29 Jul 2007, ST
By Tan Hsueh Yun
A FRIEND told me a few nights ago that I have a 'kiam chye mia'. Translated from Hokkien, this pungent little phrase means that I have a 'salted vegetable life'.
I'd never heard of such a thing but my friend said it meant I was a loser. Make that Loser with a capital L.
Six of us were at dinner and someone asked what I'd been up to. I had just come back to work after being on leave for two weeks and moaned about spending the second one sick with a fierce bug.
All the plans I made had to be cancelled because all I could do was sleep and cough, cough and sleep.
People I've told this to, and I've told everybody I can think of (blame my inner drama queen), are usually sympathetic and I've come away realising that this sort of thing is pretty common.
Mr Kiam Chye himself often gets a cold or falls sick when the weekend comes around and is convinced that he'll be too ill to work on Monday. Inevitably, Monday rolls around and he's right as rain, having spent his precious weekend being ill.
Someone else at the table, who was on leave from work, developed a cough in the first few days of his liberation.
Other people told me it is pretty much a given that when they're out of the office for any length of time, they immediately come down with some bug or other.
I tried to ignore my sore throat at first, taking fistfuls of bright pink Chinese tablets that are supposed to tame throat inflammations. They worked, I congratulated myself and went about my business, packing my days with lots of stuff.
But one Monday morning, I woke up feeling like I had just swallowed a box of nails.
'Your throat looks nasty and I don't like the sound of that cough,' Doc Chia said and offered a medical certificate that would allow me to rest at home.
Don't need one, I griped. I'm on leave. He looked at me with pity. I was outraged, fit to be tied. You would be too if you had to spend the remaining week of your leave doped up, achy and miserable.
In truth, I should have turned that outrage on myself because I allowed it to happen.
A therapist who ironed out some kinks in my back some time ago said that people like me put off resting or taking care of our well-being until we can get time off. So when that time comes around and we can relax, the body takes its revenge.
I know all this. Earlier this year, a bout of the flu saved me from a long and torturous bout of insomnia I'd pretty much inflicted on myself.
But I didn't learn my lesson.
My reasoning is that when you are younger, you think you can do anything with impunity and so you are a bit reckless. When you're older, you realise time is marching on and you want to pack as much into your day as possible.
But being good and conscientious sounds terribly boring, and I guess I'll have to find a way to push the boundaries without actually busting through them.
One good thing though, is that I have stopped feeling resentful about falling ill because I obviously needed the painful kick in the behind that it provided.
It helps that despite everything, I managed to do quite a lot of what I wanted to do.
There was a paella lunch I cooked for my parents and two of their friends, complete with a tray of gooey brownies for dessert. It felt good to spend quality time in the kitchen and for an appreciative audience to boot.
On a weekday morning, I had time to wander through Tekka Market, one of my favourite places in Singapore, without having to hurry or jostle with the crowds. And there I found, to my utter delight, Momotaro tomatoes twice the size of the ones usually found in supermarkets. They were heavy, ripe and sweet. It was like winning 4-D.
I managed to catch up with two friends who were visiting from out of town.
And then there was all that sleeping, which heaven knows I really needed.
People say that when life hands you lemons, you make lemonade. Well, when life hands you kiam chye, make kiam chye soup. There's nothing complicated about it - you simmer the pickled mustard greens, a chopped up duck, some peppercorns and tomatoes or sour plums in water for a couple of hours until the flavours meld. But like most simple dishes, it takes some finesse to get right.
If you don't trim the duck well, the soup gets too oily. That sludgy layer of oil floating on top coats the throat in a nasty way. Overdo the pickled vegetables, sour plum or tomatoes and the soup is unpleasantly tart, instead of being pleasantly zingy.
I guess kiam chye soup is a lot like life. Getting it right means finding just the right balance.
But I have to say the balancing act is a lot easier when you're not coughing up with phlegm.
By Tan Hsueh Yun
A FRIEND told me a few nights ago that I have a 'kiam chye mia'. Translated from Hokkien, this pungent little phrase means that I have a 'salted vegetable life'.
I'd never heard of such a thing but my friend said it meant I was a loser. Make that Loser with a capital L.
Six of us were at dinner and someone asked what I'd been up to. I had just come back to work after being on leave for two weeks and moaned about spending the second one sick with a fierce bug.
All the plans I made had to be cancelled because all I could do was sleep and cough, cough and sleep.
People I've told this to, and I've told everybody I can think of (blame my inner drama queen), are usually sympathetic and I've come away realising that this sort of thing is pretty common.
Mr Kiam Chye himself often gets a cold or falls sick when the weekend comes around and is convinced that he'll be too ill to work on Monday. Inevitably, Monday rolls around and he's right as rain, having spent his precious weekend being ill.
Someone else at the table, who was on leave from work, developed a cough in the first few days of his liberation.
Other people told me it is pretty much a given that when they're out of the office for any length of time, they immediately come down with some bug or other.
I tried to ignore my sore throat at first, taking fistfuls of bright pink Chinese tablets that are supposed to tame throat inflammations. They worked, I congratulated myself and went about my business, packing my days with lots of stuff.
But one Monday morning, I woke up feeling like I had just swallowed a box of nails.
'Your throat looks nasty and I don't like the sound of that cough,' Doc Chia said and offered a medical certificate that would allow me to rest at home.
Don't need one, I griped. I'm on leave. He looked at me with pity. I was outraged, fit to be tied. You would be too if you had to spend the remaining week of your leave doped up, achy and miserable.
In truth, I should have turned that outrage on myself because I allowed it to happen.
A therapist who ironed out some kinks in my back some time ago said that people like me put off resting or taking care of our well-being until we can get time off. So when that time comes around and we can relax, the body takes its revenge.
I know all this. Earlier this year, a bout of the flu saved me from a long and torturous bout of insomnia I'd pretty much inflicted on myself.
But I didn't learn my lesson.
My reasoning is that when you are younger, you think you can do anything with impunity and so you are a bit reckless. When you're older, you realise time is marching on and you want to pack as much into your day as possible.
But being good and conscientious sounds terribly boring, and I guess I'll have to find a way to push the boundaries without actually busting through them.
One good thing though, is that I have stopped feeling resentful about falling ill because I obviously needed the painful kick in the behind that it provided.
It helps that despite everything, I managed to do quite a lot of what I wanted to do.
There was a paella lunch I cooked for my parents and two of their friends, complete with a tray of gooey brownies for dessert. It felt good to spend quality time in the kitchen and for an appreciative audience to boot.
On a weekday morning, I had time to wander through Tekka Market, one of my favourite places in Singapore, without having to hurry or jostle with the crowds. And there I found, to my utter delight, Momotaro tomatoes twice the size of the ones usually found in supermarkets. They were heavy, ripe and sweet. It was like winning 4-D.
I managed to catch up with two friends who were visiting from out of town.
And then there was all that sleeping, which heaven knows I really needed.
People say that when life hands you lemons, you make lemonade. Well, when life hands you kiam chye, make kiam chye soup. There's nothing complicated about it - you simmer the pickled mustard greens, a chopped up duck, some peppercorns and tomatoes or sour plums in water for a couple of hours until the flavours meld. But like most simple dishes, it takes some finesse to get right.
If you don't trim the duck well, the soup gets too oily. That sludgy layer of oil floating on top coats the throat in a nasty way. Overdo the pickled vegetables, sour plum or tomatoes and the soup is unpleasantly tart, instead of being pleasantly zingy.
I guess kiam chye soup is a lot like life. Getting it right means finding just the right balance.
But I have to say the balancing act is a lot easier when you're not coughing up with phlegm.
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