STOMACHS OF STEEL
I am not referring to an awesome abdominal workout here, that'll give you a 6 pack. I am referring to an awesome weekend I had, the highlight of which was partaking of a FIFTEEN YEAR OLD cake. (this was on Saturday) Yup, FIFTEEN YEARS. It is a (western) tradition, I think, for a newly wed, (operational word being NEWLY) for save the top tier of their wedding cake (in our asian tradition, it would be quite hard, since 95% of wedding cakes are the standard dummy cakes from the hotel, recycled like 2 zillion times), for their first anniversary, or birth of first child.... and I think the proviso was for "whichever came first".
Nevertheless, these dear dear friends of ours, decided to opt for the latter criteria, so there we were on saturday, 15 years later, celebrating the birth of their first child, a gorgeous baby girl, by partaking in the 15 year old wedding cake. It was a regular enough tea party, the kind I love, where alcohol is served; the usual happy banter amongst friends, the usual cruel jibes about weight gain, and irreversible ageing, which culminated in the piece de resistance, the wedding cake. Piece de resistance is quite apt, even in english, for the royal icing, after 15 years of deep freeze, had solidified to a state where you could probably preserve a mummy, and the couple (the groom, who we shall call IT) literally had to SAW open the cake. There were cries of "EE YEEERRRRR, I'm NOT going to eat that" from the more faint hearted, to the more stoic amongst us, who just quietly prayed that the cake would be crawling with maggots. BUT, as luck would have it, and let this be conclusive proof of the preservative properties of alcohol, the cake looked like it was baked yesterday. Okay, I lie, but hey, it was in pretty good shape. Heck, most of US have aged far worse in the last 15 years. Thickening waist lines, thinning hairlines, decaying bones, the years have not been kind to some.
Anyway, none but the two pregnant women present were exempted from this communion, and the good news is, we're all still alive. In fact, I bumped into one of the cake eaters yesterday, jogging downhill in bukit kiara. Quite alive. Hence the blog topic of the day, STOMACHS OF STEEL. Cos that's probably what we all have.
Which brings me to the next topic. Exercise. It's been a dietary disaster this weekend, as it is the wife's birthday. I've had to bake three cakes, one for friday, and two for saturday. For friday night, we had our normal cell group, and had a chilled orange cheese cake. My evil twin likes the chilled variety with the biscuit base. On Saturday, I had to rush like mad to bake a durian poppy seed cake for the 15 year old cake tea party (they needed backup, in case the fruit cake was decayed). In fact, because my favourite Body Combat instructor was taking an unscheduled class in Menara John Hancock, at 2.30 (which is usually my massage or nap time), I had to leave the all important job of taking the cake out of oven to the maid. A bit risky, as that last ten minutes is crucial. Fortunately that turned out okay.
And for the wife's birthday dinner with friends, I had made a tiramisu torte. It consists of a three layer coffee chiffon, liberally doused with kahlua (which no one could taste....all these alcoholics, aitelyu!), interspersed with chocolate bits, mascarporne cream, and topped with caramelised almonds. (copy the alexis, suchan and bon ton style lah).
That there is the tiramisu, and the orange cheese cake nearby.
Oh, back to the original comment about exercise. It hasn't been a bad weekend in that department either. Friday night was the usual body pump class, where once again I hear that dreaded "come on fatboy". Okay, he doesnt call me fatboy, but by name, which thankfully, no one knows, (unlike in CHEERS, where everyone knows your name) so I can just pretend to be a different person. But this relative anonymity was shattered in Saturday's body combat class.
Firstly, I was only JUST on time, 2.30 on the dot, and in my hurry, I pushed instead of pulled the door, to the studio, which makes a very alarmingly loud clanging sound. So all eyes are turned, AND, I get greeted by the instructor, "hi [my name]". Very sweet of him to remember my name, after nearly half a year. He then asks me to fill the vacant spot in front of him, and asks why no one wants that spot. So someone suggested maybe we were shy. THEN, he proclaims, "SHY??? [my name] is NEVER shy!". Ack, if I had hoped to be anonymous before, that certainly went down the toilet. BUT, the good and great news is, the instructor is finally teaching again in John Hancock, wef September. Yahoo. Bad news is, it clashes with the other Body Pump class that I've become quite fond of. Not clash lah, but one after another. At this age, I wonder if I have the stamina to last two classes, especially with the energy level of THESE instructors. Back to back pump and combat is okay with some vapid female instructor lah. But there are some great female instructors out there, so this is not an across the board insult. There are some err...not so good male instructors too, of course. And another favourite instructor of mine seems to have disappeared from the schedule altogether. Wonder if its for good, or just for this week.