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This could have been a page on my wish list for life. One of the things that I enjoy doing is cooking. I like mixing ingredients, stirring the pots, tasting and smelling the aromas and the smiles on my friends’ faces when they can finally eat. Part of this stems from my Indonesian heritage, part of this because I like to eat myself.

Then why does it take a sniper-paparazzo to get some decent proof of my expressing myself in the way of this art? Is it the looming of the dishes that await me when I’m finally done? Should we blame the hard-pressed schedule of a person who tries to fit in many more things in their lives than humanly possible? Could it be the drag of going through the motions for someone who could just as easily buy a (kind of) wholesome all-in-one prepared meal from the store? Or can we all contribute this to the feeling of loneliness that is explicitly tangible when cooking a dinner for one?

I guess it’s not really one of these, and especially not some of them. But whatever the reasons may be, tonight I’m going to cook another Indonesian meal for four (that is, if my co-resident will join us, as I’m going to use some sherry in the “ulam”, and he has vowed not to drink any alcohol for a year).

There will be:

  • fried noodles (these will be fun)
  • pointed cabbage soup with santen (coconut) and perhaps some green beans
  • Quorn pieces, marinaded in sweet, spicy sherry sauce and leek rings

Now to find someone who will do the dishes for me…

Update: At least some table-guests liked my food. Nothing was wasted, and I did cook for the extra unexpected visitor (who again didn’t show up this time).