Book Marks: The 'Script Thief, Awards, Regrets, Etc.

I used to do these "book marks" a lot when I was more active in monitoring goings-on in the industry that interest me, but seeing potentially multiple-figure counts of such posts tagged in the sidebar made me reconsider a few times. Then I hit a slump and stopped writing here for a while.

However, this habit helped to keep my toes in book- and publishing-related waters, so i'm getting back to it. And I have a lot to catch up on.

Let's start with the strange case of Filippo Bernardini, who stole hundreds of unpublished manuscripts, made ripples in the publishing sphere sometime back. Why would anyone want to pilfer 'scripts that would be kind of hard to monetise?

Recently, in a letter to a US federal judge, Bernardini claimed he stole the 'scripts because he wanted to read them. After failing to get hired at a literary agency where he had interned, he schemed to get people to send him manuscripts and it snowballed into a scam of sorts. But apparently his aim was not for profit:

“I wanted to keep [the manuscripts] closely to my chest and be one of the fewest to cherish them before anyone else, before they ended up in bookshops. There were times where I read the manuscripts and I felt a special and unique connection with the author, almost like I was the editor of that book.”

Kind of puts things in perspective for a certain segment of the publishing industry, doesn't it? And I speak as an editor of many books for a little over a decade. I've seen my share of 'scripts, some of it bad, and on certain days I wished I was doing something other than reading or editing them.

While some undoubtedly are calling for harsh penalties – theft of any kind in the book world is heavily frowned upon – someone at the Literary Hub thinks otherwise, because:

There are crimes and there are crimes, and this ... isn’t really a crime. Right? A lonely fantasist tricking a handful of agents into leaking manuscripts so that he can feel the illicit thrill of reading them a few months early is as close to a victimless offense as I can imagine. We didn’t send any bankers to jail after the financial collapse. No Sacklers will serve time for their part in the American opioid epidemic. Surely we can’t condemn this meek Italian bookworm to the depravity of the US prison system?

Not sure how much of this is tongue-in-cheek, but I think quite a few will get in line to vehemently disagree.

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Author Viji Krishnamoorthy's debut novel, 912 Batu Road, published by Clarity Publishing, has been longlisted for the Dublin Literary Award. The novel is about two Malayan families' ordeal through World War II and the early 2000s when their descendants' forbidden love affair threatens to tear both families apart. Yes, the longlist was apparently announced on 30 January this year so I'm late to the party.

Speaking of awards, Tom Benn has won the Sunday Times Charlotte Aitken Young Writer Award for his novel, Oxblood, about an intergenerational family in a council house in the 1980s. The Jersey Evening Post adds that "Previous winners of the award – which comes with a £10,000 prize – include Normal People author Sally Rooney, Surge poet Jay Bernard and White Teeth novelist Zadie Smith."

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Writing in Book Riot, Alice Nuttall notes that...

Sometimes, authors deeply regret the books that they have published, even if – and sometimes because – those books made their names or brought them wild success. Arthur Conan Doyle famously hated Sherlock Holmes so much that he tried to kill the character off permanently, only to be forced to bring him back after public outcry. Agatha Christie resented the public demand for more Poirot novels; she found her creation irritating and hated all the idiosyncrasies she had given him, something she wryly references when writing crime author Ariadne Oliver’s hatred of her own fictional detective character.

But Nuttall adds that "nearly all of the authors who went on to regret their books are white and most are men", probably because "it’s likely that there are simply not enough books being published by authors of colour for those authors to have those same feelings of regret about the work they have struggled to get out there in the first place."

What stands out for me on the list is Peter Benchley, who of course wrote Jaws. The witch hunt against sharks that the novel and the film adaptation allegedly triggered appalled Benchley, who would spend the rest of his life championing sharks and their right to live unmolested in the oceans. I found his participation in a National Geographic special on sharks, with photographer David Doubilet and notable shark attack survivor Rodney Fox, quite exceptional.

