FUNNYACCENT

A+ for a Cheesecake

There was a white plastic container on my desk when I arrived at work this morning.  A piece of paper tore off from newspaper taped on the container with my name scribbled on it . A huge chunk of cheese cake in it.

I took a bite. Fantabulous. I went to a community room to look for the person who was responsible for the cake. They were having a gratitude meeting.

When the meeting was over I went up to him to thank him.

"What cheesecake?" His eyes twinkled.

"It's fantabulous."

"You already had it? It's only 9.30."

"Did I have what?"

"A cheese cake."

"What cheesecake?"

He laughed. "You got me."

He has been in and out of detox centers many times for the past three years. He slept in an abandon buildings and cars during cold weather. When the weather was warm he slept on a bench in the parks around the city.

He used to blamed his parents: his cold, distant father who beat him and his mother when he was drunk, he blamed his mother who had an affair with his father's elder brother when his father was in prison, he used to blame his grandmother ( he referred her as wicked and bitter old woman)who gave him the first taste of alcohol when he was five years old during the family Thanksgiving dinner.

He was a quiet little boy. He liked to play with little plastic soldiers he collected.  He enjoyed snapping snowpeas with his mother in the kitchen. He felt closed to his mother when he stood on the stool next to her watching the soapy water on his mother's hands.

His grandmother didn't like it at all. "You are raising a sissy!!!" His grandmother screamed as his mother. "Why don't you rough him up?"

So, when everybody was in the dining room, his grandmother gave him a sip.

"What makes you think this time will be different from the last time?" I asked him 90 days ago when they transferred his file to me.

"This time I'll do it for myself. I'm not doing it for my kids or anybody else. I'm tired of pleasing everybody".

We wrote down his plans and goals and I showed him how to do it one at the time. A short term goal first.

So far, he has been committed to his daily schedule and short term goals.

When We Humanize God

Two Wednesdays ago I traveled to Lowell to attend a one day workshop. I arrived at North Station 40 minutes before a boarding time. With a fresh brewed cup of Dunkin Donut coffee in my hand, I sat on a wide wooden bench in a waiting area and continued to read Standing Alone by Asra Q. Nomani. As I turned to the next page, a smell of stale cigarettes and man cologne shot up into my nostrils. It was so strong the smell didn't stop in my nostrils, but it traveled all the way up to my head. For a short nano second I thought the smell could crushed my skull.

I peek at a pair of red Nike Jordan sneakers a foot away from the bench. My eyes traveled up to the owner of the Jordan sneakers. A man in brown worn out leather jacket, curly black hair and a pair of tired eyes shot back at me.

He nodded at me and sat on my left. I scoot a bit to give him more space. I went back to my book.

"You're wasting your time reading that trash."

I turned to my left, a young Hispanic woman was feeding her toddler a yogurt. She made a funny face, she meowed and she mooed him to take another spoonful. I turned to my right.

I thought I didn't hear him correctly. I asked him to repeat what he had just said.

"You waste your time reading that book." His eyes fell on the book in my hand.

"Is that right?" I continued reading. I hate making small talk when I was reading.

Reading is an intimate act. I run, I walk, I stroll up and down the paths along with the characters. I fly across the horizons, roam the sky looking down at the faces in the pages. I swim in their heads trying to understand their actions and their feelings, their hatred,their miseries, their pains and their joys.I smile, I laugh, I cry, my heart twitches, jumps and beats. I like to be left alone when I read.

"She is a bad Muslim, she really is, you know that? She and that Manji woman and all that types of people who work with infidels will go straight to hell. A sense of satisfaction shoot out from every pore of his face. "They will be in hell for a long, long time." With a sneer he slammed down his judge hammer after he read his verdict.

"Wow..." I emptied my cup and put away the book in my backpack. I wanted to ask him the same questions I've always asked the individuals that I've met all these years who share the same mentality as this man.

What kind of satisfaction do you get when you make an accusation to strangers you hardly know?

Do you get an extra points or sort of bonus that credited to your pahala account when you call names, predict their after life events?

Really, did I miss some clues or hints during those years when I was in Ugama Islam classes, or during Quran classes (including tajwid, fiqh and such).

Did your teacher pulled you aside and told you a secret? "Listen, this is what you should do when you see people who are not like you, when you meet people who do not share the same ideas with you.

But I didn't. 

I'm a learner myself. What do I know?

I excused myself when the boarding time was announced. He looked disappointed.

"Where are you going?"

"Work.""

I picked up my backpack and adjusted my scarf.

"Can I ask you a question?"

"Yes, anything."

"How long have you been in hell?"

"What?"

"I'm sorry, I got to go."

"Hey, hey, wait, wait."

I kept walking, but I raised my left hand as a good bye.

Pink Is More Than a Color

I greeted my morning with a cup of coffee and short entry in my hand written journal, wrote two post cards to my niece and a friend back in Malaysia.

I canceled my plan to run on the beach this morning because the temperature was still in low 40's.  When I left the gym around noon, the sun was high and warm but it was not warm enough to peel off my denim jacket.

My initial plan was to get to Home Depot to get some tools for my tomorrow project, but the music and joy of having warm weather pulled me toward Quincy Market.

I'm glad I took  thirty-five steps down to the street level because stop the war rally was taking place. Volunteers gave away the brochures and Larouche's fliers. And the most interesting I finally met with PinkCode ladies. I've been reading a lot about their volunteer works.

Thank you PinkCode ladies.

Pasta, Pasta

I like to think myself as a practical woman, but it may not be true on certain topics, especially when food is the topic.

