Heard about René Redzepi? Not many do - even though, as the top chef running a restaurant voted the best in the world.
Redzepi hates artificial products. The Danish chef has never indulged in technological wizardry of molecular gastronomy; his restaurant served only foods produced within his region. To go with his philosophy of serving clients to taste the soil, Redzepi digs deeper into his immediate surroundings and comes up with dishes like a flowerpot stuffed with carrots and radishes.
To which a natural response might be "Ingenious" or "Genius." After reading the Time magazine profile article about this genius chef, the highlight of my weekend happened to be a literal experience of tasting the soil. It's an outdoor funfair without machines but replete with games made out of natural resources. My daughter was invited to play with hay, paint on leaves, and have fun with toys like pine cones or twigs. The more time we spent with the games, the more I started to wonder if the Toy"R"Us should be closed down. If Redzepi's restaurant is the Michelin-starred place to taste the soil, this funfair becomes the best one to feel the buzz of the nature.
Saturday, March 31, 2012
Friday, March 16, 2012
Penguin
I have long been an admirer of the behavioural ecologist. Animal behaviour, as most people know, is important but not easy to study.
I couldn't quote a better example than the recent white-flippered penguin story from the Science magazine. Those noisy penguins often squabble over their colonial territory, fighting with each other mano a mano. When it comes to fighting, the scientists were not particularly interested in whether it's a fist fight (of course, penguins can't) or flipper bash. Rather, the researchers paid attention to the triumph displays after the penguin's beating an opponent. The victory calls were recorded using a microphone and played back to bystander penguins. Each of the bystander penguins - there were 43 in all - were monitored when they listened to winner's victory call.
Monitoring bystander penguins' response is reputed to be difficult and unreliable - and the researchers had found it so - but it was solved by a trick: they temporarily swapped out the penguin eggs with an infrared egg. The fake eggs were used to count the brooding penguins' heart rate, as a barometer of stress levels.
As things turned out, male penguins were more stressed in the apparent presence of of a winner's vocal signature, and they were more likely to challenge an approaching loser by calling. The penguins' triumph display to make their victory known and build a "reputation" within the colony, of course, is not new, and certainly not unique to them. My guess is that birds do it, reptiles do it, mammals of all kinds do it. In fact, I myself made similar "victory dance" not long ago, when my colleague was proven wrong after arguing with me the diagnosis of a sick patient.
I couldn't quote a better example than the recent white-flippered penguin story from the Science magazine. Those noisy penguins often squabble over their colonial territory, fighting with each other mano a mano. When it comes to fighting, the scientists were not particularly interested in whether it's a fist fight (of course, penguins can't) or flipper bash. Rather, the researchers paid attention to the triumph displays after the penguin's beating an opponent. The victory calls were recorded using a microphone and played back to bystander penguins. Each of the bystander penguins - there were 43 in all - were monitored when they listened to winner's victory call.
Monitoring bystander penguins' response is reputed to be difficult and unreliable - and the researchers had found it so - but it was solved by a trick: they temporarily swapped out the penguin eggs with an infrared egg. The fake eggs were used to count the brooding penguins' heart rate, as a barometer of stress levels.
As things turned out, male penguins were more stressed in the apparent presence of of a winner's vocal signature, and they were more likely to challenge an approaching loser by calling. The penguins' triumph display to make their victory known and build a "reputation" within the colony, of course, is not new, and certainly not unique to them. My guess is that birds do it, reptiles do it, mammals of all kinds do it. In fact, I myself made similar "victory dance" not long ago, when my colleague was proven wrong after arguing with me the diagnosis of a sick patient.
Wednesday, March 14, 2012
Goldilocks
I've moved house for the umpteenth time. But this is the first time to move with a two-year-old baby.
Like other parents, we're inundated with myriad advice from everyone we know (and many people we don't know) on do's and don'ts, such as "don't pack the baby in a box." Ugh.
Like the three bears who venture in the story of "Goldilocks", we could never make prediction about what lies down the road. Will Jasmine get upset when we pack her purple dinosaur and fill the living room with boxes? What if she asks to go back home after moving into our new home? Will she love the new cot?
I knew she'd be excited, but I was afraid she'd be a little overwhelmed by the new changes, too. We unloaded the boxes in the new place, played with her, and waited. No, instead of whining, Jasmine simply loves her new castle. And honestly, I'm grateful for this. Seeing her makes me realize, I needn't have worried one jot about this particularly lovely girl.
Did I lose any box or my mind during the move? Not really, except my belt. The busiest moment for me was when I kept holding my sagging pants running after my daughter.
Like other parents, we're inundated with myriad advice from everyone we know (and many people we don't know) on do's and don'ts, such as "don't pack the baby in a box." Ugh.
Like the three bears who venture in the story of "Goldilocks", we could never make prediction about what lies down the road. Will Jasmine get upset when we pack her purple dinosaur and fill the living room with boxes? What if she asks to go back home after moving into our new home? Will she love the new cot?
