Growing up, I learn, is marked by eating the food you once hated. If you had told the young me that I would one day queue for an hour to eat porridge, I would have said “fat chance” or something to that effect, but in Bahasa, because the young me wouldn’t have been familiar with the saying “fat chance.” But here I am, on the ground floor of Plaza Singapura, sitting in a plastic chair, waiting for my queue number so I can exchange my Singapore dollars for Tim Ho Wan’s three BBQ buns and a bowl of congee.
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