this blog is not dead

There is something incredibly liberating about spamming greenades on a horde of zombies and watching them die. This post ish all about how to kill zombies with finesse.

Nah.

Waileng cheated with her Cameron post. So shall I. Meeps, I am too lazy to produce any semblance of belles-lettres.

(I drank all that)

(you'd only see this on Thursdays)

(D: nostalgia)

(vitagen is a flavour?)

(national school uniform : D)

(D: too literal)

(booze!)

(the horror)

(nearest mac: 5km away)

(all hail the great huan)

(the tile in the middle says "air-con" - it used to be a big deal : D)

(obscenely cute)

(new semi-Ds in the area)

(these dogs last had a bath five years ago)

space

On Japan's multi-storey graveyards:

"I think it will be nice to be stored with other people. It's more fun, there'll be company."

(But really, that's like some HDB version of the afterlife.)

14 - [ i would appreciate the view though : D ]

13

12

11

10

9

8

7

6

5

4

3

2

1

see

and bunnies

I need a private diary

It is the ultimate insult to say that I am a naive pampered self-centred typical adolescent kid who cares only for her individual quality of life and has absolutely no intention of repaying her parents for their investments of time and love.

I love my parents, I really do. I don't want to make them sad or disappointed. I definitely want to let them live a good life upon retirement. I want to give them lots of money and make them proud of me.

I really don't want to let them worry about me. I don't want to let them down. I can't stand the thought of floundering down my path of interest (passion - that's so overused, isn't it?) and having to trouble my parents to fish me out of crises in the future. U zyr'd ifir pikur zudn zned la khertlydnihm zyoct dnurg. Ifihayri iqbisdm e losn lyhi ybecimsird wodohi wyh li. U'l msehit yw ryd cufurk ob dy zned U luknd pi.
U nedi dy pi micwumn. U zyoct nedi dy dnurg dned U'l micwumn.U cyfi la behirdm e cyd e cyd.
Ayo! Dhyopcit yfih zned?? Lyhyrus licytheledus mosgih!!! LYHYR LYHYR LYHYR. Zned ehi AYO shaurk yfih? Aie huknd, ayo ert ayoh bihsiufit dhyopcim in?

I don't think I'm even coherent anymore.

Some things should be recorded down

With flair or without, that's no matter xD
This evening, I noticed a dubious letter from NTU atop the usual pile of bills and mags. I fully expected an early Good Friday addition to my collection of NTU-endorsed greeting cards (which I keep lovingly under a heap of dated magazines and assessment books).
Enclosed within was a letter:

Dear Ms Tang

Congratulations! The University Admissions Selection Committee has approved your application for admission to the Nanyang Technological University (NTU) to read the following programme in academic year 2009-10, which commences on 11 August 2009:

Communication Studies (First Year)

Behold the words in bold. No interview, no essay, nothing. And barely a day after the closing date for university admissions? Surreality. But I'm glad~
*sings in joy: satsugai! satsugai!*

my dream

(This post is loooong overdue. Remember I had a scary dream after my harrowing Grade 5 theory exam? Well here's the draft I wrote of it but never got around to completing it:)

You know how singer-songwriters would dream about a melody one night and turn it into a sensational pop song the next day? (Famous examples include Angela Zhang's 夢裡花.)
Well it has finally happened to an aural fanatic like me! Perhaps all that brainwork during my theory test has finally tapped into the most obscure regions of sub-consciousness in which I might have astounding musical talent!
So anyway, this is the product of my talent:

Imagine PMS and Ho Dong and Haha and MC Yoo on a stage, dressed in sparkling white suits. Dancing. I remember clearly that PMS did a perfect V-split standing on his hands. MC Yoo had a bowler hat on. Ho Dong was doing ballet. I was in disbelief (so should you).
To me left. Wu Zun was looking at them, nodding in approval. He has a nametag on that says "Manager". He was giving verbal directions to Haha on how to moonwalk (??).
Back to the stage. The four guys were dancing the intro to a to-be groovy hiphop song. Wu Zun went up to them and gave guidance on singing (you must be low and indistinguishable like me!! oh yes). Then, abruptly, they started singing a 70s' style beach song in Fei Lun Hai's voices, aka unison singing with an incredible amount of off-pitching. The song was godawful - the lyrics was like:

Noo noo no, I am young and worldly
Ohh ohh oh, I am more than nobodeeeeeeeeey~~!!
(repeat)
(repeat)

I can remember the tune still. Egad.

