cookin the pot

  Bay of Fires On Joo Chait road In Geylang, Scanlan steam boated his days away, claypotted many nights all in trying to become a better cook. This was his first stop on a trip around the world of sorts, stepping outside his familiar cooking environment. Head down, often yelled at for not speaking, what could he say. He did not speak any of the languages and was still surprised that he got hired, for cash as a dishpig. All he wanted was to absorb, take in this day to day grunt work that would make him a better cook. He hoped, as this was why he left the safety of cheffing in Canada. His job here became a mixture of washing dishes, claypotting and steamboating, as he liked to call these two popular ways of cooking. On a day off, wandering around the old colonial buildings of this part of Singapore, he came across a small shop, pumping out a salty fragrance that had pulled him inside. Above the counter a sign in English said “Otah”, all the others were he ...

  FRYING PANS Standing at the stove. The kitchen is lit up, brightness shows my lack of cleaning as dust and dirt highlight the windows as the sun creeps over the south side hills. I'm staring down at the frying pan, a small 7 inch, very blackened pan. I thought `where did you come from`? There are so many, stacked like pancakes or cookbooks. In each pan are stories and recipes, lost only to be imagined as I take a different one out each day. Maybe a dented saute pan that knew of the brilliance of a young cook, starting out. Or, the battered cast iron, the bottomed heat ringed, maybe burnt out like the cook who perhaps, went on to be a well known chef or like most toiled for years at a low end station never to move up as life got in the way. Pans burnished with heat, pitted beyond repair hiding that favourite recipe, that best shift. Each one waiting for a turn at steamed mussels, or a strip steak seared hard and quick. Each pan, a crusted or dented journey...