I knew she'd be excited, but I was afraid she'd be a little overwhelmed by the new changes, too. We unloaded the boxes in the new place, played with her, and waited. No, instead of whining, Jasmine simply loves her new castle. And honestly, I'm grateful for this. Seeing her makes me realize, I needn't have worried one jot about this particularly lovely girl.
Did I lose any box or my mind during the move? Not really, except my belt. The busiest moment for me was when I kept holding my sagging pants running after my daughter.
Monday, March 5, 2012
Move
Count me a skeptic when it comes to moving house - and my skepticism is not ill-informed. I've moved more times than I have fingers.
Moving around, from the medical intern's hostel to any unoccupied room inside the hospital, is one of those skills you can never get better than me. Well, that was my nomadic way of living, if not necessarily my preferred one, and it turned out to be the cheapest way to stay near the hospital in my early years of work. I simply toted a bag with red, white and blue stripes. It's the size of a suitcase, zipped up without lock, shiny with repeated force of friction, blooming with self-sufficiency.
I settled down, finally, when I bought my home fourteen years ago. As the days went on, one bag with red, white and blue stripes could never be enough for me. I know I can buy more books when I got a book shelf at home. Um, buying books is like potato chips. You can't stop at just one. Obviously I can't move house at the snap of a finger after all these years. I metamorphose into a centipede who, when asked which foot it moved first, froze.
Moving around, from the medical intern's hostel to any unoccupied room inside the hospital, is one of those skills you can never get better than me. Well, that was my nomadic way of living, if not necessarily my preferred one, and it turned out to be the cheapest way to stay near the hospital in my early years of work. I simply toted a bag with red, white and blue stripes. It's the size of a suitcase, zipped up without lock, shiny with repeated force of friction, blooming with self-sufficiency.
I settled down, finally, when I bought my home fourteen years ago. As the days went on, one bag with red, white and blue stripes could never be enough for me. I know I can buy more books when I got a book shelf at home. Um, buying books is like potato chips. You can't stop at just one. Obviously I can't move house at the snap of a finger after all these years. I metamorphose into a centipede who, when asked which foot it moved first, froze.
Saturday, February 25, 2012
The Help
In case you're wondering whether Kathyrn Stockett's novel The Help is as good as To Kill a Mockingbird, here is the answer: No. It's better.
Both stories talk about black African-American maid or housekeeper. Aibileen and Calpurnia were black, and I mention this for a reason. My domestic maid is coloured, as well. I love The Help more as the black maid in this novel, Aibileen, was helping to raise a little girl and that hits a strong chord with me. When I read the chapter in which Aibileen taught the preschooler to potty, I can't stop thinking about my daughter.
It's either unsettling or ironic - or a bit of both - that Aibileen was only allowed to visit her coloured bathroom made for the blacks. She ended up bringing the baby girl out to that weired makeshift "bathroom" with no proper walls but plyboards hammered together. This, of course, is how the girl learned to go in the potty. But anyone with even a cursory knowledge of American history - to be exact, in 1962 for Aibileen - will realize that the white baby's mother is going to throw a fit once she finds out her daughter go to the coloured bathroom. "This is dirty out here, Mae Mobley. You'll catch diseases! No no no!"
Yes, at first blush, it seems like a ridiculous act of racism, but when we think about it some more, it's happening somewhat similarly nowadays. I knew people who set up house rules banning the domestic maid from kissing the toddlers, even if the maid is supposed to love the children.
Both stories talk about black African-American maid or housekeeper. Aibileen and Calpurnia were black, and I mention this for a reason. My domestic maid is coloured, as well. I love The Help more as the black maid in this novel, Aibileen, was helping to raise a little girl and that hits a strong chord with me. When I read the chapter in which Aibileen taught the preschooler to potty, I can't stop thinking about my daughter.
It's either unsettling or ironic - or a bit of both - that Aibileen was only allowed to visit her coloured bathroom made for the blacks. She ended up bringing the baby girl out to that weired makeshift "bathroom" with no proper walls but plyboards hammered together. This, of course, is how the girl learned to go in the potty. But anyone with even a cursory knowledge of American history - to be exact, in 1962 for Aibileen - will realize that the white baby's mother is going to throw a fit once she finds out her daughter go to the coloured bathroom. "This is dirty out here, Mae Mobley. You'll catch diseases! No no no!"
Yes, at first blush, it seems like a ridiculous act of racism, but when we think about it some more, it's happening somewhat similarly nowadays. I knew people who set up house rules banning the domestic maid from kissing the toddlers, even if the maid is supposed to love the children.
Friday, February 17, 2012
On Call
It's a Friday in hospital full of activity for me. The first thing I did in the morning was to make sure my fountain pen brims with ink, and my cup with coffee.
On your mark, get set, go.
Within minutes, my beeper was on full blast, and my footprints were all over the hospital.
