I have never seen as much mix up of homonymns in my life until these past few years. To be honest, it truly irks me when I see these mix ups in Islamic writings, flyers (especially), and advertisements. Isn’t it enough that Muslims are labeled terrorists? Do we want them to label us illiterates too?

Ok, that may be a little over the top, but seriously, I don’t think it hurts to do some extra editing before those flyers go out to the masses. Of course, this may be a pet peeve of some people, and not a big deal to others, and I can see where it’s not a big deal. As long as the message gets across, I guess that’s the most important thing. Maybe it’s just me who wants to kick it up a notch. Maybe it’s just me.

Regardless, I was doing some final editing on a booklet this morning, when I suddenly found myself lost in a world of commas and lists. So I googled ‘grammar rules list commas’. I right clicked. My one-sided clicks landed me on Copyblogger, on a particular post called, Five Grammatical Errors that Make You Look Dumb. Ditto.

When homeschooling my kids, I also came across this exercise; differentiating between their and there, it’s and its, your and you’re. Good inclusion of grammar lessons. I don’t remember doing that kind of exercises back when I was learning grammar. Then again, that was donkey years ago. I guess it’s one of those common mistakes people make. Where I, a non native speaker struggle with the verbal aspect of English, the native speakers seem to struggle with the grammatical aspect. Very interesting indeed.

As for my lists and commas, I learned something new, or maybe, I was just caught in one of those mesmerizing moments of commas, that I forgot all rules of lists and commas. But, I like this here google result:

Grammar Book

I don’t claim to be a grammar specialist. I just know it sounds off, and reads off, but I don’t necessarily know why all the time. So their! Your welcome! Its a wonderful world!

Don’t your eyes just hurt?

Curry: a Tale of Cooks and Conquerors by Lizzie Collingham imparts a lot of delectable information about the cuisine of India. I am only up to chapter 2, ‘Biryani’, and I’m already basking in the new found knowledge that the former foreign secretary of Great Britain, Robin Cooke, declared Chicken Tikka as Great Britain’s national dish, albeit not without protests from disgruntled food critics. My parallel reading of Curried Favors by Maya Kaimal Macmillan, (done while eating, cooking and I don’t remember what else) also enlightened me to the difference between the cuisine of northern India and southern India.

I found it interesting that I relate so much to the cuisine of Southern India, which is only natural, because Malaysian cuisine is somewhat largely influenced by it. Banana leaves as plates. That’s a south Indian tradition, which I believe is still practiced today in a predominantly Indian district in Kuala Lumpur; Brickfields. It is also interesting to note that a lot of our Malay words are actually Tamil words, such as rasa (taste), negara (country), and asam (sour). One of the languages spoken in Malaysia is Tamil; a language I was heavily exposed to growing up, since I went to school in Brickfields. I never picked it up though.

I now understand my puzzlement over Indian food when I was first exposed to it here in the States. The Indian food I knew growing up was more down to earth than the ones I was exposed to here. After reading the books, I found out why. The Indians I have gotten to know here are mostly from the north, and not so much from the south. In the north, the dish is more dairy based, and somewhat more ‘royal’ in nature. Instead of rice, bread is more common as the grain group. In the south, rice is more common than bread.

I think I now appreciate the Indian cuisine available in Malaysia after reading about South Indian cuisine in Curried Favors. One of my favorite Indian dishes (and I have a lot of favorite Indian dishes!) is a snack called Putu Mayam (string hoppers), a snack usually sold by street hawkers. To be honest, it has been at least 11 years since I last had one, and even though I remember biting into soft white fine strings of vermicelli flavored by broken pieces ofpalm sugar, the memory is quite faint. If I was asked to make and serve it, I wouldn’t know how to serve it. What I do remember is the taste of plain and airy rice vermicelli well complimented by the sweetness of palm sugar. In your mouth, the vermicelli seems to swell up all the way to the roof of your mouth in airyness, but the palm sugar brings it back down as if dissolving the airiness in the depth of its sweetness. After swallowing a bite, you can’t seem to get enough and you go for more. That’s how I would describe the experience of eating Putu Mayam, but other than that, I don’t really remember.

