Seattle Mom Blogs

Almost three years ago, my husband and I decided, what the heck, we’d leave our family and friends behind and travel 12,000 miles away to a foreign country which we’d heard so much about and watched everyday on TV.

We imagined eating everyday at a diner with checkered floors and Formica tables where a waitress who knew us by name would pour us coffees and ask us if we’d have our usuals. We dreamt of sightseeing every weekend for two years, visiting little tucked-away towns where old men sat on rocking chairs and outside barber shops, watching us warily while they smoked pipes and/or played cards. We imagined living in a nice big house with a white picket fence and neighbors coming over to play and a dog we’d name Clunkers (like Phoebe’s friend’s dog in Friends).

Come January it will be three years. We’ve eaten at a diner, let me see, three times because we discovered that diner food was not exactly very healthy. In fact, we rarely even eat out and the kids are so used to the Malaysian dishes I cook daily that they don’t even like diner food.

We still do try to travel regularly but tend to make for the outdoors more than just visiting small towns, although I still love them (I live in one!). Old people don’t really sit out on their front porches because it’s cold or wet or it isn’t the 50s anymore or maybe they’re more mobile these days and prefer to be up and about.

We live in a town house and therefore have no space for a dog. We hardly know our neighbors because, well, nobody ever came over to welcome us to the neighborhood. I guess my condo is just not that sort of a community.

You may say that much of what we thought of America, all those whimsical, romantic notions planted by American media and movies, have been dashed. It wasn’t exactly a rude awakening. It was more like a gentle, sneaky sort of unveiling. Like the diner thing. The novelty wears off when you discover how expensive it is to eat out, or when you discover Trader Joe’s and realize you can make better pancakes or hash browns and eat them in your jammies at home.

However, there were a lot of pleasant surprises for us, things we never knew about America. More accurately, things we were skeptical about and may have had problems believing could happen. For instance, even when we knew that Seattle – and perhaps much of Washington – was considered a liberal place and welcoming to foreigners of a different culture, we expected to be discriminated against all the same. Who can blame us, coming from a country where discrimination and oppression happened on a daily basis, you pretty much just learn to accept it and live with it.

Not only have we’ve been made to feel welcome, at times, it feels as though we’ve always been one of you. We’re not discriminated against (there have been occasions but they were more rude than serious), but we’re not given any special treatment either. Everyone gets the same opportunities if they work hard. Everyone pays taxes. So far, the only thing that’s been different for us from Americans has been the fact that we can’t vote.

Which brings me to the point of my whole entry: The presidential election has been such an educational, inspiring experience for me and my family, to be here to see for myself how true democracy works, how when you place your faith in a system of laws and the constitution, that when your voice matters, real change can happen. To a Malaysian, this is nothing short of a miracle.

My own country, Malaysia, is facing challenges of its own today and I cannot help but wish and hope that it too can find the change it so desperately needs. Although we claim to have a democratic system, it is a broken one and sadly, its people are powerless to fix it. However, in our last general election, we managed to salvage part of it. For us, the road to change will remain a long and difficult one.

So even though beneath your shiny veneer, all the whimsy, glamor, celebrity and fantasy, you may be flawed, you America, are still a great nation. Living here, being a part of this historic event, has made me a little less skeptical and a lot more hopeful that with time and determination, with people and belief, all things are possible. My children, unlike my husband and I, will grow up knowing that this is the way it should be. That there is always hope and with hope, a little less skepticism and a little more faith.

For that, I thank you.

See what I mean when I say YOU have inspired the world (yes, the first guy is the guy we want to be the Prime Minister of Malaysia ).

Read more of Jennifer Tais writing at The I’mPerfect Mom or enjoy her photos at www.jennifertai.net. If you have questions, anecdotes, or topics for Tea Leaf Journals, email jenn[at]theimperfectmom[dot]com.

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Before I came to the United States, the concept of letting a child choose was a very alien one.

I know that makes us sound like a bunch of tyrants but those were once some of your parenting concepts in, like, times of yore. Sadly, they are still our present-day philosophies. Children are meant to be seen and not heard. Speak only when you’re spoken to. My way or the high way.

I first learnt of “limiting choices” at my older daughter’s cooperative preschool, which I’d first joined because it was close to where I’d lived in Redmond, and because it was very affordable. There were monthly compulsory parenting education classes we had to attend as part of our commitment, and I then learnt how to offer choices to my then 3.5 year old.

“Would you like to stand up or would you like me to help you stand up?”

“Would you like milk or water?”

“Would you like to clean up your toys now or after we have lunch?”

I thought it was genius. Not only did I get what I want as a parent – to make my child eat and drink what I thought was appropriate, clean up, stand up – the child also had some measure of control over the very simple act of making a choice, which in turn gave them some satisfaction and happiness in their little daily lives.