(this draft ends abruptly here)

this shall neba happen again T_T

This is, quite simply put, the worst day of the year. I am in no mood to recapitulate this with flair. I shall only record it succinctly as a reminder of horrifying consequences of certain long-standing habits. Begone.

I reached there on the dot and was the last to enter the examination venue. I was asked to produce the entry proof and omgwth it wasn't in my bag. Took me fifteen minutes to retrace my steps, disturb someone's toilet affair and retrieve the uncooperative piece of paper. (It was sitting nonchalantly on top of the sanitary bin.)
The label, the one with my name on it, was defiant too. Apparently I must have dropped it in my bag or at home or in school or whatever. Anyway, it certainly wasn't with me, so I had to take a few minutes off to fill in an "Anomalies during Examination" form. The examiner wasn't happy.

My mechanical pencils? A bunch of insurgents. The green one had about 4mm of lead left. The purple had but a miserly (but still of some utility) 1.4cm of lead in it. It's akin to a time-bomb. I had to ration out the use of pencil over the five questions. (I ran out by the time I got to checking my answers, so I had to resort to holding lead between my fingernails. Eww.)
Question 2 hated me. I redid the question twice. (Which also equates to waste of lead.)
Question 4 and 5, with some optimism, wasn't a German extract. Oh yes. The Italian term I was tested was this:

pochettino piu mosso

Three fairly common Italian words. I knew all three, certainly. BUT.
Pochettino means very little.
Piu means more.
Under all schools of thought (except Zen and yoga and the like), something less is never more. Never ever.
(Anyway I settled for "a little bit more movement". Screwed.)

The last ten minutes was spent on a cranial debate on whether a fagotti is a trumpet or a trombone. (I later realised it was neither. It was, in fact, not even a brass instrument.)

The ultimate misery? The Gee song looped fifty times in my head. By the second hour it was accompanied with images of PMS dancing the Euro dance. (This been said, I wonder why I am buffering yet another Xman video in the neighbouring tab -__-)

Anyway I was so traumatised I slept immediately when I got home.
This shall never never never happen again. God forbid. (While I imply moral decay amongst my belongings, I do understand it was my fault entirely T_T)


P.S. I had a traumatising dream in my sleep too. I can only say it involves a song and IC guys and Fahrenheit. More on it next time~

ah, I don't get it again

Me - headache and an exceptionally acrid mood.
Today was a day of constant crossfire, with me firing pellets of "engineers work like hell and earn like shit!", and my opponent discharging rounds of "yar, lose face when all your peers drive larger cars than you do!".
Any passing remark (even on who gets to eat the mushroom curry puff) gets taken to be a caustic retort to godknowswhat and develops into a bout of toldja-so! and I'm-right-you-suck! and the like. Both parties claimed to be oracular and flung about visions of the glorious life (my side: of jetting to goodnessknowswhere everyday on the pretext of requirement; her side: of earning big bucks for doing nearly nothing and living in a condo and driving a posher car than anyone else).
If you listen to me, each will say, all these and more can be real. So we say.

need a break

ah, I get it now

How this blatant truth had eluded me for the past 18 years is atrocious.
My naivety was appalling, wasn't it? 18 years of a life with no worries for lack of material necessities made me a disgusting snob who believed herself to be advocating for love of life in her incessant wish to go against the mainstream culture (in a call to be "true to one's self").
But that me is no more. I understand now.
Worrying about personal interest is but an intensively selfish obstinacy. I thought I could, but it was only 'cause I saw none of the society's cruel but valid circumstances. My sheltered life permits no such view. As of yet I still see none. But it's there.
I still have choices though, to pander to my egocentric need to have freedom (in modern days, a desire that's nothing but pop culture's romanticism).

