Drama with the in-laws on the other side of the world

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I’ve probably joked multiple times (maybe half joked) that there’s no way that I could divorce Chris because I love his family too much. His parents have welcomed me into their family with open arms and always treated me with love, care, and affection. His mom has probably gone out of her way to be sensitive to my feelings, even being a bit too careful and making me wonder why she felt a need to walk on egg shells when framing certain questions she’s asked me. This year marks 12 years of having a relationship with them, and at some point, I really think she should just let her guard down and not be so careful about hurting my feelings with relatively reasonable questions. His dad has always been warm and amiable, always generous at even the most unexpected moment. And with Chris’s brother, I probably see him as close to a real brother as I possibly could. We even squabble and debate like siblings sometimes. We definitely complain to each other like people who have known each other forever.

I have never taken for granted the fact that every year I’ve gone to Melbourne for Christmas, they have always opened their home to me and asked me to treat it like home away from home. That’s a LOT of Christmases between 2012 and now; the only years we did not go back in December were 2017, 2020, and 2021. In total, we probably stay about 2.5-3 weeks total given we do a side trip somewhere else in Australia, and usually end somewhere in Asia. But when you think about it, that’s a lot of time to spend in someone else’s home. I always thank them multiple times throughout the stay for their warm hospitality and eagerness to make me feel comfortable and welcome in their home. It’s especially important to feel welcome in someone’s home when you are traveling halfway across the world.

So when I heard that my friend, who lives in San Francisco, was told directly a number of times that she and her family probably shouldn’t stay longer than two days at a time at her in-laws’ home in Singapore, especially given her young kids were loud and screamed, which caused the mother-in-law a lot of mental distress, I felt hurt myself. San Francisco to Singapore is not a short trip, and on top of that, they’re always there for about a month, which is a LONG time. So to think they are unwanted when so far away just seems like daggers for the sake of daggers. While I felt hurt for my friend, I felt even more grateful for my own situation and how I’ve never, even for a moment, felt that way while in Australia. I am really lucky, really beyond lucky.

Unexpected therapy

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A friend of mine has been dealing with a lot of usual life challenges: a stressful job, the job layoff her husband has recently experienced, a judgmental, critical, and cold relationship with her mother-in-law, a passive aggressive relationship with her sister-in-law (who she has been actively trying to get closer to, but said sister-in-law keeps rejecting), the stress of raising two strong-willed young children (one of whom has become, in her words, “a little monster,” and the second who is an entitled brat who seemingly wants every new toy that comes out ASAP). So it was kind of like the cherry-on-top of all her stressors when she discovered, earlier this year, that the house she owns and once lived in, which has been rented out, a place she hoped to move back to some day… the tenant occupying it hanged himself in it. He was discovered by his ex-girlfriend. And my friend and her husband had to deal with the aftermath and clean-up of it. This was really the incident that tipped her over the edge.

My friend and her family are superstitious, so they hired a Buddhist to do a cleansing ceremony of the house. But it wasn’t enough. My friend said the house would always be ruined for her. She had so many happy memories in the home, especially since her first child was born while she lived there, and she just could never imagine that something so awful would happen in the same space.

For the first time in her life, she sought therapy. But the person who saw her was the epitome of why a lot of people avoid therapy: they think most therapists are idiots who will just give them trite advice. That’s what this therapist did until she finally phased her out. She told her things like, “carve out some time for yourself during the day… even ten minutes,” “go on walks alone,” “meditate,” “hire a babysitter to make time for yourself.” No one wants to hear this crap, especially given the high rates that therapists charge (and even when your health insurance is fully covering it).

Later on, she saw someone who was recommended by a relative for a massage, but the appointment time for the massage ended up becoming a talk therapy session, as when the massage therapist asked her how she was doing as she entered the space, my friend just broke down crying. The massage therapist lightly suggested she didn’t need a massage and it seemed clear to her that she needed to talk it out. So they did just that for an hour. And my friend said that one 60-minute session, which was never intended to be talk therapy, was better than all of the many sessions (over a few months) combined she did with that idiot Kaiser therapist she saw and then dropped.

As it is always stated and known by most of us who have had challenging upbringings, she said that it all “goes back to childhood.” She takes on all the burdens because she once tried her best not to be a burden to her mom when her dad died unexpectedly when she and her younger brother were young. She always wants to have the front that she’s put together, can handle everything and more… even if she cannot. But this was really becoming all too much.