And then I attended ANOTHER parenting class about nutrition, and we talked about power struggles over food. The nutritionist had advised that the best course of action was to:

1) accept that you have NO control what they will or will not eat

2) accept that our role as the cook was only to offer healthy choices at the dinner table and not to force the food down their little throats

Again, alien. In Malaysia, scores of parents, nannies and babysitters still sit down with a spoon in one hand and a bowl of rice in the other, in front of the TV, feeding the kids until perhaps middle school when the children themselves feel embarrassed by it (at about age 10 or 11?).

The method was fast (20 minutes tops), it was efficient and tidy (no spills, rice on the carpet, etc). And then the grownups can have a sit-down meal in peace. Who cares about learning table manners and quality family time when you don’t have to deal with messy kids, power struggles and WASTE?

Waste is perhaps the biggest issue I have with this “live and let eat” philosophy, for which is more important to your child? Giving them a chance to listen to their bodies, or having them learn not to waste food? Nutritionists and other parents have suggested maybe letting my kids take what they want (instead of me making sure they take a little of everything). They almost always end up taking a piece of bread and nothing else, so it’s back to square one.

We’ve also adopted the “No Thank You” bite rule (thanks Skye!) where they HAVE to take one obligatory bite before saying they don’t want it. And that’s what they usually do.

My dear husband has suggested cooking the same dishes every day, dishes I know they will want to eat. That is NO way to live.

In the end, I decided waste (especially in our tough economic climate) was a more important lesson. And so, we’ve gone back to our Malaysian roots but with an American twist: I make a special bowl, rice with whatever I cook that they may not have eaten before and would normally not voluntarily eat if I let them choose, and I mix it all up like a salad or a savory rice. I split the rice up into two bowls, and then give them a choice of ten spoons or 15 spoons (gauging from the amount I’ve given them). It has worked like a miracle. They usually have only a vague idea of what they’re eating (pork or carrots or noodles). Once in a while, they will pick out something they don’t like but very rarely. In the end, they really don’t care if they know they have a choice – ten or 15 spoons, and I’m done. There’s no wastage, the kids learn to eat new and exotic types of food (even if they may not know it) and they still have a small measure of control.

Limiting choices IS genius, I tell ya.

So what are YOUR ideas for reconciling waste and want at mealtimes? Come share!

Read more of Jennifer Tais writing atThe I’mPerfect Momor enjoy her photos atwww.jennifertai.net. If you have questions, anecdotes, or topics for Tea Leaf Journals, email jenn[at]theimperfectmom[dot]com.

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So theBeeb reported todaythat the UK Family Planning Associate is pushing a sex ed booklet – to six-year-olds.

It’s called “Let’s Grow with Nisha and Joe”. Its topics, according to the article, include parts of the body and how to be safe.

I can just see my husband’s reaction when I forward him this link.

“What?! Are they crazy?” he’d respond on IM. I always know he’s serious when he responds an email with an instant message because he doesn’t like to chat at work.

The cliche has always been that Asians are a little more conservative than Westerners when it comes to open displays of affection and sex. It’s a cliche for a reason – it’s the truth.

Until a few years ago, the act of two lovers kissing in an Asian movie (apart from porn – and even those show more of the hard stuff because, you know, kissing is very intimate) was considered risque. I remember about ten years ago, Singapore made its first serial that had a couple kissing for more than 30 seconds. It was the talk of the country for a month – and the most awkward thing I’d ever seen.

The irony is, most of us are okay with Westerners kissing, hugging and what have you. We aren’t prudes. It’s just that such flamboyant displays of affection are just not our thing, but we don’t judge it.On the other hand, if we see a couple of Asian teens making out on the bus, we’d not hesitate to give them two smacks up side the head and tell them to show some respect.

This is very odd because my husband and I are affectionate people, and we are often kissing and hugging in front of his parents, not the heavy stuff, you know, just regular pecks on the lips and lingering hugs before work. We’d always been this way, even in Malaysia. It’s just different when you’re married I guess (being married makes all the difference in Malaysia – you can be getting jiggy at the playground and it’d be okay as long as there’s a ring on your finger).

So back to this whole sex ed for six-year-olds thing. I think it is futile to try and shield our kids from these things when sex is so pervasive in our society. Don’t even go that far.I think my six-year-old already sees that the way Daddy kisses her goodbye in the morning is very different from the way he kisses Mommy. How the heck do you hide that?

I believe that kids are becoming smarter and this makes trying to hide these facts of life all the more dangerous because the more you try and distract them from the truth, the more they’d want to know. Here we are trying to encourage a healthy sense of curiosity about the world around them, but when it comes to sex, we’re just going to pretend it does not exist until they’re, say, seven? That’s just silly.

I’m not saying Family Porn Night. Surely there is a way to talk about sex to a six-year-old without it degrading into some smutty discussion. And what better way than to start the conversation with a picture book?

What do YOU think about a sex ed book for six-year olds? Is it too much too soon? If so, why?

Read more of Jennifer Tais writing at The I’mPerfect Mom or enjoy her photos at www.jennifertai.net. If you have questions, anecdotes, or topics for Tea Leaf Journals, email jenn[at]theimperfectmom[dot]com.

