When my mother passed away in November 2001, a family friend
(and retired Katong Convent teacher), Mrs. Koh, tried to console me with these
words. “God has summoned your
mother. He must have said, ‘Polly,
you need to come to heaven to make pineapple tarts for Christmas.’” I thought that this friend Mrs. Koh was
being facetious. Perhaps not. This past week, God has indeed called
another baker to his realm – the other person I wrote about in my cookbook
chapter ‘The Housewives Baking Club’.
Aunty Paddy lived across the street from us at Yarrow
Gardens, so began my chapter about the passion that my mother and her had for
baking and selling cookies in the weeks leading up to Christmas and Chinese New
Year. Indeed, this would have been
around the time that they would have geared up for their annual cottage
enterprise. "About ten weeks before Chinese New Year", she said. Aunty Paddy had in
fact called my sister back in September to find out how she could repair her
oven. I last saw her in early
August when I called on her one afternoon.
Aunty Paddy was a tremendous help with the infamous
‘cookbook project’. She guided me
on the principles of baking, tweaked my recipes if they seemed off, provided
the other perspectives of my mother’s life (the cooking classes, the cookie
business, her personality as a wife and mother). She was so generous that she even opened up her kitchen for
our photoshoot and let me pull out all her tools as props. In a relationship that first began with
me as a child bunking over when my parents went away, to a more recent one
where I made customary calls unaccompanied by any of my ‘big’ sisters, I had
come to know her for her maternal demeanor, her mature outlook about life and
her pride as a mother and doting great-grandmother. She was a vessel who
conveyed the traditions, customs and values of a Nonya, who carried over the
things I did not get a chance to learn from my mother while I lived abroad.
She was unabashed about berating me for the long delay of
the cookbook. I took it seriously
because indeed, there were too many figures in the book who were getting old
and might not be around to see its fruition. When the book finally came out, I drove over with a pile to
show her that finally, we had done it. She beamed so proudly – one of those priceless images that
told me that it had all been worthwhile.
I had captured her generation of
‘mothers/housewives/cooks/tailors/bakers” and had preserved one bit of legacy
for them all.
Ironically, Aunty Paddy had a stroke while I was enroute to
Singapore last week. During my
sixty hours in Singapore, I had been told that she was in intensive care and
that I would probably not been admitted in to see her. Besides, I did not want to intrude on a
private moment for her immediate family.
Yet, I wonder if she would have chuckled to know that yes, I had come
back once again. “Gila! Macam
duduk bus”, (‘Crazy, like hopping on a bus between New York and Singapore’) was
her favorite refrain everytime I appeared at her front gate. If only I could have proven once again,
that I was there to see her one more time.
Aunty Paddy once asked my mother if she could move in when
her loved ones were no longer around her. Of course, my mother did
not fulfill that promise.
Sometimes, I would leave Aunty Paddy and see her wave me off at her
gate, a lone figure straddled between being a survivor who had outlived most of her
family and friends, and pained by a somewhat quiet existence save for her
children and descendants. I’d like
to think that finally, she’s moving in with my mom and all those she loved once
before.
.jpg)