I suggested she try seeing another therapist, as it was clear that talk therapy could help her as long as she found the right person who asked the right questions. I think talk therapy could benefit the majority of people as long as a) the person is open-minded enough to pursue it, even if just for a little while, and b) they have a competent therapist who can ask the right (and oftentimes challenging) questions.

Birthday call

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I called my dad today to wish him a happy 76th birthday. Unfortunately, he did not pick up, so I’m hoping he saw my missed call. Afterwards, I texted him to say happy birthday, and that a gift would be arriving in the next few days from the three of us. I’m not sure if he will call back since he never calls me.

When I first graduated from college, I used to call my dad on his birthday every year, assuming that I wasn’t in town at the time. But I started realizing that he never called me. He might send me a birthday card or a birthday email, but he never reached out on my birthday. I didn’t really love it, though I know he’s just socially awkward in general. And I recognize that any acknowledgment is better than zero acknowledgment. But it never made sense to me that my dad never wanted to wish his only daughter (and now, his only living child) a happy birthday by voice. So in recent years, I’ve actually stopped calling. I send a birthday card or gift, and I usually text to send happy wishes. But that’s really it.

I hope he calls back. But I don’t want to hope too much since oftentimes when we raise our expectations, they’re just never met. As of today, he’s now officially lived 12 years longer than both his own father and his older brother. I hope he feels like he’s had a life better lived than the two of them did.

Kent mango vs. Ataulfo mango: which is better?

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From March through July of each year, our household is loyal to Ataulfo mangoes, also known as champagne mangoes. They are relatively small, yellow, and have a sweet, honey-like flavor. The flavor is a bit one-noted, but it’s always deeply satisfying. The flesh is also a deep yellow/orange color and never fibrous at all. Very occasionally, I will buy Kent mangoes, which I always refer to as the Mexican mangoes available in the U.S. that are much larger than Ataulfo, but far less flavorful. They are also a bit hit or miss: you can easily get one that may smell fragrant, but once you cut into it, it’s stringy and fibrous. And as we all know, texture can be just as important as flavor in a piece of fruit. Who wants a stringy mango?

It’s been clear since we returned from our South America trip that the Ataulfo mango season is coming to its end. So while we haven’t bought any of these, while in Elmhurst this past Saturday, I came across a fruit cart that sold these huge, fat Kent mangoes, three for $5. I also remember a few people saying in my social media feed that this year’s harvest of Kents were at their very best. So I figured that $5 is a good price to try these out.

After I peeled and cut my Kent mango, I noticed a few things: this large Kent mango yielded about 2-3 times as much flesh as a single Ataulfo mango. The flesh was not fibrous at all, but on the paler yellow side when you compare it to the Ataulfo mango’s deep yellow/orange hue. This is not relevant to taste at all, but the Kent mango skin was much thicker than an Ataulfo’s, making it a bit more resistant to peeling (and a tiny bit more challenging as a result). And when I had a few chunks after cutting it up, I noticed that the flavor was more citrusy than an Ataulfo’s. An Ataulfo is more honey-like, almost creamy and rich. The Kent flesh is more juicy than it is creamy… if that makes any sense. I enjoyed both of them, but I think the flavor is much stronger in an Ataulfo than in a Kent.

And so, our love and preference for Ataulfo mangoes continues while we are in the U.S. Though, I will still buy Kent mangoes once Ataulfos are harder and more expensive now that we’re entering the month of August, assuming I find them at a decent price. I can’t say no to a mango (unless it’s flavorless and/or stringy!).

Thai jasmine rice: Hom Mali and government certification

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I’ve been listening to Pailin (of Hot Thai Kitchen)’s new podcast, Sabai, like it’s my new best friend. I’ve been following her for years now. For the longest time, I thought that Thai food was too difficult or required too many ingredients to make at home. After watching just a few of her videos, I’ve realized that it’s actually quite approachable, easy to execute (well, most dishes…), and has quite the overlap with Chinese and Vietnamese ingredients I normally buy. Thai food is exactly what she says: if something is different than what you are used to, then you think it’s strange or too difficult. Pai does an amazing job demystifying Thai food and making it seem like easy home-cooking for anyone.

