I was only 8. At that age, it’s perfectly natural for your imagination to kick into overdrive. There were so many things I’d imagine surprising her with. So many things I wanted to make for her. So many things I wanted to buy for her. Unfortunately, at that age, you also have limited financial resources. So all imaginations and wants came to a halt.

But I still wanted to do something special for her.

So I chose breakfast in bed. Yes, cooking. At that age. That was like volunteering myself as a human sacrifice in an ancient ritual killing AND giving my barbie doll collection to the founder and co-founder of that cult. So yes. BEST MOTHER’S DAY GIFT EVERRRR.

I was going to surprise her with home-cooked eggs, sausages, baked beans, with toasted bread. All from the pantry. All of which she paid for. Ah, the simplicity of being 8.

It was as early as 7am. I slaved myself into the kitchen with one eye open. Being 8 also meant that you were vertically challenged, so I had to pull a chair from the dining table to the kitchen stove. I also remembered burning the first few eggs. I guess some things really never change.

Eventually, my sunny side up came out acceptable. The sausages looked slightly shrunk but still visible and 60% edible. And the toast, as usual, was a bit burnt. Just a BIT. The only thing that looked like it was supposed to, were the baked beans. Yes yes, because it came out of the can. But I microwaved it perfectly.

Once everything was settled, I decided to present my scrumptious surprise with a side order of cereal and milk.  That turned out to be the main meal –if not the only edible meal– after all. That, and a tall glass of orange juice. Apparently, adding splashes of soy sauce, table spoons full of salt, and dashes of pepper into every dish was a bit too overwhelming. My ultra-imaginative senses told me that more ingredient meant tastier food. It lied.

One thing I’ll never forget was her expression. She smiled wider than a sunny side up. Her face glowed brighter than a glow stick in a rock concert and her eyes almost teary like a diamond. It was priceless.

I was her BEST CHILD EVERRRR (To my siblings, sorry you had to find out this way).

Today, I woke up to an equally fantastic surprise. Raja made me breakfast in bed. Not because of any occasion. Not because of a fight. Not because he was held at gun point. But just because he felt like it.

I smiled wider than a sunny side up. My face glowed brighter than a glow stick in a rock concert. And my eyes almost teary like a diamond. It was and still is priceless.

For a single moment, he made me feel the same way I think and hope my mum felt in 1991. And I love him for it. BEST HUSBAND EVERRRR. I love you baby.

Just some random pic I dug up.

A question. A question that has been lingering in people’s mind. A question which has eventually evolved to being expressed more and more often within these past few days. Among family and friends. Something I dread to hear again. Haunting me.

“Are you, *clears throat*, Are you pregnant?”.

I feel like barfing and giving my best performance of being pregnant the next time someone decides to come up with that question again. Just for kicks.

It didn’t bother me at first. It really didn’t. It was weeks ago when the first person asked me that question. I just smiled and care-freely shook my head, denying such rumors. Perhaps it was just one of those things that people like to bombard on newly married couples. Breaking the ice maybe. Well, similar reoccurring events happened thereafter. Same questions only by different people. I just absorbed it like a piece of bread in a glass of milk.

But the final straw was when I received a text message earlier today. A friend of mine dreamt that I gave birth to a baby girl. Seriously? Am I channeling weird pregnancy vibes across town. Even into dreams. How is this possible? It’s official. Everyone, except the clearly relevant individuals in this relationship (Raja and myself), knows about our made-believe-baby. A girl nonetheless.

Let me clarify things. NO. I AM NOT PREGNANT. Don’t get me wrong. I’d love to break my back carrying a foetus around for 9 whole months, withhold any sudden urge of projectile vomiting, and battle the unpleasant agony of a beautiful child birth. Just, not now.

So I look at myself hard into the mirror this morning. And yes, maybe me putting on a few pounds had probably contributed to some of those speculations. Big time. So I’m fat. Fatter than before. Does that really relate to being pregnant? Ok, maybe it does. Because of that, I decided to put an end to this madness. At this moment of weakness, I had finalized my two best options of doing so.

Method 1: Exercise more and eat healthily. Which is why I made this healthy looking salad for lunch today.

And my personal favorite. Method 2: Fatten Raja up to make me look slimmer. I’m really relying on this second alternative, which is why I made this greasy unhealthy looking fried chicken and fried potato with chili for HIS lunch. With lots of rice of course. *Evil grin*.

My mission backfired though. I ended up eating the leftovers. A piece of chicken and 3/4 of that chili potato. AND my salad. I ate more that him!

