Mmmm.... Risotto!

I've always loved risotto, but had a disastrous time creating my own. They were either too gluggy, too hard, or just taste plain ol' weird. And so I had stopped making risotto and trusted the expert chefs to dish me risotto from time to time.

I had the itch the last time I was sick and had to take two days off (see about me not being able to slow down??), and found this basic, easy-enough recipe for a chicken and mushroom risotto (two of my favourite ingredients - surely that can't go wrong).

Well, it didn't! It actually worked out beautifully I repeatedly (lamely, I might add) pat myself on the back as to how tasty it was.

I made this again last night - it was good to have 'surplus' of chicken breast pieces that you're not sure what to do with. I did have a bit of a panic moment because the rice wasn't turning soft until literally the last spoonful of the chicken stock, but crisis averted, and now I have quite a few batches freezing for lunches/dinners.

Mmm... risotto... I think I might have to dig up some MORE recipes to try out.

Can I Start the Day Over?

I've become rather... proficient in letting small things slide right off me; no, actually, I've become quite good in not letting the miniscule, petty things not get to me, knowing that most of the time, the grumble and whinges from the other end of the line came from their own pent-up frustrations and by no means not directed at me.

But two continuous days trying to negotiate my way through totally inflexible group of people, being bombarded with nothing but shortness and 'who-gives-a-f*ck' attitude, coming from those whom I thought *should* (emphasise the 'should' here) have more compassion than others, I find myself, at 9 in the morning today, wanting to turn back time and start the day over and do certain things differently (or rather, avoid doing certain things altogether).

I guess I'm feeling just a tad emotional than my usual self today...

Something I've Learnt About Myself...

I honestly don't know how to slow down. It's not that I haven't tried, it's just... I am simply not capable of it.

I had a head cold from.... Wednesday last week; the sniffle, the coughing, the head pounding. But, it was a head cold, so I thought I didn't have to succumb to being on bed rest and taking some time off work.

Well, well, well, my body had other ideas, it seemed. On Thursday, I woke up not being able to lift my head off the pillow, feeling as if I had been hit by a bus. So I took a day off, hoping I would get LOTS of sleep and recover to get back to work the very next day.

And what did I do? My tummy grumbled, protesting at the lack of food at 9AM. So off the bed I was and searched for food. By the time I finished eating, I was feeling marginally more alive that my brain was already working overtime with all the plots and sub-plots of both Micahel & Lizzy and Evelyn novels.

I felt really tired by 2:30PM that I decided to hit the sack again, but my eyes refused to stay shut for long, my brain thought it was dead fun to keep working whilst I was trying to wade my way to the oblivion, my cheekbones hurt like hell I was almost in the brink of tears from exasperation.

Friday rolled over and my body well and truly told me to get some rest, even if it wasn't sleeping. I wrote, in excess of 10 pages over the past 2 days, reaching milestone upon milestone for my Evelyn novel. I slept at 5:30 in the morning, only to wake up 5 hours later, and ready to do it again, despite the throbbing of my numb fingers. I grumbled and whinges at the fact that Sunday night came way too soon and I had to go back to work on Monday.

Well, at least I can't whinge to anyone for not having any time to write... *sigh*

In the Early Hours of My 30th...

I look back to the years that had been; to the events that had shaped my life; to the convictions that helped me become the person I am today.

Thanks to you (as twisted as that sounds), I knew what it felt like to grow up under a set of toxic, over-protective, over-bearing parents. Not that I would ever condone 'talking back' with no aim other than trying to hurt the other person, but living under your roof had taught me, first and foremost, to suppress whatever emotion I was feeling, whatever differing opinion I had on a subject matter.

I grew up being fearful, both of you and of the consequences of disagreeing with you. For the longest time, I was Miss Goody-Two-Shoes, who wasn't willing to do anything out of the ordinary for fear of evoking your wrath. I mean, who would scream blue murder for two straight days, berating me for not completing my chores by going to a movie with my older sister? When I was... fourteen? Fifteen? Sixteen?

I had lived, being in constant terror, tiptoeing around both of you and being your sounding board when you fought with your spouse for nineteen years, until every fibre in my being rebelled and contracted and something in my mind said "No more! You're driving me insane!"

I have lived over a decade after that tasting the freedom I should have tasted long before I'm nearing twenty, able to grow up the way other, more normal people would; doing everything that in your eyes were total ungratefulness to those who have put me in this world in the first place. I discovered the excitement of going to a night club, having a few drinks, and dancing. Not wasted, not having a bluddy hangover that see me chained to the toilet retching; they were the things I've sworn I'd never get myself into; things you've never trusted me enough not to do, nor decide for myself.