Teh tarik is a beverage usually associated with the Indian community in Malaysia. When you say Teh tarik, most Malaysians would conjure an image of an Indian hawker, clad in a flimsy white shirt and casually wrapped sarong holding two tin cups in each hand and pouring tea sweetened with sweetened condensed milk from one cup to the other. What makes this beverage unique is how the seller makes it. He not only pours the tea from one cup to the other, but it looks as if he is stretching the tea as one cup is raised well above his head while the other is lowered as low as his hand can manage, all while the pouringis going on. This is done with skill, so the tea is not wasted on the ground. The result: a frothy cup of Teh tarik. Malaysian style Frappucino.

And who could forget Roti Canai, one of my favorite breakfast item, that was also my childhood snack and lunch while I spent my after school hours in my father’s clinic for most of my elementary school years. One order of Roti Telur would provide me with a plate of a thick, square fried dough, consisting of fine crisp layers, not unlike filo dough, encasing cooked scrambled eggs, and a bowl of accompanying curry as the dipping sauce. Eagerly, I would tear one piece of the square dough, my fingers digging into the depths of the eggs, filled with air as the heat both cooks it and fries the dough to crispy layers. Soft strips of cooked shallots amidst the eggs add a sweetness to a mouthful of Roti Telur dripping with spicy curry.

So, as I continue to read both books that explore the depths of the cuisine of the subcontinent, memories of Indian dishes also continue to flood my memory banks, giving me a new appreciation for Indian cuisine in Malaysia.

When I looked out the small vacuum-sandwiched window, all I could see was a blur of opaque white. It had been more than a day’s journey. I was three months pregnant, and sorely missing my husband, who was already settling down in rainy Seattle.

The month was January 1997. We had set out on this long journey across the Pacific from tropical Malaysia to four-season United States in the beginning of Ramadan, landing smack dab in one of the possibly worst winters in Iowa. The blizzard forced us to hover in circles above the Chicago O’Hare airport before we could land. That Ramadan was my first Ramadan on foreign soil without family except for my unborn baby.

It has been eleven years since then, and ironically, I have never spent Ramadan in Malaysia since. Do I miss spending it in my home country?

In a way, yes I do, but to another extent, no I don’t. I grew up fasting 12 hour days in blazing heat. I grew up in the culture of Ramadan Bazaar, and looking forward to it as the end of the fasting day drew near. I remember the the smoky and spicy aroma of Ayam Percik. I remember the Ramadan bazaar din, consisting of a  smattering of droning machines, sellers’ shouts, and customer’s orders. I remember the heat cooped up in the long crowded aisles formed by canopied stalls selling Malaysian delicacies, which made the heat tolerable. I miss that.

Here, in the United States, Ramadan is completely different. The only family I have is my husband and children. I am the cook, thus I am the one furnishing the table with iftar. No Ramadan bazaars here, sorry. Malaysian food? Ahhh…that is where I wish I am back home. Nevertheless, Ramadans here have taught me the true essence of the holy month.

I not only get to spend it with other Muslims of various cultural backgrounds, thus giving me the opportunity to treat my taste buds with new tastes, but I also get to experience the spiritual part of Ramadan in a way that is different from back home. Let’s just say I have learned a lot about Islam since I set foot in the United States. Don’t get me wrong. I was raised a Muslim, though some people have asked me,

“What’s your Muslim name?”

I spent five full years in an Islamic boarding school. But what I learned about Islam here have taught me to be more careful about determining the sources of information about Islam. Islam and culture tend to mix a lot, especially in Muslim countries. But here in America, because of the diversity and setting, Islam’s true hue tends to shine through the various shades of cultural baggage.

Though of course, that is not to say that Islam in America is without any problems. We still have the 21 versus 11 rakaah tarawih debate, don’t we? Nevertheless, it’s easier to learn Islam when you are in the midst of so many differences as opposed to being in a place where only one way of practicing Islam is known and expected.

