Onward

From the bag I pull two fresh buns with a layer of cheese baked into the top. We always seem to have a supply of these since Peeta found out they were my favorite. – Suzanne Collins, Catching Fire, chapter 10 This month's Food x Books post is a double digest for August and September. Though I baked the cheese buns last month, I wasn't able to complete the blog post due to personal reasons. Originally, I was only going to focus on certain aspects of this series, but then I started re-reading from the beginning – dystopia is oddly comforting during trying times because it makes you realise that things could be worse – and found so many more references to food than I remembered that it made sense to focus on several aspects. Which is perfect for a combined post, as it turns out. This trilogy made  quite an impact  on me when I read it in 2013, even though I knew quite a bit about the plots. During this re-read, I find myself appreciating Katniss' dry sense of humour and sarc

For reasons I can't quite explain, I've always been obsessed with my family history. Heck, I'd say I'm probably interested in anyone's family history, because it's fascinating. But one's own seems almost like lore – you grow up hearing names, anecdotes, little factoids at various times, never knowing how all of them connect until you really try to put together the pieces of the puzzle. My mom says I was a chatty child, even before the age of two. That tracks. She also said I was always curious about all the aunts and uncles, and would routinely rattle off their names (sounds annoying), almost as though I was building a family tree in my little head. Well, she didn't say that last part, but how else would you explain it? More than once while I was growing up, and when I was all grown up, I drew family trees on the largest pieces of paper I could find. Even when it wasn't homework. And because my grandmother was forthcoming, or perhaps because I badger

Then it was time for the satay. Rachel bit into the succulent grilled chicken, savoring its smoky sweetness carefully. The rest of them watched her intently. "Okay, Nick, you were right. I've never had decent satay until now.  – Kevin Kwan, Crazy Rich Asians, chapter 14 I didn't expect to enjoy this book as much as I did, perhaps because I felt rather lukewarm about the film a couple of years ago. The book's Hollywood-isation stripped it largely of its satire, turning it into a mushy, dramatic onscreen romance complete with makeovers, cringey caricatures and a grand gesture on an airplane (more original than an airport). It's such mis-adapting that has led to the wide belief that Jane Austen wrote "love stories", when what she actually exposed were the nuances of stratification and relationships through humour and irony. I bring up Austen because more than one critic compared Crazy Rich Asians  to one of her works, but probably for different reasons, the

From an inside pocket of his black overcoat he pulled a slightly squashed box. Harry opened it with trembling fingers. Inside was a large, sticky chocolate cake with Happy Birthday Harry written on it in green icing. – J. K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone, chapter 4 This scene, occuring immediately after Hagrid's arrival and the Dursleys' comeuppance (which included phrases such as "yeh great lump" and "yeh great prune", hmm), marks the first nice thing that anyone has ever done for Harry's birthday since his parents died. Stunned and confused though he is, Harry is still able to see this gesture for what it is: someone made an effort especially for him, to make him happy, because they care. The feeling is so unfamiliar that it confuses him, and he isn't even able to formulate a "thank you". Well, that, and a giant just broke down the door. I started reading the Harry Potter books when I was 13, immediately after the

He looked at her for a while longer, then took a leisurely sip of coffee and helped himself to a bite of wentelteefje from the small plate before him. Clearly, she had interrupted an evening snack. She would have given almost anything for a taste of that wentelteefje. It looked and smelled wonderful. When was the last time she'd had cinnamon toast? Probably the last time Hanneke had made it for her. The aroma made her weak with nostalgia. But uncle Dees did not offer her any coffee, and he certainly did not offer her a share of his beautiful, golden, buttery wentelteefjes.   – Elizabeth Gilbert, The Signature of All Things,  chapter 28 From the blurb, I expected this book to be about a female Newt Scamander-type character  (see, I can't even think of a woman equivalent) who travelled the world and went on adventures far ahead of her time, in a male-dominated profession, in search of fantastic botanical specimens. And though this would have been a super cool story, I'm even

I've just realised that today marks 14 years since I first started blogging.   It wasn't quite here; I had a different blog then, but parts of it have found room in this new home. In those early years, I used to mark every "bloggiversary" with a post , but that is a practice long forgotten. So it's a sweet coincidence, then, that I happened to be doing some blog calendar planning, looked at the date, and a shadowy memory came to the forefront. I've got a million things to be doing right now, but I think this deserves some of my time.  I've already written about how my blogging has evolved, reviving this blog and creating an archive. There are more tweaks coming, but enough of that for now. Instead, we're going down memory lane with one(ish) post for each year that I've been blogging. This wasn't easy; there aren't many posts I feel happy sharing from those early years, and not all years were created equal (I'm looking at you, 2012). Un

 Trigger warning: death    My father hasn't eaten well since my mother died. So I am here, in the kitchen, to cook him dinner. I'm slicing tofu. I've decided to make him a spicy bean-curd dish. My mother used to tell me how hot things restore the spirit and health. – Amy Tan, The Joy Luck Club, chapter 12  At the tail end of a chapter primarily devoted to an elaborate meal involving eleven crabs, the simplicity of the dish that Jing-Mei chooses to share with her father and the reader is interesting. In this novel about mothers and daughters, and friction between generations and cultures, we don't see the daughters in the kitchen too often. Jing-Mei's cooking is nurturing, and nostalgic, but she explains the act with humility. Throughout the book, I got the feeling that she wasn't particularly culinarily inclined  – perhaps it was her lack of interest in (and knowledge about) the differences between black sesame seed soup and red bean soup; or the way she admired

Last March I bought liquid foundation for the first time (the shop was all wrong) to conceal the forever-shadows under my eyes but sometimes I wonder which cosmetic chases away the less-than-hopeful feeling that this is all there will ever be or less maybe pandemics do this to a person or maybe it's just thirty-one where adventures do lie ahead but cautiously.

Over tea and several apricot flapjacks, the girl told her she was the one who had given Harold the burger all those weeks ago. He had sent her many lovely postcards; although due to his sudden rise to fame there had been an inconvenient number of fans and journalists hanging about the garage. – Rachel Joyce, The Unlikely Pilgrimage of Harold Fry, chapter 28 In the second chapter of this poignant story, sixty-five-year-old Harold walks into a garage a couple of post boxes away from his street, seeking a snack. He's feeling something , but doesn't quite have a mission just yet.  Although we never learn her name, the girl in the garage is the catalyst that starts everything.  You have to keep positive, though." Harold stopped eating his burger and mopped his mouth with a paper serviette. "Positive?" "You have to believe. That's what I think. It's not about medicine and all that stuff. You have to believe a person can get better. There is so much in the