Chocolate Cake Through the Seasons

A friend offered me a slice of chocolate cake she had baked today. She'd just found her go-to recipe, she explained - a Nigella Lawson recipe. 

As I nibbled on bites of that cake through the afternoon, memories of loved chocolate cakes paraded through my mind. 

There was Sara Lee chocolate pound cake - buttery and moist. There were Delifrance chocolate muffins - studded with melty chocolate chips, and ensconced in white pleated baking parchment cups - the first chocolate muffins I remember ever eating. 

There was the first go-to chocolate cake recipe, copied out of a kids cookbook. I must have been just 12 when I made the recipe again and again, always finishing it was a dusting of icing sugar, fully convinced that it was the best there was - until, fully courageous, I brought it to a party, only to realise all of a sudden that it missed the mark altogether. I'm not sure what went wrong, or if anything did? Perhaps it was just the after taste of not having impressed as I had wished. 

Then there were the chocolate cakes and brownies of university days. There were Leslie Overton's Underdon Brownies, a recipe lovingly shared by a flatmate during university days, written inside a Christmas card, saved through the years and now very faded. Then there was Marks & Sparks' Chocolate Fudge Cake which marked many-a birthday celebration at small group meetings during university days... One summer, Nigella's Dense Chocolate Loaf Cake from How to be a Domestic Goddess appeared in my kitchen - unforgettable and rich. 

In the young adult years, there were the Sunday Morning Brownies, made time and time again in the constant bid to trade brownies for friendships. There was hot fudge sundae cake. There was a Mrs Field's brownie, gifted by a frolleague, savoured with wonder at the end of a relief-teaching work day on the way home. And there was Lana, a constant, almost taken-for-granted presence in the backyard, before there was Awfully Chocolate. 

Later on there was chocolate beetroot cake which never quite satisfied. There was a chocolate cake recipe from Gourmand Recipes, made for a friend's 2 year old's birthday celebration. Just perhaps, it was the preciousness of that night I had wanted to keep. But the site was closed, and the recipe lost. Along with that, surely there were so many forgotten recipes - a layered banana and chocolate number with two kinds of frosting made for my FIL's birthday one year, the chocolate cupcakes frosted with blue icing and decorated with bluebirds in nests made for a friend's baby shower, and perhaps others that remain truly forgotten. 

 Keiji's 2nd Birthday Cake 

Bluebird Cupcakes for Bindu's Baby Shower 

Not-quite-molten Chocolate Cakes - still to be perfected 

 Chocolate Mousse Cake for the always-appreciative sweet toothed FIL

Aunty Chris's Chocolate Muffins - Ten years and going strong

In some way, those are all cakes of the past - all symbolic of the friendships of the past. Now, though, there is Smitten Kitchen's Everyday Chocolate Cake, Aunty Chris's chocolate muffins, and Serene's brownies - and the option of buying instead of baking one - there's still Lana, Awfully Chocolate, Classic Cakes, and Four Leaves' Coco Exotique - and so many other options besides. 

They were each treasured, went-to, savoured, and kept, whether or not they came with a recipe. But yet, they were all transitory in some way. Some cakes were eaten, recalled fondly, but seldom encountered again. And why did I, through the years, keep on searching for yet another better chocolate cake recipe? 

Chocolate cakes are trifles - and my mind accepts their transient nature well. I have never mourned the passing of a cake. 

Yet, I cling to the passing seasons. A feast of options before me, still unsatiated, I reminisce old recipes and try to recreate them with ingredients meant for another time. I have moved on, and yet, I hold back. How foolish, for surely this is a very different season from whatever I had ever encountered. And in time to come, even these recipes will give way to others. This season shall pass, these relationships will change, and it will be time for a chocolate cake recipe of another kind. Embrace it, I must. For what surprises may I find, from the chocolate cakes that await? 

Of Lizards and Seeds, and Naps

Expecting a few extra moments with Gracia, this being a Sunday, I found myself searching through my list of Pinterest and Instagram saves for toddler activities I could prepare for at 6.30am in the morning. 

In the end, how interesting it was that none of my fretful planning was needed. Before breakfast, we ended up on the sofa. Gracia asked for Eric Carle's A Foolish Tortoise so that's what we read, complete with dramatisation by whichever soft toy friends happened to be around! Then it was A Tiny Seed, with impromptu 'props' - nine shiny saga seeds which would all meet with incidents along the way preventing them from eventually taking root and germinating, and of course, one tiny green bean seed. Gracia got too excited about the seeds, and eventually a sharp admonishment about putting the seeds into her or my mouth sent her bursting into tears. End of read aloud. After breakfast, we practiced stamping using a single monarch butterfly stamp. 

All the way home from church and right until we entered the door, we sang It's a Great Thing to Praise the Lord because we sang it in Sunday School, and made it extra fun and theological by adding in our own variations in the chorus. Our favourite was this Nap, nap, nap, nap in the light... Then before afternoon nap, Gracia asked for Loved - which was an unusual but oddly coincidental choice, as we had just read the chapter on the Lord's Prayer that morning from The Jesus Storybook Bible. It was then that I realised that the words used by Sally Lloyd Jones in Loved were the exact words used there! 

After her afternoon nap, I had planned that we could paint the giant tree from A Tiny Seed, but instead, as Tim was setting up the air purifier, that became Gracia's post-nap activity - watching the set-up. She was fascinated by how the air blew our faces and hair when we went closet, so on the spur of the moment again, I went and got multi-coloured ribbons and taped them to the vents so we could watch them fly. I saw a feather lying around so brought that out too. How much fun she had with the feather! She loved watching it sometimes float up high after being caught on the wind, and of course trying to let it land on her hand. So I went to bring out more feathers. And somehow, the next feather became a lizard in her imagination and so we played catching lizards with more multi-coloured feathers. We even got a makeshift "dustbin" in which to throw the caught lizards... It was more fun than anything I could have planned. 

Don't I have much to learn about taking my sabbath rest?

Stop

I think it was just before Gracia turned 2 when this happened. She came down with a high fever, and was not her usual self. I tried to cheer my little bunny up by singing one of her favourite songs, one which has never been met with anything less than bouncy enthusiasm. But instead of breaking into a smile, Gracia put up a hand, like a traffic policeman, and said stop. I tried a different song, but still it was not welcomed. I thought it interesting that she had not instead simply turned away, or ignored me. Had she done so, though, I'm quite sure I would have been a lot slower in understanding her cues. She would probably have had to endure through unwanted song after unwanted song.