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He was a big man, wearing a big Hawaiian-themed floral shirt with parrots or macaws or something on it, I can’t remember, and he wore a smile so genuine it was hard not to smile back.

In his left hand was a folded piece of orange paper triangle, which looked to be quite used or worn even though I knew not what it was used for. It had some sort of ink on it, some kind of writing. It looked like a talisman.

My then-boyfriend (now-husband) looked at me and I looked back, and we both looked up from our steaming hot noodles and coffee at the Sikh man in the green turban who had the world’s most irresistible smile.

“Tell fortune?” he asked, taking a seat across from us, uninvited.

Uh-oh, I’d thought. Con man about to rip us off, sounded the blaring alarm bells. Loke, who was always better with the firm but polite declining, started shaking his head and waving his hand in a dismissive manner. I just had a sort of confused confounded look on my face, I think, half my brain was trying to think of a way to help Loke get this fortune-teller away from us and the other half wanting to help the man out. Maybe he really believed in his, erm, craft. Most certainly he had bills to pay like the rest of us. Perhaps even three hungry kids at home?

“No no, thank you, no thank you,” Loke said, waving a hand over the talisman indicating we were not interested.

“Seriously, I tell fortune. I can see you are going to get married soon!” the Sikh with the talisman said, smiling that annoyingly happy smile again. I found myself nodding, agreeing, charmed. Loke maintained his stance.

“No no, thanks,” he repeated, shaking his head although he had already cast his eyes down at his bowl of noodles, a little embarrassed because the restaurant we were eating in (we call it a “coffee shop” in Malaysia although there’s a lot more than coffee to these establishments) was deserted and we were the only patrons. So we were causing quite a scene among the two other tables which were occupied by the coffee shop owners, and the various noodle and rice stall owners who were trying not to notice a Sikh man and his charming smile suddenly sitting at a table where a Chinese couple was trying to have dinner.

Wasn’t Loke a little intrigued though? How the heck did the fortune-teller know we were getting married?

Oh, the engagement ring. Damn I’m slow.

“I can also see you are going to be a very happy couple. You ARE already very happy, I can see,” he smiled even broader, shaking his head from side to side as if to emphasize our obvious state of happiness with undisguised disbelief.

Loke was chuckling in polite but fake amusement and then he shook his head. But he said nothing else to dissuade the man.

“And I can see you are going to be very successful in your job, young man,” said the Sikh, his smile a little less broad now. He seemed even a little more serious. I looked at the crinkles at the sides of his eyes and a few strands of greying hair sticking out of the sides of his turban. He suddenly looked tired and old. He must’ve been walking all day, asking to tell people’s fortunes from coffee shop to coffee shop. I made up my mind. So what if we didn’t believe in this crap? It made for good entertainment. Clearing my throat, I spoke up.

“How successful?” I asked, putting my chopsticks down, not wanting to be rude, eating when our guest was not eating himself. He might’ve even been starving.

“He will go very far. You will leave this country,” he said, lowering his voice. His stare shifted from Loke to me. I felt the first stirrings of goosebumps.

I looked at Loke and he was still nodding or shaking his head, I can’t remember, but I knew he was getting a little annoyed but could not say anything since I’d taken over with my “okay, I’ll bite” stance.

“And what about me?” I asked.

“You…you are a very lucky woman,” he said, stroking his talisman with his thumb. “You are also a very kind woman.”

I blushed.

“You have a very kind heart. But your mouth,…”

I stopped blushing.

“What?”

“You need to be careful of your words, Miss. You must learn to…not say what you think.”

Lokes was beaming now and I could see his interest was piqued.

For 20 minutes, we sat and listened as the Guru told us about our own characters. At the end of the 20 minutes, he charged us RM50 for the session. At the time, we’d expected to be ripped off, but when he told us RM50, it was a little much still because hey, it wasn’t like we invited you to sit down with us.

It also seemed at the time that he had somehow split us open and looked inside, but were talking about people we’d never even met. I thought some of the things he’d said about me was inaccurate. For example, he told me my sister and I were not really as close as I’d imagined or fantasized it would be. He also said that Lokes was an intensely proud man, which at the time, did not seem accurate.

It’s been almost ten years now since that fateful evening, an unremarkable incident that has somehow stuck with me all this time because for RM50, which is about US$15, this man had managed to read Loke and me like an open book. And not just Loke and me ten years ago. He had pegged us for what we would be ten years later.

Some will say this is self-fulfilling prophecy. Others who are inclined as the Guru, would believe something else. I believe that I’d always known all those things about me, it’s just that I had a hard time admitting to them. That like my engagement ring and the fact that Lokes drove a nice car with a Microsoft tag, he had used all these cues to take stabs at who or what we were or will be. He was a good observer.

No, he was one of the best.

