Chinese

Cubby house now houses three

Remember this? Today we set up a new cubby house at our new place under our new dining table. The boys loved it. Despite how exhausted I was, I couldn’t stop laughing as I watched them playing together yet each still doing their own thing. Gosh I love them.

Anyway, today is Chinese New Year and I’m missing my parents who are currently in Hong Kong. Part of me wishes I were in Hong Kong with them, celebrating the new lunar year with all our relatives and, of course, amazing food. I probably could’ve initiated some sort of a celebration for us here, but without mum and dad here, it just seemed rather meaningless.

Sometimes it saddens me that I’m not passing on much, if any, of my Chinese heritage onto the boys. It’s so strange, and in a way startling, how different their childhood is compared to mine. I grew up in a Chinese household and family. They’re growing up in an Australia family, with only small hints of their Chinese roots popping up occasionally. Perhaps that’s just the way it’s going to be, and I need to learn to be okay with that. Or perhaps I could make more of an effort to ‘learn’ certain things from my parents, so that I can in turn pass it on to the boys. I have yet to work it out.

In the meantime, I wish you all a wonderful start to the lunar new year!

Bring it, dragon.

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Two words: Yum cha (or chicken feet)

I like yum cha. And I like chicken feet.

That’s right: I’m Chinese and slightly eccentric.

Anyway, this particular outing was in celebration of my mum’s, ahem, thirty-fifth birthday – or thereabouts. (Who am I to tell the internet my mum’s real age?)

Pete was a big fan of all the yum cha dishes, which my parents were pretty pleased to see. It’s funny how when Angus isn’t there (like on this particular Friday when he was at daycare), Pete seems to come into his own a bit more. Or maybe it’s simply that we have more time and opportunity and headspace to pay him greater attention and discern all the little things that make him the delightful boy that he is.

To my dearest mum, happy birthday and thanks for everything you do for us.

We love you!

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Asian habits die hard

It’s back to faceless photos of me on this lovely Friday.

Although technically it’s not actually Friday anymore here in Sydney. It’s 12.30am, which means I should’ve been in bed at least an hour ago. But my Asian upbringing tells me this is okay. It is okay to stay up past 1am or even 2am, much less midnight. It’s okay as long as one is doing something productive like:

1) watching television
2) singing karaoke
3) playing cards
4) playing mahjong
5) reading comics, or
6) updating one’s blog.

I’m pretty sure that if I rang up my parents right now, they would also still be awake (most likely engaging in option 1 – watching television).

Today I made Jamie laugh. Not once. Not twice. But five times! You guys, my heart almost melted. It was without doubt the highlight of my day – a truly precious moment that I will cherish forever.

And on that note, I wish you all a happy weekend filled with precious moments with family and friends.

(Mum/dad, if you’re reading this, turn that television off now and go to sleep!)

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Happy new year! (Again)

It is Chinese New Year again. Well, yesterday was to be exact.

When the boys woke up from their nap late in the afternoon, we ventured over to my parents’ in various shades of red (the traditional CNY colour – in case you haven’t already noticed) with a small bag of oranges (because arriving empty-handed is a ‘no-no’ – according to my mum anyway).

I could smell the tantalising food in the air as soon as we stepped in. The kitchen was laid out with all the fresh ingredients that mum had spent the previous day buying. There were of course also the usual red melon seeds on the kitchen bench, along with the lollies in shiny red and golden wrappers – all designed to usher in the new year with as much prosperity and wealth as possible. Naturally

Mum then spent the next two hours cooking our CNY meal while the boys systematically spread mess all around the living area. It is a true testament to my mum’s love for her grandchildren that she actually doesn’t seem to mind when they do this – considering that my ‘neat freak’ gene is most definitely inherited from my mother. One wonders whether I will be as selfless when I am a grandmum myself (no pressure boys, but if you have babies, I will let them be messy – in at least one room of the house).

Anyway, Pete decided that CNY would be the perfect time to try crawling. And crawl he did. For about twenty centimetres anyway. And it wasn’t a pretty crawl. No, it definitely wasn’t – not unless one likes watching strained squirming, painful writhing and awkward gyration of the derriere. But it was nonetheless a crawl and it was absolutely hilarious (and entertaining) to watch – and film. I felt very proud of my little man.

Dinner on the table looked – and smelt – amazing. I have to say that nothing quite tugs at my heart as my mum’s cooking. I’m quite sure that when I’m fifty, I will still be wandering over to mum’s, asking if she can make me soy sauce chicken wings, pork ribs with Chinese mushrooms and chicken feet soup.

