twenty, thirty years later -
"All happy families are alike, and each unhappy family unhappy in its own way."
All life is learning; all life is a lesson.
Today I learnt a lesson. I know now what I must do.
First; I must buy a house. Sizable, most importantly accessible. What's important is a hall, big enough to put several mahjong tables in. Ideally there should be a small corner (near the sofas) for the toddlers and children; a balcony-garden for the kids to scamper about and giggle in, and space big enough for annoying uncles to sit and smoke and drink and win money off you.
It's too much to hope that they won't smoke; it'll reek and I'll have to repaint the ceiling.
Second, a large table. I have a thing for large round ones - you can always squeeze more - but long tables are fine too. What's important is that it can fit at least two, ideally three big vats of boiling soup, laden with squared cabbages and golden mushrooms and fishballs and meatballs and cuttlefishballs and prawnballs and slices of pork belly, pork bacon, and chicken meat. And lots and lots and lots of cabbage.
A big rice-cooker, with two scoops. And lots of plastic cups and spoons and forks and chopsticks, of course.
Two huge ice-coolers of ice. And beer. And Yeo's. But not Coke, it's bad for health.
At least five decks of poker cards (one for the kids, and a couple for the adults - gamblers'll want to change decks when they feel their luck is not so good). Two tables of mahjong and two sets of tiles. No chips - pure money. And an iPod dock for the kids to DJ, and iPads for the toddlers, and a flatscreen HDTV for the baby-sitting aunts.
Ang Pao and food and drinks and plastic chairs and seats for all. And more than a couple of fans, to cool the whole place down while everybody makes themselves comfortable.
And a week before that day, I'll march into Ikea and buy a door-stopper, proudly.
On that day, my door will be open all day. And there will always be food. And pity the woman I marry, who must help me prepare all the food.
The door will be open, a light shining from inside, the sounds of a happy - large - overfed family inside.
I don't have too many cousins and won't have relatives remaining, but I'll invite my friends, the neighbours and the in-laws.
My wish, for twenty, thirty years later.
= = =
Today I went to send cookies to my aunt. She raised me as a child, when my parents were both busy working. I went to a school near her place in her neighbourhood, and she brought me home from school and raised me. One day I walked home from school, remembering the way; she freaked out and nearly flayed the skin off my back. The next day onwards she let me walk home.
She fought with my mother over some small trifling matter. We don't talk to her any more. Sometime last year, though, there was a minor tragedy or other. And my mother decided to make a peace offering - the little boy she raised, all grown up.
But enough of my family's intrigues; today I learnt what a proper family dinner is like.
Happy chinese new year.
All life is learning; all life is a lesson.
Today I learnt a lesson. I know now what I must do.
First; I must buy a house. Sizable, most importantly accessible. What's important is a hall, big enough to put several mahjong tables in. Ideally there should be a small corner (near the sofas) for the toddlers and children; a balcony-garden for the kids to scamper about and giggle in, and space big enough for annoying uncles to sit and smoke and drink and win money off you.
It's too much to hope that they won't smoke; it'll reek and I'll have to repaint the ceiling.
Second, a large table. I have a thing for large round ones - you can always squeeze more - but long tables are fine too. What's important is that it can fit at least two, ideally three big vats of boiling soup, laden with squared cabbages and golden mushrooms and fishballs and meatballs and cuttlefishballs and prawnballs and slices of pork belly, pork bacon, and chicken meat. And lots and lots and lots of cabbage.
A big rice-cooker, with two scoops. And lots of plastic cups and spoons and forks and chopsticks, of course.
Two huge ice-coolers of ice. And beer. And Yeo's. But not Coke, it's bad for health.
At least five decks of poker cards (one for the kids, and a couple for the adults - gamblers'll want to change decks when they feel their luck is not so good). Two tables of mahjong and two sets of tiles. No chips - pure money. And an iPod dock for the kids to DJ, and iPads for the toddlers, and a flatscreen HDTV for the baby-sitting aunts.
Ang Pao and food and drinks and plastic chairs and seats for all. And more than a couple of fans, to cool the whole place down while everybody makes themselves comfortable.
And a week before that day, I'll march into Ikea and buy a door-stopper, proudly.
On that day, my door will be open all day. And there will always be food. And pity the woman I marry, who must help me prepare all the food.
The door will be open, a light shining from inside, the sounds of a happy - large - overfed family inside.
I don't have too many cousins and won't have relatives remaining, but I'll invite my friends, the neighbours and the in-laws.
My wish, for twenty, thirty years later.
= = =
Today I went to send cookies to my aunt. She raised me as a child, when my parents were both busy working. I went to a school near her place in her neighbourhood, and she brought me home from school and raised me. One day I walked home from school, remembering the way; she freaked out and nearly flayed the skin off my back. The next day onwards she let me walk home.
She fought with my mother over some small trifling matter. We don't talk to her any more. Sometime last year, though, there was a minor tragedy or other. And my mother decided to make a peace offering - the little boy she raised, all grown up.
But enough of my family's intrigues; today I learnt what a proper family dinner is like.
Happy chinese new year.