I do miss... well, what I miss is the dream rather than your persona, really; I long from time to time to have a parent figure I can turn to when I feel like my husband isn't enough to be my boxing bag, or when I want to rant and vent about him (as much as I love him dearly). Every now and then I wish I could have had one of those wonderful relationships with either one of you. I hear stories of people just dropping in at their parents' house to have lunch, go shopping with their Mothers, have their Dads come over to fix... whatever, and I just smile and think  "how nice." Most of all, I wish for just one happy memory I can hold on to, one I can keep looking back to fondly and put a smile on my face; one thing that outweighed all the hardships I've had to endure.

But I can now accept the fact that I don't have that. I rarely look back, because doing so would only make me wallow in the pain and anguish, of reliving the memories that my childhood seemed to have been filled, largely, with hysterical cries and sobs. I no longer have dreams that woke me in the dead of the night with cold sweat dampening my skin, or tears running down my cheeks, or both. And I no longer wish for things I can never have; your approval over my actions, your proud smile over my accomplishments, your support when I feel like I'm dropping the balls of life-commitments I have to juggle.

It has taken me a while, but I am finally at peace with myself. I no longer hear your scolding voice resonating so disapprovingly in my conscience; I finally discover that putting myself first doesn't equate to being selfish. I am now able to say 'No' when I need to without feeling guilty, without seeing it as a sign of utter disobedience, able to be assertive without fear of being excluded/ex-communicated/get into trouble.

I can proudly admit that, looking back over the past decade as I reached this wonderful milestone, I have finally found myself; finally know who I really am and the kind of person I want to be. My accomplishments have been many, my mistakes I have been able to learn from, my life has turned out exactly the way I've hoped and planned. As I go about my day, on my 30th birthday, I can honestly say that I am proud of myself, and am content to say that that knowledge alone, is enough.

Repeat After Me...

Shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit
Crap crap crap crap crap crap crap crap
Damn damn damn damn damn damn damn damn

I have, by pure accident, deleted my whole ‘Evelyn’ folder.

I have a Mac at home, and Windows at work. So when I work on my Mac, and then put my USB stick into the port of the laptop at work, it has... well, I guess corrupt files (I’m knowledgeable enough about technology, but not that knowledgeable).

So, as usual, I’d select those corrupt files and delete them. Not just put it in the Recycle Bin, but actually pressed the 'Delete' button. Well... apparently, without realising, I’ve also selected the non-corrupted Evelyn folder and deleted them entirely.

Lucky, I guess, that there were only 2 versions in there. Lucky, too, I guess, that I do have a back-up at home, though by no means that this back up is up-to-date to the one that’s on the USB stick.

So.... methinks I will be updating Evelyn the novel on the weekend... I am SO so so so thankful that I have a hand-written hard copy to refer to, otherwise you would have seen me bawling my eyes out inconsolably!

The Therapeutic Power of Cooking...

I go through phases with cooking; there are times when my mind is filled with everything I want to cook, or  recipes I want to try out. I find myself rummaging through every recipe books I have, or even going on the Internet to download new recipes. I commit myself to doing up a sometime comprehensive shopping list, imagining myself being 'chained' to the kitchen, assuming the identity of a modern Betty Crocker (minus the apron), and whipping up these wonderful-looking dishes.

Other times, I see cooking, with all its preparations, from peeling garlic skins and thinly slicing them, from chopping up the vegetables and meat, from browning the chicken and then transferring them to the oven, something that would last up to one hour, nothing but a nuisance; a distraction, and even a waste of my time; the time I could spend doing other, more productive things.

But today, I was determined to cook a few meals to last us throughout the week. Perhaps it has a lot to do with the fact that tomorrow is a public holiday for me, but not for my husband, and I am always filled with ideas as to how to spend my time alone the most productive way.

And so I found myself mincing about 9 garlic cloves, chopping onions and various vegetables, trying to reinvent my own version of garlic prawns recipe - nothing like the ones I order and devour from the Chinese restaurants, but a good substitute nonetheless if I do say so myself. And I must admit, that there is something therapeutic in doing repetitive motion of putting knife through carrots and beans; the kind that numbs and cleanses the mind; the kind that unblocks it of all its problems and give me useful chatters and inspirations for my novels.