I can do law, or bioengineering. I can choose a double degree if I want to.

My parents were so happy when I told them of this. It made me happy ... kind of.

when I'm not the first to think of it

The idea spawned and consumed me in an instant.
The spark came when I missed out one double-u in www.blogspot.com, and I was directed to this blog in a language my computer can't read. That aside, isn't it novel to have an address like that - ww.blogspot.com?
So I thought, I would like wwww.blogspot.com, but it was taken by this deeply philosophical random Iranian blogger.
wwwww.blogspot.com was seized by a Mexican (I think) who shares my fondness for parenthesises. (Pardon the irony.)
wwwwww.blogspot.com and wwwwwww.blogspot.com were adopted and forgotten, for they were but "experiments". They have horrible camo-green colour schemes. The same sucker took wwwwwwwwww.blogspot.com too, but at least there were characters on it. I refuse to acknowledge that stuf lik tis cn b counted as wordz ... neva ... neva wif mi
(disclaimer: this is personal opinion, not judgement of any kind. huan cannot be held liable)

And I spent the next fifteen minutes on a crusade of [w X x-variable] blog-hopping, encountering anything from proper blogs (wwwwwwwwwww.blogspot.com, that of a Japanese student who obviously owns this blog as a practice pad for English) to utter nonsense wwwwwwwwwwww.blogspot.com, I like cheese too but I like your blog's name more).
There are loads of bloggers out there. Anywhere imaginable. (That's the mandatory cheesy realisation of a mature blogger.)
Anyway I've safely established that if I want a like blog name, I'll have to go for
[breathes] wwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww.blogspot.com

The sad thing is, that exceeds the character-limit by one wubby lousy double-u. That's my spate of luck in recent hours, but I'll like to say with feigned optimism - I'm using up all my bad luck! YahoO! By a stretch of fallible logic, maybe I'm subconsciously accumulating my fair fortunes for the day that wilt maketh me. That fifth day of the moon. Whither shalt I go? Methinks, an I wert bright, I wilt go hither. Withal aplomb, I shalt go.

Now what?

I'd admit that I feel hurt whenever my parents express incredulity at and inconfidence in my abilities to survive down a perceived non-conventional career path. So much so that I've continued to emanate the same festering indecisiveness and non-existent self-assurance I've carried with me throughout my formal schooling years. How sad. Sometimes I baffle myself. Much as I have known myself to have thoughts of a heretic, I've somehow (paradoxically) stuck to the rules of a conformist, perhaps more in a straggling fashion but still safe within the green area of what's it and only it. I don't like to think I'm another one of those obsequious denizens of Singapore, but I sure behave like one, even if my brain regularly carried out protestation in microscopic ways, such as not studying for little tests or not doing tutorials and such (both are ostentatious actions of pseudo-non-muggers, which I now look back on in disgrace). The farthest I have tested the boundaries, if of any worth to boast about, is perhaps when I took literature in JC (oh no, don't get me started on how I'll flunk my lit in As -__-). So there. I've existed (nominally, at least) as the characteristically Singaporean acquiescent student for fifteen years, and possibly continue on as a duteous and well-trained article of the celebrated workforce of Singapore. I'm reluctantly reminded of those old-school Ministry of Manpower posters that depict happy labourers lovin' it ...
(Yesh, I've been excessively employing hyperbolic expressions, but do allow me to wallow in my own piteous clay/mud hole for a few paragraphs more.)
(Or you can just stop here. This is a rant.)
My only lucid thought: I don't want to look back (say, fifty years later), and think, oh, so that's how I lived my life - like any other 69-year-old, I had worked 10-hours-a-day-5-days-a-week-45-years-a-lifetime. But then again, why do I have to have such aberrant ambitions? What's wrong with being ... ordinary? As far as I can see it'd only bring me good family, good dough, and a good round-the-world trip after I've retired. A patently nothing-goes-wrong path. But to me, even the paraphernalia (please, not related to paraphelia) associated with the mundane life scares me silly.
Why why why.
I can't comprehend my own thoughts. In fact, my post is going off in so many tangents I think I shall just stop here. Also that I've merely been repeating myself. Whatever that's up there is probably worth less than noisome carrion. Anyway, it'd do me no good to blog myself into a grandiloquently depressed mood just before I sleep.

