food glorious food

Truly greater men agree that dishes would not be judged purely by its presentation but by its taste, quality and the lingering aftertaste.

What kinda dish would I be then? Could I be a smelly tofu? My distinct (or frankly pungent) smell would be whiffed from faraway and only courageous souls would dare to take a bite at my tofus. (pun purely unintended)

Or could I be a Ba Kwa? A perfectly or usually overgrilled piece of barbequed pork meat that has been placed over a fire for a long time, bearing the overheating sensation of roasted, and left with squared marks all over, scars to remind myself of the pain and tribulation I’ve been through, but when the taster’s teeth bite into my tender meats, the sweet lingering taste leaves much to be desired and my darkened looks are definitely excused.

How about an apple pie? Baked in a comfortable white-washed suburban household by a (psychobitch) mother (read: Bree Van DeKamp) whose locks are almost too perfectly arranged. Made by finest ingredients, handmade with love(?) and much precariousness. Made for the affluent, by the affluent. 100% homemade literally and its chunks of apple pie shows its resilience with the sauce that spills out after every fork thrust into its crust. A food that is crispy and tough on the outside, but inside it’s all warm, wet and moist. (again, pun purely unintended)

Maybe, I’m just a fruit, a wholesome natural goodness, that hasn’t gone through any heat, grinding or cooking, just hanging on the tree, going through the natural process of time till I fall to the ground, with much to be said about my destiny. Could I be neglected and left to decomposed as nutrients onto the ground? Could I be picked up by farmers and made into something more than I could ever imagined I could be? Could I be eaten by wild animals? By not going through the turmoil that other apples have done, could I have been of a better quality food than the others?

Or I’m just … a myriad. A rojak, in local jargon. I’m a mix of everything, from roasted tau poks full of crunch and chewyness, pineapple for that extra zing and soury bite, peanut sauce to slather and sweeten, fruits to have that crunch, and beansprouts for colour and texture contrasts.

I guess I’d love to be a rojak then. I wanna be your ultimate happiness. The decadent delicacy you have been craving for. The problem is, can you look past your previous similar bad food experiences and attempt to taste what others couldn’t bring to the table but I could?

Rarely did people ever say they developed a taste for veggies since young on first taste, surely there was a routine force feeding by the overdomineering lords (read: parents), but then again, you begin to look beyond the initial disgusting taste and colour (ugh: green on my plate) and understand the nutritional benefits. Vitamins! Height! Clearer Eyes! Better Skin! NO MORE CONSTIPATION!!!!

But I don’t blame you, prevous dishes must have left such a bad case of diarrhea that there could be a vow never to go there. But whenever the entrée is made by the maitre’d, don’t ever regret the soup of the day, cause you won’t know when it’ll ever be made available again.