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An unlikely path to publication for a Middle Eastern author spotlights "some of the setbacks facing regional authors in getting their work read globally." Simply put: the lack of bookshops and slow adoption of e-commerce in the Middle East and North Africa means publishers struggle to just stay afloat, missing opportunities that could be had if they networked with international firms interested in their output. Can networking at international book fairs be the answer?

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More bites from the Literary Hub: despite being labelled the most wired demographic, Gen-Z still prefer print to e-books, apparently. In the same tone as the plea to spare the manuscript thief Bernardini, the writer goes on: "Citing reasons like eye-strain, digital detoxification, BookTok, and new book smell (seriously, right?), an overwhelming percentage of readers born between 1997 and 2015 prefer old fashioned paper books."

And it seems the FBI made notes about Pilsen Community Books, a Chicago-based bookstore, which is said to be "a meeting place for 'anarchist violent extremists, or ‘AVEs,’ environmental violent extremists, or ‘EVEs’ and pro-abortion extremists.” Bookstores through the ages have cultivated certain reputations based on what they sell, who they platform, and who runs them but wow. And this news surfacing around this period in American history...

Pressed Over Bookshop Presence

Self-published author Grace G. Pacie can't seem to get her book into bookshops, a problem she shares with "other successful self-published authors". She reckons it's because...

...retail book buyers are hiding from us. Retail book buyers have concealed themselves behind such a curtain of secrecy, that we just can’t reach them to tell them about our success. ... I’ve met all their criteria, distributed my paperback through a non-Amazon channel and made it available through Gardners Books. Every attempt to reach the big retail decision-makers in this highly centralised market has ended in failure.

Even though the fruits of Pacie's research on managing time "has attracted such amazing media attention that my title hit number three in the Amazon Bestseller lists for Business Time Management Skills, and number four in Self Help Time Management this month"?

Some retailers tend to prefer names that sell by the score (each day, preferably), so that might not be a surprise. Other considerations might be due to retail agreements that favour big names and big presses even more, further relegating self-published titles to the wayside.

Which might not be wise, according to our self-published author who can't get into bookshops. Because: "While the global publishing market is predicted to grow at 1%, the self-publishing market is expected to grow at 17% per year, and with a self-published book market worth $1.25 billion a year, change is inevitable."

Now, among collections of self-published books one would find some with unappealing covers, back cover copy that goes over the top, and less-than-ideal editing. Some authors who "go it alone" because they feel shut out of traditional publishing ecosystems by what they see as excessive gatekeeping often do so without subjecting their work to rigorous refinement, eager to see their babies on the shelf. The growing use of AI in producing books, some of which still qualify as books even with low page counts, might also explain this growth. So kudos to self-published authors who take the time to improve their work before putting it out there.

Just as not all self-published work is unpresentable, not all bookshops are prejudiced against the self-published. Perhaps smaller neighbourhood bookstores might offer a spot on their shelves for independently published authors? They tend to because, for one, they're more amenable to small-scale, more personalised selling agreements. Also, stocking self-published works burnishes the image of the neighbourhood store as an indie outfit where hidden gems lurk.

In a similar vein, supporting small presses outside the publishing sphere dominated by the Big Five – or Big Four? – may pay off for the reader looking for something different as they contribute to the industry via their wallets.

Because, as Kendra Winchester writes in Book Riot, "big publishing isn’t the only place where excellent books are made."

Smaller presses provide a place for a lot of books big publishing doesn’t want to take a risk on, like books in translation, experimental works, and books by authors from marginalized identities. Smaller presses know their communities and invest in the literature that they specialize in, making a way for a wider range of books to be published.

Winchester goes on to build her case for indie presses, which also include university presses, as publishers of works from the communities they serve and are, thus, platforms for the voices of these communities, as opposed to big-name presses that mainly push marquee names and blockbusting titles.

Not getting a space at brick-and-mortar bookshops shouldn't be a downer, considering that a lot of commerce happens online these days. Surely the fact that Pacie's book was well-received despite its apparent absence in bookstores means it's worth checking out. Perhaps it's because bookstores have an edge, according to a Forbes Advisor analysis, based on data from the U.S. Bureau of Labor Statistics and Google Trends: they are looking like the most recession-proof type of U.S. business in 2023.

