The return of Bonnie and Clyde

So The Boy came and there was much rejoicing. That was not a euphemism. ("So what did you do when you guys finally made it out the bedroom?" The Boy's Only Friend asked. Oh hardy har har, such wit.)

Sad story: in preparation for The Boy's arrival, I foolishly promised to cook him breakfast, meaning bacon, pancakes, eggs, sausages, toast, the works. Unfortunately, it's been ages since I've actually made pancakes and being a food purist, I refused to buy pancake mix, so I resolved to make them from scratch.

Normally, I have no problems making pancakes. Back in Singapore, I used to be able to whip up some pancakes without too much effort or third - degree burns, without ever consulting a recipe. But I thought I'd better try it out after the hiatus, and it was a complete utter disaster. Flat as a Chinese girl's chest.

So I googled pancakes and tried again. And again. And for three mornings in a row, made and at pancakes to try and get it right. I am so fucking sick of pancakes.

Then The Boy arrived and wasn't hungry. And later bought ready-made pancakes.

Bah.

In addition to bringing his gorgeous ass all the way from Singapore, The Boy also brought me warmer clothes (which I refused to try and cram into my luggage during my last-minute packing frenzy), my chocolate velvet boots from Taipei, and one of my most treasured literary possessions right now, The Larousse Gastronomique.

The Larousse was supposed to get a post all of its own, all about how Miss C and I went to book sale which was nothing short of magnificent and which I went back twice to, where I got high on the scent of ink and paper and tore around the place making uncontrollable, inarticulate moans of pleasure while Miss C waited very patiently until we had to go because it was closing for the night. And also because I couldn't carry any more and had to reluctantly put some back before I could stagger to the cashiers.

This was where, sitting with great dignity despite its ignominious position between The Essential Guide to Asian Cooking and 100 Summer Drinks I found the only book on food you will ever need. This is the first time this venerable tome has ever been published in English, and doesn't disappoint. The Larousse goes beyond a mere encyclopedia or a piffling little cookbook. It is a veritable treasure trove. The fact that it was originally French makes it all the moor desirable to the Francophile Slinky. And when I saw the price which had been slapped on its shrink-wrapped cover in bright neon, I nearly fainted. Ten dollars. If anyone had tried to reach out at that moment I think I would have tackled them to the ground. All the way home in the cab I kept squeaking, "It's the LAROUSSE!" breathlessly til Miss C got tired of it, then I called The Boy and started squeaking to him too. A lot of people got squeaked at in the days following the book sale.

Whoever translated it into English did a damned fine job. There is a deep love of food ingrained in the book, evident in the writing and the translation. There remains something quintessentially French about the writing, and I am sucked in every time I open in, drawn into the wonders of clafoutis and escuedella and marzipan and brillat-savarin and marsala and rochambeau. There was a night, I will admit, where I shared both my loves at once, reading aloud from the pages of the Larousse to The Boy, Heaven is made of moments like that.

I was sick throughout The Boy's visit, yet more evidence that God likes to laugh at my expense every now and then, despite the gigantic antibiotics I was taking. By the third day, I was wearing my disgraceful shorts and my mohair sweater to test-drive a kayak with The Boy on a freezing day at the harbor. Getting there proved to be somewhat of a trial though. I had arranged the appointment and with my brilliant hamster memory, promptly forgot all the important details.

"Which side did he say he would meet us on?"
"Not the side where all the boats are parked."
"Okay."

[15 minutes of aimless driving later]

"Are you sure?"
"Um...no."
"What exactly did he say?"
"Maybe it was the side where the boats were parked after all."

[15 minutes later]

"Are you sure?"
"No."
"What exactly did he tell you?"
"I can't remember."

The Boy is infinitely patient about things like that, thank god.

Fortunately we eventually found our way to where we were supposed to be. It is a little surreal to be sitting in the harbour, one hand hanging on to the edge of a pontoon, one hand holding the inevitable Djarum, a paddle across your lap, your legs feeling like popsicles and clove-scented smoke burning a trail of fire down your sandpapered throat while the man you love is attempting to catch fish from a little plastic kayak in the middle of nowhere.

We had lots of adventures. We always do.