It was an unexpected lesson for me, from a toddler, no less, of the need for a time to be silent. During that bout of illness, Gracia had probably appreciated my silent presence more than my silly songs - that was enough for her. And, it would probably what was needful for me too. After all, caring for a sick toddler is exhausting. Sitting and doing nothing would have given me a few extra moments of much-needed rest.

Now, she uses stop to cue me into exact stanzas of songs to sing.  She would point to whichever line she would like me to sing*, and say stop quite quickly if it were not the line or tune she was searching for, and promptly point to the next possible line. Usually, this happens when she is in the process of searching for a particularly catchy part of the song she likes, and wishes to listen to.

Stopping is often the most-needed thing. But I seem to be constantly needing or wanting to do that next thing - whether it be more housework, putting together yet another home-cooked meal, preparing more not-yet age-appropriate home learning activities, or even chasing after and capturing thoughts which nip at my line, only to leave, all too quickly. I ferret and fret, scamper and hardly stop - till I am stopped by sheer mental or physical exhaustion.

When Gracia says stop, I always do. How could I not, when it is said with such definiteness, and accompanied with that outstretched traffic policeman arm?

So let me be led by the intuitive wisdom of my child. Let me stop, long enough to rest - so that I will be able to love and serve from that place of rest; long enough to notice - to allow the precious moments to be written in the notebook of my inner being; long enough to listen - for the questions and wonderings of a curious little explorer - not to provide answers but to better understand; long enough to listen for His direction and re-direction on how exactly I should be spending these breath-long, fleeting days.

This makes me feel like one of those ipens that struggling readers use to help them read aloud unfamiliar words.

Amen

It would be no surprise if, to Gracia, even in her infant years, language  was punctuated with Amens. Prayers said before dinner end with Amen. Prayers said whenever we hear the cries of other babies always end with Amen. The pre-bedtime crafted prayers from the LullaBible all end with Amen. In church, Amen punctuates the worship liturgy. Then there is the long melodious Amen at the end of John Rutter's The Lord Bless You and Keep You, Gracia's bedtime song (until it got recently replaced by Jesus Loves Me). I reasoned that although babies are not yet able to articulate their own prayers (in language understandable to me, at least), they could at least agree in prayer (and who knows what's invisibly happening in their spirit?). In those early days, I was certainly not expecting Gracia to understand what she was saying. But I knew that it would not be long before she would.

Then one evening, I heard the first Ammm. Before long, it was Amah, then Amahm, then Amahn, and now Amen. Those earlier days, I remember how Gracia loved to practice her new-found skill and understanding that Ammm / Amahm was something to be said at the end of sentences uttered with clasped hands, eyes closed, which began with Dear Jesus and come after In Jesus' name. Her enthusiasm actually motivated me to pray. I had found in my one+ year old a prayer partner! 

Our pre-dinner prayers were simple and repetitive, and functioned well as a prayer frame for my little language-learner. They went something along these lines:

Dear Jesus, thank you for this food. Please help Gracia eat it well. Please bring Papa back home safely. In Jesus name, Amen. 

Gracia has always been a very curious listener, attending to all the interesting sounds we hear in our HDB estate. Often, we would hear babies crying. She would look at me intently with her big eyes, questioning. I remember trying to explain the plausible situation to her - Oh, baby is crying maybe because baby is hungry, or baby fell down, and is pain pain, or baby needs to change diaper. Let's pray for baby. 

Dear Jesus, please help baby not be pain pain, and stop crying. In Jesus name, Amen. 

We'd also pray over each bump or scratch Gracia had along the way - no matter how minor. We'd pray whenever Papa or Mama coughed. Basically, whenever anything was amiss with people.

Sometime along the way, she started to say pray. She began to understand prayer as a response to any situation where something is not quite right, and would ask me to pray:

Pray baby not pain pain. Pray mama ahhuhuhuhuh (coughing sound). 

Then there is Uncle Dan. Uncle Dan is our next-door neighbour, to whom Gracia has taken a fancy (quite from the time she was first introduced to him). Or rather, she has taken a fancy to his name. I can't quite remember how it started, but my little prayer partner constantly asks to pray for him. He isn't a Christian, so I take that as an opportunity to pray for his family's salvation each time.

Closer to two, she started voicing prayers of her own. There was the time when we were cooking a salted egg and minced pork dish for dinner, and cracked open rotten egg upon rotten egg. After two rotten eggs, we prayed that God would give us an egg that hadn't turned bad. I remember Gracia clasping her hands just as I was going to crack open the last egg, and pray one of her first Dear Jesus prayers. Well, all the eggs were bad. And so we went downstairs to the provision shop to buy one, and that was how God answered one of the first prayers of an almost two year old. With a no, but. Well, how about that? A response questioned to no end by overthinking adults, accepted as a matter of fact by a child.

Then there were all the seemingly random jibber jabber ramblings along the way. I remember her starting a prayer with Dear Jesus, just while chattering at the dining table during dinners, with hands clasped and eyes closed, and a little smile, followed by a few sentences indecipherable mumblings, followed by opening her eyes, with a decisive Amen. That must surely be how my prayers sound like to her sometimes!

 Now, at 25 months, thank you Jesus has entered her speaking vocabulary. I've heard her say thank you Jesus when Papa enters through the door halfway through dinner, after we prayed that he'd be back soon a moment ago. 

Now, Amen is not just her response to my uttered prayers. Soon, may it be mine, in response to hers. 

With Open Hands

Lunch today was all about laying down expectations, and receiving the unexpected. I have found myself too often saying no to so many opportunities to connect with people, through workday lunches, through social media. Head full of suspicion regarding others' intentions at getting close, or genuine interest in getting to know me, I have found myself more and more alone. It is as though I would rather have no friends, if not perfect-match ones.

Today, though, I said yes, remembering that I had promised. I chose to connect over a meal with non kindred spirits. Yes, I would not be sharing my deeper thoughts, I would need to behave properly. It was not likely conversation would turn to my favourite subjects. I would have to listen to others. I would feel awkward, because I'm not a great small-talker. And I was right about all of it.

Still, there will come a time when I will look back upon this day, and cherish it, simply for what it is. I shall remember that when I stubbornly grasp my preconceived notions and expectations in relationships, my hands are unable to receive the many precious, simple gifts that come with everyday relationships.

Today, the gifts were simple, but so, so needed. There was glorious Thai food - with layers upon layers of flavours and just the right amount of spice. There was a mellow cup of matcha latte, bitterness and sweetness calibrated to perfection. There was even an art exhibition we stumbled upon - with a message so clear it was not possible to miss. But most of all, there was a growing sense of acceptance of these colleagues as my friends - just as they are.