Forbes Advisor ... calculated that the number of bookstores in the U.S. increased by 43% during the latter part of the pandemic and they also “enjoyed steady wage growth” during this time (+16%) as well as during the Great Recession (+13%). These stats, plus their “moderate startup cost” (around $75k, apparently), earned bookstores the top spot in the recession-proof rankings.

Regardless, books don't write themselves and bookstores, digital or terrestrial, need books to sell. And if people want to read something, they will look for it. So, authors, get your work out and put it where it can be found. But please, get it proofed and edited.

Growing Job Scope, Plus More Writing

More than half a year passed since I wrote a journalistic piece, let alone anything substantial and book-related. But among some additional responsibilities at work include blogging for the company's online retail portal, and in between the prerequisite promotions was this piece about how ChatGPT is helping people write their books.

When diving deep into the subject, I've had to revise my viewpoints and phrasing of some passages in the drfat a few times. Doubts over whether I did a good job – not great but merely good – still linger, mixed up with their counterparts from previous projects, and are unlikely to remain and feed new doubts raised while writing the next post.

Nevertheless, I'm pleased with the results, not just because it's been a while since I've done something like this and it seems to have jolted my writing gears loose after such a long while. Hence, I'd like to furnish the full text of the post here but given the nature of the new arrangements and to be on the safe side, I settled for a partial copy-paste with a link to the actual post.

Wish I could say "it's good to be back" but I think it's still too soon. I'll be fretting over what to write about next but until then, let me savour the relief of being able to write again.

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ChatGPT – the ghostwriter in the machine

In a book titled The Wise Little Squirrel: A Tale of Saving and Investing, a squirrel named Sammy finds a gold coin while picking up acorns. Sammy's friends Benny the Bear and Lily the Chipmunk then help the squirrel learn about the importance and benefits of saving and investing.

Sounds normal, except that the author, Brett Schickler, had help writing it: the software sensation ChatGPT, an AI interface developed by artificial intelligence research lab OpenAI that produces replies based on user queries. Schickler "wrote" The Wise Little Squirrel by prompting ChatGPT with queries like "write a story about a dad teaching his son about financial literacy". He also employed AI to design the cover...


Read in full here.

Love (Of A Language) Shouldn't Be Forced

The Malaysian Institute of Language and Literature (DBP) has proposed amendments to the DBP Act 1959 to give it more bite in policing usage of the Malay language.

News reports about the matter stated that "Individuals who do not respect the national language can be fined up to RM50,000 or sentenced to imprisonment."

“This is not about grammar or spelling errors, but disrespect for the national language. The proposed fine is not to punish but to evoke love and patriotism to the country,” said the chairman of the Institute's board of governors.

The proposed amendments will reportedly be tabled at the next Parliament session and likely to be passed, but I doubt the aims will be achieved without some collateral damage.

The news reports reveal little about the nature or details of the offences worthy of the ehnanced penaltiess. Even if grammar and spelling errors will not penalised, given the way Malaysian authorities work, one gets an idea of what "offences" might be targeted and who would be most affected: the poor, migrants, older people, and those not sufficiently schooled in BM.

Instead of evoking evoke "love and patriotism to the country", offenders are more likely to end up hating the laws and the Institute. Instead of uniting people, sections of society are pigeonholed based on their proficiency in Malay.

In many ways, how DBP polices language is the same as how the religious authorities police religion in this country, steadfast in the belief that the heavier the mallet, the easier their job. But mangling words or grammar in a language shouldn't be a crime, especially if done unintentionally. As a Finance Minister put it, "why use a sledgehammer to crack a nut?"

More egregious uses of BM can be found on social media. For one, the proliferation of bahasa WeChat needs to be checked.

Language is a living thing, and as in all living things, evolution and growth needs to be organic, and that involves making and learning from mistakes. How will anyone grow if they're made to fear making mistakes?

As much as the authorities like to think harsh punishments will lead to better things, it's not often the case. A conducive learning environment needs to be nurtured, not enforced. Unfortunately, the authorities penchant for the latter seems to suggest they don't have the aptitude for the former.