Pai recently had an episode where she and her cohost, Hong Thaimee, discussed rice. I had no idea what a commodity real Thai jasmine rice was. Unless we buy white or brown basmati or Japanese medium grain rice, we normally buy white/brown jasmine rice that is always imported from Thailand. But Pai and Hong specified in their rice episode that because Thai jasmine rice has become so popular, many “fakes” have come out in the market from Cambodia, Vietnam, and Laos, and the quality and fragrance just are not the same. So they insisted for true authenticity, we had to look for the green circle logo for Thai government certification, which has some grains of rice in the image. And if we got this, we would know for sure that we were getting premium Thai jasmine rice of the highest quality. Of course, I’d take any recommendation Pai gave me, so I took a screen shot of the government certification image and saved it on my phone for future reference.

Yesterday, I went down to Manhattan Chinatown and visited my favorite Vietnamese market to pick up some more white jasmine rice. And I realized that the rice I had previously been buying actually *was* Thai government certified, and it wasn’t too expensive (five pounds for $7). Well, this was an exciting discovery: I had already been buying the “in the know” rice before I actually knew! I also picked up a bag of purple rice since I still had some space in my backpack. I ended up walking eight pounds of rice, a bottle of light soy sauce, and a small bag of Chinese bakery goodies, all the way from Chinatown and eventually up to Koreatown. I think that’s my rucking for the day.

Getting older: Different vibes in the same places

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My friend is visiting from San Francisco this week for work, so we went out to dinner tonight at an izakaya in the East Village. While the food was fine, it wasn’t anything to get excited about, and there was no “wow” factor in any single dish of the small plates/bowls we ordered. It was a bit of a downer (and when I shared this with Chris, he poked at me for glorifying the East Village dining scene… which is probably fair in this case). But at least it gave us some quiet time to catch up without many others around. Similar to how we would “open” restaurants in Uruguay and Argentina, we ended up being the first guests to arrive at 6pm here, and no one really started coming in until around 7:30 when we getting towards the end of our meal.

Afterwards, we chatted while walking all the way up to Koreatown, where we ended up at HHD (Heuk Hwa Dang), an international Korean franchise of bubble tea, croffles, specialty drinks, shaved ice, and coffee. Unusual for Koreatown, the space is very large, with plenty of tables, as well as large “step” seating, and the menu for desserts is huge. So we shared a massive mango strawberry “snowflake” (it’s essentially a shaved ice, except with shaved sweetened milk “ice”), generously topped with freshly cut fruit, jellies, and some soft-serve vanilla ice cream. As we spoke, we realized that our own voices had to keep getting louder and louder because we were surrounded by other people who were at least 10-15 years younger than us, talking and laughing loudly while enjoying their own shared snowflakes.

My friend chuckled and said, “It’s as though I can’t hear because it’s so loud in here… I keep straining to hear you! Are we getting older and just can’t tolerate this much noise, or are the acoustics here just that bad?”

It’s probably a little of A and B. We prefer quieter places to catch up when we see each other since we don’t see each other too often living on opposite ends of the country. Yes, the acoustics were pretty poor. But it was comical to think that while we would have been happy spending hours hanging out at a place this loud and young in our early 20s, now in our late 30s, there’s definitely a limit to how much time we want to be at these places. We don’t necessarily blend in because of our age and how we dress into crowds like these anymore. And as much as I love the East Village, I am definitely on the older side when it comes to people wandering around its streets now, even if I can still pass for much younger.

Indonesian food: Under-rated, under appreciated

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When I lived in Elmhurst, Queens, from 2008-2012, I felt like Elmhurst was always this under-the-radar type neighborhood in Queens that never really got its due. Then, the rents were cheap, the area was safe for families and kids (it still is, in both regards, relatively speaking). And what was top of mind to me was that the food was so, so eclectic. Before I lived in Elmhurst, I had zero idea what Indonesian food was. So to think that I finally lived in a neighborhood where, on a single block, I could pick up Colombian pastries, eat Indian-Chinese fusion, have authentic Taiwanese breakfast, grab some fresh tomatillos for homemade salsa verde, and then have a full Indonesian lunch spread, was just mind-boggling.

We came back to Elmhurst yesterday and stumbled across a coffee shop that turns into a fun wine bar at night called Elm Roastery, right on Broadway, which is the main artery of Elmhurst. We ordered an ube latte and a jasmine lemonade, both of which tasted strongly of what they are made of (you’d be shocked how often this is not the case). The service was very warm and friendly. The decor was modern, sleek, and chic. There are ample tables where you can meet up with friends one on one or in small groups. And they have a large open counter that is designated a laptop-free zone (which I LOVE) where it’s meant for socializing and meeting new people. One of the walls was lined with handmade items for purchase, all made by local Queens-based artists so that locals can buy local. The bathroom was huge, well designed, and even had a European-style changing table (very similar to the ones I used when in Germany), complete with a cushion for your little one and thoughtful little shelves for you to temporarily place things like diapers, wipes, and diaper cream. We used this, and I was so grateful to have a cushion for Kaia and to not change her on the floor. I was stunned; 12 years ago, I would have loved for a spot to be like this in my ‘hood! It’s the time for the rest of New York City to finally embrace Elmhurst now that fun spots like these are popping up!