Thank you, J & C, for reminding me, without words at all, of what friendships could be - simple, free, and open.

Holding onto God's promises in the area of relationships

What a perfect reminder of what God values - community

Still Life in Gratitude

This may seem like a rather ordinary dish of ngoh hiong, but for me, it was notable enough to deserve a picture. It was primarily because of the sliced cucumbers encircling the pile of golden morsels of meat, accompanied by prawns, mushrooms, and crunchy bits of water chestnut. Being a full time working mum to a two-year old, who still insists on cooking almost every meal, embellishments such as cucumber garlands are simply not a priority.

The ngoh hiong - tasted again now by the heart 

And I'm so glad I did capture that quite ordinary gift, before it was digested and forgotten all about, for as I now see, it was really quite extraordinary. 

Wrapped up in beancurd skin, there was so much to be thankful for. 

My Mum

It was she who prepared these ngoh hiong meat rolls, steamed them, and brought them over one day during a week of solo-parenting. She knew that I would surely not have bothered to cook for one (adult). But she also didn't anticipate that I would have saved them when the husband returned, and I would have to cook! 

My Grandmother

It would have been her recipe - or an impression of it, which my mum used. She's no longer with us, but it is a wonder that we continue to be blessed by what she used to cook.

My Niece 

The meat rolls, themselves, were an extra portion from a birthday gathering for my niece the day before. Thus, she, too, had a role to play in how they came to be! Ngoh hiong are among my all time favourites, so I am thankful I got to enjoy them twice in a week. 

My Husband

Those ngoh hiong were gifted to me steamed, fully cooked, and edible, though not exactly how they would be most delicious. All who are familiar with this dish would know that they must be pan-fried to perfection - golden brown and crisp. All who are familiar with cooking this dish would know that this often proves to be no easy endeavour! This is especially when there is no non-stick frying pan in the house. That evening, as I gave my full attention to each little detail required for perfectish ngoh hiong, in the background I could hear the lively chittering of a little voice responding to her father's animated read aloud. That's something to be thankful for. He was just home from a few days away on a mission trip, and it was our first home-cooked meal together since then. That ring of cucumbers - it was my attempt to be celebratory! 

So here it is, my little study in gratitude - surely a gift in its own right! These simple, common graces are so much sweeter when they are noticed. In noticing, gratitude is deepened. And so it goes on an on. "Thank you" becomes so much more than merely a matter of manners. 

Five Loaves

A basketful of empty notecards in celebration of Good Neighbours' Day sat invitingly in church one Sunday. We happened to be sitting beside this basket for church lunch; so conveniently I picked a few, naming them as I went: This is for Uncle Dan, this is for Uncle Alvin, this is for Aunty so and so, and so on. It would be nice to send these along with a little gift. My little accountability partner heard it all.

Our five loaves... and one extra! 

And so we did. Cookies were not meant to be, as white chocolate and cranberries were missing. There were overripe bananas, perfect for baking, so mini banana loaves it was. With a second pair of little helping hands, we measured, poured and stirred and ate spoonfuls of mashed bananas and chocolate chips along the way. 

We did the first round of door-knocking on a Saturday evening - only one family was home. Sunday was a busy day for us, and it would have been challenging to go door-knocking, but this time, it was God who divinely arranged for us to run into three other families while we were going out or returning. With one family, we felt the ice break - I've always wanted to get to know them better, but it was not until last night that we chatted a little more at their door step. What an encouragement this was to me! 

I hadn't had the presence of mind to reason and figure that a recipe for a single loaf of banana bread wouldn't be able to feed five families adequately. But mini-loaves are the perfect size for gifting by little hands! And how eager these hands were. When I suggested that it could be time for the gifting of gifts, two eager feet pitter-pattered straight to the door, and two little hands were quick to put on her shoes. There was no shyness, no reserve in my little two year old, only childlike confident expectation that her gift would be received. She knocked on doors and waited, then offered her little packages as though it were the simplest thing in the world. 

And it should be. Thank you, little bunny, for setting the example and leading the way. You've shown me that giving can be approached with boldness and simplicity, without expectation. As for shyness and fear of rejection, what are they? 

And so, bake on, we shall, my bunny and I!

Banana and Dark Chocolate Mini-Loaves
Adapted from Jessica Fisher's Not Your Mother's Make-Ahead and Freeze Cookbook
Makes 6 mini loaves

Ingredients
2/3 cup golden granulated sugar
2/3 cup extra virgin olive oil*
2 eggs
1/4 cup full-cream milk
1 tsp baking soda
1 cup very-ripe bananas, mashed
2/3 cup plain flour
2/3 cup whole-wheat flour
1/3 cup rolled oats
1 tsp vanilla extract
1/2 cup dark chocolate chips

Method
Simply measure out all ingredients into a large mixing bowl, and stir all together. Pour into 6 mini-loaf parchment cases. Bake in a preheated oven for 30 min, at 180 degrees celsius.

Note:
Little hands love pouring ingredients as they are measured into the mixing bowl, and stirring after each addition! I think coconut oil would be a lovely substitution. Note to self to try that next. The original recipe is for a single family-sized loaf - if so, bake for about 60 minutes.

About Me

"Tackle the most challenging task first." Often, this is the advice given to those of us immobilised by procrastination or overwhelm. So, here goes. 

My internal landscape seems to me a constant whirl of words and thought, surging to be let out, but always suppressed, swallowed as though it would erupt as an indecorous burp in the middle of a formal dinner. I'll be honest and admit that I've felt much discomfort from trying to keep in the reflux. 

No more of this. I'll write if I have to. 

What has kept me from writing?  I have no reservations writing anonymously, but there is also little impetus for doing so. Perhaps as a kind of exercise or practice it may be worth something, but there is also something inauthentic about writing behind a mask. There is the secret desire that someone out there would find my words worth reading. There is, at the same time, the safeguard - if no one reads this, nothing is lost. But, neither is anything gained. Writing needs an audience, and what is it without one?

I think it is time that I wrote as me, to an imagined audience of family, friends, co-workers, acquaintances, both present and future. Pride manifesting itself as self-consciousness prevents me from doing so. It strikes fear in the heart - mainly fear that baring my thoughts (and heart) so openly before others would mean I am judged. This is fuelled by some illusion that I could otherwise be untouched by man's opinion. But the truth is that no one is safe from the judgements of others. Attempting to keep myself safe from the judgement of others has only meant greater isolation - I am somewhat kept from man's opinion, but I have also given up chance to possibly connect in a greater manner with others. 

