SOUL SCRIBBLES

The internet is collectively losing its mind over Coffee Bean & Tea Leaf’s tiramisu. My friend stalked CBTL one fine morning, only to be told she can only buy two tiramisu at one time. CBTL’s tiramisu is tasty. Yes, it’s photogenic. The taste is further enhanced with the Espresso Cream Crown, which you have to buy separately.  But, it is not a sacred relic. It’s a dessert that’s been chilling in a fridge next to the other cakes. Let’s not act like it was handcrafted by an old Italian nonna. And about that boozy kick everyone keeps raving about? Hate to break it to you, but real tiramisu — the one Italians actually eat — doesn’t even contain alcohol. No rum, no Kahlúa, no “mysterious adult flavour” you pretend to recognise. Just espresso, ladyfingers, mascarpone, eggs (I don’t have it in my recipe) sugar, and cocoa. That’s it. Also — and this is the kicker — tiramisu is incredibly easy to make. It’s a no-bake dessert that requires zero cooking skill and minimal effort. If you ca...

Going out with former school friends is like joining an unlicensed tour group where no one really knows the itinerary, but everyone’s having a blast anyway. What starts as a calm and civilised “Let’s meet for brunch/breakfast” often ends up as an epic makan road trip that spans multiple states and several digestive cycles. Take for example that one time we planned a simple, innocent brunch—Mee Rebus at TTDI, they said. Next thing you know, we’re three expressways deep and pulling into Muar, standing in line at Asam Pedas Askar Pencen, sweating from both the sambal and the sheer disbelief at how we got there. Apparently, one detour led to kerepek and satay and later in the day, durian. Then there was that legendary breakfast in Nilai. A simple morning meet-up, or so we thought. We were just there for some Lontong and Lempeng—but by noon, we were cruising toward Banting on a totally unplanned kerepek expedition. Kerepek ubi, kerepek pisang, kerepek that none of us could even name—if ...

  Okay, let’s address the elephant in the Grab car: at 63 years of age, I still don’t have a driving licence. Shocking? Maybe. But honestly, no licence, not a problem at all. Sure, I did signed up for driving lessons and had actually passed the theory exam — big achievement, right? I’m basically a certified theoretical driver. I know my road signs, my rules, and can even tell you what to do if a traffic light turns red.  But the actual driving part?   After passing the theory exam, I thought I’d be on the road in no time. Spoiler alert: I was not.  I had zero desire to learn about the  mysterious world under a car’s hood. Yes, one of the requirements of driving school is for you get to know the car better. I don’t want to spend hours memorizing pistons, spark plugs, or whatever that magical thing is that makes a car go vroom. If my car ever breaks down, I have a whole crew of mechanics on speed dial — and if worse comes to worst, there’s always Grab or a tow tru...

Twelve years ago today, I adorned the hijab for the first time. I chose the eve of Muharram 1435/2013—rightly or wrongly—to coincide with the spirit of  Hijrah , of change and renewal. I could have waited until my birthday on the third of Muharram that particular year, but honestly, once I made the decision, I couldn’t wait. When you’ve been on the fence for that long, hesitation quickly turns into “let’s just do this”. It wasn’t an overnight decision. I took my own sweet time, complete with dramatic sighs in front of mirrors and silent debates with myself. By the time I finally wore it, I already had a collection of scarves and shawls ready to go—as if I was preparing for a fashion show that I never signed up for. I’d watched just about every hijab tutorial on YouTube. They made it look effortless, like origami with chiffon. Me? I was mostly poking myself with pins and muttering words not suitable for polite company. I would stand in front of the full-length mirror for hours,...

I love food. No, really—I LOVE food. My weight reflects it, my wardrobe fears it, and my friends accept it as part of my brand. If eating were an Olympic sport, I’d be proudly standing on the podium, clutching a gold medal in one hand and a half-eaten roti canai in the other. I enjoy trying new dishes, hunting down hidden eateries and indulging in everything from humble hawker fare to multi-course tasting menus where each dish is described in three languages and comes with foam.  And I have friends (you know who you are!) who enjoy doing this, too. Food, recipes, and new makan spots dominate our WhatsApp chats. Once, a simple plan to eat mee rebus at Rasta TTDI somehow led to us ending up at Asam Pedas Askar Pencen in Muar—that’s how spontaneous we can be! Eating brings me joy, nostalgia, and a deep appreciation for culture, creativity, and the human capacity to combine random ingredients into something magical (or sometimes, questionable). But despite this very enthusiastic l...

It started innocently enough: a free Saturday, a baking class, and a vague hope that I might finally find a recipe I could bake successfully—without turning the kitchen into a disaster zone. If truth be told, I’m not exactly what you'd call a natural baker. One batch could’ve been used to repair potholes. Another collapsed in on itself like it had lost the will to live. But in that class, with flour in the air and a cheerful instructor who spoke of butter like it was sacred, something clicked. I found the recipe. It was simple, elegant, and forgiving—the dough came together with just the right amount of sass and softness. They baked beautifully: golden tops, fluffy insides, and a rise so perfect it could’ve had its own motivational poster. And here's the thing: baking is basically science. Delicious, emotionally rewarding science. It’s all chemistry in disguise—flour and fat forming tender gluten bonds, baking powder setting off tiny edible explosions to create lift, suga...

Let’s be honest: fasting outside of Ramadan sounds noble in theory. But in practice? It’s tough. In Ramadan, everyone’s in it together. You’re hungry? So is everyone else. Outside of Ramadan? You’re the lone wolf while your friends happily devour croissants like they’re starring in a pastry commercial. During Ramadan, you wake up for sahur with military precision. Outside of it? You set your alarm... and hit snooze seven times. You wake up at 9am with dry lips, an empty stomach, and a vague sense that you’ve made a terrible mistake. When you’re fasting in Ramadan, you’re spiritually pumped. You feel like a pious superhero. Outside of Ramadan, though? You’re still righteous—just a bit slower, a lot sleepier, and the siren call of Netflix after Isyak is  real. In Ramadan, there’s samosas, dates, biryani, and desserts named after Turkish soap operas—the full spread. Outside of Ramadan: you break your fast with a glass of water and a bun, because surprise—nobody knew you were fasting. ...