These last few weeks have taught me to be a better observer of myself and my family. That if it took a total stranger to see me for who I am, something was wrong. I should not need to hear it from a random person, albeit one with very specialized training. It’s like one of those game shows where you’re asked to say what your spouse’s or child’s favorite color is or favorite dish is, and you wished suddenly you hadn’t called in.What’s worse is, what if your spouse can’t even tell what your favorite color or dish is? Yes, I will strive to know myself and my family better.

And if all else fails, I will attempt to locate a Guru.Or perhaps do what many Americans do and locate a psychologist!

Read more of Jennifer Tais writing atThe I’mPerfect Momor enjoy her photos at www.jennifertai.net. If you have questions, anecdotes, or topics for Tea Leaf Journals, email jenn[at]theimperfectmom[dot]com.

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Like many of you, I keep in touch with my family and friends using Facebook. Malaysia is a fairly “with it” country when it comes to technology (it is the only space the government has promised never to censor as part of its commitment to foreign investors and so far, it’s keeping its word) and as a result, Malaysians are pretty tech savvy.

This has its ups and downs. Before Facebook and blogs, the only way I could catch up with my friends was through sporadic mass-emails and the odd Chinese New Year exodus back to Ipoh, the little city where we all grew up. In the early 90s, the conversations would all be about the best clubs, the best boys, the best jobs. When we entered the new millennium, we started talking about the best (baby) cribs, the best (nursing) bras, the best job (which is, of course – snort – to stay at home with the kids). And then we’d go back to our lives, satisfied that we’ve managed to outdo each other in all the categories and all the sub-categories – or at least established that we’re too good for all that nonsense – for another year.

Not so lucky anymore.

You see, with Facebook and the blogosphere, the “updates” have become minute by minute. And while friendly competition among SAHMs is a universal phenomenon, I am fairly certain that “kiasuism” (click the link) only afflicts Malaysians and Singaporeans.

A friend of mine, for example, blogs about the math and Mandarin homework her – wait for it – three-year old gets from her preschool. Another, in Singapore, has her four-year old doing daily exercises of addition and subtraction in the hundreds. Another, a Malaysian living here in Seattle, is sending her five-year old to those Sylvan thingies.

Me? Because I’m so torn between being a true-blue Malaysian kiasu mother who wants to make sure her kids are up to speed with OTHER Malaysian kids, AND an increasingly Americanized one, believing that they will all learn to spell and count in good time, I am doing NOTHING. Which is very in keeping with my slacker mom philosophy.

Growing up, I remember the seemingly endless hours of scolding and caning and kneeling in front of my father reciting the times table. Then I turned 14, and my mother declared, “You’re too old to be caned anymore. You need to decide for yourself if you want to be useful or useless.” With that, I became an A student because I

1) didn’t want my mother to change her mind about the caning (Malaysian kids are subjected to corporal punishment until they leave home at 30 – kidding!).
2) wanted to prove that I could do it on my own

To a 14-year old, it must’ve been both the most liberating – and scariest – experience of my life.

Reading about the lengths my friends go through to tutor their kids at home to ensure they keep up with other Malaysian kids, wherever they may be, has made me think a lot about my children’s future here in America. While I want to be sure my kids are mentally ready for whatever academia that is thrown at them, I also do not know for sure where their true potential lies. I also do not know how much structure and DISCIPLINE I am to introduce to them at this tender age without destroying their interest in learning.

How do you find out these things (without reading entire books – told you I’m a slacker)?

Perhaps it all comes down to gut. I have a feeling my kids are smart and I know they have good genes and if I am observant and diligent enough (gulp), I will find out just how much potential they really have, and how I can gently urge them to go the distance with a little discipline.

Or perhaps I should just stop reading my friends’ blogs or hanging around Facebook so much!

Read more of Jennifer Tais writing atThe I’mPerfect Mom. If you have questions, anecdotes, or topics for Tea Leaf Journals, email jenn[at]theimperfectmom[dot]com.

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The first thing I remember about being a child, before I would always be remembered as being the older child, was that I was loved greatly by my paternal grandparents (my maternal grandparents died shortly after I was born).

Your Ma Ma used to carry you everywhere. Around the block for a walk when she wouldnt even walk two feet to switch off the TV, my mother would reminisce, not unkindly, but not happily either, since she had probably been the one having to switch said TV off.

Evening walks, morning walks, never a harsh word for me but plenty for my parents for scolding me. Sweet treats all hours of the day. Shameless, copious amounts of cooing and coddling. Your typical grandparental doting.

Sadly, I dont remember anything about my grandparents since they died shortly after my sister was born. All I remember are the two severe faces Ive seen every day through my childhood, faces on two 11 X 20 black and white portraits that hung in our living room in the house Id grown up in. And yet, the knowledge that my grandparents loved me so fiercely (and unfairly) always gave me a profound sense of joy, something my sister never knew (and was always a little sad and annoyed when the issue came up). Growing up in a household that was not always peaceful, remembering my grandparents love was sometimes all I had to weather through those tough times. It is odd, and perhaps even miraculous, how the love of two people with whom I have blood relations but hardly knew, could give me the confidence and security I sometimes did not get from my parents.

