A Weekend as the Fifth Daughter

I bet y’all could tell I was absolutely wiped out last night because—surprise, surprise—I didn’t manage to update my blog. But hey, in my defense, I had a fantastic weekend wandering around JB… with my friend’s parents… without my friend.

Lunch: 2.50 SGD

Yeah, I know. Sounds weird, right? Like, how do you casually chill in a room with your friend’s parents when your actual friend is MIA? Awkward? Maybe. But not for me! I’m practically part of the family at this point—her mom even calls me her fifth daughter! (They already have four daughters, by the way, so I guess I just got unofficially adopted.) My friend is the eldest, and the youngest two are twins. And let me tell you, when I first met them, telling them apart was mission impossible. But after seven years of friendship, I can now proudly say I can tell them apart… from behind. (Which, honestly, sounds creepier than I intended.)

These girls are a blast to be around, with their own secret language and inside jokes. I love that about them. Anyway, back to my weekend—so on both Saturday and Sunday, I went out for breakfast with their parents because my actual friend, XT, ditched us for a bridal shower in Malacca. (And trust me, she had thoughts about it—oop.) The twins? Yeah, they’re not morning people, so they were out of the equation. So there I was, stepping into my fifth daughter role, happily fulfilling my breakfast duties.

Of course, being the responsible, self-sufficient adult that I am (haha), I tried to pay for the food. Because, y’know, I have a job now, and these wonderful people have taken such good care of me. But did I succeed? Nope. I lost the battle of paying the bill again. One day, I swear, I’ll master the art of winning at bill-paying. One. Day.

Besides breakfast, we also hit the supermarket and the wet market to stock up on veggies and meat. It brought back major nostalgia—like those early morning pasar runs with my mom back home. Ah, the unforgettable smell of fresh produce, raw fish, and raw chicken. Not exactly pleasant, but oddly comforting in a childhood-memory kind of way.

Then, on Saturday night, we hit up a Korean restaurant called The Hong. I’d been there once before in my last semester of uni, but here’s the heartbreaking news—it’s closing down and moving to another area. (Not that I’m a huge K-food fan, but still, it stings.) Naturally, I had to order their signature Jjajangmyeon, which, fun fact, is way too much for one person. But did that stop me? Absolutely not. Also, their fried chicken with that sweet-and-sour sauce? Chef’s kiss.

The MVP!

Jjajangmyeon before...

Jjajangmyeon after!

And guess what? Breaking news: I think I like kimchi now. Yeah, me. The same person who used to gag at the fermented smell. Either my taste buds finally matured, or I’ve been tricked into liking it through sheer exposure. Either way, here I am, officially tolerating kimchi. Growth.