Point of No Return

To truly learn the meaning of leaving yourself no way to return, discover that the coin machine is not working after you've loaded up the washing machines and poured in the detergent.

Dissatisfying

When I woke up this morning, I lay in bed for a moment, watching the indistinct blotches of colour float across my field of vision. Then I turned my head to see my pillow, sharply in focus, and one thing became clear to me.

I will probably never be at home for Chinese New Year again.

Well, that statement is not exactly true. I will be at my home, wherever it is, for every Chinese New Year. I will not be in the home of my parents, with the family that is what family is to me now. I will likely never again taste that soup that my grandmother makes only on New Year's Eve, or grudgingly grab a few mandarin oranges to pay my respects to my elders, or wander about strange HDB estates to visit relatives I see exactly once a year.

This might be a frightening thought for many people. After all, this means a separation from one's roots. Your family becomes something less than it was. Chinese New Year, once a time when family is all-important, and every activity, thought, sight is designed to remind you of that, has now become a phone call home, a few minutes of bland, pointless, falsely cheery conversation. Then it is over. Both for you and for your family. You go back to your life, doing whatever it is you do. Most likely a night in front of the television, eating takeout. Perhaps Chinese takeout, in honour of the occasion. Your mother sighs, replaces the telephone receiver, then turns to her other children, or her husband, or whoever it is she celebrates the festival with, and heads out to do her thing. Your family is not depressed and gloomy when visiting or being visited simply because you are not about. On the contrary, they most likely find things to be almost exactly the same. Except that your mother has to collect the red packets on your behalf. Perhaps there is a sense of something lacking, but they continue on their merry way regardless. You are not essential to their celebrations.

That is for others. What bothers me the most is that the above does not apply to me. I do not find myself deeply disturbed that I will not share Chinese New Year with my family in future. I merely note it. I do not feel the need to try to substitute friends for family and put up some false pretense of cheeriness. It really is just another day for me. A weekend this year, so mildly more pleasing than most other days, but for no other reason.

Do I lack emotion? Perhaps my problem is cold blood. I feel no loss when I sit at home on Chinese New Year's Eve and eat takeout sushi while watching Saturday Night Live. In fact, I find it superior to jostling with hordes of people in the weak excuse for Chinatown that is to be found in Chicago, waiting for hours to be seated in spite of a reservation, then eating profoundly dissatisfying "Chinese" food that is prepared in a style that is not from my own heritage. I am not from Sze Chuan, nor do I have any relatives, to my knowledge, who are. That food is not my culture. No more than sushi or a prime rib. If that is the case, then why not choose an alternative that is better, on an objective level, than truly awful "Chinese" food?

I do not think that I lack feeling for my family. When my parents called, then messaged me, I barely bothered with the classic greetings, that much is true. Instead, I asked about the various medical conditions of my grandparents. That concerned me far more than some annual festival celebrating the coming of spring and the beginning of the planting season. What on earth has that to do with me? It concerns me that members of my family have health problems. It does not concern me that I am not consuming pineapple tarts and receiving money from virtual strangers.

Even so, I sometimes wonder what I really feel when I experience concern. I do not experience a surge of emotion, or even anything that I can really identify as emotion, really. I simply realise that the situation is something that I should be concerned about, make an assessment of how concerned I should be, then take the appropriate action and make the appropriate expression of concern. It all seems to be inspired far too much by my entirely rational side than any emotional side. I do not feel panic when I learn of somebody close to me being in trouble, but rather I think about the situation and begin processing all possibilities that I see. I think about how the situation should be best resolved, rather than expend energy simply thinking about the terrible possibilities. Does that make me lacking in emotion? I do not know. I simply know that this is the way I am. I let my mind grasp situations and handle them, rather than simply react to them.

I shall now stop and go tend to my braised pork ribs. They call to me.

Chocolate Cake

Blogging on request. Huh. A little further west than the last time I did this, to my recollection, but here goes anyway.

Chocolate cakes can be odd things. The smaller and darker they are, the greater the effect they seem to have on girls. As if there's a complete loss of self-control whenever the scent of chocolate is in the air. The way I look at them, chocolate cakes are sort of like the frivolous aspect of pastries. They serve very little purpose in terms of nutritional value, and are certainly less serious than a pound cake, for instance. A chocolate cake is designed to be sweet, heavy, indulgent. Most versions involve sticky, gooey messes of cocoa derivations that constantly threaten to stain a cheek or shirt or dress. For this reason, I suppose, a chocolate cake would be inappropriate for any occasion that demands a certain level of decorum. For instance, a chocolate cake might be served as dessert after a meal with family or friends in a restaurant, or at a birthday party. Something like that. Whereas it would not be so appropriate for a business luncheon or formal dinner. Imagine trying to close a deal with an important client with chocolate stains on your tie. Hardly worth thinking about. So take note, all you eager little bankers and whatnots out there, no chocolate cake when still on the job.

A chocolate cake is viewed as a sort of indulgence, and this indulgence has become a standard, thereby losing its status as an indulgence. Look at any dessert menu in America, and you will see a chocolate confection of some kind. I recall when I was a child, and chocolate based confections were not nearly as common as they are today. Today, I would think nothing of a chocolate cake being brought out for dessert. When I was a far smaller creature than I am now, chocolate cake was a treat, a delight. Of course, if I had not viewed chocolate cake as such a delight, I might still be a far smaller creature than I am now.

Strangely enough, when you think about it, chocolate cakes are an odd type of indulgence. A decadent treat should be something that is far above the ordinary, and is considered superior to most other things in the same category. If not, there would be no reason to indulge in something when there is a less guilt-inducing alternative. Yet none of the memorable desserts that stand out in the limp sea of my mind have been chocolate cakes. I recall a fabulous lemon tart, all light and breeze upon my tongue. Chocolate ckes, to my recollection, have almost always been heavy things, reliant upon overpowering flavours to pummel your taste buds into submission. I suppose chocolate cakes are to pastry as perhaps barbeque ribs are to meats. Considered an indulgence, but lacking in any subtlety. Try to imagine a sublime barbeque rib. What might come to mind is a wave of flavour and texture. What is desired is accomplished, but hardly the best experience possible. The guilt that should accompany such indulgence is strangely stronger for the single dimension of pleasure. How can you feel guilty for eating a lemon tart that draws a smile out of your lips whenever it comes to mind?

But I have come to grow weary of pursuing that perfect pastry, with complexity and depth, leaving an indelible mark on the memory. Perhaps resorting to chocolate cakes to satisfy that sweet tooth, without worrying about finding extra dimensions to the taste sensation, would be be easier and ultimately more satisfying for not failing to meet lofty expectations. After all, how can you be disappointed when all you ask for is what you get? And if there is something beyond the transient blast of taste, that is a surprise, more likely an anomaly than anything else. Still, for the moment, having given up looking for the ultimate lemon tart, there is no rush to scrabble for chocolate cakes. I can hardly even bring myself to finish eating those cakes that do find their way onto my plate these days, let alone go about searching for dessert.

In case you still haven't cottoned on, I'm not talking, or typing, really, about chocolate cakes.