Having three generations, or more, living under one roof in Malaysia and I expect, much of Asia is indeed still a longstanding practice. From young, we are raised to respect our elders and to expect that when we are old enough to secure our own livelihoods, it is our indubitable duty to care for them and indeed, anyone else whos closely related to us who is incapable of caring for themselves; an aunt, an older cousin, an older brother or sister.

In terms of having the support you need to raise young children, the free babysitting and childcare is nice, but it is more than that. In fact, it is almost an insult if you hire a nanny or send your baby to a daycare if your parents are around and are willing and able to help you, although I hear that more and more grandparents today are beginning to let go of these traditions, which Im not sure is a good thing. Getting them involved is really a way we honor their experience, a way of showing them that they are part of the family and are needed, for what is worse than growing old and losing your sense of belonging in the world?

Today, my in-laws live with us semi-permanently here in Seattle. They visit every year for six months, and for six months, Lokes and I have all the help we need to keep house and raise our children. A lot of my American friends are taken aback when I share this with them.

Six months? Gosh, how are you coping? theyd ask, concerned.

To be honest, its not too bad. In a Malaysian Chinese household, the grandmother is often the one who cooks and helps to care for the kids. In mine, my father-in-law is also an active participant, shopping for groceries and taking out the garbage. That takes away the two things I dislike doing most as a stay-at-home mom, which works out pretty well.

Of course, it is not always smooth sailing. When the kids first came along, there were the usual teething problems of differing child-rearing philosophies, in that we were trying to raise children, and they were trying to raise grandchildren. Who sets the rules? What happens when a grownup doesnt enforce these rules? What happens when a grownup does not AGREE with these rules? Because it is not our custom to address these issues openly (it is not considered polite, and being impolite to your elders is a big no-no), there are bound to be some tension in a household of three generations.

Still, having their grandparents around has had a positive impact on the girls. They learn the ever-important Confucian tenet of caring for and respecting their elders. In return, my in-laws relish the opportunity of watching their grandchildren grow up, sharing with them stories and lessons that my husband and I may have very well forgotten about our customs and traditions. Most importantly, the children benefit from all that love that unconditional, unreasonable, fill-in-the-gaps love that only grandparents are sanctioned to give.

A love that I, for one, know will last a lifetime.

Read more of Jennifer Tais writing atThe I’mPerfect Mom. If you have questions, anecdotes, or topics for Tea Leaf Journals, email jenn[at]theimperfectmom[dot]com.

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A lot of Americans tend to think that there’s only one kind of Chinese food, probably the same way most Malaysians think there’s only one kind of American food (which is burgers and fries from McDonald’s at one end of the price spectrumand at the other, Chilli’s).

You may be surprised to know that most authentic Chinese dishes do not involve breaded meats (the kind you find in almost every American Chinese restaurant) and General Tsao chicken is actually an American dish (no such dish exists outside of the USA). You may also be shocked, even, to know that people do not usually eat noodles as a side dish to rice, or rice as a side dish to noodles. If you order noodles, you often don’t order rice (to be eaten with side dishes of meats and/or vegetables) and vice versa. You just don’t.

If I were to give an analogy for Malaysian food in terms of American cuisine (as far as being “different” goes), I would approximate it asexotic as perhaps Cajun or Creole cuisine, as distinct in flavor and ingredients as Mexican, and sometimes, even as comforting and decadent as Southern cooking.

In terms of taste, Malaysian food is not unlike Thai cuisine, especially in the Northern states. If you have sampled Indonesian cuisine, we’re closer. Malaysian food also includes in large Chinese derivatives like dim sum and dumpling soup like won ton, as well as Northern and Southern Indian cuisine like naan bread, dosa,all the lovely curriesand roti prata (think pan-fried egg pancakes made with “ghee” aka clarifiedbutter). Because we’re a melting pot of Malays (an indigenous race descended from Indians and/or natives who are Muslims), Chinese, Indians and other races, our cuisine can vary very widely. Yet, there are quite a few dishes, contributed by each culture and race, that we as Malaysians collectively enjoy, that can be rounded up into a category called “Malaysian food”.

As far as I know, there are only two(mainly)Malaysian restaurants in Seattle. One is called the Malay Satay Hut (two branches, one in Bellevue and one in Seattle – IMHO, not very good), and the other is Salina(have not tried it yet). When I say “mainly”, it means they declare themselves to be Malaysian and the word “Malaysian” appears more than twice on the menu. This also means much of the menu center around authentic Malaysian cuisine – dishes I can find back home – and only a small portion catering to what American patrons are used to, such as some Vietnamese and Thai dishes. After all, Malaysian cuisine is not as popular as these two.

