As a tomboy and the youngest of five children growing up in a family with two aunts (one maternal, one paternal), three sisters, and two servants, I never had to do much by way of housework. It was not until I got to 16 that my mother decided it was ridiculous for a girl (note: girl, not boy!) not to be able to cook at all at that age, so she got the servant to teach me to cook some basic stir-fry dishes.
My first attempt at going solo, brought about by the servant’s day off, produced two dishes. The stir-fried mange tout (/snow peas) were greasy, limp and dry, with burnt patches. Greasy because I’d put in too much oil at the beginning. Burnt, limp and dry because I’d added the water too late, and then too little of it. The stir-fried pork and French beans came out with the meat rubbery (too much heat and cooked too long) and the whole dish swimming in too much sauce (over-compensated this time by adding too much water). My siblings came home, took one look at the offerings on the dinner table, and suddenly remembered they all had dinner engagements.
My first attempt at going solo, brought about by the servant’s day off, produced two dishes. The stir-fried mange tout (/snow peas) were greasy, limp and dry, with burnt patches. Greasy because I’d put in too much oil at the beginning. Burnt, limp and dry because I’d added the water too late, and then too little of it. The stir-fried pork and French beans came out with the meat rubbery (too much heat and cooked too long) and the whole dish swimming in too much sauce (over-compensated this time by adding too much water). My siblings came home, took one look at the offerings on the dinner table, and suddenly remembered they all had dinner engagements.
At 12, I was impressed by Yvonne, only two months older than I, producing a jar of cookies, which she said were made by her. How?!? She said, “Oh, it’s easy. Just follow the recipe.” So, I started collecting recipes and managed to produce cookies and sponge cakes.
Buoyed by my success, I decided to be more adventurous and try making doughnuts. Yeast was on the list of ingredients, which I knew, in principle, was the agent used in making bread dough rise. Where to get it, though? There were only two Western-style supermarkets in those days, both downtown. The local population didn’t tend to make dishes that required yeast. Things that do, like steamed buns and bread, one would generally get in the shops, not make them at home.
“Oh well,” I thought, “I’m sure excluding one ingredient wouldn’t make that much difference.” I went ahead and followed the recipe, producing a lump of dough. The recipe said to leave it in a warm place for it to rise. In Singapore, everywhere would be “a warm place”, so I left it sitting on the kitchen table. An hour later, the dough didn’t get any bigger, so I waited another hour, and still nothing happened. “OK,” I thought, “I’ll help speed up the process,” and took the dough out to the garden and left it in the sun. One couldn’t find a warmer place than directly under the sun, I thought, so I couldn’t go wrong. I gave it two hours just to be sure. At the end of the sunning session, I was left with a hot and rock-hard lump of dough. Into the rubbish bin it went with a thud. No further attempts at making doughnuts.
“Oh well,” I thought, “I’m sure excluding one ingredient wouldn’t make that much difference.” I went ahead and followed the recipe, producing a lump of dough. The recipe said to leave it in a warm place for it to rise. In Singapore, everywhere would be “a warm place”, so I left it sitting on the kitchen table. An hour later, the dough didn’t get any bigger, so I waited another hour, and still nothing happened. “OK,” I thought, “I’ll help speed up the process,” and took the dough out to the garden and left it in the sun. One couldn’t find a warmer place than directly under the sun, I thought, so I couldn’t go wrong. I gave it two hours just to be sure. At the end of the sunning session, I was left with a hot and rock-hard lump of dough. Into the rubbish bin it went with a thud. No further attempts at making doughnuts.
At 18, I went to secretarial school. One day, a male teacher brought in a jar of an Indian snack — which I nicknamed “worms” after the shape of the pieces — made by his Indian wife. I asked him for the recipe, which sounded really simple: flour, water, salt, curry powder; mix the lot together; press the lump through a colander, which will produce the “worms”; deep fry; et voilà, a delicious Indian snack is born. (It is sold in England these days under the generic name of “Bombay mix”; the flour is gram flour, I now know.)