Just as we were all seated and ready to commence our celebratory banquet, mum looked at me in utter shock and horror: she had forgotten to cook the rice! My poor mother – she was utterly devastated as she realised that our bowls would not be filled with white puffy grains of pure carbohydrate. I reassured her that it was fine – and indeed, all the food that she had prepared was more than enough to fill our tummies and quench our hunger. (Later I was thoroughly amused when she tried to suggest that I was meant to remind her to put the rice on at about quarter past five. How is a filial and respectful Chinese daughter meant to respond to that one? You tell me.)

Apart from food and family, there is one other aspect of CNY that has always appealed to me: the red packets. Yes, sadly and admittedly, I am a greedy human being who enjoys (rather immensely) opening crispy red packets filled with crispy (real) money. After all, the tradition was ingrained into me from the age of four – I never really stood a chance when you think about it.

It probably also doesn’t help my greed that I am now taking home five times what I used to. When I was young and single, my parents gave me two red packets (one from each of them). When Rick and I got married, they gave us four red packets (one from each of them to each of us). After Angus was born, we received six red packets (you do the maths). Last year when I was eight months and three weeks pregnant with Pete at CNY, we received double what we did when it was just us two. And now this year, with James only a month and a half away from popping out, my parents gave us ten red packets in total. Woot!

(Naturally, I wouldn’t recommend having more kids just for the sole purpose of reaping greater returns at CNY – after all, you probably have to be Chinese first – but it’s definitely a nice little fringe benefit.)

Anyway, here’s hoping that the new Chinese year will get off to a better start for our family than the Western one did. May the drama and sleeplessness of this last month not pervade the ever auspicious lunar calendar.

Happy Chinese New Year peeps! (Even if you are not Chinese.)

p.s. You can see some photos here.

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Tantrums, rainstorms & stupid gruesome movies

A quick Saturday recap:

1) On Saturday, I discovered what a truly impatient mum I am. Rick was out for most of the day, so I had the boys to myself. If my life was a fairytale and I was a fairy-like mum, we would’ve spent the most perfect day together made up of sunshine, milkshakes, cream buns and fairy floss (actually, not sure if I’m thinking of fairytales or my own appetite here) with no tears and lots of laughter. Instead, we had rain, lightning and thunder (thanks to the crazy Sydney weather), and every time the little boy Angus whinged, his wicked mum just lost it. Every single time. Friends – what do I do? I don’t want to be such an impatient mum. I don’t want to be a mum who has a tanty every time her child has a tanty. To all the wiser and more experienced mums out there – please send me some much-needed ‘Dear Pink Ronnie’ advice.

2) Speaking of the crazy hot-one-day-rainstorm-the-next Sydney weather, it reminds me a bit of myself when I’m trying to order food. I can never decide: “Do I get the chicken sandwich? Or the chicken schnitzel? Maybe they do a good burder. Oh wait, maybe the chicken nuggets. Doh, it’s just for the kiddies. Oh wait, I have a kid! But then, what will Angus eat? Okay, maybe I’ll have the sandwich then. Oh but look, they do chicken wings too….” And so, Sydney weather, as Rick would (gently) put it: For the love of poultry, just pick something and stick to it!

3) I was looking at my blog stats and it seems that someone actually Googled ‘Blue tac in the mouth of child’ and ended up on my blog page. So maybe I’m not the only one out there…

4) We did some channel flicking on Saturday night and ended up watching a Hong Kong triad movie on SBS called SPL. Rick was absolutely enthralled. I was not so impressed with all the hard core stabbing and slashing scenes. That’s one thing I noticed about Hong Kong movies as I was growing up: they really like their knives and swords on-screen and they like to do really gruesome stuff (why can’t they take a leaf out of Hollywood’s book and just use machine guns, nuclear weapons and aliens?). Unfortunately for me, mum and dad really liked their Honkie triad movies and I always thought watching TV was a preferable option to studying for the HSC. And so I would often find myself on a weekend night sitting on the couch, averting my eyes and blocking my ears as I asked mum over and over again: “Is he dead yet? Is he dead yet? Is he dead yet?” Now that I’m thirty, it seems I’m no less capable of watching someone onscreen die painfully from a gruesome knife wound because I found myself muttering the same thing to Rick on Saturday night: “Is he dead yet? Is he dead yet? Is he dead yet? What, how can he still be alive? It’s been, like, ten minutes! Stupid made-in-Hong-Kong movie…”

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Honk if you’re game to try this

Usually I don’t like to classify myself as a Honkie*, but when it comes to drinking tea, I am Honkie through and through. Here’s how to do it the Honkie way:

1) So first up, we need some darn strong tea bags. Dilmah Extra Strength is a good choice. So good in fact that when my mum goes back to Hong Kong to visit relatives, she will take with her at least 6 boxes of Dilmah Extra Strength (200 pack) as gifts to bestow upon my numerous aunties. That’s 1,200 tea bags. That’s how much we like it.