An aside: I've settled (tentatively) for something that's arguably normal. Being a J-O-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X can hardly be considered a deviance from the norm, can it?

P.S I've scanned the entire post and found it incoherent and insubstantial. All the big words (all Graveyard Book's fault for filling my head with words to do with death and gloom) in there conveys nothing more than pomposity that invites mockery and disdain. No, I'm not requesting you to display the mentioned emotions. In fact, you should only feel apathy, or nothing at all. Rest assured this post will be taken down A.S.A.P ... until I've lightened up enough or when I've finally contorted myself into the mould of what I should be.

Slow Is Good.

I've decided to blog about this in a different post, because it's of a decidedly different nature, and I do not want this musing and introspective side of me to be tainted by the unintelligent malice of dah previous post. To put it simply, I want to keep my alter-egos separate. To prevent internal personality conflicts, you know?

Anyway I've started work, and work is always hectic and backache-causing. (Never mind that I was forced to don a fluorescent yellow shirt against my will.) (Never mind that I've actually only worked for three days.)
I have a fifteen-minute break everyday, and there isn't much you can do with fifteen minutes. Maybe take a walk round the entire building of shops. Or finish half a cup of mashed potato from 7-11 (I'm a slow eater). There isn't much to do around either, except maybe hang out at the hawker centre and gossip with the workers there (that's what the other cashier-aunties tend to do).
So on one of these stellar fifteen-minute break, I suddenly had a craving for fried ice-cream from the stall which I've seen a couple of times but never had the urge to patronise before. I went up to the stall to find the uncle sleeping soundly in his chair. Seeing that my precious fifteen minutes might not last till his nap is up, I proceeded to wake him up with a chorus of "Uncle! I want ice-cream!". The old uncle looked up and had one of those guileless smiles to his face.
"Xiao mei yao chi ice-cream ah?" He said it in this I-have-all-the-time-in-the-world tone.
Then he sluggishly unfolded his legs and hobbled over to the fridge, whistling this I-am-the-happiest-man-in-the-world tune.
As he fried the ice-cream in the lukewarm oil ("Xiao mei, deng yi xia you re ah ... "), he kept up this languid but amiable conversation. I couldn't help but strike up a comparism between his service and the service of the bubble tea ladies - the ladies were motorised and efficient, but didn't seem to care very much for their wares and patrons. On the other hand, this old uncle was cheery and in no hurry (my fifteen minutes was slipping fast), as if frying ice-cream was the best thing to happen in his life.
Contrary to feeling impatient, I actually relaxed and fell momentarily to the old uncle's pace of life.
(The ice-cream was pleasantly piping hot on the outside, and the cold filling was nicely contrasting.)
Then I looked at my mobile phone's clock and realised time was up. So I hurried back to my counter, but not without the lasting aftertaste of fried mango ice-cream in my mouth. (It was so everlasting, I still burped fried-mango-ice-cream two hours later.)

Erps, I didn't intend for this post to be a mushy musing on life. Never mind, I shall steer it into neutral territory. The conclusion is, fried mango ice-cream rocks, and I think fried strawberry ice-cream might rock even more. We'll see tomorrow.

P.S. By next Wednesday I can chuck the stupid neon-yellow shirt!

the CYNIC strikes again

It seems the cynical side of me has a penchant to surface whenever I witness sartorial disasters ... Welcome Huan teh Cynic.

