My Fuschia Dunlop moment.

image from http://weheartit.com/entry/8596545

I read Fuschia Dunlop's food memoir, Shark's Fin and Sichuan Pepper, over a year ago, and I was really impressed by her account of an Englishwoman living, eating and cooking in China. Quite a few of her chapters had me going "wow" and until today, I still find myself quoting her insights on the Chinese and their seemingly impassive approach to animal cruelty.

A couple of days ago, I found myself standing in the kitchen of a Chinese restaurant, one where the kitchen chatter is laced with foreign accents and rows of ducks (some roasted, some uncooked) were hung, by their necks, in obscure corners. While the chefs and cooks stomped around purposefully in their slip-proof safety shoes, I skidded in in my silk dress and strappy heels (fresh out of a wine lunch, you see), praying with every step that I wouldn't slip and bring a vat of hot oil crashing down on me while trying my damnest to look like I fit in there.

Fat hope. I stuck out like a sore thumb and I was promptly shot some very inquiring looks. I was as comfortable as a zebra in a lion's den, but a girl's got to do what a girl's got to do, in this case clarify the steps in a failing recipe. So I shuffled and plastered my body to the table's edge each time someone came through with a a pot of dangerous-looking liquid (happens every 30 seconds), all the while scribbling furiously as my hands struggled to keep up the chef's seasoned moves. Just then, a chapter Fuschia Dunlop wrote about being the only foreigner in a Chengdu culinary school popped into my head and my little head voice said: "This is probably how Fuschia felt!"

That particular chapter didn't blow me away, but my bizarre mind had apparently decided it was gonna be useful some day. It was, for that  literary recall inexplicably made me feel tons better. And for the record, I didn't fall. On the contrary, I walked out with my head held high and a bag of freshly baked buns swinging in my hands. It was so surreal, but I would do it all over it again. In a different outfit though.

Make it from scratch.

Changes don't happen overnight. More often than not, they manifest stealthily, sinuously... kinda like vines creeping up wrought-iron fences. Some changes are inconspicuous, inconsequential, while others are huge, especially when cast upon unsuspecting ol' me.

It started off innocently enough. On Monday, I initiated a Messenger chat with a friend to arrange for dinner, having missed a gathering while I was away in Japan. She suggested that we pop over to hers for some nosh and I, in typical dessert queen fashion, offered to bring dessert. The dinner was set for Friday, and I immediately started plotting the logistics. Bake cupcakes on Thursday night after chap goh meh dinner. Zip home after work on Friday, make frosting and ice cupcakes, pack them and cab over. Easy peasy. And then I lost myself browsing recipes online.

Fast forward to a wet, gloomy Friday evening. My work had taken and left me stranded in the middle of the CBD where every other person was waiting/calling for a cab. I had exactly an hour to get home, conjure up a batch of icing, frost the cupcakes and leave the house. My feet were aching, and I was starting to feel like an underdressed clown amidst the sea of perfectly coiffed executives. Deciding to brave the rain, I eased out of the taxi queue and went off in search of a bus-stop. And guess what cranky ol' me had to flip-flop past? Three dessert places. Ice-cream. Pastries. Perfectly iced cupcakes.

That's when it dawned on me. I should have bought dessert instead! A box of macarons or chocolate truffles, or maybe a tub of ice-cream. That would have saved me the late-night baking sweatshop and a prior trip home. Instead, when I had volunteered to bring the sweets, I had, without any further thought, already set my mind on baking something. Buying a readymade dessert could not have been further from my mind.

Thanks to the string of work-related recipe testings, cooking and baking from scratch have become so ingrained in me that I never thought to consider non-culinary possibilities. For a person who loves convenience and efficiency, and who only in the past year roasted a perfect bird, fully overcome her fear of knives and really derived pleasure from cooking, this change is huge. It's monumental. And I love it.

Next up? Bread and homemade ice-cream, me thinks. Can't wait. And here they are, the babies born out of Thursday night's baking sweatshop. I couldn't be prouder.

earl grey cupcakes with vanilla bean and cream cheese frosting

adapted from Chocolate and Zucchini gâteau au yaourt, and a million other recipes