:: Strings and Shadows ::

The kitchen was an orchestra of labour. The running tap did a water-dance over the fresh vegetables. The chopper drummed dully against the wooden board. Hot oil sizzled; metal spoons clinked against porcelain bowls. The soup gurgled with random rhythm.

I was closed off from the world as I hunched over the bubbling stew of sea-cucumber and Chinese mushrooms. My mind was strangely blank. I only cared about the state of my stew: are the sea-cucumbers succulent enough? Do I stir in the cornstarch now? Perhaps a few extra drops of the Chinese wine would bring out the flavour of the meat. Or maybe I should use Cognac instead, since the tangy-spice of the sauce―thickened with black ground pepper and oyster stock―would go nicely with the strong aroma of hard liquor. The fire must be turned down now; I should add in some water to temper the stew...

'Cornstarch,' said my grandmother, not looking up from the prawns she was patiently shelling. I smiled to myself: thirty years of practice didn't account for nothing. My grandfather might have lorded over the house when he was alive, but the kitchen was clearly my grandma's kingdom.

'Two more minutes?' I meekly suggested.
'One,' said my aunt, her eyes not leaving the fish she was carefully deboning.
My grandma broke into a chuckle. 'The chief cook has taught her disciples well,' she said, half jokingly, but not without maternal pride.
We met eyes and smiled―three generations of women united by culinary sensibilities, and a passion for unbridled humour.

'I sharpened all the knives myself, this year,' said my grandma suddenly. 'Your grandfather used to do that for me.' Her wistfulness was matter-of-fact; my heart got caught in my throat.

'You teach me how, po po―I'll do it for you next year,' I promised.

She flashed me a toothy grin. 'Silly girl, I still can do it. I don't want you to roughen your hands!'

'She wants to remind herself of Ah Gong,' my aunt interjected. 'They used to fight all the time during Chinese New Year. Who buys what when―who does what how―they'd tear the house down, her with her cleaning, and him and his screaming.'

We laughed, but our laughter was hollow with his absence, even as his presence continued to be the way he was―comforting and familiar, and larger than life.

You see, I bought the tiger prawns after all. And we're making the soup just the way you like it―with extra lotus. Grandmother still puts in more diced scallops in the stew than it's necessary, because you used to complain she was 'stingy as hell' with it. No ginger in the abalone sauce―you hated the lingering taste of ginger. More garlic in the asparagus―you were a typical Canton man, you used to joke. Garlic was the mistress in your diet―always tempting, and always leaving you wanting more.

You're gone, but not quite. We're keeping you alive in the way we live―and in your death we realised the price of your life, the way you've done little things to keep us in order, and the way your big voice became the glue that held us together as a family.

Thank you. I miss you more than you know.

'I miss him,' I heard my mother whisper to hers later. My grandmother gave her eldest daughter―who will be 51 this year―a clumsy pat.

'He's here somewhere, laughing at us all because we started dinner too late, the fish was over-steamed by about two minutes, and the naughty nephew of yours is eating his drumstick on our new sofa. He's here, Fong, and he'll always be here.'

Her strength is her genius. After dinner, we toasted to health and happiness―and even as we struggle with our own nuclear-family dysfunction, for a moment, we were picture-perfect as an extended family, united by tradition and food, under my grandparents' roof.

***

Somewhere between my third glass of Riesling and H's recounting of his latest book purchase, I realised I was staring couplehood in the face again.

Nice cafe. Good bottle of white, chilling in the ice bucket (that he'd taken the liberty to order because you were unfashionably late). Starters and desserts to share―maybe you'd eat off each other's main course as well. 'How was your day?' would be a question that was bound to come up. And the assumed familiarity would mean you could start talking about how you really wanted those tennis grips but that particular sports shop didn't bring in the brand you fancied, or how you wanted to do some quick new year shopping, but Chinatown was an asylum of vehement last-minute shoppers scrambling for bak kwa and pussy-willows.

That was it. If I ever took the plunge and got myself a new boyfriend to brandish around―like one would a pink-strapped Gucci tote―I would also have to content myself with the nuances of being part of a couple again―the countless 'how's your day', the routine sex where one minute you were close to orgasmic heaven, and the next minute you're plunged back to hell with sudden thoughts of his mother / your mother / work / the fact that he might find you boring / fat / a dead-fish in bed, and of course, the proverbial 'where are we going with this'.

I'm being shallow, of course. I'm forgetting the perks of having a Significant Other: the way your heart can leap and tumble at an inane SMS. The physical intimacy and the emotional support. The fact that you're loved unconditionally. The fact that you're loved.

But even as the Riesling made me light-headed and H's smile became strangely more charming in the setting sun, the hurt of the breakup hit me with instant clarity. I suddenly remember the feeling of being stifled and being sucked dry even while I was proudly proclaming to the then-better half of my undying love, and I found myself questioning if all of this―the dating, the dining, the dancing around innuendos―wasn't just some stupid accident we got ourselves into because we needed some other way to justify our paltry, urbanised existence.

My heart is dead. Even as I'm physically out there―meeting him and him and him―I have locked my emotional availability behind an avalanche of cynicism and fear.

Fear that I could never want to put myself through that again.
Fear that I could never be selfless enough (I could never forget what you said).
Fear that I could never reconcile my preference for the spontaneous connection of minds over the slow-burning security of routine.
Fear that I would break, and I would be the one broken.

***

E.E. Cummings and his satirical words couldn't say it better:

'Let's go,' said he
'Not too far,' said she
'What's too far?' said he
'Where you are.' said she