When I turned 55, I made a quiet promise to myself: that I would answer Allah SWT’s sacred call and perform the Haj before I turned 60. In 2019, Alhamdulillah, that promise was fulfilled. For 26 unforgettable days, I walked the holy lands of Makkah and Madinah, performing Haj Ifrad with a heart brimming with awe, humility, and deep gratitude. But the road to Baitullah was not without trials. Just three weeks before we were due to depart, I suffered a fall—one that shattered the top of my humerus bone. Surgery followed. My arm was immobilized in a sling, and my body was still in pain when our names — my brother’s, sister-in-law’s and I — were confirmed for the final Haj flight.  I was uncertain. Could I endure the rigours of the pilgrimage? Could my healing body meet the sacred demands of this journey? And yet, my heart knew the answer. This was a calling I could not ignore. I placed my trust in the One who knows best. I handed over the pain, the worry, the unknowns—into the care...

We got swept up in the Serumpun phenomenon — Mimifly fever hit us hard. It all began when we were planning a Hari Raya gathering at an ex-schoolmate’s house, and someone (who shall remain unnamed in this blogpost, but you know who you are) floated the idea of doing our own version of what we can confidently declare as THE Raya song of the year. We had three weeks to practice. Some of us actually did. One person only rehearsed when her family was out of the house — true commitment to secret stardom. Another practiced in the car, listening to the song at full volume and perfecting the hand gestures at traffic lights. She’s also the same person who, just one day before the gathering, asked, “Hey, what’s the name of the song again?” Yes, we made a video. Yes, it was chaotic. And yes, there was a lot of laughter — as there should be when you mix friends, music, and a shared delusion of grandeur. I’ve always believed that music has the unique power to transcend lan...

“Pandai buat Asam Pedas?” my mum asked casually—too casually—while I was visiting her in Putrajaya. I had come to accompany her, as my brother and his wife were away. Clearly, she had other plans. “Boleh,” I replied, confidently but cautiously. “Mysara pandai buat Asam Pedas,” she added with a twinkle in her eye and just the faintest touch of guilt-tripping. Of course. She had taught my niece to cook Asam Pedas. Such a classic move: praise someone else to subtly ask you to do the thing. In this case, cook Asam Pedas Ayam. Like a true Johorean, of course. To outsiders, Asam Pedas is just a dish. To Johoreans, it’s a personality trait. We like our food like we like our relatives—bold, fiery, and unforgettable. That tangy, spicy, aromatic broth is practically a rite of passage. One whiff of it simmering in the kitchen and suddenly everyone’s your best friend (or at least sticking around until dinner). In Johor, Asam Pedas isn’t just food. It’s heritage, pride, and probably the reason ha...

Why, you ask? Let me take you back to the 1970s, when I was a wide-eyed primary school pupil at the Convent of the Holy Infant Jesus in Johor Bahru. Yes, we had a dentist at the school. I don’t remember now how often we were summoned—twice a year, maybe? Time has blurred the details, probably as a coping mechanism. But the trauma? Crystal clear. The real suspense began when the school nurse strolled down the corridor. We’d all sit up a little straighter, pretending to be invisible. If she walked past our class, we breathed a sigh of relief. But if she knocked on the door, you'd say a little prayer that it wasn’t your name she would call. The chosen one would rise, pale as chalk, and trudge off to meet their fate. Some kids feared math. Others dreaded exams. But for us, true terror had a name—and it was spelt D-E-N-T-I-S-T. You'd shuffle off to the little white room of doom, your shoes suddenly sounding like thunder on the corridor tiles. The dentist's office looked inno...

Yes, I’m a hooker—but not the kind you’re thinking of. My weapon of choice? A 4.0 mm crochet hook and a ball of yarn. My vice? Soft fibres, vibrant colours, and the soothing rhythm of loop after loop after loop. It all started innocently enough. I’d seen YouTube videos of people creating beautiful blankets, bags, and scarves and thought, “Why not?” It looked oddly satisfying—therapeutic, even. “How hard could it be?” I asked myself. Fast forward a few hours, and I had crocheted my very first coaster. Started with small items such as these coasters I had no idea that this small act would grow into something much bigger—a source of calm, confidence, and connection. Also, I heard you can make money selling blankets and bags... assuming you ever bring yourself to part with them! Well, I have given away my  creations as gifts —coasters and face prayer mats for close friends, a blanket for a friend's sister stricken by cancer, and a bag for the telekung. Each piece carried not just yarn ...

Late last year, I heard rumours that Spotlight was closing its doors in Malaysia. The staff said they haven’t gotten any memo yet on the closure. But it is confirmed now. I felt an unexpected ache—like losing a dear friend who had quietly, consistently been part of my creative journey. It wasn’t just a shop I visited; it was the place where my love for crocheting and sewing was not only supported but truly ignited. More often than not, I would walk into Spotlight with no clear project in mind—and walk out with arms full of colourful yarn, a couple of crochet hooks (although I already have plenty!), and a head buzzing with ideas. Every visit sparked creativity, joy, and self-discovery. From soft pastels to bold, textured fibres, Spotlight’s yarn section was a playground for the senses. Every colour told a story; every skein held potential. It became a ritual—those quiet, happy trips where I’d browse, dream, and imagine my next handmade piece. Scarves, baby blankets, bags… all of it beg...