What if, through my words, others are come to know me in greater measure? What if our friendship is deepened by openness, authenticity and a greater measure of freedom? What if future friends are drawn to connect with me by what I write?

If not, nothing is lost, but the burden of words I bear.

And so, welcome, friends and future friends. It is to you I am writing - as honestly as I can. 

A Single Step

There was a week-long struggle. I had been nominated for a role, which would require me to contribute in a more significant manner at work. I felt apprehensive about my own ability, uncertain this was the right thing for me, unsure that I was ready. I considered telling my bosses my feelings upfront. I almost decided that I should tell the interview panel straight off that I didn't feel ready. But, I just didn't feel at peace about doing so.

There was uneasiness, yet accompanied by the undeniable conviction that the act of going for the nomination interview, instead of closing that door, would be a step of faith - a step ordered by God. I didn't want to do it, and procrastinated about preparing for as long as I could. Still, I did it. 

I went for the interview, having prepared all I could, and didn't breathe a word at all about being less than ready, far from adequate. There was some turmoil. 

Had it gone well, I might never have had thought it needful to write. No, it went awkwardly. There were questions I could not answer, and many encouraging smiles from the kind interviewers in their attempt to eke out a lengthier, more well-informed response from me, all to little avail. It went embarrassingly. The impulse to call it quits was quick to hit, the moment I left the interview room. The felt need for a career contingency plan presented itself readily.

And yet, a mere hour or so later, peace arrived. The uneasiness, embarrassment, apprehension were all gone. The joy found in doing each waiting task returned. There was a newfound commitment to develop myself professionally. The self-doubt departed, being dismissed as irrelevant. This quiet assurance came - that it is possible to keep on walking this path. This is not assurance that promises a known destination: the destination envisioned by the organisation, my bosses, my peers, society at large, or even myself. All that is known is the voice which has called me to keep on keeping on - taking each step ordered by Him alone. 

Remembering, tonight, that this was how it all started. That first step. That lack of certainty of a destination. This was enough. It still is. 

"Take your time... Walk as far as you like and then return."

"And your ears shall hear a word behind you, saying, "This is the way, walk in it," when you turn to the right or when you turn to the left."  Isaiah 30:21 (ESV)

"The steps of a good man are ordered by the Lord: and He delighteth in his way." Psalm 37:23 (KJV) 

"By faith Abraham, when called to go to a place he would later receive as his inheritance, obeyed and went, even though he did not know where he was going." Hebrews 11:8 (NIV)

Reservations are now being accepted

Day after day, I have left the pages of this blog virtually blank. Can't I even find something to say?

It is a mixture of doubt, confused purposes, poor organization and conflicting priorities that has led to its neglect. Unlike an overgrown garden, however, this feels more like a boarded-up beach house, which calls out daily for summer and guests, guests, guests. This blog wants to be lived in. 

Re-reading my favourite blogs recently, I found myself wondering why I am so often drawn to them, whilst others make their way into my blogroll, but are not often more than glanced upon. 

Of course, there is that connection and resonance with my values, likes, style, concerns. But there is also these : authenticity and lifelikeness. I find myself reading and re-reading, anticipating blog entries when what I read makes me feel This is real! Things are told as they are. I like especially to read about days as they are, moments captured and somehow conveyed to me the reader intact such that they arrive almost untarnished (but can they ever be?). 

And, I've come to realize, that although blogs with recipes (not food blogs per se!) occupy a large part of my blogroll, I favour those which share recipes which were part of a real meal, intended to feed real people, not so much cooked so that they could primarily feed blogrolls. 

I love reading blogs which are full of the miscellany of life. If I wanted Perfect Pictures of Airbrushed Cakes, I'd read a cookbook (I love doing that, by the way). If I was on a quest for the Best Croissant Recipe, I may trust one that's on a blog, but I would be reading the blog not as a blog-genre blog, but as an informational test-genre blog, which is a strange thing that I am convinced actually exists nowadays. 

But if it is a blog I am reading, I'd love it to contain bits of this, and bits of that, which remind me of all the bits of this and that in my own life that would usually belong to the realm of triviality, and thus the Realm of the Unnoticed and Unimportant, and even the Unseen.

Why is triviality so attractive, I often wonder? Perhaps it is that life cannot be lived without trivialities. Perhaps it is a fight against labeling some things as important and everything else as not. What's worth words, and what's not? 

I don't really know, honestly. And perhaps, that not-knowing is precisely what's kept this little beach house so tightly boarded up, all these months. 

It's time to unscrew those boards. Boldly. Welcome in, reader. 

A Teeny Tiny Taster

Empathy. It can be so very elusive.

Sometimes, wanting something so badly has a way of being a huge hindrance to empathizing with someone who has that something.

At some point along this continuum of longing to have a child, I found myself seemingly losing the ability to empathize. It was hard to empathize with the privileges accorded to mummies everywhere, because what about us who are not mummies? It was hard to empathize with world-revolving-around-my-kids kind of worldview, because I felt left out of many conversations and felt comparably empty. It was hard to empathize when any mummy had anything to complain about regarding parenting, because isn't it the greatest privilege in the world in itself, which makes all things bearable? At the worst moment, it was just hard to empathize because that seemingly means admitting to not having something I know deep down can be one of the greatest joys. Since not having brings pain, there is that reflex action of doing all I can, including not empathizing, in order to avoid that pain.

I'm so thankful that along came someone, to change all this.

Enter Tikki the dog, who we had the privilege of dog-sitting for a very short two weeks.

With Tikki, I got a teeny tiny taster of what being a parent may, in some very remote way, feel like.

• It may feel like how it felt when we set the alarm clock a half hour earlier than usual just to walk Tikki and prepare his breakfast 
• It may feel like how it felt when we always made sure Tikki ate his meals before ours (and finished them).
• It may feel like how it felt when we had to check Tikki's poop every time to make sure he's healthy.
• It may feel like how it felt when I made it a point to vary his meals, and avoid giving him the same warm salad for consecutive meals.
• It may feel like how it felt when I got creative making Tikki all sorts of warm salads revolving mainly around Kibbles and Rice. 
• It may feel like how it felt when we planned our weekend activities around Tikki. 
• It may feel like how it felt when I snapped photo after photo away at every opportunity.
• It may feel like how it felt when the floor is covered with a layer of Golden Retriever Fur, and when I step into saliva puddles every four steps.
• It may feel like how it felt when every other night I would get woken up by some noise Tikki was making.
• It may feel like how it felt when I had to say no to Friday night shopping on Orchard Road because Tikki would need his walk and dinner. 
• It may feel like how it felt to have Tikki always so needful of our company, and wanting to stay close all the time. 
• It may feel like how it felt when I had to keep a straight face and strict tone when disciplining Tikki, like when he tries to lick out-of-bounds-other-dogs'-poo-spots during his walks.
• It may feel like how it felt like when all day at work I knew someone was waiting longingly for me to return from work
• It may feel like how it felt like when our return home was greeted without fail with excited tail-wagging, prancing around, and big smiles all around.