2) Steep the tea for as long as possible. Before kids, I never liked waiting around for this part. Post kids, the tea usually sits steeping for at least 45 minutes as we battle out the daily morning routine. Actually, nowadays, we’re lucky if we even make it to the next step….

3) Now add your sugar if you like it sweet. Again, if you need a product recommendation, CSR Raw Sugar is good. And does my mum lug kilos of CSR sugar back to Hong Kong as well, you ask? Well, actually, yes she does. True story.

4) Now for the milk. But not just any milk. We like to use evaporated milk. It’s creamier than full cream and it comes in a can. No, it’s not good for you, but being healthy is not generally at the top of a true Honkie’s list of priorities. I try and always choose the ‘Light and Creamy’ can which is 25% less fat than ordinary evaporated milk but probably still 500% more fat than your average skim milk. That’s not too bad, is it? Just remember that it tastes really, really good.

5) And then comes the truly weird part which freaks out most of my non-Asian friends. We add coffee to the mixture. That’s right, a few grains of my beloved Nestle Instant Gold completes the deal. Mmmmm………

Now honk if you’re game to try it the Honkie way!

*Honkie = someone born and bred in Hong Kong and who retains such characteristics even after having migrated to a western country. Okay, so I made that up myself, but it’s close enough. Let me know if you can do better.

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Dad, mum and I

On Friday I was speaking to a friend of mine from college and she mentioned how she actually likes to read my blog, and, hello, why have there been no updates? So this post is in honour of her.

Yes, I have been a bit slack with my blogging. What else is new? (At least my ability to use cliches hasn’t slackened off.) But this time, I have a very good reason. More about that in some other post.

So I turned ~~twenty~~ thirty (freudian slip there) about a month ago. And tomorrow is my parents’ 31st wedding anniversary. Which means they had about four months of blissful married life before realising they were pregnant with me. Which suddenly makes me wonder – am I an accident!? The thought disturbs, intrigues and amuses me all at once. I wonder if I should ask them? Something like that needs to go into my future best-selling memoir, surely.

When I think of my parents and my childhood, it is often tinged with some angst and frustration. I am quick to remember how they always disapproved, how much pressure they put on me to do well at school, how they used to eavesdrop on my phone conversations, how they never listened to me, how they failed to say anything positive, etc.

Conveniently, I often forget how I would lie to them about where I was going, how I always answered back, how I never really listened to them, how I used to eavesdrop on their conversations, how I was always sulky and grumpy, how I never really said anything positive to them either, etc.

[click to continue reading…]

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Cough syrup like you’ve never seen before

As my Twitter followers will know, I have been pretty sick these last few days.

One thing that has helped to make me feel a little better is this curious-looking bottle of Chinese cough syrup, something which my mum used to give me when I was little girl.

Ingredients include:

Fritillaria Verticillata, Bulb
Eriobotrya Japonica, Leaf.
Adenophora Verticillata, Root.
Citrus Reticulata, Peel.
Platycodon Grandiflorum, Root.
Trichosanthes Kirilowii, Seed Kernel.
Polygala Sibirica, Root.
Prunus Armeniaca, Seed Kernel.
Ginger.
Gycyrrihiza Glabra, Root.
and… (wait for it)
Honey and Sucrose Syrup.

I know the ingredients sound like they’re straight out of a Harry Potter novel and the packaging doesn’t exactly shout modern, contemporary or ‘Drink me!’, but this syrup sure does a darn good job of putting out the fire In my throat, even if only temporarily. I’ll take even five minutes of relief any day.

It tastes amazing too (um, probably because of that wicked last ingredient), something that can’t often be said about Chinese medicinal stuff.

Unfortunately, you can overdose on it so make sure you don’t consume more than 75mL a day (and don’t consume any at all if you are diabetic or pregnant).

Available from any drabby looking Chinese grocery store near you. (If it’s not drabby looking, it probably won’t stock this.)

