My Father

As I write, my dad is warded with a bad case of pneumonia and the infection had spread to his heart, causing a heart failure. Considering how badly he was doing, he's now waiting to be moved back to the general ward, and the doctors are working to get him home by Christmas. I'd described his comeback from the brink as a fight on his part, one of the many that he had through his life.

Dad was born in a poor family of a widow and her 4 boys in Malaysia, working to make ends meet through harvesting pineapples on a plantation. My grandfather passed away while my granny was still pregnant with dad, so he was born into this world on the back foot. It was typical type of life for a poor boy in the pre-war years: you barely get a few years of school before your parents expect you to quit school and to start working. Somehow, dad knew that a good education was his way out of poverty, so he persisted. However, the start of his education couldn't have been worse, as the Imperial Japanese soldiers overran Peninsula Malaysia, throwing daily life into chaos. He often told me stories of how cruel the Japanese soldiers were, from kicking and slapping passerbys who did not bow to them, to accounts of how the soldiers were throwing babies up into the air and bayoneting them for sport. 

When the war ended, dad started school but because he'd lost a few schoolyears due to the disruption of the war, he was older than most of his classmates. My granny didn't have money to buy shoes for all her four children, so they took turns to wear them, until one day, the principal told dad that he couldn't attend school if he didn't wear shoes. Dad went home and told granny about it, and promptly received a belting for wasting money for the sake of education. I can't remember how the matter was resolved, but dad did complete his education, and won himself a scholarship to study at Chung Cheng High School in Singapore.

Dad stayed in a hostel in school, and got by with very basic meals such a porridge with salted vegetables or pickled olives, a poor man's diet. He recounted how the other students gave poor students like himself a hard time, and I guess that how he built up a siege mentality, believing that no one but himself would help me succeed. It's a sad thing to believe so, but I guess, he was so determined to succeed, he built up these walls to keep himself going.

He did well enough to win himself a scholarship that earned him a place in the Nanyang University (now known as Nanyang Technological University), where he graduated with a history degree. He then received training to become a teacher in Singapore's infant years, playing a role in educating our young nation's future. However, as schools using Chinese as a medium of teaching started getting phased out, dad was redesignated as a Chinese language teacher. It was to be his first, and only job that he held his whole life. 

His hunger for a better life for his family was what kept him going, and his belief that no one would do him any favours (apart from the scholarships, for which he's always grateful for) pushed him even harder. Whether real or perceived, it drove my dad to work hard and to put up with the injustices he felt that he had been dealt with. Sadly though, I think because of the wall that he had built up to protect himself, he might've limited his social circle as a result. He hardly had any hobbies, for whatever time he had, he spent reading the papers, marking test papers at home, and spending time tutoring us in Chinese (a major labour of love on his part, I can assure you). However, I do remember the very human and loving side to my dad: coming home beaming to a couple of excited young boys with a cake because it's our birthday (an indulgence in our household, I can assure you), playing table tennis with us and the best memory I have: dad watching me practice for my primary school sports day on the field, excitedly trying the hurdles, while he stood by the side watching me, and chatting happily as he took me home on the public bus.

He pushed us extremely hard, wanting us to strive for the best in life, memories of his own struggles very much on his mind. Academic excellence was of paramount importance, and he pushed us so hard that it frayed relations, especially during our rebellious teenage years. I must admit that I was the bum of the family, and was the only child who spent the undergraduate years overseas. But as the years went by, I grew to appreciate my parents' sacrifices for us. Without my dad's funding, I wouldn't have had an university education, meaning my career options would be somewhat limited. I remember a story one of my brothers told me of a visit to the supermarket with my father, how one cashier screamed excitedly when she saw dad. It was a former student of his, and subsequently, she ran to the backroom and reappeared with more excited colleagues, of all whom were his former students, and they gathered around him like a bunch of schoolchildren once more, catching up with their teacher. It's a story that I'd never forget, for it was one that showed me how his students viewed him.

When he retired years ago, he had served in that school for almost 30 years, and the students actually made him a sedan chair, and carried him around. Such was the respect that the students had for him. Anecdotes recounted by his former students revealed a caring teacher, respected and feared by students in equal measures, a strict teacher who cared about their progress. Now, as an educator, I want to be like my father.


The years since retirement has taken a toll on him. The arrival of my nephew gave him much joy, and he was nothing like the feared father that he was to us, in the way he treated my nephew. Once my nephew threw a tantrum and I disciplined him, his crying led to my dad popping him head around the corner and gently asking me to not tick my nephew off anymore. Even as I recall that episode, I can't help but be tickled by it. My dad, the strict disciplinarian, asking me to go easy on my nephew. Oh how the times have changed! One of my fondest memory of them playing together, was the two of them rolling on the floor, laughing joyously. Then, the years of failing health came.


