children Part 3 … I think you will get the picture.

There are too many stories to tell since Friday, for we always pack a lot in, so I will pick one. On Saturday, after a fun-filled-people-watching type breakfast and our recurring need to perform the obligatory stroll through Ikea, Alan took me to a rug shop run by three Afghani brothers all of whom had beautiful tiger eyes. More than just light brown with touches of green … many people from that region of the world have eyes with golden yellow hues and feathery long lashes that Alan and I will always comment about to each other after having such an encounter – it was no different this time.

We had a lovely and easy chat with them, to the point I was beginning to wonder when the eldest was going to take out the family album. He spoke of how they had come to Australia when they were boys and how their father had recently returned to visit family. Then Alan asked if they were from Kandahar - I froze for a moment because firstly Afghanistan is more than just Kandahar and secondly, I know Alan ... and hoped he would not ask them if they were kite runners when they little. (The Kite Runner by Khaled Hosseini is one of our favourite books.) I glanced over at him and could see he was thinking about it! It tickled me and I felt deeply happy, it was definitely a Travelling Story moment. We could have been in Old Delhi or Jodhpur, all that was missing were the piping hot cups of masala chai and the odd cow or donkey sauntering by outside.

We went through their shop and I enjoyed running my fingers through the beautiful wool – they had a small but lovely collection. Then I saw it … a gorgeous red and black Chinese carpet – very plush and hand-made. Alan insisted we had to buy it, which we did. Let me just tell you right now … it looks absolutely fabulous in our red living room. But Alan also insisted it was not a birthday present as we had been looking into buying a rug for some time now. But he seems to have forgotten that what we have been looking for is a rug to replace the slightly tattered one in the family room. I did remind him.

Alan has never been the kind of partner who buys flowers or gifts because an occasion has presented a reason to do so, he is a year round giver of presents, thoughtful deeds and himself. I completely adore the man. He will buy me something that he knows I have been coveting when the opportunity presents itself and brings it home to me with such a look of pleasure, even amusement - because he is fully aware of the animated reaction he will unfailingly receive from me. He takes me to places I have read or heard about which he knows would intrigue me but that I would never venture out on my own to see. He knows all the peculiar little things that make me smile – like opening the French-doors at home because I love air-flow through the house; turning on table lamps instead of the overhead ones, keeping the sink dry, lighting nag champa if he’s frying something so that the house does not smell so completely of fried food, bringing me a cup of coffee when I least expect it, planting a kiss on my shoulder or forehead, picking up a newspaper at the Gujarati shop because it contained stories about India which again he just knows I will read from cover to cover - over and over and over.

I love that when we hire movies, we bawl our eyes out together – it’s wonderful that we have such similar tastes and feelings. I love that every night when he offers me fruit, an hour or so after dinner, he picks four fruits – cuts them each in half and then puts half of each onto a plate for me and half of each onto a plate for himself. For example two beautiful pears, he will not just give me one and have one himself. He cuts each in half and we have one half of each to make up a full pear. With mandarins, he will peel two then divide each one into two – and again we have one half of each. It might take the idea of oneness a stretch too far for some people, but I find it is an itimacy that goes beyond words. Inspite of being such a busy man - he is constantly on call with his office ringing at all hours, he still makes the time to mindfully do this so we truly share in the sweetness of the fruit together. After being with him for twenty-five years, he continues to do the little things that most guys only do when they first start dating someone - only for these precious, romantic and priceless deeds to wear off once familiarity gets in the way of surprise. I love that I know Alan so very well, and that he will never surprise me by forgetting to do these beautiful things.

It is these little bits of sweetness that he does on a daily basis that he will carry out beyond my expectations when it’s Happy Birthday Week that truly overwhelms me. How I love him and his complete attention. It is Wednesday and there is still tonight, and four days more of birthday celebrations.


He never tires, he just adores me.