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I blame it on Dilmah

Oh my goodness, I could not sleep last night. There I was lying in bed, listening to the pelting rain and trying desperately to drift away into that coveted state of mind: unconsciousness. I tried lying on my left side, I tried my right side and I tried my back. I tried counting sheep. I tried counting nothing. I tried not thinking at all. At one point I couldn’t stand it anymore and turned on my iPhone to see what time it was. 3.50am. Argh! And then 4.30am. 4.48am. By this time, I’d already checked my emails, updated my Twitter status and even been onto Facebook. Finally, when I heard Rick get up at about 5.30am to put Angus’ dummy back in, I think I managed a short dream. I blame it on Dilmah. Stupid Dilmah! No more tea for Ronnie after 9pm at night.

So there goes my grand plan of waking up at 7am this morning after Angus goes down for his early morning nap and being able to get three hours of work done before Angus’ second feed of the day. Nope, here I am instead typing this incoherent rant at 10.15am, having only climbed out of bed at 9.30am, not having accomplished any work whatsoever and feeling like a zonked out zombie.

My poor little Angus. We finally took him to see our family doctor on Monday about the little red bump on his forehead and it was diagnosed as a Capillary hemangioma (still can’t pronounce this), more commonly referred to as a strawberry mark. Apparently it is very common in children and can grow up to 1cm before regressing and it can be up to four or five years before it fully disappears. Most recommended treatment is not to do anything at all. Rick and I have both been feeling slightly down about this. We can’t help but wish to have it removed – I guess we’ll see what the dermatologist has to say. I can’t help but worry other little kids will tease him about it and I just don’t want that to happen to my little boy. My mother’s ever-so-helpful response was: “I told you you shouldn’t have painted whilst you were pregnant!” (Thanks mum, that’s exactly what I needed. To feel blamed for something I already feel bad about. And to be blamed on the basis of stupid Chinese superstition no less.)

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Chinese mind games for little kids

Can someone Chinese please explain to me why I shouldn’t describe Angus as cute (even though he is), label him as chubby (even though he is – I mean, come on, you only have to take one look at his big fat cheeks), say that he’s smart (even when he makes developmental leaps like grabbing his very first rattle) or – the worst offence of all – call him ‘a good boy’?

Okay, so I know you’re not meant to spoil your child, but surely positive encouragement and praise where relevant and appropriate is acceptable? Plus, why shouldn’t I be allowed to call my own baby cute and chubby if I so feel like it, especially when they are in fact true and accurate descriptions?

I honestly don’t understand this business of not praising your baby/child/infant for fear of them turning out to be the opposite of what you say.

Don’t know what I’m going on about? Let me explain with a very simple example:

Even though Angus is ridiculously cute (I know I am unequivocally biased as his mother but he is at the very least – cute), Chinese belief/tradition stipulates I’m not allowed to call him cute (much less ridiculously cute) because he might hear and understand me and deliberately turn out to be ridiculously ugly.

Allow me to point out a few fundamental holes in this line of thinking:

1) It is not logical.

2) It makes no sense whatsoever (oh wait, is this the same point as above?).

3) Little babies like Angus usually don’t have the capacity to understand words or language yet. I think? Maybe they actually do but they wait till we all go to sleep and then they wake up and phone each other on their baby iPhones and proceed to talk for hours?

4) Even if Angus was a super-smart and super-brainy Asian baby (see what I’m doing? I’m calling Angus super-smart and super-brainy in a roundabout, hypothetical way) and understood every single word that I utter, he doesn’t actually have much control over how his nose is going to end up, or how big his eyes are going to be, or whether he’s going to have nice hair or bad hair (without radical surgery anyway).

5) Even if Angus was some freak of nature and was able to control the abovementioned, why on earth would he deliberately make himself ugly just to spite me? Just so he could say, “Ah hah! You were wrong mum”?

6) Repeat 1 and 2 above. Ten times. No, a hundred times.

The amazing thing is that no matter how many times I explain this to my mum, she refuses to agree with me and in fact I’m sure she thinks that I’m the weird one for not following this historic Chinese tradition (more commonly known as plain old superstition).

So basically, if your child is cute, call him plain. If she’s beautiful, call her ugly. If he’s smart, he’s dumb. If she’s obedient, tell her she’s naughty. If he’s nice and chubby, you better call him a stick.

Welcome to Chinese mind games for little kids. You’ve just had your first lesson.

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