I am writing this for several reasons. There are only seven weeks remaining for 2014. Suddenly there exists a long list of to-do's with definite deadlines. I would have contributed some here which you may have overlooked. I typed more than a couple of pragmatic ones but have decided to backspace all of it. No one likes having their shortcomings pointed out. Instead, we could try looking at it constructively. I may be of help with some gifts ideas which you may consider for yourself or others, while secretly hoping that one of your resolutions for 2015 is to make more meals at home with your loved ones.

Over the years we have experienced living minimally, like out of four suitcases for too many months. However, regardless of where we were, we made efforts to control our diet with home-cooked meals. It was an uphill challenge because when you are new in town, you want to experience the taste of local flavors. Eating out is too often tempting or convenient. But the guilt of not knowing exactly what goes into our bodies kept us thinking about simple, balanced meals we can create in whichever tiny place we lived in. As long as the kitchen is adequately equipped. 

Which brings us to this question: what do we need to get the kitchen started? Assuming there is a stove already in-built, which basic items would one need in order to cook a proper meal, instead of microwaving leftover pizzas from the night before?

That explains my absence in the past couple of months. 

But it was also because there was so much to share I couldn't decide where to start. I mean, JL and I made so many lists to prepare for our immigration paperwork, to offload quite a number of household appliances and furniture, to get to know New York better so we could zoom in to our preferred neighbourhood, to setup banking services there, to single out immediate essentials for the suitcases, near-immediate items for airfreight while leaving the rest for container sea shipment, all these to facilitate our move from 3,600 square feet of spaciousness to 1,200 square feet of Manhattan "massiveness". 

I don't trade shares. In fact I did very badly in Financial Mathematics back in uni when my classmates were already dabbling in the stock market, which was why they took up that module. That said, I think I have some very desirable qualities to be a good trader: intuition, discipline, patience, and decisiveness. 

Some of you would have seen photos of the cherry tree at JL's parents' house. When it is in full harvesting season, paying for cherries becomes a joke. I would anytime prefer pulling out a long chair under the tree and just keep popping those cherries like crazy. As if to satisfy a year's worth of craving. 

So the first time I came across a one-kilo tray of cherries going for RM 120, I had to ask the husband to witness the price-tag. And the first thing I will do when we go back to France again is to hug that tree in the garden. Yet at the same time, I think about cherry clafoutis constantly here in Kuala Lumpur. No amount of blueberry, mango or even pineapple clafoutis could sooth that yearning. 

Growing up in a small town where the "town center" is basically a grid of five vertical streets with six streets cutting across, I remember when Kentucky Fried Chicken opened its doors here. Prior to that, we had at best, Chicken Delight, a lesser known franchise for fried chicken. And no, McDonald's was at least ten years away from setting up shop because the building it occupied had yet to even exist.

Back in the early eighties, all our birthday celebrations were dinner prepared by my mother, depending on whose birthday it was, with all the birthday kid's favourite dishes. The week before our birthdays, my mother would ask for our wish-list, not for presents, but what we'd like to have for our birthday dinner. Can you imagine what happens when you have six children? My mum sure has a wide repertoire of dishes off her fingertips!

But for my birthday that year, my parents decided to take all of us out for dinner. Where else but the Kentucky Fried Chicken in town. So it was really BIG DEAL for me - I think I was turning eight. So off we went - wide-eyed and all - getting excited at the slightest details. It was nothing like the KFC we know today for back then, disposable wares were considered luxurious. So we still had our chicken, coleslaw and whipped potato all served in plastic plates and bowls, with stainless steel cutlery.

The fried chicken was so-so. My mum could easily make the same with a box of Kentucky Fried Chicken powder. It was the coleslaw and whipped potato that caught my attention. How could someone make vegetables so creamy and delicious? Vegetable dishes at home had always been stir-fried or cooked in curry gravy. I'd never knew that vegetables can be so creamy yet non-spicy. And that bowl of potato covered in brown sauce, why can't they use larger scoops?

"Bienvenue à ma maison!" 

Those were the first words my father-in-law said to me the moment I stepped out of his car after an hour and a half of soaking in the sights along the French autoroute starting from Lyon-Saint Exupéry airport. The air was fresh and cool, you would agree too had your feet felt the terracotta tiles on the ground. Not that I was barefoot. A pair of house slippers were waiting for me in the bedroom. Still, I could feel the coldness of the ground wearing them.

That was June six years ago, when I couldn't understand 95% of what I heard around me. Most of what I learned back then I did with my eyes. I remembered faces and places, really, short of sounding like the Beatles' song: JL's immediate family, close family friends who are family too, his best friend, wife and children, one of whom JL is godfather to. 