In my boarding school days, Ramadan nights were usually spent in tarawih which was held in the Great Hall, led by our Ustadhs. We would put on our white prayer garments, slip on our sandals, grab our prayer mats, and stroll in happy chatty girlie groups down the zinc-roofed corridors from the girls’ dormitories, past the blocks of classrooms all the way to the Great Hall where Monday assemblies were usually held. However, due to limited space, yes, even in the ‘Great’ Hall, one year, the school decided to hold the tarawih prayers in the open parking lot, under the star spangled night sky. I have to say that was one of my favorite tarawih experience in my high school years.

I still remember the flyers distributed to us at the beginning of Ramadan, consisting of the list of virtues of praying tarawih on night 1 all the way through night 29. Some of us lazier and mischievous school girls would refer to the list and choose which tarawih night to pray, and spend the rest of the nights either snoozing in the dorms or doing other things like hand washing dirty laundry, studying, or completing homeworks. It was not until later that I learned that the source of the list was weak, but being an Islamic boarding school in a Muslim country, it just doesn’t make perfect sense that such an erronous or weak information was distributed.

Growing up, I was used to breaking my fast by devouring the whole iftar meal right after the azan was called. Of course, that tends to make you heavier and lazier when it comes to prayer, and it was only until I spent Ramadan here with my husband, that I postponed the full meal until after the Maghrib prayer. Very interestingly, as true to what is always said about our stomach needing to gradually get accustomed to breaking up food after a long day of resting, I didn’t feel as famished after the prayer as I was at sunset. Over the years, that has become our family’s sunnah; to do as the Prophet sallallahu alayhi wasallam did; break our fast with water or dates, pray Maghrib and then eat the full meal. Subhanallah, when done this way, you tend not to eat as much as you would had you eaten the meal right at Iftar time.

Overall, the way I spend my Ramadans has evolved, and even though I do miss the gastronomical delights available in abundance in my home country, I also am grateful to Allah for giving me a different experience altogether, which has led to better changes, alhamdulillah. The arrival and memory of my Ramadans here in the United States highlight the changes I have embraced with regard to my practice of Islam. It’s a month in which even the harsh-tongued become nicer, and the non regular masjid attendees are more regularly seen at the masjid. It’s a month of blessing and more. Subhanallah!

I came here eleven years ago in the beginning of a wintry Ramadan with a baby in my womb and very naive. In a few weeks inshaallah, we will embrace Ramadan in the remaining dog days of summer and beginning of fall. I now have four children under our roof, alhamdulillah, and I would like to think that I am a bit wiser than I was eleven years ago. Depending on where we go next from here, this might very well be my last Ramadan in the United States. If it is, I will surely sorely miss spending Ramadans here.

MIL stayed here a month, and for a month, the kids had free access to junk food, and went out every day, several times a day. They had vacation. Not surprisingly, after MIL left, we saw the aftermath.

Baby Zoa loves going out. He loved going out even before MIL came, but since he just got his new walking legs when she was here, I guess he had grown to appreciate the joy of being outside from a totally new perspective.

Yesterday, he was toddling back and forth in the living room, muttering baby talk to himself, as usual. Big sister Ski was sitting at the swivel chair in front of the computer, doing her homework. Suddenly, Baby Zoa grabbed Ski’s light green hijab, toddled over to his big sister, and handed it to her, thus indicating that she should put it on so she could take him outside.

When Ski smiled and shook her head, refusing to put it on, thus implying that Baby Zoa was not getting an outing, Baby Zoa protested with a cry. The amazing thing is that this 15 month-old has managed to figure out a pre-requisite to outings; hijab on. Today, he did the same thing to his father. Toddling as usual, he picked up a dark purple hijab of Juju, toddled over to hubby, who was at the door, and offered it to him. We laughed of course, because obviously, hubby doesn’t have to put on the hijab, but Baby Zoa had made that association in his little mind.

It’s also amazing how he also made the association of prayer rug and prayer. We have been performing our prayers, five times a day with him around. Sometimes he weaves between our prostrating heads, sometimes he climbs over our prostating heads, and sometimes he squeezes himself between his brother’s legs when he’s standing in prayer. He has even managed to imitate our movements of bowing and prostrating, which looks more like downward dog in Yoga.

