The middle three of the five children in my family were sent off to live with Grandma on her coconut plantation as soon as they were born, as there wasn’t enough space at my mother’s rented accommodation (which was just a room).
Grandma’s plantation, out east not far from Changi International Airport, had electricity from the village generator only between sundown and 11pm, so the house had no fridge. The older of my mother’s two brothers, who lived with my grandma as he was the older son, was also very strict about unhealthy eating, so no chocolate and no Coca Cola.
Every now and then, my third sister would come to stay in my mother’s bungalow house in suburban Singapore.
She’d go straight to the fridge the moment she arrived, fill a tall glass with ice cubes and coke, then go and sit on the floor of the front verandah against a wall.
To eke out the enjoyment, she wouldn’t drink it, not even in sips. She’d dip the long-handled spoon into the ice cold coke, lift it to her mouth, and lick the spoon for the flavour on her tongue. There she’d sit for ages, stretching out the enjoyment of a chilled soft drink this way.
I’ve since coined the phrase “Licking the spoon” for enjoyable things in my life. If I’m having fun at a party but have to go to work the next day, I’d say, “I want to lick the spoon. I can catch up on sleep another day.”
(Singapore, 1960s)
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