Glutton for punishment

I have these ridiculous, unwritten rules when it comes to my diet. If no-one is watching, it doesn’t count. If it’s stolen off someone else’s plate, it doesn’t count. If it’s a canape, it doesn’t count. And if it’s consumed on a holiday, all bets are off. (Warning: those repulsed by gluttony should stop reading now.) That’s why I kicked off yesterday in Singapore with a hotel buffet – two hash browns, bacon, scrambled eggs, half a waffle from Sprog 1’s plate and fried rice. (It rocked my world the first time I visited Asia and realised I wasn’t the only one who loved fried rice or noodles for brekkie.) I followed it up with lunch in Little India – giant cone-shaped dosai pancakes with curry sauce and bhattura (hollow bread that’s puffed up with hot air like a football) with chickpea curry. I ended the day with dinner at Newton Circus hawker centre’s food stalls – a pile of crispy chicken wings, mutton murtabak and fried carrot cake (a bizarre but delicious savoury dish made with turnips). And still, somehow, I backed up for black pepper fish with noodles on the plane at 2am as we winged our way to Barcelona. Yes, there’s a bit of self-loathing as I reflect on these greasy feasts, but not enough to ensure any self-restraint next time I sit down for a meal. Even deeply average food doesn’t give me pause, I hoover it up regardless. Waste disturbs me. It must be that starving Biafran guilt-trip our parents laid on us all as kids. We couldn’t leave the table until our plates were clean, no doubt because our parents grew up during war-time rationing. My kids? The only plates they leave clean contain ice-cream. I’ve lost count of the meals I’ve made or bought that they’ve taken a bite and rejected. It’s infuriating, but I often left them get away with it (as long as they eat their vegies). If it means their adult relationship with food is about enjoyment rather than guilt about what’s left on their plate, I reckon it’s a win.

LAST NIGHT’S MENU: See above.