I feel very grateful for having a baby now. When I had the other three, they came one after the other in subsequent years, and I was too busy running after each one to savor and reflect on moments like these. Well, maybe I did manage to, but not as much as I am able to now.

Alhamdulillah, All Praises be to Allah, for He knows best what is good for me in this  life and there hereafter. Reminders of His Greatness is apparent in everything, even in my little toddling tot, mashaallah.

I finally am almost done with the essay for the Mothering Across Cultures anthology. The feedbacks I have received have been very beneficial and I am now waiting for more feedbacks. Writing that essay has really opened my eyes to the matter of raising children in a different culture.

In the course of asking for critiques from hubby, one thing did come out; a concern over our children’s marriages. I wasn’t able to write on this issue in the essay because of the word limit, as I chose to focus on food and language, but I managed to mention the topic of Malay heritage and cross-cultural marriage towards the end.

Hubby expressed his concern over the possible further loss of our Malay heritage down the line. As of now, we’re already losing a chunk of our Malay heritage, since the kids don’t even speak Malay much or behave like a typical Malay, which to me personally, has its pros and cons. When they marry, regardless of whom, the loss will be further exacerbated. I was rather surprised that hubby has this concern, and as I thought about it, I began to understand his concern.

In the beginning, I was the stubborn typical Malay, not willing to budge and change the way I do things. He was the one who opened me up to accepting some changes where changes are necessary, when it comes to the practice of Islam. Having lived here in the United States for 11 years, we have been duly exposed to the stark raw form of Islam that is not tainted by cultural practices, some even paganistic rituals. Alhamdulillah for that. The thought of our children marrying cross-culturally never really bothered us, or at least, it never really bothered me. As long as they marry good practicing Muslims, I’m happy.

But I do understand the sentimentality associated with the possible loss of our Malay heritage. If they marry non Malays, the loss is great. If they marry Malays, they themselves, might not be Malay enough for their Malay spouses. There is still a loss of Malayness there. A friend sugggested a solution, which makes a lot of sense, but I will not limit them to that choice only. In the end, the choice to marry whomever rests on the individual who is to be married. I’ll let the kids decide, and may Allah guide them and us parents in this matter. Ameen.

I expected things to be hectic, such that I won’t be able to write much once hubby’s ACL reconstruction surgery takes place, but I didn’t expect how agitated it’s making me feel. It’s funny how back in the good old days in school or college, when you’re faced with a deadline for an assignment, most of the times, you don’t feel an urge to finish it right away, (note I wrote “most of the time”). With my writings, I feel very anxious about completing them as soon as possible, way before the deadline.

I noticed that in the very beginning, when I was a newbie in the world of writing, whenever I was done with a piece, which was technically still in its first draft stage, I would be very eager to send it off or proclaim it as the finished piece. Now, however, I tend to hold on to a piece for as long as I can before submitting it, rewording, restructuring, rephrasing, reoutlining, re everything it. It’s little wonder it takes me quite a while to come out with a finished piece nowadays.

Blog posts are different. They are most spontaneous, and more for writing practice, though sometimes, they do come out as refined as finished pieces.

I have been outlining, brainstorming, and free writing on the piece for the Mothering Out Loud: Moms Tell the Truth About Blogging it All anthology for weeks. Melanie had asked if I could come up with a query in the next few weeks. I sent it to her yesterday, after maybe a week of agonizing over what exactly it is I’m going to be writing about. I knew I wasn’t going to be coming up with a full draft to hand in to her, but I’m glad I at least got in a few paragraphs to include in the query.

As for the other anthology (mothering across cultures), I have had the first draft sitting idly in my pendrive for weeks. To be honest, the very topic of the anthology set me thinking more about raising our children ‘across cultures’. I’m not one of those people who are very loyal to one’s culture. Even before I came to the United States, I didn’t care much about abiding by one’s cultural customs or practices. If I do, it’s only because it’s second nature. In other words, I took my culture for granted.