I duly proceeded to make my own delicious “worms”. The first mix produced a dough that was too runny, so I added more flour. It became too dry, so I added more water. That was too runny, so I added more flour. This went on until I ended up with a lump of dough that was double the size of what I started out with. Into the rubbish bin it went with a thump. No more attempts at producing Indian “worms”.
I duly proceeded to make my own delicious “worms”. The first mix produced a dough that was too runny, so I added more flour. It became too dry, so I added more water. That was too runny, so I added more flour. This went on until I ended up with a lump of dough that was double the size of what I started out with. Into the rubbish bin it went with a thump. No more attempts at producing Indian “worms”.
I had my first taste of Spaghetti Bolognese in 1974 when Italian food first sprouted in Singapore (to my knowledge, anyway). During my second year in Taipei, 1976, I’d go to the Italian restaurant in the Taipei Hilton regularly with Pete, the British geologist (he’s featured in the blog entry Ten dollar, ten dollar), and order Spaghetti Bolognese, visit after visit.
So, it was only natural that, when I came to London in 1977, I should try and make my own. (By now, the doughnut and Indian “worms” were not dim memories — they’d been completely forgotten.) My culinary “skills” were limited to the few cooking lessons from the servant back in 1969. I now applied the techniques she’d taught me.
Trouble is: those techniques were for stir-frying. The principles of stir-frying, in case you don’t already know, are (put simplistically): heat up the oil very hot (preferably until the oil starts to smoke), then throw the ingredients in.
I did that for the bolognese, but added too much oil as well, so the minced beef went very crispy as it was basically deep-fried in a pool of very hot oil. This time, I refused to bin it but crunched my way through the dish, telling myself, “You will remember this horrible taste and never reproduce it.” It took me an hour, so unpalatable was the crunchy minced beef, but finish it I did.
Trouble is: those techniques were for stir-frying. The principles of stir-frying, in case you don’t already know, are (put simplistically): heat up the oil very hot (preferably until the oil starts to smoke), then throw the ingredients in.
I did that for the bolognese, but added too much oil as well, so the minced beef went very crispy as it was basically deep-fried in a pool of very hot oil. This time, I refused to bin it but crunched my way through the dish, telling myself, “You will remember this horrible taste and never reproduce it.” It took me an hour, so unpalatable was the crunchy minced beef, but finish it I did.
Undeterred by the bolognese incident, I went on to try and make curry puffs. They were commonly available from roadside stalls in Singapore, but not in London — no, I had not heard of samosas (the closest equivalent I can think of to curry puffs, only a different pastry) at that point. I made the filling, which was a dry curry of cubed chicken and potatoes.
Now, the pastry. I didn’t realise the full significance of the “puff” element in the name of the dish, thinking it was just part of the name, so I mixed flour and water, and made the skins out of the dough. The end product was a curry-puff-looking thing but the skin was so hard I had to use a hammer to break in. I ate the filling, and into the rubbish bin went the outer casing with a loud clatter.
Now, the pastry. I didn’t realise the full significance of the “puff” element in the name of the dish, thinking it was just part of the name, so I mixed flour and water, and made the skins out of the dough. The end product was a curry-puff-looking thing but the skin was so hard I had to use a hammer to break in. I ate the filling, and into the rubbish bin went the outer casing with a loud clatter.
People say one shouldn’t try out new dishes on one’s dinner guests. In my case, I shouldn’t even try them out on myself!
(PS: I have since discovered deep-frozen, ready-made puff pastry available in some supermarkets. So, unlike the doughnut and Indian “worms” experiments, I have made further forays into making curry puffs, and even taught a child with dyslexia and dyscalculia to make some. Whilst I cannot say I can run a roadside stall selling my curry puffs, they are fun to look at, the way I make them — like tropical fish with dorsal fins — and quite tasty. Even if I say so myself...)
(Singapore, 1960s; London, 1977/78)
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