Love for something needs to be nurtured with knowledge, compassion and forgiveness. Teach and guide people through the basics, be patient with their progress (or initial lack thereof), and be kind when they stumble. Only then will people be more encouraged to learn and participate.

One example is how Indonesian VTubers from the Indonesian branch of the Hololive VTuber agency got their Japanese counterparts to use Indonesian. Never mind that most of what they picked up were swear words, at least they're learning.

A better instance is the collab streams by Hololive Indonesia's Pavolia Reine, where she teaches Indonesian to other Hololivers. Reine's a pretty good tutor, and watching her students pick up choice Indonesian phrases - and throw them back at her - is fun.

Yes, fun. Learning and using languages should be fun. Not an obstacle course at a boot camp for the US Marines. For an example of fun, DBP's official Twitter taps into the pulse of the local daily news cycle by serving up related word or phrase lessons, and poetry - enriching and entertaining.

I felt pangs of grief and a little pride as the Japanese VTubers threw choice phrases at each other and no one in general. Indonesian VTubers are building bridges to Japan, thrilling Indonesian audiences, while DBP fantasises about being a language sheriff.

Relentlessly controlling language - or any form of art, for that matter - will only stifle its growth and lead to fear of its adoption due to such unnecessary pitfalls as fines and jail time for any "disrespect".

And it's not as if the learning will stop with swear words. When the gates and penalties are gone, curiosity will take over and a new world will beckon. What kind of world that would be, depends on those who champion the language.

I think one way to get people curious about language is to tell stories. Well-told stories can be compelling especially if the tales being told share the same culture as the language used to tell it. The writing and production of recent mainland Chinese animated series such as Fairy Album and White Cat Legend got me picking up and rehearsing Chinese off and on. But that's just me.

Malay does have a use beyond urusan kerajaan, beyond an instrument of jingoistic nationalism. We just have to work out what that is.

Kitchen Hijinks And WFH

Not long after returning from my Chinese New Year break, the old fridge gave up the ghost. Every perishable inside had gone bad or was on the way there.

I've had a new fridge since then but getting back to cooking or making simple meals took a while. Even after the new fridge came in, I had waited for about 36 hours before switching it on instead of the six to eight hours for the refrigerant in the unit to settle down after transit.

Part of me feels like the fridge isn't merely a thing that keeps food fresh, but a kitchen helper. Was I trying to get acquainted with it before trying out things in the kitchen like I used to with the old fridge?

Anthropomorphising household objects might sound strange but it's how I feel about stuff I use and depend on regularly to make my life easier, especially things that have been around for a long time.

Like the old backpack I had to abandon when I found holes at the bottom. I tend to carry stuff in it - medicines, groceries and other things, and waiting for the bottom to give way while hauling stuff wouldn't do. The backpack was almost as old as the fridge, almost two decades, so having to get rid of two things that had been part of the household for so long felt poignant.

The deliverymen took care of the old fridge after bringing in the new one, while I disposed of the old backpack, my frequent travelling companion of almost twenty years. I wouldn't allow it the final indignity of going out as a trash bag, so I emptied it and laid it on the contents of a dumpster.

...No, I don't talk to the fridge or the backpack. That's silly.

At least I've started getting back to messing about in the kitchen like it was before the pandemic. With the arrival of a new powerful blender, a Phillips ProBlend 6 3D, the banana-oat-nut-and-seed smoothie made a return. This yummy meal replacement used to be a regular thing until my immersion blender blew out.

Though the new machine produces a smoother concoction, cleaning and drying it is bothersome, so I won't be using it more than once a day. I might need another immersion blender - maybe one with a food processor attachment - as the ProBlend 6 is too much of a monster for stuff like sauces, soups and pesto.

I miss the latter though, to the point where I pulled a jar of ready-made pesto off a shelf for home-made pasta. Crowds are still keeping me out of malls and store-bought is convenient. I get my bourgeois goods from a nearby corner shop, like a mini Hock Choon, though it hasn't stocked basil leaves for a long time since it first opened.