After mulling over this issue of raising our children in an environment that is the farthest from our ‘native’ culture, I have come to the realization that culture is quite an important part of a human being. As a Muslim, Islam comes first, but after the basics, it’s the culture that defines us, to a certain extent.

Well, that piece, will continue to be a work in progress, not so much because of my uncertainty about the whole issue, but more because I can’t escape from the family to write in solitude. As  I’m typing, I have four children making a din in the background. I had come upstairs to their room, turned on the air conditioning, closed the door, and seated myself in front of the computer, escaping from the living room downstairs, only to have hubby shoo them back upstairs in a few minutes. My solitude is thus shattered.

was tagged by Marahm, and while I am not yet whisked away by mommy duties, I’d better get to this.

Here are the rules:
1. Link the person(s) who tagged you.
2. Mention the rules on your blog.
3. Tell about 6 unspectacular quirks of yours.
4. Tag 6 following bloggers by linking them.
5. Leave a comment on each of the tagged bloggers’ blogs letting them know they’ve been tagged.

6 Unspectacular Quirks of Mine:

1. I read whenever I can, while eating, (used to in my childhood, but resumed this habit recently), while on the way to go grocery shopping (hubby drives of course), while nursing (even in semi darkness, much to hubby’s tsk-tsk ness) and like I said, whenever I can.

2. If someone smarts mouth me, I am usually speechless, but will try to retaliate days afterwards, in my head only, and then kick myself for not coming up with a response when it happened.

3. When something bothers me, I am put in a ‘zombie’ mode, where I am engulfed in insomnia, don’t pay attention when people speak to me, and am silent most of the time.

4. I don’t like chatting on the phone or Yahoo messenger, or MSN messenger or Facebook chats, and try to avoid them when I can. I prefer to email or write on my blog.

5. I love cucumber juice!

6. I love driving in residential areas and ogling over the beautiful architecture of the houses. I developed this habit from my father, who used to drive around in neighborhoods to look at unique architectural features he could use in building his own houses (he has many plots of lands bought to build houses on).

Of course, in the course of writing up this post, I have had to stop and supervise Baby Zoa bathing in the bathtub, pop some canned longans in my mouth (thanks to sweet daughter Ski), look at the freshly bathed Baby Zoa fingering his new flashy toothbrushes and say,

“So cute, mashaallah!”

Unfortunately though, I’m going to have the break the rule for this tag, because I can’t find 6 people to tag (some I think might not like being tagged), and also because not many of those I know through the blogging world know of this new humble blog of mine.

Now I’m off to devour some freshly cut watermelons downstairs before the family gobble it all up!

Sometimes I wonder if I’m even doing the right thing. Amidst homeschooling three children, taking care of a multiple-allergic baby, and all the other extra stuff I am doing, I have often thought if taking up writing at this point in my life is a wise decision.

My mother told me, “It might be difficult for you to find time to write now. Maybe when they’re a little bigger.”

I see merit in her advice, to be honest, but my yearning to write still lingers. I realized that pre-baby, when the three kids were aged 7,6, and 5, I was able to find time to write, even though I was homeschooling. So maybe I should postpone, or rather maybe cut back on the number of commitments with regards to writing, for now at least?

Yesterday, I was writing up a post on the Motherverse blog, and yesterday, of all days, happened to be one of my bad days. I started writing up the post at the kitchen table, while feeding Baby Zoa, but had to stop because he was fussing. I then moved to the couch to continue writing up the post, but he kept fingering the laptop. So I gave up. Later in the afternoon, I started to place myself in front of the computer, but hubby came in the room, and I ended up chatting with him, after which he shooed me from the computer and took over. I lay on the bed, trying to nap, but I couldn’t.

That night, I tried again, and because the kids were asleep, Baby Zoa included, I was able to finally finish writing up that post, and another post on my homeschooling blog, but I hit the hay rather late, resulting in a morning nap today, which I don’t really like.

Hubby told me, when I told him of how I wasn’t able to do anything because of Baby Zoa’s irregular schedule,

“Write when they’re asleep.”

