23 05 2012

I LIKE to think that I’ve achieved an acceptable level of personal independence.  I had managed to live on my own for a year and a half in the States.  And by next week, I will have survived my eleventh month here in Singapore.  But it doesn’t hurt to feel taken care of sometimes.

I don’t actively seek it out.  But the feeling gets to me whenever someone shares food with me.  A lot of people can tell me, “take care,” but it always becomes more palpable when something edible is involved.  And I say this not exactly so much because of the actual food, but more so because of the note that would almost always be attached, as if heralding the advent of these comestibles.

The notes – these “foodnotes” – appeal very much to the sentimental in me.  And I would never throw any of it away.  Seriously.

Unlike a footnote that serves as a minor detail or an additional minor comment placed way below the major body of a printed text, a “foodnote” to me could be all that I would care about.

I cherish these foodnotes long after I’ve munched on the treats.  I may keep them in my notebook.  I may stick them on a wall.  Or, I may tuck them away somewhere.  But one thing’s for sure, they’re already on my mind and in my heart.  Now that’s saccharine sentimentality.  And that’s me.





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