I must say this: as far as Malaysian Indian cuisine goes, much of it you can sample in a regular Indian restaurant. Indian restaurants and eateries in Malaysia have managed to keep much of their authenticity compared to what’s available in India with only a few derivatives such as their “mee mamak”, a noodle stir-fry that you won’t find in India but only in Indian stalls and coffee shops in Malaysia.

Which leads me to Malaysian Chinese cuisine, which has become so uniquely Malaysian because of how the Chinese came to populate Malaya, that you will never find Malaysian Chinese cuisine in any Chinese restaurant in the world (except for Malaysia of course – not even in Singapore, no way).

From our spicy stir-fries to our double-boiled soups and ESPECIALLY to our unique “nyonya” (pronounced “neon-yeah”) or “peranakan” (pronounced “purr-anuck-un”) dishes (a distinct Malaysian subculture with roots that trace back to the forming of Malaya), Malaysian Chinese cuisine is more Malaysian sometimes than it is Chinese, so much so that anyone from any part of China or Taiwan visiting here will not recognise it.

So what can you expect when dining in a Malaysian restaurant? Spice, spice and more spice. Of course, here in America, waiters in any Southeast Asian restaurant (Thai, Vietnamese, Singaporean, Indonesian, Cambodian, Indian) are trained to ask “how hot? One to Five?” and I reckon so will those in a Malaysian one.

What dishes should you order? Try for abeef “rendang“, a uniquely Malaysian dry curry (low on fluids), to eat with “nasi lemak“, rice cooked in coconut milk and essence of pandan (an aromatic leaf that smells a little like vanilla). Order, if available, also a “sambal“, preferably one made from anchovies, as it is a sweet and savory spicy chilli paste that’s used to stew with the anchovies into a lovely side dish.

For a fish dish, try the “curry fish head” (which, I promise you, is NOT a “uniquely Singaporean” dish), which I promise is not as iffy as it sounds. Ask them to discard the head if you like, and to give you more of the preferred parts of the fish, but this soupy delicacy made with okra, eggplant and a few other vegetables is sure to tantalize your tastebuds that you’ll return for more. And afterthis wonderfully simple meal (washed down, without a doubt,jugs of iced water), ask for a dessertof “nyonya kuih-muih“, which are little cakes not unlike the Thai sweet treats, or perhaps a bowl of congee-like Chinese “tong sui“, literally “sugar water”, which are bowls of hot or cold desserts. You can try something tame, such as a bowl ofbean curd in a sweet syrup (Chinese caramel) or perhaps you’re brave enough for something with sweet glutinuous rice. And if you’re truly fearless, try durian – a Southeast Asian fruit with spikes on the outside to protect the “gold” within, a sweet but aggressively-scented meat which has most of us Malaysians all dubbing it the “king of fruits”.

So the next time you’re dining out, why not give Malaysian cuisinea whirl? And if you happen to love it, try making some with recipes from sites such as Recipezaar’s, which has100+ Malaysian recipes(although I’ve not tried them so I’m not sure how authentic they are). And email me anytime for any “newbie” recipes you might like to try out.

All this talk about Malaysian food is making me hungry. My mother-in-law is frying up some Ayam Belacan (chicken in prawn paste) and she’s also whipping up some “joo hoo char”, a Nyonya vegetable dish that’s a big favorite in our house. Enjoy and *jom makan!

*Malaysian for “let’s eat!”

Read more of Jennifer Tais writing at The I’mPerfect Mom. If you have questions, anecdotes, or topics for Tea Leaf Journals, email jenn[at]theimperfectmom[dot]com.

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My parents are children of immigrants from China to the then-Malaya, a turn-of-the-century magical destination of opportunity.

First-generation Malaysians, they are also the precious bearers of tales featuring howling, heartbroken mothers forgotten in forsaken lands, their sons and husbands braving treacherous, month-long sea journeys for gold-paved streets and people so rich they throw away their crockery after each meal (a famous South Indian fable describing banana leaves used as plates – a tradition very much alive today).

My father, the youngest son of one such man, was born in Malaya, so he knew no such perils. My mother, also born in Malaya in the early 40s, too was spared the ordeal. But they may as well have been the ones sleeping next to filthy strangers in pitch-black basements, ten to a cabin, eating fermented rice crawling with maggots and salted fish, because my parents, they have carried my grandparents’ tales well tales of real suffering, as opposed to the Oh man! Gas is $4.50 a gallon?! whines we, the spoilt and lazy children of an ungrateful generation prone to complaining and not much else, like to indulge in.

Take the bus. Or walk, my dad would undoubtedly retort if that complaint ever escaped my mouth.

With two kids?! I would’ve asked, as though he was the mad one.

What? They cant walk? wouldve been the gruff end to that conversation.

The story of our journey to America is, of course, less colorful, although some might argue (some being me) that my 30-hour journey with one layover, one transit and two young children, can trump my grandmothers three-week cruise with my 15-year old aunt (adjusted for, like, modern advancements in transportation). Granted there may be very little entertainment or refreshments or, you know, sanitation, at least she got to take care of business without feeling like the worst mother in the world.