Case A in point: A middle-aged lady who begs for attention. Visually. Picture this - a semi-transparent chiffon blouse which showcases her electric-blue bra perfectly. Brown leggings which hugs (passionately tight) her and highlights her cellulite-filled thighs. Moving down, we see normal casual strappy sandals, but WAIT. What's that? It looks like a riot of colours, randomly and unstrategically placed on each foot to render a gaudy and dorky circus-look to her feet. The culprit in question is a pair of unsightly, garishly coloured socks paired with sandals. If you look into the hidden book of sartorial rules, sandals and socks never, ever, ever, ever, happen together. Never in a good way, except in heaven-born miracles. More on the socks - the base is of a dirty mustard colour, and each toe is coloured a tawdry version of a random colour in the rainbow.
Imagine it.
Now puke. (I am mean.)
Please take note that I only caught sight of her for a mere one minute, and the absurdity of it all seeped into my brain and claimed a permanent spot. Involuntarily. There's more to it! The lady in question was also holding this oversized clutch bag that was entirely monogrammed with LVs (it was also in the signature brown characteristic of Louis Vuitton bags). I've never seen an LV handbag that big in my life, nor do I deign to believe it exists in the catalog of this French luxury brand. That aside, I'm not chiding her for not being able to own a genuinely branded bag. I just think it's ostentatious to pretend to have one, especially if one thinks the bigger the bag, the more bling bling goody it is.

Case B in point: Any one of the random Singaporeans wearing mass-produced (usually in stock factory colours) tank tops with mass-produced mini pants (usually khaki or denim) together with plastic flip-flops. There is this sameness to most females in the crowd because they have decided that Singapore's weather is too hot for better-looking clothes (I agree with Jiani that Shanghai has way better-dressed people T_T).

Huan the Cynic says ...
To death with both. It's either tried too hard (A), or didn't try at all (B).
I am just plain mean, but Simon Cowell is meaner.

P.S. I still see no signs of the stated elegance leng claims my writing has. mehss

the CYNIC appears

Woot I'm back.
Where was I? Only on the most fabulous slimming programme ever, the Flab-Losing Ultimate package! If you haven't realised, this has been the trend in our image-conscious little red dot. It consists of involuntary exercises of your tummy muscles (for your dream waistline) as well as slow heat over your entire body (burn those fats away!). The results are nothing short of amazing: I lost 2kg in three days when all I did was to roll around in bed / read Beedle the Bard two times / read my brother's storybooks / read my sister's biology notes / read the random manual for my new DVD player / try to read the Tamil version of the random manual mentioned previously. Too bad, admittance into this programme is dang exclusive, so don't try.

Let's move on to real content. Anyway, I've concluded that my blog has been decidedly cheerful, and it's time to put more weight in my words. You know, to give my blog this mysterious edge. No more skip-around-lala-I'm-happy Huan. You see? Huan has decided that she will look at the world in (deliberately made) smoke-tinted glasses. Don't worry, the effect is temporary.

(what you see below is mostly non-fictional.)
Which male teenager presented below is considered more fashion-urgh worthy?
Case A in point: The guy in a grey pasar malam Mickey Mouse sweatshirt, waist-high maroon pants, over-the-ankle school socks and sneakers
Case B: The guy I saw 2 seconds later, who was decked out entirely in Billabong merchadise. ENTIRELY.

Huan the Cynic says ...
Both induce uncontrollable retching and winces of agony. Exhibit A obviously shows no signs of EQ, for it was written in the hidden book of High School law that Thou Shalt Never Tuck In Your Shirt, Nor Wear Socks Above Thy Ankles. It is very likely that he was The Geek in school. Exhibit B, however, certainly knows that Billabong is one of the "accepted" brands of coolness that secondary school kids fawn over. But there's cool, more cool, and overkill. B must have no mind of his own. His peers probably have been feeding him with these notions of "style", and B has not only followed them ardently, he has followed them to the point of no return (there is no way for him to refund his Billabong cap, shirt, pants and bag now). Let's go back to A - still untainted and self-absorbed in his own cocoon of pasar-malam clothes. BUT!! with a little help from Auntie Dawn, A still has potential to be the next school hunk! B, on the other hand, might be forever stuck in his thinking that he is but the lackey of the cooler boys in school - for they owned more Billabong items than he did. How sad! At the very least A is unique, so I say B sucks MORE!

the end of teh pointless post

P.S. I'm dying for some Auntie Dawn humour!

dey first post after a loong long time

... and dey first driving and aikido lesson! Finally something in my life worth blogging about.
(I'm sure no one will be entertained by a post on how I'm jobless and moolah-less.)