I also whipped up a prototype mun fan (Chinese braised rice) with roast pork and mixed frozen vegetables. Few things are comforting as a dish of rice drenched in the sauce from braising miscellaneous ingredients.

Some frying was involved to reduce a bit of onion to almost nothing. The post-meal clean-up was quite the chore as I had also neglected having a cooker hood installed while renovating the place. Will be quite a while before the next attempt.

Wraps have also arrived in the kitchen. Assorted fresh greens, some protein and a sauce rolled up in what is essentially a flatbread makes a satisfying meal. So simple, I wondered why I took so long to try it out. Roast pork, tuna mayo, garlic sausage, scrambled eggs, even tinned beef curry...

Ah, the possibilities. What's next? Coleslaw? Burger ingredients? A chicken rice burrito? The mind is still boggling. Unless I'm lazy or in a hurry, I won't be getting another tuna wrap from Subway.

A shame that I came to realise this a bit late. With restrictions easing all over, I expect my days of working from home to end, along with the cooking. Prepping for a home-cooked meal and cleaning up afterwards take up a fair chunk of time and switching gear back to work after that can be a pain.

Being a creature of habit, I confine certain routines to their places and hate it when things change halfway. Work is work, home is home. So when restrictions were lifted for the first MCO, going back to work felt liberating. Taking out food meant not having to prep ingredients and clean up the kitchen.

But working from home beats having to deal with the time- and soul-consuming commute to and from work, no thanks in part to the antics of Malaysian road users. Didn't miss that at all.

Nor shall I miss having to scramble for limited parking bays at work, or having my parked car blocked by trucks as they are being loaded or unloaded when I want to drive out for lunchtime takeaways.

One is often in a calmer state of mind without striving to beat the clock daily. When there's no work, chores can be done. A home always has something that needs tending to.

Looking Back At A Long-Gone Life

Lately, like many in my current pandemic-addled state of mind, I've been tuning to VTubers at the end of each day to wind down. Some of them have other talents than being entertaining on screen while streaming, and quite a few can sing well enough to put out singles and even whole albums.

One of these talents is the "rapping reaper", Calliope Mori. She's produced quite a few songs, some of which feature a mix of English and Japanese lyrics, and the apparent ease with which she comes up with them speak of many, many hours, if not years, of practice.

A recent original, "End of a Life", took me down an emotional memory lane. Something about the soothing yet melancholic number makes you want to listen to it again and again.

While I lack the vocabulary to analyse songs, I could tell from the lyrics that on the surface, "End of a Life" seems to be about someone - perhaps Calli or anyone in the music business - who feels nostalgic about their starving artist days.

Life is a series of stages, and when people are dissatisfied with what they have to deal with now, they tend to look back towards simpler times, no matter how rough and far removed from where they are now.

There's a certain romance to the journeyman's struggle: despite the bad bosses, bad co-workers, bad environment and other occupational hazards on a road seemingly going nowhere, something comes along that makes things a little better: that one good colleague, the kind waitress at the diner, or unexpected things such as a helping hand from a stranger, an epiphany that descends while savouring a dinner or a drink, or some serendipitous event. And the occasional trip to a rooftop with a view, with or without friends, and the cathartic ranting, singing or hollering away of the day's troubles.

Times may have been tough when you were up and coming, but these things kept you going, one day at a time. Eventually, you developed a camaraderie with the community and the place where all this happened. Each day fraught with hardship that's survived is an accomplishment.

But then you catch a break, you move up and life gets cushier. A sort of torpor sets in, not the stuck-at-the-bottom type but the lonely-at-the-top or the now-what type often encountered at loftier heights. The grind is different, not as real like when you sweated buckets for what you can now do with a flick of the wrist, forgetting that it's also due to all the experience earned along the way.

That's when you look back and feel like an impostor, seeing the past with rose-tinted lens. That's when you feel guilty for leaving the old hood and all your old friends behind, the ones who came up with you but didn't get the break you did. All this messes with you and makes you feel you don't deserve what you have now.

But wasn't all this what you dreamed of when you stared into the stars from that roof, holding on to the ghost of that beer or cigarette in your mouth as you wished that horrible boss would drop dead?