Cycling in more middle of nowhere, racing to beat the sun, finding our own private deserted beaches. Dipping my toes in the water and screaming, because it was so frigging cold despite the bright sunshine and the deceptively inviting turquoise waters. We cycled so far and so hard that bits of me I never knew existed hurt. Feeling like the entire island was ours.


This does not look like us at all. That's why I put it up. We're normally much better looking. Much, much better looking.


Beach. Ours. Yes, really. And no, it's not warm.


King of the hill

A dinner of some rather good pizza and a free bottle of wine courtesy of the package that we had booked, which got me in full-on Sash Prawn mode, during which The Boy gave me permission to beat the crap out of someone. I drunk-dialled The Other Cat long-distance to tell her the good news, and informed her that she could be my wing man and hold said person down while I broke said person's nose. "Because you're my FRIEND!" I yodeled happily.

Then we went to catch squid.


Slinky and the squid

Alcohol and Slinky, ne'er the twain should meet. The next day, I was high and decided to go swimming in the freezing waters of the ocean. I dipped my foot into the water and promptly lost all feeling in my toes, which was all right because I was too absorbed being fascinated by my own feet anyway. I think I stood for a full five minutes just watching the clouds scud around the sky, and later tried to make friends with a skink. Then I decided that it would be a good idea to go climbing up the rock face of the headland to look for The Boy (on a quest for salmon, driven by thoroughly unreliable information). There I bared my ass to the ocean and didn't feel cold at all.

And as my birthday present to The Boy, we rocked out.


Nickelbaaaaaaack!!!

That's Chad Kroeger, and if you magnify his picture about a million times you just might be able to make out his face. They rocked.

The audience did not.


The crappy-ass crowd

Can I just say, these people don't know how to have fun. Perhaps it's because this is the mot isolated city in the world. But they didn't seem to get any more energetic than was you see above. They stood around the stage, swaying a little. "Perhaps they're up past their bedtime," The Boy muttered. This isn't church camp, people, it's a fucking rock concert. Even with the gratifying guitar masturbation, the forty-foot flames, the blistering drum solo and the prodigious use of the word "Fuck", the audience stood in sleepy stupor, making no effort to wave their arms, declare frantic protestations of undying love, throw their teeny knickers at the truly delectable Kroeger, or lose their voices by screaming like mad people. There was no moshing, no body surfing, no rabid yelling, nuthin'. If Slinky had been up front, you can bet your ass that she would have been climbing over people to try and fling herself at the band, screaming, "I want to have your babies!" and throwing her G-string at any band member within pitching distance. No one stood up and danced, no one acted like star-crazed imbeciles, and in a truly horrifying moment, did not sing along when Nickelback had fallen silent during "How You Remind Me" because they did not know the words. Ooooh, the shame. Meanwhile, I was screaming, "Take off your shirt!" when I wasn't just screaming. Sheesh. Miss C, Miss J, we have a lot of work to do.

Fugly or not. Chad Kroeger is hot. Rock stars always are. There's something about him, that cigarette and whisky growl, the guitar, and the stage charisma. I wanted to be down in front of the catwalk begging him to play his guitar while I did lewd and unsanitary things to him. Yum.

When we go back and I complained to Punky about the crowd, he gave me a deeply disparaging look and told me that I was because it was Nickelback. Bloody punk music snob.

The Boy cooked for me, drove me around, let me flail around with his fishing rod, and hung on with a deathgrip while I drove the rented car we had illegally. I had a terribly blonde moment when, thrown off by the fact that it was an automatic and not a manual, I stared blankly at the car keys in my hand and said, "Where do these go?", which caused a panicked, "Okay, I'mdriving!" from The Boy, but who was pinned to seat by the g-forces when I said, "Ooh, I remember, never mind!" and hit the accelerator. He let me warm my toes on his feet and told me I looked like a Sioux princess when I wore my boots.


See the dish on top? That squid we caught bought the farm. And dinner was goooood.

The times I remember best are the private moments, in the quiet of the morning or the peaceful nights, where I could hear his breathing slow and deepen as he fell asleep, and I felt warm for the first time in months because he was lying next to me. Better than any electric heater, I swear. I watched my hand move with the rise and fall of his chest and closed my eyes and tried to hang on to the moment so that I would have something to cling to during the next two months ahead. I can’t wait to see my partner in crime again.