Tikki may be leaving us tomorrow, but I don't want this aftertaste to ever leave my senses.

BFF Focaccia

I thought I'd share my focaccia recipe, since that was what I made last weekend, and what we just ate for breakfast this morning. The first focaccia I ever made was using a breadmaker, following the recipe in the recipe booklet that came with the machine. It turned out well enough for me to fall in love with focaccia as a type of bread, so when I came across this focaccia recipe in The Best of Betterbaking.com, I had to try it.

This has been my go-to focaccia recipe since. First, it was just roasted garlic and rosemary. Then, a friend made focaccia and gave me a thick slab, stuffed full of sundried tomatoes, olives, caramelized onions and slatherings of olive oil. So a jar of sundried tomatoes and a jar of olives came to lodge (permanently) in my fridge, because who knows when you'll want to have foccacia? 

Loaves and loaves later, after artisanal bakeries and trendy cafes started blooming all over Singapore, I began encountering loaves of focaccia other than the ones which emerge from my oven. Wow, fancy focaccias with exotic toppings! For a moment, I felt silly - to have loaf in, loaf out, put together the very same focaccia time and time again. I suddenly felt like a Super Boring Person. I mean, why didn't I even think to try a different kind of focaccia? 

In response, I googled "authentic focaccia", and made a mental note that a friend had done focaccia with biga, and that since that sounds Italian, I should give it a go. Especially with my recent (re)discovery of the wonders of preferment. One sunny morning, figs were in season and therefore on sale and said hello to me during grocery shopping. And so a loaf of fresh fig focaccia transpired the next day. There was even the time I ventured so far as to bake a loaf of grape schiacciata. 

They were alright... but not as good as that focaccia, chewy, crusted with semolina and studded with savoury bits of sundried tomatoes and olives I'd come to love. Who says fancy is best? We all know what they say about that seasoned pair of jeans we've worn for the past ten years... and which we still regard as our favourite pair. That's how it is with this recipe - my favourite focaccia. Best friends forever!

Focaccia with Olives and Sundried Tomatoes
Adapted from The Best of Betterbaking.com
Ingredients:
1 cup lukewarm water (should be slightly warm to the touch)
2 tsp instant yeast
1 tbsp honey
1 1/4 tsp salt
2 tbsp extra virgin olive oil
2 tbsp semolina
1 tbsp italian herbs (dried)
1 cup all purpose flour
1 1/2 cups bread flour
Olive oil, for drizzling
Semolina, for dusting
50 g sundried tomatoes, diced
50 g pitted green olives, diced
6-8 large cloves of garlic, roasted in their skins, diced
Salt and pepper

Hand-whisk the yeast and water in the bowl wherein you will be kneading the dough, and let it stand for 2 minutes.

Add the honey, salt, olive oil, semolina, herbs, and flours. Mix, then knead to form a soft elastic dough (I use my trusty KitchenAid. This forms a soft-ish dough, so it's hard to obtain the windowpane texture, especially with the presence of all-purpose flour with its lower gluten content, but don't worry. You'll know the dough is ready when it feels like your earlobe when a bit of it is pinched between your floured thumb and index finger. Mix in the tomatoes, olives, and garlic.

Once the dough is ready, leave it in a large, lightly oiled mixing bowl for 45 min, until almost doubled.

Next, give the dough a good punch-down. Simply punch out all the gas. Let it rest for a further 15 min. Preheat your oven to 200 degrees celcius. Prepare the baking sheet or pan you would be using by dusting generously with semolina.

Tip the dough out onto a lightly oiled worktop, and shape it however you please. Generally, this involves pressing the dough out to about a 1 inch thickness into your desired shape.

I like my focaccia as a single ovalish, rustic-looking loaf, but you might like to use a rectagular/square pan instead, so you can end up with focaccia squares instead of 4 odd-shaped pieces...

Finally, dimple the dough with your finger all over, and drizzle extra virgin olive oil generously all over, letting olive oil pool in the indentations. Season with salt and freshly-ground black pepper.

Bake for about 15 min (this is for a single loaf of focaccia. If you're having two smaller loaves, you'd probably need to check after 12 min).

Let cool on a cooling rack before cutting. Enjoy the oliv-ey goodness waft through your house and pretend you're in Tuscany...

Banana Nut Bread

My dad-in-law absolutely loves bananas. And he's also absolutely sweet when it comes to obliging his only daughter-in-law. All I did was ask for three bananas (I needed them for a smoothie but didn't have any), and he gave me a whole hand of them. That's the inspiration for this bread. I needed to use up the bananas fast!

Or maybe, I didn't. I could just have waited till they were mostly black and ready to be made into banana nut cake, or banana crunch muffins, or chunked and frozen, ready for the next smoothie.

But I was going to bake a loaf of bread, not the quickbread version of banana nut bread, with butter, and tasting more like cake. It was for breakfast, which meant that it had to aim to be more reminiscent of wholesomeness, rather than indulgent pampering. Of course, I do understand that some mornings, what we do need is indeed indulgent pampering. Never mind, we'll save that for another day.

And so, here is my yeasted version of banana nut bread, specifically: honey wheatgerm banana bread with pecans and dates. Ever since my discovery of preferment, I've more or less given up the straight dough method, as breads made with preferments are just so much better - unless you're eating freshly made bread within a couple of hours of its exit from the oven. Not a luxury I currently have! But bread baking with preferment is a luxury to me, too, due to the sheer amount of time the whole process takes. So I have been relying on the next best alternative : a water-roux, or tangzhong starter. Texture and softness wise, it's not bad.

Just out of the oven. Love the poof! 

Banana Nut Bread (Adapted from Christine's Recipes)

For the dough:
310 g bread flour
40 g toasted wheatgerm
5-6 g (2 tsp) yeast
1 tsp salt
3 tbsp + 2 tsp honey
120 g tangzhong (Directions on how to make this are available at Christine's site)
125 ml milk
1 egg (You'll also need a little more beaten egg for egg wash)
30 g butter, cut into small cubes

For the filling: 
A handful of chopped pecan nuts
2 just-ripe bananas, cut into small chunks
A handful of dates, diced

Knead : Place the dry ingredients in the bowl of your freestanding mixer, and make a well in the centre. Add everything else into the well, except the butter. Knead for 5 min until a smooth dough is formed. Add the butter and keep on kneading till all the butter is incorporated. Keep on kneading till the windowpane texture is achieved. Throw in the chopped pecans, and mix briefly.