I'm fascinated by colorful and strange food. I enjoy selcect them, prepare them , cook them and eat them. My mother taught me to be adventurous in the kitchen. "Don't be afraid to try something new. After all you're going to eat them," was her best advice.

And one important Mak's advice I take it to my heart  is: "Never prepare or cook your food when you are angry."

I bought a packet 250mg durum wheat semolina pasta with beetroot, paprika, spinach and celery as coloring agent. I prepared the sauce a night before. I used Classico Gardent Vegetable sauce. I sauteed chopped onion and garlic. When the onion turned into transparent, I added ground turkey. After 15 minutes, I added the pasta sauce, chopped sweet red and green pepper and chopped celery

Routine and Practice

I grew up having the spicy aromatic Nag Champa incence perfumed our living room every Friday night. Nobody ever told me what was the purpose of lighting up the incense as the sun slowly sinking down on the horizon. But watching a curly lines of smoke swirled up and disappeared in the air was part of my life.

When I moved here, I missed the routine.  A couple of years later I discovered a store in Cambridge owned by a Nepalese couple that sold Nag Champa incence.

As time goes by I've discovered little stores or holes in the walls around the city that carry all types of imported incences. For the past few years I've been lighting up coil sandalwood incence. Out of habit and sense of comfort, I light up the incence almost everynight.

First Timer

Every Wednesday we have two hours of Recreation Day for clients in Phase 1. I've missed all the past outings due to other commitments, but today I joined eight of them and two staff at Boston Bowl. It was my first time bowling.

"Get out, you never went bowling before?" One of the clients asked me as I climbed into twelve seats agency van.

I shook my head.

"Don't worry Ana, we will teach you."

So, there I was on Tuesday morning at bowling arcade, learning to hold the ball, swing my arm and threw (do you say it throw or is there a lingo for it?)the ball away.

The first three throws the ball went straight into the gutter. But after closely watched the guys made their move, they showed me how to hold the ball with the right angle, I managed to get the ball rolled in the middle of the lane.

Ninety minutes went by in a jiffy. As we were exited the building I told them jokingly next time if they don't see me in my office during the weekdays, I might be at the bowling arcade.

Due to confidentiality issue, I couldn't put out the clients photos which I got some cool shots.

Hiccups

I don't like to use the word impossible , but I've been having one challenge after another since the last time I wrote my entry. A delay construction work in the next building that caused a blackout for two nights, my computer was acting up, came home late from work and working my behind off to get two baby quilts ready by last Saturday.

On Sunday morning, after I got home from morning run, I made a quick trip to Target to get two-4' shelves for some of my fabric. I've been keeping all my fabric in three clear RubberMaid plastic containers under my bed. My fabric is like my books, they've started to take over the space in my apartment. I would be sleeping in a bath tub soon if I don't stop  buying them.

Despite the ups and downs and all those nips and tucks in my daily life, I made sure  to go out and enjoyed the glorious warm and sunny days.

During my lunch hour I went out for a walk along Massachusetts Avenue. When I got to Mass Ave. subway station, I turned onto the right lane and entered Dalton Street. The neighborhood was quiet and peaceful I couldn't belief it's right in the city.

When I returned to my office, I got a message from a peson I've been waiting for since last week. A probation officer from a XY District Court returned my call. He said we could work out the plan on my client unresolved warrant. Pheeewww...

I went to a show of contemporary art, crafts and design at Seaport World Trade Center two Saturdays ago. I wrote an entry about my initial plan to go the show with a woman I used to work with a few years back. We planned to meet at the South Station bus terminal. From there we would take a Silver Line to SWTC. But it didn't work the way we planned. She showed up at the bus terminal with her on and off boyfriend.

While waiting for the bus, they got into an argument. It was an awkward situation. When the bus left without us on board, I asked them if they were still interested to go to the show. They seemed relieved when I told them I would be on the next bus with or without them.

I enjoyed the show, but I think I've lost the joy of writing my experience in fresh perspective.

Gimme the Eyes

I've always enjoyed fish eyes. Since I was a little girl, I picked up the eyes first. Chewed them one by one. The bigger the eyes the better they taste. The outer layer is soft like a jelly or jellier than jelly. I made a deal with my two younger siblings to give up the eyes with fleshy parts of my fish. It always worked. My father used to tease me  when he was staring at all the empty fishes sockets on a dining table, "What happened to the fishes, all became Kassim Selamat?"

This evening after I finished my errands, I returned home, hungry and hungry. The tempatation to prepare something easy and simple was enormous, but when I looked at the eyes in the sink, my motivation soared.

I had a few pieces of Club multigrain crackers to keep me going while I prepared a salmon fish head curry. I used a half container of cherry tomatoes.

Later in the evening, a couple of hours working on my new baby quilt project, I made myself a little heavy dessert which I've tried not to have it after eight. But tonight, I gave myself an exception.

Pulut durian. Creamy glutinous rice with durian. I steamed the rice, added a slightly salted coconut milk, and cooked for another five minutes.

The durian wasn't as grand as durian back home, but that would do.

Day, You Are Nasty

I was soaking wet when I arrived at the post office to pick up a package my lil' sis Nina sent me 23 days ago. Yesss.......that long. 13 days longer than a package Kak N sent me from Taiping. Nina and I almost gave it up when I found a yellow slip left by a mail man in mail box last Friday.

I e-mailed Nina letting her know a birthday present she sent me has arrived.

This morning,  dressed for a wet and cold day, I walked up to the post office with gutsy wind whipped me along the way. Before I left my apartment I took out a salmon head from a freezer for dinner tonight.

Thank you Nina for a lovely gift. I love them all.

Anyway, Boston Marathon started this morning. I decided not to go and watch the event as I planned earlier.