A Tiger in the Kitchen Read Online Free PDF Page B

tofu—but it was a first step. As Mike and I slowly chewed on my tau yew bak shortly after, I began to wonder how I could learn to make the actual dish I grew up with. My Tanglin ah-ma had died years ago—but when she was alive, she had cooked almost daily with my auntie Khar Imm, who had married my father’s brother and played the role of the dutiful daughter-in-law, helping my grandmother in the kitchen after moving into the family home.
    Someday, I thought, I’ll ask her.
    In the fall of 2008, as the financial framework of the world rapidly dissolved, my employer, The Wall Street Journal, was on top of the news. Because I was a fashion and retail writer, fashion label closings and retail bankruptcies became the bread and butter of my work. My days were filled with devastating stories, and my evenings were filled with news of friends losing jobs. A twitch under my left eye that I’d had during a trying relationship in my twenties suddenly returned. My hair started falling out. By early 2009, I’d developed migraines so bad my doctor was briefly worried that I might soon have a stroke. My dad, after all, had had a minor one at age forty.
    On that morning in 1985, my father collapsed while brushing his teeth. He’d suffered a stroke that, fortunately, was so mild he was back on his feet within days. His arms were a little weak, and it took months before he stopped feeling tired, but a more significant change occurred. The man who always had been defined first and foremost as a busy executive—regularly flying from Hong Kong to Shanghai to Taiwan to tour factories or close deals—suddenly wanted to spend more time with his family.
    Now it was time for a change for me, too, my body was telling me.
    With Chinese New Year approaching, I knew my auntie Khar Imm would be gearing up her baking. On the docket that year were chocolate cookies, almond bites, and of course, pineapple tarts. I e-mailed my father’s family, asking after them and then gently inquiring about this year’s tart-making schedule.
    And with that, a few weeks later, I was on a plane, heading to Singapore, heading home.
    This may sound odd—and I always have the distinct sense that I may get struck by lightning each time I think it—but one of my favorite childhood memories was of my Tanglin ah-ma’s funeral.
    My younger sister, Daphne, and I had led a somewhat sheltered childhood up until that point. I rarely ventured far from our apartment, except to play soccer or Ping-Pong with the boys in our neighborhood. Instead, I spent most of my time reading, thinking, and penning those Very Important Thoughts in a little journal. I had been shocked when my grandmother died. I had known she was ill but hadn’t understood exactly how dire it was. (My parents had thought it best to shield us from the details.)
    From the moment we got the news, however, we went from fairly quiet lives centered on homework and boring piano practice to a vortex of nonstop activity pebbled with a motley crew of characters who were loud, boisterous, and filled with life. There was Jessie, my auntie Khar Imm’s daughter, who was just a year older than I was but already so commanding a presence that she was somehow able to boss around even those twice our age. There was her father, my uncle Soo Kiat, my father’s younger brother, a thinner, louder version of my dad, who always had a glint of mischief in his eyes that hinted at some probably inappropriate joke lingering behind them. Uncle Ah Tuang, a sturdy young man whom my grandmother had taken in as a baby and raised as her own, loved my grandmother and his older “brothers” fiercely and was quick to join in any conversation, peppering it with jovial jokes and laughs, big and deep.
    My auntie Leng Eng, my father’s older sister, was the serious one who kept everyone in line. A vice principal at one of the most prestigious schools in Singapore, she watched over everything with an eagle eye, directing us in crisp English or