“When would I sleep then? He still wakes up at night,” I protested.

“Sleep when he naps, when you nurse him.”

Maybe there is something there in his suggestion. I find myself trying to steal and squeeze writing time during the day, because doing so gives me a sense of accomplishment. I used to aim for great goals, but I have learned to cut them up into small chunks and be satisfied with accomplishing small amounts (a big feat for a perfectionist!). Waiting for nighttime seems a little, I don’t know, unappealing to me, at least right now, when the summer days hog the 24 hours. During the day, there are stuff to do, I don’t guarantee I will be able to nap with him, and this would only result in severe sleep deprivation for me. No thank you!

So, I guess we’ll see how things turn out. Maybe I’ll yo yo in terms of how much writing I want to do. I did think,

Maybe it would be better for me to rack up knowledge in my deen at this young age, and postpone the worldly dreams for a later age. That way, my hereafter would inshaallah be more secure, and if Allah allows it, I can still get my writing done at the age when the mind is at its peak; 40.

Maybe that’s a better deal? My effort to write feels like it’s not being blessed much right now, maybe Allah has different plans for me. Maybe it’s time for istikharah…

I was reading an article called The Write Attitude by Jennifer Applin in the The Writer Mama Zine, June 2008 issue when it struck me; that’s why I have trouble outputting!

Successful writing requires creative energy, and when you’re burned out, and just writing because you want to keep at the ‘write everyday’ routine, your writing feels forced. I have experienced that many times. And each time, I felt depleted, as opposed to fulfilled.

I notice that when I write with creative energy, I walk away from the computer feeling utter satisfaction and fulfillment, and in a much better mood to deal with the everyday challenges three children and a baby provide. But when I force myself to write, I often find myself rummaging for elusive vocabulary, staring at an annoyingly white screen, and feeling agitation at the fact that in a few minutes I have to go downstairs to cook dinner, feed the baby, and serve the family. I walk away from the computer feeling deprived and incomplete.

I will take heed, and try to write when creative energy abounds.

I stood with my back to the wall, forms in hand, screaming my lungs out. A huge hound dog, a retriever, and two smaller dogs surround me, sniffing and attempting to lick me. The hound was probably as long as I am tall, and on four feet, its head reaches my elbow. I shrank back in fear of being licked.

“They won’t hurt you.”

I knew that. I was just worried they would lick me. It was like a parody of a National Geographics; a woman clad in a black abaya and hijab screaming hysterically because four dogs of various sizes were sniffing her out.

“Here, indigo. Come here!”

I guess they were just overzealous in welcoming newcomers. It just happened that this newcomer is not dog-friendly. While I was shrieking my head off, my husband stood calmly and watched me, simply saying,

“Don’t run.”

I couldn’t help but submit to my flight and fight response, and I moved every time they approached me. Well, maybe approach is a pretty mild word to describe their ‘welcoming’ attempt. I even looked at the van, where the kids were safely in, for some form of help.

They must be laughing at me, I thought, as I wondered what was happening behind those tinted windows.

It took quite a while for the dogs to leave me alone, and after I calmed down, I felt rather foolish, embarassed and sorry.

She must be offended that I was so scared of her dogs.

“I’m sorry. I just am not used to dogs.”

“Oh, I’m sorry too. They’re just obnoxious. They won’t hurt you, they’re very friendly, but they can be obnoxious in the beginning.”

I talked to her about enrolling my ten year old in the horse-riding session for the summer, and interestingly, while we talked, the dogs ignored me, well except for the hound, who sniffed and probably licked my back. By then though, I wasn’t hysterical anymore.

The retriever, with a tennis ball in his mouth, tried to get my husband to play with him.

“He wants to play,” I said to the lady who owns these dogs and the horses.

“Yeah, he’s a retriever, so he always has something in his mouth.”

We left the place in one piece. I had the fright of my life, but at the end, I think those dogs seem quite adorably friendly. For once, I guess I can see why people like them as pets.

However, I think I’ll save myself some embarrassment and stay clear of dogs in the near future.