Driving was kind of disappointing. No VROOM-VROOM madness. I'm surprised that my instructor did not expel me, when he had to say "You are too fast!", and "What lan eh, dont push so hard, will spoil the gear leh!", and "Oi, going too fast!", and "Eh, please dont speed round the bend!" and "Omg please dont touch the accelerating pedal anymore!" and various permutations of swearing and cursing revolving on me going faster than a chugging snail speed. I bet I can cycle faster!
Anyway, my teacher still deemed me suitable to try out driving on real roads (prior to that I was training in this random lorry carpark which was filled with more Toyata sedans than lorries). Real driving on the road? More Math test than arcade racing.

A typical mental journey goes like this-
Hands: Steering wheel on straight
Right leg: Slight presssure on accelerating pedal

*chug chug chug chug chug chug chug chug*
(instructor: okay, STOP line ahead!)

Eyes: see that the first arrow is covered by the bonnet
Right leg: Move to brake pedal and apply pressure

*car lurches to a stop*
(instructor: omg you only press the brake pedal that hard in an emergency!
me: sorry sorry
instructor: Green light!)

Eyes: see green light
Brain: count for one second
Right leg: move to accelerating pedal, apply pressure
Hands: Crossover motion, to the right at moderate speed

*vroom rooo rooo rooo rooo rooo ..."
*car swings to the right*
(instructor: okay very good but can you don accerelate so much ah?
me: eh I think my right leg is very insensitive -___-)
*ooo rooom mm m ch chu chug chug chug chug chug chug chug chug*

-repeat from above----^

So there. Driving is less thrilling than riding a tricyle. Just too many rules and short-tempered commuters to deal with -____- So let's move on to aikido!

What did I do on my first lesson?
First, to turn with style. Serious. Turn left/right/back, all covered.
Second, which is a lot more useful, is a toned-down simulation of mob fighting. Basically, three people will try to push their palms into your face and you must be ready to deflect them all.
Next, roll around. The proceeding half hour was filled with loads of rolling. Tuck and roll from the front. Tuck and roll from the back. Pay a roll of money for lessons. Pay another roll of money for e uniform. I used to roll a lot in kindergarten xD so this wasn't too difficult.
FINALLY, a basic aikido technique. Which involves pwning whoever who tries to grab your wrist. Very useful for kidnapper/mobster/gangster scenario ... not that I've ever met with such a situation -__-
Anyway it was still good fun. Dong anyone else wants to join me? x)


P.S. someone give me a job please!

feet glorious feet ~

Yesh! It is what it looks like - macarons! Sublimal domes of sweetness ... complete with feet! omg omg omg

Okay let's rewind a bit here. I had been itching to make some of these meringue confections for quite a while, so for weeks I would fawn over macaron sites and pore over all kinds of Internet recipes, filling my cerebrum with all sorts of scientific macaron theories. As most famous chefs say, cooking is as much a form of art as it is of science x)

So anyway, finally believing that I can handle these temperamental babies, I slaved in my kitchen for four hours today. And macarons popped out.