First proof : Form the dough into a ball and place it in an oiled, large mixing bowl. Cover with a damp tea towel and let it proof for 40 min in a warm place. It should double in size.

Punch down and rest: After 40 min, punch the air out of the dough and shape it into four even balls. Leave to rest for 10 min.

Shape : Roll each ball out into an oval, and sprinkle the banana chunks and dates on. Roll up tightly, and place in a loaf tin. Repeat for the other three balls.

Final proof : Leave to proof for a final 40 min, with the tea towel draped over. Preheat the oven to 190 degrees celsius. Just before placing into the oven, brush the top of the loaf with beaten egg.

Bake : Bake for 30-40 min, checking if it is done after 30 min. Do also check the colour of the crust; I found that mine was bronze enough just after 10 min, and I had to place a sheet of aluminum foil over it as a result to prevent further darkening of the crust. When the loaf has a shiny bronzed color, and sounds hollow when rapped on the bottom of the tin, it's done.

 A pre-slicing pic

Stuffed and swirled with chunky, oozy banana date goodness!

Just so you know, patient reader

It is so much easier to dream, than to do. Each day, almost every waking hour, my mind is inspired by ideas and more ideas - more than I could ever keep track of, especially since keeping track has never been my forte. Ever since that last post two weeks ago, determined to revive this little blog, I seem to have been thinking in terms of posts - and there have been many, ranging from the latest kitchen tips and tricks, to a growing pile of children's books to introduce, to more serious musings from recent life lessons. 

At first, it was fun, but now that the adrenaline has worn off, and the pressure of some impending real-life deadlines draw near, I just feel like I'm now left with a pile of rubble. To honest truth is, I have just not been able to find the time to write posts, when I did have things to say (no matter how frivolous they seemed). Hours are spent at work, keeping house or cleaning, spending time with loved ones, attending dance classes, grocery shopping, eating, or reading. Taking time out to write amidst all that, almost feels like a waste - like I am forgoing real life for something insubstantial. Time spent writing = less time available for real life. What's worse, some of the ideas about which I had wanted to write have become so over-rehearsed in my mind, that they feel like a loaf of stale bread, no longer fit for eating. 

So here I am, writing this, instead of a post about the adventures with baking chocolate marbled bread and marble butter cake, instead of sharing with you my thoughts after Sunday service last week, instead of uploading blow by blow pictures of how we pruned our basil plant yesterday and ended up making and giving away jars of delicious pesto. 

It might have been easier to keep radio silence - after all, hasn't that been more the norm than the exception since the unannounced appearance of the first post? Yet somehow, I feel a sense of unexplainable accountability to my most-likely non-existent readers. 

Wasn't that a really beating-round-the-bush way of saying "I'm lagging!" or "I'm on a hiatus!"? Yet, truth be told that neither of those truly describes what's happening here. 

'Cos I'm still writing, just more slowly than I'd like. And I'm not lagging, just having trouble deciding on what to write about, and what's worth writing about.

As is the case for growing Kaffir Lime leaves. No amount of rushing will do.

Nor the sliced fish soup!

First,  a recap. This blog was started after Tim packed me a box of handmade onigiri, stuffed full with pork floss and love for lunch one day in graduate school. These were the onigiri which have been receiving ill-deserved credit since then of being the reason for this blog. Well, they had a part to play, to give credit where credit is due. But only in part. 

It was really the desire to do a little more deliberate noticing, and the realization that I really should not be waiting for the perfectly authored book before doing a little bit of writing. To be honest, the silence here had largely stemmed from bouts of blogger's block, and those sneaky thoughts that I had nothing much worth writing about. What's worse, there was the stupendous lie that my life was just not worth writing about compared to others' tales of parenting, travels, and etc. 

Until today, and a meal of very bleah sliced fish soup I cooked for lunch. For some reason the ingredients for a rich, savory broth eluded me, and the commonsense kitchen wisdom which usually guides me as I navigate fridge shelves and pots and pans took to the wind. So right after lunch, I settled down on the soft with my iPad to do a little research - on recipes for sliced fish soup. 

Whether or not I found the perfect sliced fish soup recipe is beside the point; but I did stumble upon a blog of a friend, L, who I didn't know had a blog! (She had posted a recipe on her blog for "Best Fish Head Bee Hoon", how could I ignore that?) Reading her posts, I felt resonance, because in her writing, the seemingly ordinary bits of her life were at once transformed and instead shown as precious gifts received by a grateful heart: serendipitously, exactly what I had envisioned for this blog too. And so here I am! 

Funny, that pot of bland sliced fish soup! I had been very annoyed about it, but feel nothing but thankfulness now!

The majesty of their potential

School-dependent students are... like swans born out of and never put into the water. They exist denied the element conducive to their learning, the element in which they belong. They spend their school years thinking that the awkward, unskilled existence they experience on the unsupportive terrain of the classroom is just what they were born to - the way it's supposed to be. They never learn to swim because they have been deprived of their element and have had no models... Not only do these swans/students not know how to swim, but a ceiling is placed above them that inhibits them from learning to fly as well. If they ever get the chance to see the water, the element that would be conducive to their learning, they experience a sense of instinctive familiarity. When this happens, many of them wait for the teacher who will glide confidently toward them, inviting them into that element that could support their learning. Sadly, sometimes even with an invitation, many of these students will not enter the element because even though they are instinctively drawn to the water, they have never learned to swim. Out of fear they hold back, because they feel more comfortable ambling awkwardly and unskillfully on the unsupportive terrain, never experiencing the majesty of their potential... These students adapt to the learned "futility" - eternally waiting to excel. But if just one teacher persists in extending to these individuals an invitation into the element in which they belong, and if that teacher confidently models the majestic movement that can happen within that element, the students may find themselves building the courage to step in. 

Yvette Jackson, The Pedagogy of Confidence, p. 168

Wider and wider

source

The rich may get richer, but let this not be at the expense of the poor.

