Assam Pedas & the Art Of Faithful Spousal Relations

There was a particular point in my life when I had an almost morbid fascination with the Straits cuisine item known affectionately around the Malay Archipelago as "assam pedas".

"Assam who?" you may ask quizzically with one eyebrow raised high, WAAAY higher than the other to a level that you look more like The Retard than The Rock. For the benefit of my global readers who may not be in the region here's a definition of what "assam pedas" is. Actually I know only 3 people read this blog but anyway:

Johnny Cash's Ring of Fire was about assam pedas. Really.

From Wikipedia: "Asam Pedas (Indonesian: Asam Pedas, Malay: Asam Pedas, Minangkabau: Asam Padeh, English: Sour and Spicy) is a Minangkabau and Malay sour and spicy stew dish popular in Indonesia and Malaysia. The main ingredients (usually seafood or freshwater fish) are cooked in asam (tamarind) fruit juice with chilli and many other spices. The cooking process involves soaking the pulp of the tamarind fruit until it is soft and then squeezing out the juice for cooking the fish. Asam paste may be substituted for convenience. Various vegetables such as terong or brinjals (Indian eggplants), okra and tomatoes are added. Fish and seafood (such as mackerel, red snapper, tuna, gourami, pangasius or cuttlefish) either whole or only heads are added to make a spicy and tart fish stew. It is important that the fish remain intact for serving so generally the fish is added last."

I noticed a supernatural alchemy about the way the flavours complimented and contrasted each other in the raging maelstrom of the fiercely-coloured gravy- the supple flesh of fresh seafood caressed lovingly by lashes of fragrant lemongrass, drowning blissfully in a raging red sea of tamarind, chillies, shallots and what-nots.

What more if hot fluffy basmati rice is drenched in the lascivious liquid and flanked by an omelette or (better still) deep fried poultry and what you get is truly a privilege & luxury that should only be bestowed upon those willing or desperate enough to give an arm & a leg (or dismember someone else's arm/leg) to have fleeting glimpse of what The Promised Garden might feel like. 

Or not. I'm pretty sure there're better things than assam pedas to fuck around with in heaven.

But I had an Epiphany of (almost) Divine-like proportion:

Food that tastes good when it's hot is normal; business as usual. But if it still tastes good when it's cold, IT'S MAGIC.

I leave you to come up with your own post-Freudian and Jungian theories and assumptions with regards to that last statement.

Anyway, this period lasted for nearly 3 months when I had it EVERYDAY without fail. Unnatural? Perhaps. Unhealthy? Maybe. But every single time I tasted it on my tongue there was a smile on my face.

It helped that I could have it at work for lunch and/or dinner; now that's 5 days a week. The rest of the time I would actually travel fairly long distances to consume it. If I couldn't find it then I would actually cook some.

Unlike a friend of mine who has taken the easy way out and weaseled his way into his neighbour's pants kitchen by pretending that his gas stove is spoilt so there's nothing to eat. Al Sayf, you suck. >:(

Maybe he should have taken some inspiration from this old ad I found.

Wives: The problem to all your answers?

Just kidding dude. Actually my friend's wife is a pretty good cook and to my knowledge an all-round awesome wife. Someday I too wish for the same kind of happiness. Or not. But back to the story. A girl friend of mine asked me recently how I could "tolerate having the same god-damned thing everyday and not get sick of it".

My reply came without thinking, "The same way you tolerate your god-damned boyfriend."

*poker face* Touché!

Post-modernism & the Art of Music Appreciation: Hitam Putih Kehidupan

Sheila Majid is a pop singer from Malaysia who is well-known for delivering some awesome live vocal performances & for injecting a fair bit of fusion & jazz in her works. Keep in mind this was during the late 80s to 90s where melodramatic pop & sentimental rock ruled the airwaves of the Malay archipelago (it still does *shock*horror*).

The song I'm highlighting today is "Hitam Putih Kehidupan" which literally translates to "Life's Blacks & Whites"; a downtempo tune beseeching the listener to take each day as it comes, to appreciate the small mercies we are blessed with & to live life with humility & faith. So positive *flutters eyelids*

Biohazard: Brooklyn's answer to Sheila Majid?

If I remember correctly, hardcore band Biohazard shares the same sentiment in one of their well-known anthems: 

Life is just too short I realize that now

I'm gonna get my shit together and try to make it some how

Cause one thing that I have learned is that you only live once

So now I'll take life by the balls and squeeze until they crunch

- Biohazard "Urban Discipline" 1992

Painful isn't it? Okay it's not exactly the same but close enough.

But that's not the point here. The point here is about audience perception. 

When the phrase "Hitam Putih Kehidupan" is mentioned, most people think of this:

Sheila Majid: Malaysia's answer to Biohazard?

When I hear that phrase, I think of this:

Taoist mediums: putting corpsepaint-wearing black metallers to shame since forever.

