Context Trumps Content When Breakfasting in a State of Nua
Context Trumps Content When Breakfasting in a State of Nua
Boiled Chicken Frankfurters on Bintan Island
The universe aligns and a public holiday falls on a Friday. The weekend thus extended, I decide to join many fellow Singaporeans in taking a trip off of our little island and going for a “staycation”: a short getaway, a mental quick-fix, an escape from the stifling world of doomed deadlines and corporate neck-breathers.
My usual travels involve backpacks, itineraries, and a general sense of mobility. Staycations, however, are largely spent in a state of nua. Literally translated from the Singlish-Hokkien vernacular as “soft and mushy,” the process of becoming nua stems from a movement towards inaction, progresses towards a lot of relaxed nothing-doing, and ends with a gradual melting into a puddle of bliss. This time, I choose a no-frills, locally-owned beach resort on neighboring Bintan Island as the institution in which I will answer my call to nua. Whilst the thought of vegetating the day away on an inclined deckchair is more than enough justification for a staycation, strangely enough, what I look forward to most is the morning after, waking up (hangover optional) to the complimentary resort buffet breakfast.
The fare? A haphazardly plopped myriad of quick-fixes in a futile attempt to cater to every taste bud represented in the guest count. The food quality? Second-rate, at best. I can already picture the menu. An interminable assortment of over-fried bacon and boiled chicken frankfurters. Limitless glops of heated, canned baked beans. An egg station manned by melancholic chef-bots, programmed to understand that the difference between a scrambled egg and an omelette is the addition of a slice of cheese (of dubious plasticky texture, no doubt). Fried noodles tossed in the previous night’s buffet dinner leftovers. Sliced white bread, over-toasted to perfection no thanks to unreliable dial configurations on the conveyor belt toaster oven. Dusty granola clumps with milk, dispensed from beer pitchers. Housefly-visited excuses for salads. Fresh fruit juices right out of the packet. Burnt coffee and watered-down tea.
And yet, I know that I’ll be smiling in contentment at the breakfast table, as scenes of nua play out all around me. The grins on a couple’s faces as they playfully tease each other over a shared plate of semi-watered watermelon. The placid expression of a middle-aged vacationer as he combs through the papers whilst munching on floppy bread. The laughter emanating from a clique of high school BFFs; omelettes always taste better when doused with a liberal sprinkling of youthful exuberance. All of us, seated at different tables, yet sharing a tacit understanding that partaking in this meal will set the tone for the day ahead; one of no agenda, one where aimlessness is not viewed as a sin of sloth, but a blessing of bliss. When it comes to breakfast in a state of nua, context always triumphs over content.