I watched the simplicity of having family and friends around, spending the day talking about everything under the sun, even taking naps at the corner if one wishes so. I followed everywhere JL went as he followed everywhere his father went: the bakery, the deli, the florist, the tabac shop for newspapers. Everywhere. The French really kiss a lot, I thought to myself. Even men greeted each other with a touching of cheeks and pats on their backs with varying strengths, as if a sum of how long since you last saw each other and how much you love the other person. But all done naturally, quietly, and absolutely without exaggeration.

The word "easy" has different meanings. It largely depends on the person saying it. If Heston Blumenthal says it's easy, you might still need a blow torch, candy thermometer, syringe or some dry ice. When Anthony Bourdain says it's easy, you should read his recipe carefully and then read some more on the key techniques that he has mentioned. When Jamie Oliver says it's easy, it is likely that you are able to improvise his recipe. After all, that's his style.

When I say it's easy, it is easy. And I'll try to share as much details with you so that you are confident of pulling it off, even if your stove had not been lit for months, or in some extraordinary cases, since the day you moved in.

One of the husband's achievements of late - in terms of assimilating in KL - is watching Celestial HD channel. For the benefit of our non-Malaysian friends, Celestial HD is like HBO but only in Cantonese and occasionally Chinese. One can sit all-day in front of the TV watching back-to-back movies. We don't do that, though, because we don't have much time together during the week so TV-time is minimized. 

Instead, we regularly scroll through the channel guide to record movies which we think may be interesting. If there is one improvement Astro could work on, it is to indicate the main cast of every movie in the write-ups. Only on weekend afternoons do we catch up on what had been recorded. If we can't sit through the first ten minutes, the movie is deleted. "Next!...."

I am so proud of the fact JL has watched all three parts of Infernal Affairs. And by the third installment, he was able to think like a Hong-Kong mafia boss and predict what is ahead. He loves saying "hai meh?" ("really?") in various tones of speech: sarcastically, sincerely, comically. And he makes the hospitable aunties at our regular Chinese eatery laugh when he says "mmmm goy..." ("please" or "thank you") and "mai dan" ("check please"). 

"So who's your favourite actor so far?" I asked him last night.

The easiest way to pronounce this dish accurately is to be doubtful, as if you find its name so incredulous you think someone's taking you for a ride. And you think about the words "way" and "meow". So you ask again, with much caution, "Char? Kway? Teow??"

That's it! You've nailed it. For our non-Malaysian/Singaporean friends, the aunty at the hawker stall would be so proud of you. For the uninitiated, char kway teow (in Hokkien/Fujian dialect) literally translates to fried rice-noodle strips. 

Two weeks ago, I fried my first plate of char kway teow at Bayan Indah's beautiful kitchen. I loved that precious few minutes of frying in a well-seasoned wok, with detailed guidance from my thoughtful instructor Pick Shan. With that little punchy boost to my culinary self-esteem, I went home wanting to make the ideal plate of char kway teow. Ideal in my book, at least. 

So I wrote in my scribble book, "What makes a good CKT?" and here is a compilation of my thoughts.

Washing a basinful of bean sprouts brings me back to different stages of my life.

I think about the Chinatown in Boston where I'd stock up Asian supplies I could never find from the online grocer: dumpling skins, fresh egg noodles, sauces and vegetables. The fresh produce section would smell of bean sprouts, or mung bean sprouts as they call it. The place was crammed with old folks scrutinizing yellow crunchy pears for spots, workers packing newly delivered vegetables into quantities that could easily feed a family of eight, and then there's me - the one who felt neither here nor there. 

Ever since we settled down in the current home, I've started revisiting my cookbooks and food-related magazines. I miss the days when I could subscribe the usual home and living magazines for what a cup of coffee would cost. And spending an afternoon checking through every issue I had, tearing out pages of recipes for that one binder I left the U.S. with. As for the magazines I had kept from our days in Singapore, I still have a few with me, looking as good as new cover-to-cover. 

Late last week I read the May 2010 issue of Food & Travel, and was very pleased to come across a recipe for fluffy pancakes. If you bake often, it helps to associate the word "fluffy" with "buttermilk". Also, there is no reason to panic if you can't find buttermilk at the supermarket. Whenever I needed buttermilk, there would be barely three or four cartons on the milk/dairy section. However, problem solved: to substitute one cup of buttermilk, you just need to stir half a cup of plain natural yogurt in half a cup of whole milk.

So on Saturday morning, I thought I'd make some pancakes for breakfast, especially since the husband had gone through an entire week without his usual cake. I've also learned that a stack of warm pancakes is good incentive to get someone out of bed. This is really easy as you only need a mixing bowl and a whisk. Leave the stand mixer alone.