Thank you God for blessing me with a different (albeit warped) point of view.

Post-modernism & the Art of Addiction

 

Behemoth - Despotic glutton or helpless addict?
Answers on a postcard in less than 25 words.

The addict tells himself "One more. Just one more hit, man. One more high then I'll go straight. Swear to God, man…I'm gonna get myself clean after this one."

I tell myself the same thing each time.

The stark truth that I live with on a daily basis, the repugnant scar that threatens what last remaining shreds of self-respect & dignity that I have; the painful, cringe-inducing reminder when I look in the mirror each morning & as these eyes chance upon the image on random reflective surfaces through the day - that I too, am an addict.

The first step to solving a problem is to acknowledge that there is a problem to begin with. That part is easy-peasy lemon squeezy.

The next step & this is where it gets rather complicated, is to do something to ADDRESS the problem.

I can't afford to check myself into a rehabilitation facility. I just can't.

Last Saturday night I made the decision to stop this addiction once & for all. And like the model addict that I've always been, I wanted to mark that monumental decision with one last bender, one final throw of the dice, one glorious free-for-all that if it didn't make me want to stop for good, would kill me.

Now that I think about it, I'd rather that it would render me dead because to act on something that you've depended on for so long is akin to dismembering a vital part of your anatomy. In my time of need, it has always been there for me; when I'm happy, when I'm depressed, when things go right, when things go tragically wrong (especially). I turn to this addiction for comfort & tellingly so, end up feeling dirty, hating myself & promising time and again - THIS IS THE LAST TIME.

All this while, very much like an Ingmar Bergman classic movie - God remains silent. 

So just like Antonius Block tempts Death repeatedly with the proverbial game of chess while yearning for the voice of his Creator to tell him something; anything, if this was all worth it…I tempted fate by pushing it a little further each time. The high gets higher, I wanted desperately for the high to go on a little bit longer but the reality is when you get that high & keep on getting higher, the distance to where the ground is gets bigger and with that so too does the impact of the crash.

I seek neither sympathy nor understanding, neither tolerance nor acceptance. True to character as the hardened addict I've grown to become, the staring eyes of those around me mean nothing as I indulge, publicly. No shame, no remorse; just am empty gaze from lifeless eyes as I scratch the proverbial itch even as the flesh turns red and then raw, blood-letting a foregone conclusion by then.

Getting back to where I mentioned about last Saturday night: It finally happened. The camel's back broke. It had to end before it spelt my end. And this was what the last hurrah looked like:

The Last Hurrah - minus the cockles & prawns (obviously).

Compared to the artery-blocking, gut-busting smorgasbord of swine-like proportions one would normally associate with "the final meal", this simple bowl of laksa is akin to ending with a whimper. Well, a whimper it might have been but most importantly, it was the end.


The end of a 4-year binge that threatened to destroy the vessel before the spirit within could come into full bloom.

What is consumed, becomes.

Drink from poisoned chalices and spew forth venom.

Slake your thirst with all that is good and worthy

And never will your throat be parched for another waking hour.

Think about what I have not said.

- Zachariah Elias, August 2007                                                                                                   

The long hard road to recovery has begun for The True Zachariah Elias. 

Exorcism Ritual Part 1

Muchsin & Titiek Sandhora, I'm not sorry.

On Buddha's deathday,
wrinkled tough old hands pray -
the prayer beads' sound


- Matsuo Basho

I had intended to start off this current literary undertaking with the following line:

*cue Shaw Brothers Films' trumpet fanfare*

"Some years ago I had an online journal ....."

And that is where I stopped myself before I committed the second greatest criminal act that one could pull on oneself: to reminisce fondly upon past "glories", to never escape from the constrictive comfort zone built on past "successes", to LI(V)E IN THE PAST.

"Some years ago" has gone. So what now?

If anything, this blog is only a small part of a multi-faceted, many-pronged approach & attempt at a massive exorcism ritual; an intricate, drawn-out ceremonial proceeding full of symbolism & meaning, all designed to banish the ghosts which have long threatened to hold back my progress as a "human becoming" (because I am not content to just "be", improvement & evolution is integral to survival & growth).

You see, if immersing yourself & getting lost in that rose-tinted haze of past glory is the second greatest injustice that you could do to yourself, then the greatest injustice ever is to let the FAILURES of the past prevent you from achieving all the SUCCESS that was always meant to be yours.

Yesterday I said tomorrow; it has come & gone. 

This serves as a snapshot in time; a documentation of a healing process, a record of growth & if all else fails; a randomly put-together literary collage of stories, rants & sweet-nothings whispered softly into the ears of an unwilling audience whose hands & legs are fastidiously tied with duct tape; a rusty pen-knife wielded with such delicate poise & lovingly held with sublime pressure against taut, dry, nervous throats.

Sweet.

My name is The True Zachariah Elias & I am a very, very naughty brown boy.