"... the provision of 'maximum opportunities or self-fulfillment' in gifted programs is what nurtures the traits that generate the demonstration of strengths of 'giftedness'. In other words, gifted behavior or high intellectual performance is developed when strategies and opportunities are provided that bridge learning to interests and abilities, elicit gifted behaviors and habits of mind, expose students to content that builds their frames of reference and engages exploration, support development of the requisite skills to strengthen cognition and enable self directed learning, and provide opportunities for the application of learning in authentic and meaningful ways...  What happens when these are the goals for all students?" - Yvette Jackson, The Pedagogy of Confidence (p. 25) (italics mine)

Believe, and be satisfied

I was having a conversation with a dear friend on relationships today. As many of us often do, we contemplated the question of "how will we know we are ready?" At some point, it was brought to mind a handwritten note of encouragement given to me by a precious friend during my secondary school days, M. I remember reading the note over and over again. I could not have known then how much I would have needed to hear its message again and again in the years to come, for these words to take root deep in my spirit. I may be married now, but this is a message I nonetheless need to keep on hearing, again and again - to cherish my relationship with the Lover of my Soul above all else. 

Everyone longs to give themselves completely to someone. To have a deep soul relationship with another, to be loved thoroughly and exclusively. But God says: 

"No, not until you're satisfied and fulfilled and content with the life I've blessed you with, loved by Me alone. Not until you have learnt to give yourself totally and unreservedly to Me, to have an intensely personal and unique relationship with Me alone.

"I love you, My child, and until you discover that only in Me is your satisfaction to be found, you will not be capable of the perfect human relationship that I have planned for you. You will never be truly united with another until you are united with Me -- exclusive of anyone or anything else, exclusive of any other desires or longings.

"I want you to stop planning, stop wishing, and allow Me to bring it to you. You just keep watching Me, expecting the greatest things. Keep learning and listening to the things I tell you. You must wait.

"Do not be anxious and do not worry. Do not look around at the things you think you want. Just keep looking off and away up to Me, or you'll miss what I have to show you.

"And then, when you're ready, I'll surprise you with a love far more wonderful than any you cold ever dream of. You see, until you are ready and until the one I have for you is ready, and I am working this minute to have both of you ready at the same time - until you are both satisfied exclusively with Me and the life I've prepared for you, you will not be able to experience the love that exemplifies your relationship with Me, and this is perfect love.

"And dear one, I want you to have this most wonderful love. I want you to see in the flesh a picture of your relationship with Me, and to enjoy materially and concretely the everlasting union of beauty and perfection and love that I offer you with Myself. Know I love you. I am God Almighty, believe and be satisfied."

- Author anonymous (retrieved from here)

And then I wrote this one today, just for me. And who knows? It could be for you, too. 

I have longed to give of myself completely. To be a mother to children; to nurture and love deeply and unconditionally, and to be loved and leaned upon in return. But in His love, God says:


"No, not until you're satisfied and fulfilled and content with the life I’ve blessed you with, loved by Me alone and giving yourself totally and unreservedly to Me, having an intensely personal and unique relationship with Me alone.


"I love you, My child, and until you discover that only in Me is your satisfaction to be found, you will not be capable of being the mother I want you to be. You will

not have the resources to love unconditionally, until you have known my unconditional love for you. You will not have the courage to be the bosom upon which a completely vulnerable baby leans and depends, until you have learned to be courageous in me. 

"I want you to stop planning, stop wishing, and allow Me to bring it to you. Keep watching Me, expecting the greatest things. Keep learning and listening to the things I tell you. You must wait.

"Do not be anxious and do not worry. Do not look around at the things you think you want. Do not look at what I have given to others. Look to me always, or you'll miss what I have to show you.

"And then, when you're ready, I will surprise you with a gift far more wonderful than any you could have dreamed of. You see, until both of you are ready, and I am working this minute to have both of you ready at the same time, and until you are both satisfied exclusively with Me and the life I've prepared for you, you won't be able to love the child I will give you with love that exemplifies your relationship with Me - perfect love.

"And dear one, I want you to have this most wonderful love. I want you to see in the flesh a picture of your relationship with Me, to enjoy materially and concretely the everlasting union of beauty and perfection and love that I offer you with Myself, and to see that union and love bear fruit – for my sake. Know I love you. I am God Almighty, believe and be satisfied."

- Adapted with the inspiration of the Holy Spirit, just for me 

The Shame of the Nation, Jonathan Kozol

The trouble with intensive three week summer modules is that it is difficult processing all that we read in the span of a few days. Take this week, for example. We read the whole of Kozol's 'The Shame of the Nation', and watched three documentaries on American public education. I had to research on Plato and make a presentation. Plus, we visited the Martha O'Bryan Center for the first time. (I'll write about that next week) Wow. There has just been so much to take in and consider, especially for this wide-eyed Singaporean. 

Rosa Parks stood up by sitting where Blacks were not allowed to sit - in the front of the bus - source

Four students from North Carolina A&T made their voices heard by sitting down at a 'White only' lunch counter in a Woolworths store in Greensboro - source

I am all ready to take on next week's reading tasks! First of all, though, I thought I should harness the aid of technology to keep a visual record of some bits of the book that most arrested my attention. So here goes, with little attempt at organizing the quotes.

On the effects of segregation:
"What saddens me the most during these times is simply that these children have no knowledge of the other world in which I've lived in most of my life and that the children in that other world have not the slightest notion as to who these children are and will not likely ever know them later on, not at least on anything like equal terms, unless a couple of these kids get into college." (p. 11) 

"Only 15% of the intensely segregated white schools in the nation have student populations in which more than half are poor enough to be receiving free meals or reduced price meals. By contrast, a staggering 86% of intensely segregated black and Latino schools have student enrollments in which more than half are poor by the same standards." (p. 20) 

The original spirit of Brown vs. Board of Education:
"Does segregation of children in public schools solely on the basis of race, even though the physical facilities and other 'tangible' factors may be equal," asked the court in 1954, "deprive the children of the minority race of equal educational opportunities? We believe it does." To separate black children from white children of their age and qualifications on the basis of their race, the court went on, "generates a feeling of inferiority as to their status in the community that may affect their hearts and minds in a way unlikely ever to be undone... in the field of public education, the doctrine of 'separate but equal' has no place... separate educational facilities are inherently unequal." (p. 29)  

On unequal spending: "I'll believe money doesn't count the day the rich stop spending so much on their own children." Deborah Meier (p. 59) 

"Nationwide... the differential in per-pupil spending between districts with the highest number of minority children and those with the fewest children of minorities amounts to more than $25,000 for a typical class in elementary school. In Illinois, the differential grows to $47,000, in New York to more than $50,000. From any point of elemental fairness, inequalities like these are unacceptable." (p. 60) 

On the ills of accountability leading to over-testing:
"... much of the rhetoric of 'rigor' and 'high standards' that we hear so frequently, no matter how egalitarian in spirit it may sound to some, is fatally belied by practices that vulgarize the intellects of children and take from their education far too many of the opportunities for cultural and critical reflectiveness without which citizens become receptacles for other people's ideologies and ways of looking at the world but lack the independent spirits to create their own." (p. 98) 