Its funny to think of myself as a migrant because Ive read Amy Tan and Lisa See and Jhumpa Lahiri and a few hundred migr stories with the same family on the run beginnings, fish out of water middles and rags-to-riches endings, that I cant help wondering what my own story will be like.

Will I suddenly be speaking in Chinese, wearing cheongsams and arranging my house according to the rules of fengshui, bringing my extant Chinese-ness to the fore for fear of losing it?

Will my daughters, all grown up, be tortured, confused creatures of fusion upbringing who end up taking pre-college, self-discovery trips to Malaysia?

Will one of them end up hating me for not having integrated as readily and as completely as I shouldve after 30 years, loathing my yearning for mahjong partners or my evening Chinese serials and my unwillingness to eat enchiladas without chopsticks with a teapot of Chinese Oolong to wash it all down, my English still embarassingly rife with lahs and lors that have not managed to fade even when all we speak at home is American, where herbal is erbal and rubbish is not even a real word?

Good grief, it seems romantically possible, doesnt it?

But I am already halfway not there. I dont have much of an accent, some Americans tell me with some measure of disbelief.

Actually, I do have an accent an American accent (how can one have zero accent? Not possible).

I dont use fengshui because my kids will probably redefine all of it in under two minutes.

I dont watch much TV either, American or Chinese.

But I definitely would like to play some mahjong soon before I forget all those clever combinations and how much fun it can be (a great Math training exercise, fyi).

When I go home next year for our first visit in what will be three years, I will probably revert to Malaysian English (with sudden lapses to American when I have to make the kids understand that this is the last time mommy is telling you to cut it out!).

I will probably complain about the heat and the lack of sanitation and the state of the roads (youve never seen a real traffic jam until youve visited Kuala Lumpur or Bangkok).

But I will probably also reminisce fondly, telling my girls things like, you were born here as I drive by our old homes and hospitals, or this is where Mommy used to play or this is what durian tastes like with a pensive, nostalgic quality to my voice, as I try to sear those aromas and images into my memory to take them home when we return to the Northwest.

With time, the bigness and brightness that is America will undoubtedly cast them to the unreachable recesses of my cluttered mommy mind, only to be summoned occasionally in sudden outbursts of Malaysian gibberish uttered unkindly to my husband on an especially trying day.

Or to regal you with my ramblings here at Seattle Mom Blogs.

Nothing too epic nor heart-wrenching. Nothing involving kitchen gods nor rice padi fields (okay, maybe one padi field). Nothing spicy, nor sweet and sour (unless it’s a recipe).

Just exotic enough so you’ll .

Read more of Jennifer Tais writing at The I’mPerfect Mom. If you have questions, anecdotes, or topics for Tea Leaf Journals, email jenn[at]theimperfectmom[dot]com.

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So how about thatteen pregnancy pacthuh?

Can I just sayHoly Effin’ Crap.What happened to a few drops of blood in a bowl or a traveling pair of pants?!

My husband and I totally expect to come up against some weird American “culture things” raising our girls here but a pregnancy pact is definitely waaaay over our heads. Okay, they’re six and almost-four but we can still talk about this. I like to be prepared.

Now Raeven is a very social person who loves to make new friends at parks and will often ask if she can follow her new friends and their families to wherever they’re going. Of course, the answer is often “no” followed by a lengthy explanation as to why we can’t let her walk away with total strangers.

Once, after one of the episodes where she’d wanted to go off with a new friend to another part of the playground and we’d already set up our picnic spot which was too far away from where she’d wanted to go, I’d told her in resignation that I was her mom and she had to listen to me rather than her new friend.

I’d been iffy about saying that but I’d big fat said it anyway. After the sobbing had subsided and the tantrum whittled down to a few dramatic grunts and sniffs, I’d said that I was glad she had made a friend but that we did not know the girl’s parents and that no matter what her new friend had said about it being okay to go with her (I’d been a little cheesed off how that little twit had kept insisting that Rae could go with her, making matters worse) that because she was my daughter and to keep her safe, she had to listen to me.

Seriously, I want to build a relationship with my girls that’s fun and resilient enough to “compete” with the friendships she will form in the future. I know I’ll probably fail in the “fun” part (I’m not getting pregnant together with her for comradeship, WTF) but I can’t in the “resilient, so I have to wonder: Should I tell them that where we come from, honoring thy parents and elders with obedience is a cornerstone of our upbringing? Is that enough here in America? Probably not. And surely we don’t want blind obedience. Or do we?

I remember my dad telling me once that the day will come when our kids will appreciate and trust their friends more than their own parents.I dread to think that the day has come.

I dread to think what my girls will do to belong to the group of friends they’ve decided they want to be a part of, and the kind of ideas they will come up with to define their sense of self and identity.