But of course that is only the summary x) Now let's go into details:
NOTE: this account is really detailed. read only if you absolutely have to or if you are simply too bored

I followed this recipe (but in actual fact I had fragments of about ten other recipes floating in my grey matter o____o)

a. Sift almond powder & the icing sugar TWICE. It’s your chance to get rid of the not-so-fine almond powders.
I used a normal household sieve and spent twenty minutes trying (in vain) to get my almond meal through the mesh. Then I concluded the ground almond I bought belongs to the "almond meal that isn't quite fine enough" category. So I got out my juice blender and pulverised my almond meal. Problem solved.

b. Line baking tray with cut-to-size baking paper (or prefably a silpat if you’ve got one). Place this tray on top of another tray (Doubling up the tray delays the heat cooking the Macaron from the bottom. This insures that the outer surface is dried up first before the inside starts to lift it up. This is what makes that all important ‘foot’ & the smooth surface that is not cracked).
I absolutely do NOT have more than one baking tray, nor will my mum ever be convinced to buy me one o____o (on a side note: I requested an electronic balance for my baking attempts and she came home with a $2 mechanical scale from Cash Converters)

c. Have a piping bag ready.
No problem x)

1. Whisk the egg whites with the icing sugar. Whisk until stiff peaks.
Let me ramble a bit about egg whites - I read somewhere that grease ABSOLUTELY must not come into contact with the whites, and as I did not possess proper plastic gloves, I used those transparent bags people put curry puffs in. Moral of the story: buy plastic gloves. (I had omelette for dinner)
I read somewhere else that aged egg whites are divine for macaron wannabes, and read somewhere else else that egg whites put in microwave ovens for 10 seconds are as good as old whites. To be safe, I sacrificed two tablespoons of egg white at first - and they cooked. Entry No.1 - utter failure. The second time round I set the dial to low heat and popped another spoonful in for 8 seconds. Good to go xD
Okay finally to the whisking part. I read somewhere else else else that the egg whites must be brought to a foam first. QED. The same source uses caster sugar instead, and asks for the sugar to be added "a little at a time". As I was whisking, I held to only one mantra -
"NEVER NEVER NEVER OVERMIX."
Images of overbeaten batters (courtesy of Syrup and Tang) flashed in my head and scared me to near death. But that aside, I did get a mixture that yielded "stiff peaks" [checkpoint "till stiff peaks": pass] and was really shiny [checkpoint "glossy meringue":pass]

3. Deposit the pre-sifted dry ingredients (almond powder & icing sugar) in to the white in one go.
Many recipes call for four or more additions, so I went for the majority's opinion x)

4. Use the spatula to fold it in. Once all the dry ingredients has been incorporated & dissapeared, you must check wether you’ve reached perfect consistency. Test by lifting up the dough with your spatula - HOW DOES THE DOUGH FALL? If it is not falling down in ‘GENTLE’ continuous ribbons, try mixing it a tiny bit more. The technique for mixing at this point is to “fold & press” your spatula against the side of the bowl to deflate the air out of the whites. Do this til you’ve passed this vital ‘dough fall’ test. But just remember, don’t over mix it either… (This folding process is called ‘macaronage’. This is the most tricky bit of Macaron making. I find that you can only know how much one should fold by practising again & again…)
Yesh. This is THE killer step that defeated countless of budding macaron-makers. A quote from David Lebovitz recipe: "One extra fold, and it's all over". Gulp.
All along I had the impression that "folding in" consists of literally folding the dough into half, but these videos 1 2 3 steered me back onto the path of righteousness. Note that the pattiseurs in these videos look like they are abusing the batter, really. So by imitation, I abused my batter. My mum thought I looked clumsy, so she took over and abused my batter. After the last trace of dry ingredients disappeared I literally hollered STOP. My mum had the honour of performing the falling ribbon test and OMGicantbelieveit it did fall as ribbons. I did a little dance at this point.

5. Spatula the mixture in to a piping bag. (tip: having the bag over something like a juice decanter like the picture below is much easier than the professional way!)

6. (skip this if you’re using silpat) Scrape the left over mixture from the now empty mixing bowl & smear it under all four corners of the baking paper. It’ll act as a glue to stick the paper to the tray.
I didnt do step six coz my baking paper was obedient enough to lie flat to receive macarons xD

7. Pipe 3-4cm rounds on to the baking paper. Make sure to leave at least 2cm around it as it will spread later.

I sucked at piping for the first batch and ended up with a dozen misshapened freaks o____o My mum did two circles and omg, they came out as circles. I got better for the second batch though. The trick is to hold the nozzle low and to let the batter ooze out like toothpaste.

