In the years to come, long after my nearest and dearest are gone, I imagine I’ll still make a pilgrimage to my little hometown in the Land Below the Wind—just to indulge in a plate of one of these lovelies: |  Tuaran Mee | Beaufort Mee | Sandakan Mee | They say noodles represent long life. I'm quite content to live the average human lifespan, but if things are going well, I wouldn’t mind lingering a little longer before taking my final leave. So if a plate of noodles holds the secret elixir to to an extra moment or two, I’ll gladly slurp up a bowl—especially if it’s one of the famed noodles named after these three towns: Tuaran, Beaufort, and Sandakan. There is nothing on this earth that tastes anything like them. Though knowing the many calorific ingredients that go into each of these noodles, indulging in them regularly probably won’t lead to the sought after longevity. But having tasted them all, I can say this—my life feels more complete.

No matter how few times we have blinked the years away, the majestic sight of crisp, paper-thin, sugar-encrusted  roti tisu —drizzled with sweetened condensed milk and towering over us—never ceases to amaze. | December 2017, 4 & 7 years old | July 2022, 8 & 11 years old | January 2025, 11 & 14 years old | What if we fast-forward a couple more years? Can the past be a reliable indicator of the future? Will Salim's roti tisu  still stand just as tall, still taste just as perfect? Or will we be simply reaching for the memory of what it tasted like before? Perhaps the taste is merely a vessel for a cherished moment with someone we love . Maybe that's what all comfort foods truly are. Who can say? One can always hope. One can always believe. Hope and believe in the masterful hands of the roti man  at Restoran Salim, in little Kota Kinabalu. Roti tisu . Then and now. Always and forever.

As the years go by, it seems that the number of personal or family photos I post gradually dwindles, almost to a trickle. The everyday adventures of the early years of parenting seem at first to burst forth like an open dam. The memory of every dimple and smile , first laugh , first taste , first step , first fall , first penance , first tragedy , first friend, first day of school ... feels so fleeting and precious, I want to hold on to each one for as long as possible. The long days begin to quicken in their momentum, and soft little chubby arms encircling my neck soon extend into long lean muscled limbs resting heavily around my shoulders.   I  don't have to hold their hand any more when we cross the street. But they hold mine. L ove's pain grows sweeter with each passing hour, day, and year. A fleeting image captured of a moment, pales in comparison to the truth of everything it means. Some things are just too good. " ...I never tell them about our lives. You know why? ...

Today I finished reading the book 'Laurinda' by Alice Pung, which fourteen-year old Nathan recommended to me, from his English reading list last term. Afterwards I got up to throw the bunch of scrunched up tissues into the bin. The book was an easy read, but uneasy on the heart. Good stuff doesn't always have to feel good. Apart from the above-mentioned text, I've also enjoyed side-splitting funny, as well as deep philosophical discussions on other books on his list, including 'Animal Farm', 'The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy', 'The Martian' and 'A Midsummer Night's Dream'. With my eleven-year old Grace, it has been just the best fun talking over our shared delights and exasperations over classic novel heroines like Anne Shirley, Elizabeth Bennett, Emma Woodhouse, Jane Eyre and the Dashwood sisters. ...On this side of the horizon, these are truly the best days.... Early last year, I turned the page of that last chapter of '...

. I acknowledge this long gap. . In the past several years, it has been becoming difficult to be completely open about about many things.  But like a mirror, the very same little people I taught to fly free, think for themselves and live fearlessly have reminded me to do the same for myself. These past few months, so many little things like listening to inspiring songs , revisiting favourite stage characters and reading new material had been chipping away at the dam I had erected around me over the past few years. In my fear of becoming an outcast, I silenced my voice and imprisoned myself, holding myself captive by the thoughts of others. Alone, I was most myself, most true. But the self that really mattered was the self that was visible, the self that could be shown to other people. Yet, I'd had to keep my true self apart, and there's only so much of yourself you can hide before you start to fall apart. (almagation of quotes from ' Laurinda ') So this year, I'm ...