Thursday, January 25, 2007
The Breakfast of Champions
by venitha
Reheated leftovers in hand, I track Jim down as he fills out an inventory sheet and cranks some tunes in our second spare bedroom, also known as Mexico, thanks to its bedspread's country of origin (spare bedroom number one is India), now jam-packed with our ocean shipment (India is our air shipment).
"This would go really well with a glass of red wine." Pasta with vegetables and an obscene amount of garlic. I've concocted some pretty crazy meals as I've cleared out our food this past week, but things improved dramatically once I started using up the garlic.
"Sorry lah," Jim says, glancing guiltily at the claret-filled Spiegelau goblet perched precariously on a cardboard box. He's having more fun clearing out the cupboards than I. He's even nervily planned a going-away gathering with co-workers at Cafe Iguana, of margaritas-as-big-as-your-head fame.
I accused him of cruelty, but in his defense, he says, he didn't think I'd want to go, and he's right. "You'd be bored," he assures me.
"You think? Surrounded by engineers I don't know and unable to drink?" Tragically, Cafe Iguana's nachos are nothing to blog about.
While it does seem harsh not to be allowed one last sip of a macho margarita - frozen, with salt, thank you very much - alcohol has been surprisingly easy, and unsurprisingly lucrative here in Singapore, to give up. I should have started Zoe's college fund with the pile of greenbacks (bluebacks? orangebacks?) I've saved. Jim, on the other hand, is salivating in expectation of toppling the over-priced and over-watery and over-sized Tiger Beer from its unmerited position as king of the mountain (sultan of Bukit Timah?) with a hard shove from a less expensive and vastly superior six-pack of Fat Tire, the undoubted accompaniment of our much-anticipated inaugural supper at home, Pulcinella's double-crust spinach pizza.
In the meantime, there's supersweet Taiwanese wine for Jim and a whole lotta garlic for me. The breakfast, the lunch, and the dinner ofchampions two expats who pack out tomorrow.
venitha
"This would go really well with a glass of red wine." Pasta with vegetables and an obscene amount of garlic. I've concocted some pretty crazy meals as I've cleared out our food this past week, but things improved dramatically once I started using up the garlic.
"Sorry lah," Jim says, glancing guiltily at the claret-filled Spiegelau goblet perched precariously on a cardboard box. He's having more fun clearing out the cupboards than I. He's even nervily planned a going-away gathering with co-workers at Cafe Iguana, of margaritas-as-big-as-your-head fame.
I accused him of cruelty, but in his defense, he says, he didn't think I'd want to go, and he's right. "You'd be bored," he assures me.
"You think? Surrounded by engineers I don't know and unable to drink?" Tragically, Cafe Iguana's nachos are nothing to blog about.
While it does seem harsh not to be allowed one last sip of a macho margarita - frozen, with salt, thank you very much - alcohol has been surprisingly easy, and unsurprisingly lucrative here in Singapore, to give up. I should have started Zoe's college fund with the pile of greenbacks (bluebacks? orangebacks?) I've saved. Jim, on the other hand, is salivating in expectation of toppling the over-priced and over-watery and over-sized Tiger Beer from its unmerited position as king of the mountain (sultan of Bukit Timah?) with a hard shove from a less expensive and vastly superior six-pack of Fat Tire, the undoubted accompaniment of our much-anticipated inaugural supper at home, Pulcinella's double-crust spinach pizza.
In the meantime, there's supersweet Taiwanese wine for Jim and a whole lotta garlic for me. The breakfast, the lunch, and the dinner of
venitha