We revisited one Indonesian spot that I’d eaten at with a friend about ten years ago. Then, it was called Sky Cafe, but it has since been renamed to Sumatera. The owner retired, but the staff, chef, and menu remained the same. When I’d visited here before, I had never been to Indonesia. So coming here now, I actually had something solid to reference. And this meal was just like a meal I’d get in Jakarta or Yogyakarta: we ordered nasi padang bungkus, which is basically a big stuffed banana leaf with a variety of delicious things, like seasoned rice, a boiled egg, beef rendang, savory jackfruit curry, spiced shredded kale, and sambal; mie complit, which is a big bowl of chewy wheat-based noodles topped with ground chicken, bouncy beef and fish balls, a soy-sauce marinated egg, bok choy, deep-fried wontons (fried to order!), with a side bowl of deeply flavored chicken soup; an avocado shake (topped with Milo!!); and while all the above was beyond delicious and flavorful, the biggest highlight for me was the homemade cendol, made to order. The first time I’d ever had gula melaka, this nutty, toasty palm sugar that comes from a specific type of coconut palm found in Southeast Asia, it was in Yogyakarta in a cendol. The flavor was so deep, nutty, toasty, and distinct that no regular granulated sugar could have replicated the same flavor. Here, when we ordered it, the server warned it it would take some time to make. They were literally churning out the cendol jellies to order, which were green from pandan. They added the jellies to a tall glass of ice, coconut milk, and thick, brown gula melaka. And after I had just one sip, I was taken back to Indonesia. The flavor was exactly the same. It was as though I was brought to Indonesian dessert heaven.

Indonesian food is a rare find in the U.S., but I’m grateful to have semi-easy access to it here in New York City, in my original neighborhood of Elmhurst, in my original New York borough of Queens.

Catch ups over black sesame lattes and chamomile mango mousse

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Chris always gets annoyed with me whenever I say that I don’t love our general neighborhood (Hell’s Kitchen / Upper West Side) for food. It’s not that I think the food options are terrible here (they are NOT by any standard), but it’s more that when I think of incredible places to eat with a lot of variety (cuisines) at multiple price points, these two neighborhoods that we’re right in the middle of are not within the top 10 (or even 20) across all of New York City for me. However, what I have noticed in the last five years is that a number of places that originally open in areas like East Village (my dream eating neighborhood), Lower East Side, or other great food areas downtown, are now opening their second or third locations in this general area. One of those places is Patisserie Fouet, which has been on my radar for a while. It’s owned and run by a Japanese pastry chef who was trained in French pastry, so the desserts are very much French in technique with hints of Asian flavors here and there. She opened her first location in the Union Square area (complete with a dessert tasting menu), and she decided to open a second location just eight blocks away from us in Hell’s Kitchen, in front of a popular udon spot called Raku. Raku is likely my favorite udon place in all of New York City. I went to their first (and then only location) about ten years ago and was obsessed with the udon and all the dishes I ate there with a friend. Since then, they’ve opened two other locations, one in SoHo and one in Hell’s Kitchen. So now, that’s two popular, fun, and semi-trendy places that are downtown that have now come uptown within short walking distance of us!

I went to Patisserie Fouet in Hell’s Kitchen and met my friend there for a mid-afternoon catch-up. We shared two desserts, while she had a cold brew barley tea, and I enjoyed an iced black sesame latte. I have always preferred one-on-one catch ups over group catchups, but I particularly love meeting with this friend 1:1 because she is so empathetic, insightful, and pointed in her questions and observations. She doesn’t shy away from vulnerable topics and instead, actually invites them. She sees a lot of things in people that most others either never notice or don’t want to point out. The older I get, and the more entrenched in being a parent I become, the harder it is to make real, lasting friendships with people who I find genuinely interesting. And in group situations, it can get awkward very quickly to discuss any touchy topic or anything seemingly exposing of yourself. So I feel thankful I’ve found this friend and we can be totally open and share unflattering things about ourselves, things we’ve done, and our relationships, and that it doesn’t negatively impact how we see each other. In fact, it actually does the opposite: it helps us better relate to and respect each other for being so candid… and being open about the fact that we’re all deeply flawed individuals who are just trying to do their best in life and with others. If anything, we should applaud ourselves for having that level of self-awareness to see that we probably do “wrong” things all the time but do make an intentional attempt to be better and do better.

