Okay. If you're not Enoch, please don't read this. I'm worried my e-mail to him is gonna bounce. He asked me to write this, and I was too desperate for any paid writing job that I didn't tell him I've eaten rojak maybe three times in my entire life.
B),
What, exactly, is rojak? I’d call it the impossible salad. A muddle of unlikely ingredients: tofu, mango, turnip, dried shrimp paste, cucumber, pineapple, peanuts and tamarind. You eat it with skewers, or forks, or chopsticks. It’s sweet and salty, spicy and strange. You have another taste, another helping, and with every bite, it’s different.
It’s like Singapore: a mess of racial, religious and generational cultures, thrown together on a plate, neither clashing nor disappearing into a common blend. We’re the unworkable working, a chaos that finds coherence in the mouth. And before the tongue is bored, we change recipes and discover a new sweetness. Ultimately, we surprise even ourselves.
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