8. Once all piped, drop the tray horizontally on to your work surface to knock some air bubbles out & to spread the dough out a bit. (If you’re doing this at night, & you’re worried you’d wake your kid upstairs (for example), layer some kitchen towels on the work surface to dumb the sound!)
This Is Fun.

9. Leave it aside for 20-30 minutes. This is to dry the surface of your macarons. After the time is up, check how dry it is by gently touching the surface. Does the dough stick back? Leave it aside for another 10 minutes. Once it’s not sticky, proceed to the next step.

I didnt actually waited half an hour. Another quote: "Let them sit for a few hours? No way, we just popped those suckers in the oven right away."
But I did wait for the skin, which took about 10 minutes to form. There were some cracked domes in my 2nd batch, which might be due to not enough "skin", as claimed by Syrup and Tang. I'll keep that in mind~

10. Prepare your oven shelves - you’d want to place your trays on middle shelf. I’d like to cover the shelf above it with foil so that there’s no direct heat hitting my Macarons & discolouring it brown.
My oven has one and only one shelf~ But my macarons never got close to browning. Not with a lousy wheezing oven like mine

11. Pre-heat oven to 190 degrees.

12. Pop your trays in. (Make sure they are doubled up!!) Sit by your oven with your oven gloves.

13. Once ‘the foot’ graciously appears (it’s usually after 4 - 5 minutes), & has reached it’s maximum height, open the oven & quickly but safely take the bottom tray away (meaning don’t double it up anymore). Place the macarons tray back in the oven.
14. Change the temperature dial to 170 degrees.
15. Bake it for another 5 - 7 minutes. If the colour of the surface is starting to brown, turn the oven off, keep the door shut, & bake it with the remaining confined temperature.
Honestly I've never seen more complicated oven instructions o___o I read through this bit a zillion times and committed it to memory. Basically I kept reciting to myself "190 degrees, wait for foot, then 170 degrees for 5 minutes". I even ate duck rice by the oven (lunch). This was where there was a momentary moment of sheer heartbreak when absolutely NOTHING happened in the oven for 15 minutes. Glops of macaron batter remained glops of batter. At this point I replied Waileng's sms and said something about how this will turn out to be just like foam cookies (a previous failed attempt to create meringue cookies) yada yada ... I went out to the dining table to finish my duck rice, while the sad glops sat on for about 10 more minutes under their sun of 190 degrees.

...

Then the miracle happened. I was at the sink washing up my bowl of duck rice when I thought I might as well clean out the baking tray.
And omg feet. The glops in the oven had feet! Feet feet feet! The coveted feet! The feet! Not just any feet but the great feet of macarons! I positively danced in front of my oven.
*insert melodramatic victory-march-esque music*
I was in too good a mood to even feel worried about the burnt bottoms of the mishappened freaks (as the cookies of batch 1 are known). It's small wonder that they are burnt - they sat in that oven for a good twenty minutes! Gross overtime, and macarons are all about precision!
So anyway I happily piped out the 2nd batch (which later became the macarons you see in the photo above) and popped it into the oven, but only after I've given my ancient wheezing oven a good fifteen minutes to warm up.

Results
Skin: B1 macarons have much harder sugar shells while B2 macarons have lovely, fragile skins
Interior: B1 macarons are really chewy and tough. B2 macarons aren't x)
Bottom: Some B1 macarons stick to the bottom of the tray. All B1 macarons have chaoda bottoms. B2 macarons all have good bases xD

19. Pipe the ganache centre mixture (Please read the ganache recipe below) or any other mixture of your choice & sandwich the Macarons together.

Lesson learnt: wait for the ganache to cool and semi-solidify before use. Contrary to popular beliefs, chocolate everywhere is NOT a good thing.

xxxxxxxxxxxx

So anyway, I conclude that my first attempt isn't bad. the only sad thing is I have to wait till tomorrow before I can munch on them -_______-
It is the hardest rule to follow.




P.S. I napped for an hour after the whole adventure o__o