He was struck down by stroke in the early 2000s, coupled with the onset of Parkinson's Disease and dementia. The giant of a man that I had known, feared and respected, slowly shrank literally. His once loud clear speech now slurred, his brisk gait now slowed to a shuffle. Mind you though, his mind is still as lucid as ever, and is ever game for a debate about politics and current affairs. 


I am glad to write that when Kat and I visited last night, we were overwhelmed by the sight of him sitting in the armchair, all intravenous tubes out of him, and he's already on semi-solid food. In fact, the hospital is already ready to release him to the general ward. By the Grace of God and the prayers of our friends, dad is hopefully well on his way to a recovery. I'm pretty damned sure he had fought the illness with the same determination that he overcame his life of struggles. No matter what, my father, will always be the giant of a man that I've always known him to be.

It's Been A Year

Usually, in the case of my blog, an entry with such a title usually means I'm melancholic again, but not this time! This time, it's about somthing completely the opposite: my first wedding anniversary.

There's been some confusion amongst my friends (especially those who stalk, I mean, faithfully follow, my updates on Facebook) about my wedding date. Ok, for the benefit of friends who are not familiar with the customs of Chinese weddings, here's the clarification.

Kat and I got married in a civil ceremony a year ago, which LEGALLY made us man and woman. However, in the eyes of the old folks, that meant nothing and that we were still living in sin until the relatives got invited to a wedding banquet, and tea is served to the elders in a Chinese tea ceremony. That didn't happen until June this year, hence the confusion.

Due to an unfortunate coincidence, I was supposed to attend a work-related training camp on the weekend which coincided with the anniversary. Fortunately, the training was postponed and I was able to spend our first anniversary together. With that in mind, I contacted a team mate of ours who owns an Italian restaurant in Holland Village, and he promptly got back to me with a lovely set menu. Of course, I kept Kat in the dark about the dinner plan, completely intending to surprise her.


Saturday was a a bit of a rush around for us, waking up late and then pottering around the house before going for lunch with my family. I was really surprised that she didn't ask where we were going for dinner, because if I'd mentioned Holland Village, I reckoned she might suggest Amici (the Italian restaurant owned by our friend). However, even when we got to Holland Village, she still didn't mention anything, so I guess my plan to distract her by talking about the new Circle Line (we took the Circle Line to Holland Village) somehow worked. By a stroke of fortune, she'd wanted to go to the bank to get some cash, and it happened that the restaurant was only a couple of doors away. My excuse to her for walking towards the restaurant was that I'd wanted to pop in to see if our friend was there (I knew he was away for an event, but she doesn't). It was only when we walked through and I told the staff that we had a reservation for two, then she realised. Naturally, she was delighted.

After a little bit of sorting out, we were shown to our table, and it was so thoughtful: the manager opened the door and there it was, a table just for the two of us at the little balcony. It couldn't have been better because as we were walking through the restaurant, I was thinking that it's a tad crowded for a nice anniversary dinner. The cool thing was also the looks that people were giving us when the manager revealed the special table. 


The dinner started off with 2 glasses of Prosecco sparkling wine, which was perfect as the evening was a little warm and humid. For a wine that's supposed to be dry or even extra dry, it was surprisingly sweet, reminding us of our favourite Moscato wine.

Antipasto platter

First up: Italian antipasto platter topped with cold cuts. Finally! We could have our taste of Amici's food! To be honest, we were starting to get rather hungry, and we polished off the plate in no time.
 

Homemade wild mushroom soup

Next up: Homemade wild mushroom soup. As you can see, there's lots of nice chopped up pieces of mushroom, something I enjoy. I like the earthy taste of the mushrooms, which was pleasant without the need for salt. Actually, I was glad that the soup had a nice subtle taste to it as I'd tasted many with too much salt in it. Honestly, I'd read a nasty comment accusing the restaurant of using canned soup, which I thought is extremely unfair. 

Gorgonzola beef tenderloin

And for the mains: Kat had the Chilean cod fish and the red meat lover in me went for the Gorgonzola beef tenderloin. I think Kat summed it up best: she normally shys away from cod due to the taste, but she thoroughly enjoyed it! We'd thought that it must be because it was fresh, but we were surprised that they use frozen cod. Wow! We really couldn't tell! We've always had apprehension about frozen seafood because they usually get mushy when defrosted, but the one we had was beautifully flaky. I guess it's a combination of a good supplier, as well as good preparation by the chef. As for the beef, it was beautifully medium rare, and tender, the way I love it! This meat lover was in heaven!

Chilean cod fish

The award winning tiramisu!