I dread to think that one day, they will turn around and tell me that “where we come from” doesn’t matter anymore because we’re here now, where you get a divorce because being married gives you mental disease, and you can beat up your friends for a few laughs on Youtube, and you can get pregnant with a homeless guy because it’s like babysitting but, like, for your OWN baby and for, like, no money for, like, forever.

Oh, my head.

Read more of Jennifer Tais writingatThe I’mPerfect Mom. If you have questions, anecdotes, or topics for Tea Leaf Journals, email jenn[at]theimperfectmom[dot]com.

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Back in Malaysia, my parents live in a small town called Batu Gajah (literally stone elephant) not unlike Duvall in size and population. They are retired schoolteachers. My dad golfs and my mom line-dances and sometimes, they drive around in our erstwhile blue Toyota station wagon.

Kindly note of the words erstwhile, meaning its now more of a vintage blue, you know, like muddy brown; and our, meaning the car has been around since I was still living with my parents.

And Ive not been living with my parents since 1991.

Ive been sitting here the last 15 minutes, trying to summon the most loving, sentimental descriptions my brain can muster at 11.20pm, to paint for you a picture of this vehicle in which Id spent much of my youth: road trips with my parents and sister; drives to the swim club, friends houses, church, school; thousands upon thousands of hours waiting for my mom in it as she visits the market, the bank, the post office, even the doctors (way back when leaving your child locked in the car was as casual as letting them out to play all day on the streets).

Who am I kidding? I hated that thing.

I began loathing the Toyota the moment I realized in 1985, way before I could drive, that it was a piece of crap. It was a used car my dad had gotten to act as a back-up for the 15-year old Civic wed owned.Ithad no air-conditioning (Malaysia is in the tropics, FYI), the seats were black and purple velvet (in the tropics!) and worst of all, it did not have a player.

It was 1985, and I was already my parents worst nightmare, a confused adolescent transitioning into an obnoxious teenager. A car without air-conditioning was bad enough. A car without a ? 13-year old me wanted to die both from the humiliation and the heat.

Makes one wonder what condition the Civic was in if THIS was the back up.

Id asked my dad once why hed bought such an old car (putting it mildly).

Old doesnt mean useless. Besides, were not made of money, was his curt answer.

You may be shocked to know that the Toyota is still chugging along, and has so far managed not to kill anyone. The last time I saw that deathtrap (four years ago?) much of the paint on its hood, around the bumper and doors had peeled right off, and rust had managed to erode away the rest of it, giving it an antique-y look. Youd think that after some 15 million near-death incidents from heat exhaustion and accidental stunts (like the drivers door opening without warning) and the odd noises, like the hood squealing whenever it went over a bump as though someone was trapped inside, my parents wouldve gotten rid of it.

Yet, my dad has seen fit to outfit it with a new used engine two years back, a deal hed gotten from an old mechanic friend. So now, its a piece of crap that will probably outlive all of us.

Good as new now, my mother had said with some emotion, as though my father had just rescued a family member from the brink of death.

“Besides, we’re not made of money,” she’d added, tilting her head up, defiant and proud that she and my dad had, once again, gotten away with such a good deal when lesser people would’ve balked and surrendered to the temptation of a shiny new car with a shiny new loan to go with it.

It has always been this way with my family. Repair is better than replace. If you can fix it, fix it. Old doesnt mean useless (even if it may kill you). Which is why explaining globalization and present-day economies of scale to my parents, that have made replacing some items, like washing machines or fridges, and sometimes even cars, can be cheaper than repairing them, is next to impossible.

Aiya, I can hear them starting. Americanized daughter asking why parents living in small town Malaysia insist on salvaging piece of crap deathtrap. Young people these days, such excess, such wastage. Tut tut. What do you know about poverty and deprivation, the days when even being able to walk around was a luxury?

A few months ago, my husband and I considered selling our Chevy Uplander for no real reason other than to have a newer car (were a one-car family). We shopped around online for its replacement, hovered between the new Mazda SUV and a Jeep. In the meantime, we sent the Chevy away for the day to be detailed.

When it was returned, we were stunned. There was the ride wed fallen in love with two years ago, shopping for our first American car. Why did we want to replace it in the first place? Status? Impulse? Because its the Microsoft Vanpool van? Who the heck knows?

I dont know if we can ever keep our car for as long as my folks have kept theirs (the stuck around for about 22 years before it finally died a permanent death) but there is something to be said about being good to your possessions so they last long enough to create memories (even if theyre crappy ones), especially in tight times like these. My parents wouldve been proud to know that wed decided to stick with our one-car policy and our old car – if only Id told them about the whole want a new car, need a new car episode. Didnt want to listen to an hour-long lecture on being more frugal especially with gas prices going up and the US dollar going down.

Besides, were not made of money.

Ps. This post is not sponsored by Honda or Toyota and is not a testimony to how long their cars last. My parents are just very careful car owners.

Read more of Jennifer Tais writingat The I’mPerfect Mom. If you have questions, anecdotes, or topics for Tea Leaf Journals, email jenn[at]theimperfectmom[dot]com.

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