This is a hospital, and there's no reason why we don't talk about death. Soon after my morning clinic, I joined a pre-inquest meeting for a coroner's case. Before long I had to rush to another hospital building where a patient had a cardiac arrest. By the time I finished the meeting, there were plenty of patient consultations for me to take care of. I didn't take lunch and tried to finish seeing them, lest they grew in number. When the debt grows, believe me, it grows like compound interest.
Soon I found out one of the neurosurgery patients had been seen by my colleague few days ago. I quickly turned to that page, and told the intern knowingly: "This, you should find my colleague to continue seeing your patient."
Not that passing the buck is an honourable thing to do. But everyone of us will probably do this once in a while. When I settled most of my jobs, an inner voice nudged me to get back to the neurosurgery patient. He wasn't seen by my colleague yet. That didn't come as a surprise. What surprised me is that the nurse in the neurosurgery unit came and handed me a fountain pen that I left behind in the morning. I was surprised, embarrassed, and brightened all at once.
On your mark, get set, go.
Within minutes, my beeper was on full blast, and my footprints were all over the hospital.
This is a hospital, and there's no reason why we don't talk about death. Soon after my morning clinic, I joined a pre-inquest meeting for a coroner's case. Before long I had to rush to another hospital building where a patient had a cardiac arrest. By the time I finished the meeting, there were plenty of patient consultations for me to take care of. I didn't take lunch and tried to finish seeing them, lest they grew in number. When the debt grows, believe me, it grows like compound interest.
Soon I found out one of the neurosurgery patients had been seen by my colleague few days ago. I quickly turned to that page, and told the intern knowingly: "This, you should find my colleague to continue seeing your patient."
Not that passing the buck is an honourable thing to do. But everyone of us will probably do this once in a while. When I settled most of my jobs, an inner voice nudged me to get back to the neurosurgery patient. He wasn't seen by my colleague yet. That didn't come as a surprise. What surprised me is that the nurse in the neurosurgery unit came and handed me a fountain pen that I left behind in the morning. I was surprised, embarrassed, and brightened all at once.
Sunday, February 5, 2012
I Know
Similar to comrades in the army, doctors within a team call each other for dinner even though we're busy.
It's fairly obvious that there isn't convenient time common to the doctors. "Alright, you go first, and I'll finish admitting my cases and join you guys in a minute."
As we all know, virtually nobody will turn up one minute after that remark. Even so, the phrase "in a minute" can mean anything like fifteen minutes or forever. The difference in sense of time is unbelievably easy to grasp. Doctors know each other well and recognize what that particular colleague usually means by one minute. We just know.
Any of us who has worked in an office with someone else for few months can usually tell when that person will be back if he says, "I'll be gone for a while." The interesting thing is that we don't have to be that explicit soon after we get along with each other.
Once we start getting used to the I-know-you-know-what-I-know manner, there is embarrassing story waiting to happen. This I know, too. There is another story I like to tell. Many years ago I was asking a nurse to help me getting a needle into the knee joint of my patient. I had to wear sterile gloves and cleanse my patient's skin with povidone iodine solution before puncturing the joint; these are the rules for doctors to prevent infection. "Could you please fetch me the soya sauce?" Lest I begin to confuse those of you who aren't working in the hospital, let me say that soya sauce is a byword to describe the brown povidone iodine solution. The nurse disappeared. I waited. I mused. "What, for heaven's sake, keeps my nurse from getting back to me?"
And no prizes for guessing that I found my nurse busy scratching her head to find a bottle of soya sauce in the pantry.
It's fairly obvious that there isn't convenient time common to the doctors. "Alright, you go first, and I'll finish admitting my cases and join you guys in a minute."
As we all know, virtually nobody will turn up one minute after that remark. Even so, the phrase "in a minute" can mean anything like fifteen minutes or forever. The difference in sense of time is unbelievably easy to grasp. Doctors know each other well and recognize what that particular colleague usually means by one minute. We just know.
Any of us who has worked in an office with someone else for few months can usually tell when that person will be back if he says, "I'll be gone for a while." The interesting thing is that we don't have to be that explicit soon after we get along with each other.
Once we start getting used to the I-know-you-know-what-I-know manner, there is embarrassing story waiting to happen. This I know, too. There is another story I like to tell. Many years ago I was asking a nurse to help me getting a needle into the knee joint of my patient. I had to wear sterile gloves and cleanse my patient's skin with povidone iodine solution before puncturing the joint; these are the rules for doctors to prevent infection. "Could you please fetch me the soya sauce?" Lest I begin to confuse those of you who aren't working in the hospital, let me say that soya sauce is a byword to describe the brown povidone iodine solution. The nurse disappeared. I waited. I mused. "What, for heaven's sake, keeps my nurse from getting back to me?"
And no prizes for guessing that I found my nurse busy scratching her head to find a bottle of soya sauce in the pantry.
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