On the opportunity gap and the lie it can purport:
"Merit, no matter how it may have been attained, is somehow self-confirming. The early advantages one may have had become irrelevant to most of us once a plateau of high achievement has been reached... Preferential opportunities that may have introduced us to the channels in which academic competence has been attained - all this falls out of view once we arrive in a position in which we can demonstrate to others, and ourselves, that our proficiencies are indisputably superior to those of other students of our age who may not have had these opportunities." (p. 141) 

On what we measure, and don't:
"There is no misery index for the children of apartheid education. There ought to be; we measure almost every other aspect of the lives they lead in school. Do kids who go to schools like these enjoy the days they spend in them? ... You do not find the answers to these questions in reports about achievement levels, scientific methods of accountability, or structural revisions in the modes of governance. Documents like these don't speak of happiness. You have to go back to the schools themselves to find an answer to these questions." (p. 163) 

On graduates of teacher preparation programs inspired to stand for social justice, upon their (re)entry into schools:
"These are not teachers who believe that Brown is something to commemorate at arm's length with a glimpse of antique videos of men and women of their age in demonstrations.... They do not accept the notion that apartheid is a faded vestige of a distant past. They can't, because they see it daily in their classrooms, and they know that too much sentimental celebration of the heroism of the past can be exploited as a exemption of the heroism that is needed now." (p. 218) 

On the need for working within the realities of the present:
"We really came to the decision that if we could get... an adequate education in every school ... maybe in 20 years, somebody else can say that they want to go for equity. But that's not our battle." (p. 248) 

“… but they are places of resistance. Teachers in these schools must work, and know that they must work, within “the box” of segregated demographics and extreme inequities ... ; but in their temperaments and in their moral disposition many also stand outside that box, because they are aware of its existence, and this sense of double-vision, being part of something and aware of what it is at the same time, regenerates the energy they bring with them each morning to the very little place (one room, one set of chairs) in which they use what gifts they have to make the schoolday good and whole and sometimes beautiful for children.” (p. 287)

Boston, with eyes wide shut?

Two weeks ago, I was at Tufts University just outside Boston, for a two-day workshop. The workshop ran from 9 in the morning till 4 in the afternoon. We were due to leave the next day on an evening flight. Of course I had to spend every spare minute of the time after 4pm those two days, and the next day before the flight exploring Boston. 

Boston. According to my friends, this was a lovely city I just had to visit. There was all that history, architecture, art, and the New-Englandy feel of the place. The lady I sat beside in the workshop, a Massachusetts schoolteacher was glad to supply me a string of must-see places in Boston. We grabbed our Boston city maps from the airport arrival hall, too. 

Boston Public Gardens. Check. Harvard Yard. Check. Stroll along the Charles River. Check. Beacon Hill. Check. Freedom Trail. Check. Newbury Street. Check. Quincy St Markets. Check. Museum of Fine Arts. Check. The harbor. Check. Add to that Giacomo's at Little Italy for dinner, plus taking the T and the bus around. I thought we'd done a fine job of seeing Boston in two evenings and a day. 

I was having my foolish tourist blinders on. But thanks to my professor, the blinders have since been lifted. When we met for class again after the summer break, I happened to mention to her that I had been to Boston over the break. Coincidentally, that was the day that we were just starting Jonathan Kozol's 'The Shame of the Nation' in class. Kozol, a teacher and writer, has spent years working amongst those in the nation's public schools in cities such as Boston, New York, and Washington D.C. In his books, he describes what he calls "a national horror hidden in plain view": the segregation in America's schools, and the way this has ruthlessly ignored the needs of millions of low income and minority children. 

Part of Turner's 'Slave Ship', at the Museum of Fine Arts. This portrays a true story of a captain throwing aboard sick and dying slaves so he could collect money for slaves "lost at sea".

My professor was excited that I had gone to Boston. "As Florence would have seen in Boston..." was how she began her sentences on several instances during that first class. These were all statements related to the problem of segregation in Boston's problem-ridden public schools.  I'm not sure she intended irony, but it was ironic. "Did I?" I kept asking myself. Of course I didn't!

I had seen the city and enjoyed it: architecture, history, store windows, food, the river. Walking along the wharfs, I saw wharf-front condominiums with balconies overlooking the harbor. Wandering down the streets of Beacon Hill, I knew these were the homes of the wealthy. Then there was Newbury Street, with its high end boutiques with thousand-dollar dresses.

A cupcake boutique, at Newbury Street

One of the fancies of twenty-first century Bostonians: dining at the many fine Italian restaurants in Little Italy

But that's not all that Boston is. The homes I saw were not the homes of the low income earners. And, to be blunt, not the homes of the many low income African American and Hispanic people to whom Boston is just as much home. There are also Boston's public schools, with the following statistics :

77% Black and Hispanic
13% White
9% Asian
2% Other
74% eligible for free/reduced lunch
(April 2011) from here 

Compare this with racial composition statistics of Boston generally:

41.9% Black and Hispanic
53.9% White
8.9 Asian
4.3% Others
21.2% Persons below poverty level
(2010 figures) from here 

Harvard Yard - But how many children has the system kept out of the yard?

Also, older (2002-3) statistics on public spending on education per child in the Boston area from Kozol's book:

Lincoln district (19% Black & Hispanic, 11% low income) $12,775
Boston district (77% Black & Hispanic, 74% low income) $10,057

 We (mainly Tim) were feeding (primarily) ducks in the Boston public gardens, but look who came right up to our feet and begged for crumbs? I was eating a blueberry muffin, and made sure I did so as messily as possible. The sparrows were pleased. 

The education spending gap in other American cities is much worse, such as about a $10,000 gap in the New York area in the same school year.

The question is: where do all the White children go to school? The answer: private and charter schools. Why? We ask. Why is there a disproportionate number of Black and Hispanic students in public schools, and why are White children sent to private or charter schools instead? Also, where do low income earners live? What are their homes like?

Children's art at the Davis Sq T station. May their homes be blessed. 

Homes or offices at Beacon Hill? May they be blessed too. 

These are questions which do not sit comfortably with my tourist sensibilities, nor my soul. Yet, perhaps, tourist sensibilities are not what I need; but rather, eyes which watch for injustice, and a soul which searches for answers to difficult questions, and solutions to neglected problems. 

"We owe a definite homage to the reality around us, and we are obliged, at certain times, to say what things are and to give them their right names."- Thomas Merton