And for dessert, it's the award winning tiramisu. The strange thing about us, is that we were never really much of dessert lovers. In fact, I tended to shy away from them because of the sugar. However in recent years, we've been partial towards cakes mainly to go with our coffee (we both love coffee). Greedy me, while Kathy was still snapping pictures of her tiramisu, I took a quick shot and got down to business. Picking up my spoon, I cut the corner of the tiramisu: mmm.. nice colour, looks moist.. let's see how it tastes. The first words that came to my mouth was "Oh my God!". Honestly, my words can barely do justice to the tiramisu. It was beautifully moist, with the lovely taste of the alcohol and cocoa, and when it goes down, you get an immediate sense of warmth in the chest and goes right into your face. Mind you, I'm not a fan of hugely sweet desserts (pavlova being the only exception), and Amici's tiramisu was in no way overwhelmingly sweet. I kept bugging Willie (the owner) to share the secret ingredient in his tiramisu, but he was tight lipped about it.


It was the perfect way to end the evening, literally on a (sugar) high. 

About the restaurant: Amici Authentic Italian Restaurant is located at 275 Holland Avenue (Holland Village), just a short walk from the Holland Village MRT station. It's a little cosy restaurant with an open kitchen, so if you like watching your food being prepared, you're in for a treat. Alfresco seating is available as well. I like the murals on the walls which has a nice feel to it. The restaurant is usually packed on weekends, so reservation is a must if you do not want to be disappointed. We were quite bemused with some unreasonable walk-ins who were actually upset when they could not secure a seat. There wasn't an available seat in sight the evening we were there, so do bring a little bit of patience on weekends, it isn't Pastamania ;) Actually, we have been to the Pastamania at Fusionopolis after gym once, and considering that there were only a handful of customers who were there (all of whom were already dining) and more than adequate staff, we weren't impressed that 2 salads and garlic bread took more than 15 minutes and 2 reminders before it was served.

DISCLAIMER: I am by no means a qualified food critic, so everything that is written here is merely someone who enjoys food, and I make no pretenses of being a food expert. This blog entry is just a recollection of a wonderful evening I'd shared with my wife over lovely food and drinks.

Pushing My Physical Limits

It has been ages since I've been training as hard as I have been. It's a combination of reasons, from trying to get fit enough to tackle Mount Kilimanjaro in March 2012, the desire to do my very best in dragon boat, to the simple reason of vanity (if you're surrounded by super buffed team mates every weekend, you'd be self-conscious too).

I've always been involved in competitive sports, which meant that I'd be involved in a lot of intensive training as a team and extra training on my own. I know I risk sounding like an old man reminiscing his lost years, but I remembered how I used to be able to handle tough training everyday and yet recover well enough for the games on weekends. Age has certainly caught up with me. I'm taking forever to recover from my last workout, the "excess baggage" is taking an eternity to shed, and the improvements take longer to materialise. 

The sudden passing of a 21 year old undergraduate at the recent Singapore Standard Chartered marathon shook me up somewhat. I was sharing with some friends that considering his 21km timing (1hour 50minutes), he's definitely no unconditioned slouch. "If anything", I continued, "he'd probably pushed his limits too far". And that was when I stopped... because I would've done the same thing as he did, and with me being twice as old, it might've been me. 


Being a competitive amateur sportsman for most part of my life, I've been bombarded with slogans associating with pushing ourselves past our limits. In fact, it is a scientific principle that in order for the body to improve, we have to push the body harder than what it is normally used to. But the problem is, how many red flags can we afford to ignore until the body really gives out. So why do we take that risk and push ourselves so hard?

My body is telling me that I'm no spring chicken anymore, no matter how hard I try to run away from that fact. When I was in University and at my prime (oh dear, here I go again), I had a bodyfat percentage of 11% and a VO2max of 58ml/kg/min. That was half a lifetime ago, and I'll admit that I'd neglected my fitness for the last couple of years. An old friend of mine called me up a couple of days ago after seeing my pictures on Facebook and asked me how did I get that fat, and welcomed me to the "Fat Boys' Club".

Years ago when I was still playing club rugby, a senior player who was still playing some excellent rugby at the age of 40, told us that "if you want to enjoy your game, get fit!" (that's the succinct version of it, with all the colourful expletives removed). Getting back into competitive sports has given me the motivation once again. Although I'm a lot more chilled than when I last played competitive sports, I still expect myself to give nothing less than 100%, during training and in races. Fortunately for me, Kat is on the same team as me, and she trains just as hard (if not, harder) than I do, and she motivates me as well. There's this desire for us to do the best not just for ourselves, but for our wonderful team mates who keeps encouraging us. That's why it's called a "team sport". 


We just had a long weekend of spending time with friends, so I had to drag my tired ass to the gym today for my lunch workout. I wondered why on earth was I pushing myself so hard, and that I should be enjoying my lunch break, especially at my age. Why do I even bother? The things is, I have no intention of wasting my life away on sedentary pursuits, and I'm inspired by the team mates who are older than me, and twice as fit as I am. I hope that I can be like them when I get to their age.