Maybe I SHOULD just continue pretending that I’m pregnant. That way, I’ll be able to carry the weight with some dignity. Nobody laughs at a fat pregnant lady.

For those of you who are not on the same page, Keith Floyd happens to be one of the finest chefs in the world. Finest. Fine-expensive-est (See how I added that subliminal message in between? See it? See it?). But it was worth Raja’s money. I’m presuming it seeing that I’m his favorite wife.

Anyway, Keith Floyd’s food is simply amazing. At least his recipe is amazing because obviously Mr. Floyd didn’t personally cooked the meals himself. He was definitely somewhere on the other side of the world whipping up god knows what miraculous dish for his hundredth cook book. Show off. So whomever his prodigy were, they made an excellent dinner for us.

The menu was crazy. Pages and pages of mouth-watering dishes. Everything looked so good. We ended up ordering the lobster bisque as our soup starter. The tom yam goong and green curry prawn, which are clearly main courses, as our appetizer. And a heavenly juicy steak with a really really long name. I seriously can’t remember. The serving came exactly in those order. So when the “I-can’t-remember-the-name-steak” arrived, we were already stuffed.

But come one, this is FLOYD we’re talking about. I didn’t care if I had to sleepover there to finish that steak. I WILL finish that steak. As I successfully cramped that last cut of meat in my mouth, I glimpsed at Raja. He looked bewildered. Bewildered that he just married a ‘black hole’ monster. What? I hate wastage. And I don’t care because I know I’m still his favorite wife, regardless.

This wasn’t just any dinner though. It was our first formal dinner outing together as a married couple. Yeah yeah, you can count on Mrs. Big-a-Dealio to list all the “first” activities as a couple. Brushing that aside, I can’t think of a more suitable, more romantic, more fabulous place to have our first dinner than an exquisite restaurant on an island. Floyd’s Brasserie. Thanks baby. And Juliana too for recommending the place.

But for my love, I’ll do it. I’ll step into the kitchen. I’ll pick up that knife and start chopping and dicing. I’ll put the pan on the stove and dare I say it, “try” to make something. But here’s the thing. I’m no Martha Stewart. I’m nothing even close to housewife material. I’m just me. Renee.

Then I hum to myself “I think I can, I think I can, I think I can”. So I picked up an onion, rummaged through the fridge for some tomatoes, broccoli, cauliflower, and mushrooms, and took out some prawns from the freezer. Next thing I knew, I was making prawn tom yam. Ok, so I forgot to mentioned that I also used a packet of pre-made tom yam paste and condiments. And yes, I am aware that most of the time I was actually just boiling things. But still, prawn tom yam? Come one. That’s got to be like a 10 out of 10 for effort, right?

Impressed with my newly found untalented domestic skill, I snapped a quick picture of that thing called lunch. As I snapped, I kept thinking “I thought I could, I thought I could, I thought I could”. Like that little engine, I did it.

Ok, maybe it doesn’t look so appetizing but it beats having an empty stomach.

Now all I need to do is convince myself that I can do this for the next 50 years. “I think I can, I think I can, I think I can…”. Rolling my eyes.

Ok. So it was a pretty big deal for me. A huge one. For now, I’m in the midst of moving everything into his house, halfway arranging my clothes, and mostly trying to get used to this wifey thingy. I’m not purposely trying to skip the wedding details and jump straight into marriage life. Fear not, but I will totally elaborate more on my wedding infos once I’ve received the official wedding photos. It’s no fun blogging without pics. Besides, what crazy chic wouldn’t want to ramble on and on about her wedding day? Sheesshh!

Anyway, after a whole week of traveling. Non-stop. Seriously, from KL to PD back to KL then again to PD to Phuket back to PD and finally to KL. It was like a roller-coaster ride. Finally, the world stopped spinning and we took a breather as we stepped into OUR (Say it with me, Aawwwww…) home. The house looks fabulous by the way, which is another story. I didn’t know if I was still high from the traveling or tingly from the wedding day but I decided to do the unthinkable. I cooked. Like, I volunteered to wash, chop, season, fry, garnish, etc. You know, cooked and all. Ok, so it was only breakfast. But let’s not lose focus here. I cooked! I mean, I tried to cook.

I can only think of 2 possible meaning to this madness. Either I’m so madly in love with Raja that I attempted to cook. Or he’s so madly  in love with me, he forced himself to swallow that thing down his throat. Which ever way, I like em’ both. I’m totally digging this whole ‘I’ll die for you’ thing. Here’s to more breakfasts to come and hopefully lunches and dinners too!