“You get a birthday! And you get a birthday! You’re all getting birthdays!”
(I’ve clearly been watching way too much Oprah.)
“But, err, it’s not my birthday” I can hear all but one-in-every-365 of you saying. “I mean, I’ll take the presents and all, but…”
I should explain.
“Where’s the durian?”
I remember, oh so clearly, the moment in which I realised that being in Malaysia did not automatically equate visiting the source a tropical fruit free for all. (I know, this post is titled mango supreme and not durian supreme, but bear with me, it’ll make sense soon). And the cause of this tropical-fruit-dearth? Wet season.
Wet, hot, humid season. High point for shoppers everywhere, as stores make the most of the government allocated “sales season”. Low point for travellers who had high hopes of durian, mangosteen and rambutan.
(You can, of course, buy durian for the obscene price of RM22 per kilo, but it will be of the susu variety and not even half as shiok as you hoped it would be).
Chocolate.
Gooey, melting, velvety chocolate that melts onto your fingers and spreads itself like a warm blanket across your tongue. The remedy for miserable days and gruff receptions. A symbol for indulgence. Darling of dessert makers and bakers worldwide.
Except, perhaps, for this one.
I used to be a singer.
Not the garden-variety “belter of show tunes in the shower” type of singer, and certainly not the “queue for hours to get your face on national telly” kind of singer either.
A semi-decent singer that was sometimes paid to attend community festivals way out west and to sing old pop songs to a dedicated audience of children and a far less dedicated audience of passers-by.
We did covers of 90s pop and rock. When no-one was paying too much attention, we’d do “Mmm-bop” by Hanson and laugh about it afterwards. We did Chirstmas Carols in various parks around Sydney suburbia in the stifling heat.
“Oh my!” said the florist, as I rummaged about in my handbag for my wallet. “Would you look at that rhumbaba!”
“Rhum-what?” said her assistant, placing my carefully-selected-wedding-card in an envelope.
“Rhubarb?” said I, swinging said vegetation around precariously in my hunt.
“Oh. Of course! Rhubarb!” said she, carefully moving objects out of my path. “For some reason I always call it rhumbaba. Like the dance. I’ll have to get some on the way home.”