Doing all the things with your visiting friend that you cannot normally do with littles

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A friend of mine who lives in San Francisco is coming to New York for work next week, and so we’re planning to meet up on Monday and Thursday night. She’s extended her trip to stay with us for Thursday night and will leave Friday evening. When I asked her what she wanted to do while in New York or if there were any restaurants or cafes she wanted to check out, she simply responded that she wanted to go restaurants or spots that she couldn’t do with young children or babies… so in other words, speakeasy-type venues, cramped and small restaurants you couldn’t easily roll a stroller into, or places where you’d never even think of asking the server for a high chair at.

It was kind of funny when she responded this way because I could completely relate. I have a growing list (as always) of places I’d like to eat at in New York, but given the weekends are with Pookster, a large percentage of those places are just a no-go with a young child. It’s not to blame your child, but more recognizing that some venues just are not suitable for families or young children. And that’s okay. So we’re planning to do a tiny izakaya meal and have afternoon tea during her time here. Even though we’re both mothers now, we still enjoy and crave adult time and time to catch up one on one… without the constant injections of screaming and toddler questions that would happen if our kids were around and we tried to converse.

Giving away breast pumps and supplies – the end of a (motherhood) era

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This week, I took a look at my closets and decided that now was the time to finally give away my two breast pumps, their associated supplies, and my maternity clothes that don’t fit right now that I’m no longer pregnant. It was a weird feeling. At first, it felt uncomfortable, but when I packed them up and brought them downstairs to our security desk to facilitate pickup from eager members of our local Buy-Nothing group, I got over it. I always hoped to have another child, but I’ve come to terms with the fact that Chris won’t budge on his ridiculous “one-child policy,” and that unless I divorce him and miraculously meet someone else suitable ASAP, I’m probably not having another kid. So there’s no reason to keep extra stuff in our space for something that is a highly unlikely future.

It’s like a semi-official closed door to that stage of my life: recovering from child birth, breast feeding and pumping, and all the anger, frustration, tears, and hope that came with it. It’s a little funny to think about exactly how much time and energy I devoted to breastfeeding: the 1,430 hours over 14 months that I recorded having my nipples connected to a breast pump doesn’t even capture all the time that I spent researching, reading, testing, discussing, measuring, storing, and cleaning all my supplies. And THAT does not even include all the head space time I spent actually thinking and obsessing over it all. While there was a lot of pain and frustration during this phase, I also had a lot of highs and times when I’d stare into the fridge and be amazed at all the full breast milk bottles lined up. I remember the nanny phrasing my milk production and all the effort obsessively extended into feeding my baby. And for a few moments, I’d just look at all the bottles and smile, proud that my body was finally capable of producing so much milk… more milk than I thought I’d produce when that idiot lactation consultant at the pediatrician’s office insisted (with no evidence) that I had low milk supply. I’d daydream about potentially freezing the milk and using it for things like diaper rash or even in Kaia’s solid foods, like oatmeal or smoothies. It seems very far away now even though it was just over a year and a half ago when I weaned. That’s what motherhood is, though: lots of highs and lows that are quickly forgotten once you move into the next stage of your child’s development.

It’s okay, though. Although I do miss a lot of those moments in Kaia’s development and my own motherhood journey, I love her stage right now. I love that we can communicate in two languages, that she can surprise me with new things she can do and say every single day. I love how affectionate she is. I hope she is always this affectionate. I hope she always knows how much I love her.

After bedtime stories each night, I always say the exact same lines to her: “You are the best thing that has ever happened to… mummy. Mama loves Kaia more than… anything. Mama is grateful for Kaia… every day.” I also tell her in Chinese that I will always love her, no matter what. In the last two weeks, when I have said this to her before bed, she finishes my sentences with the last word. And it warms my heart. The very first time this happened, I teared up and just squeezed her and laughed, which elicited big smiles and giggles from her. I always said it her entire life, but I wasn’t sure if it was registering with her or if she understood me. But this just made my day the first time she did it. I just love my baby so much and am so grateful I have her.