Near the bottom, the struggle was real, but so were the connections you made, the gems you found. Those seem to get fewer and farther between as you get near the top, don't they?

Each stage of life has its good and bad. Before long you'd notice it too. The grind, the lulls in between, and the end-of-the-day ritual for tomorrow. The environment may be better, but it's still the same. Less real, perhaps, because you aren't suffering as much.

That's the longing for simple days that creep in when you're down, that some people attribute to Stockholm syndrome. If only they knew, huh?

It's a privilege to be able to look back at a shitty life with such fondness for the occasional bright spots, and you know it. Not everybody is as fortunate. Maybe these trips back in time are a distraction from the anxieties of the future.

Maybe what you miss is being young, being tough enough to survive whatever life throws at you. The high from making it through a tough day that makes you feel like you will life forever.

Alas, all lives must end. Just as the shitty life ended for you, so will these best years eventually join that shitty life in the recesses of your memory, only to surface at the lower points when you're older and less resilient to the emotional battering from mourning the sweet spots in your past.

Until then, from time to time, you'll revisit the old hood, old friends, and that rooftop with the view, where you held on to the taste of that beer or cigarette, laughed at your bullshit dreams of the big time, and hurled curses or sang songs alone or with your friends.

And you'll keep wondering how they're doing and if any of them made it out like you did, or disappear into the lights of the old hood, as you mentally compose thank-yous you might never get to send to them and others who in their little ways, took you through life day by day until you caught a break - and dreading what would've become of you if they hadn't shown up. Will they even be there when you drop by? Do you even want to and risk opening old wounds?

We all have such thoughts occasionally. All these and more surface each time I replay the song. To what extent Calli drew from experience when she wrote this, or whether she made it all up, I don't know. But I feel they echo strongly within content creators, like the ones we're watching. Many of them languished in similar dead ends until they became online stars.

I didn't quite set out to write an open letter of sorts to the protagonist or anyone who find themselves in the protagonist's shoes in the song, but here I am. So let me finish.

Well, you toughed it out too. All the good fortune one can receive means nothing if you didn't put in the work. You are here, and the "you" who didn't get lucky is a hypothetical, erased by the paths you did take.

Some people didn't believe in you, put you down, didn't stick around. That's fine. Do what you're doing now for those who did. If they're real homies they'd be cheering and singing along with you, proud that you're taking on the world.

Even if the old hood is gone, it'll live on in the heart, still doing what it's always been doing to get you through life one day at a time. And now, you also have new people who support you. As long as one is alive, might as well cherish the good things, tough out the bad, and make the most of every opportunity.

So don't stop dreaming. We'll be here when you wake up.

Some Flavours From Home

Besides some home-made Penang Hokkien mee, relatives sent me three jars of home-made spice pastes last week. A cousin just started doing this on the side and is only making these pastes to order, so there's no big push to market.

But this was part of an unexpected but much-needed care package - that's what I'm calling it - as I've not been out to shop in two weeks while the second jab settles in, and the pastes added colour and flavour to my otherwise drab rice dishes that reminded me of mask-free days of yore.

You take it for granted that café or restaurant you found and whose dishes you like will be there forever - until they close down. I'm terrified of checking up on these. Who knows how many are still in business in the current situation?

...Ah, yes.

An aunt - said cousin's mom - offered me samples of the pastes through WhatsApp. These were supposed to be sold but she "belanja" me, she said. I took up the offer. If these are as good as the Hokkien mee, I'll be ordering more.

The noodles and pastes - two sambals and a ginger-scallion paste - arrived at the condo, Uber-ed to me by the cousin's husband. He arrived pretty late, so I could only figure out what to do with the pastes the next day.

I made a batch of rice with chicken stock, almonds, cashews, pumpkin seeds and sunflower seeds in a saucepan, then mixed it with a beaten egg. I split the rice into two portions and mixed one sambal with each. I would do this with the ginger-scallion paste days later.

The versatile and familiar Sambal Hae Bi perhaps needs no introduction. The meaty sweetness of dried shrimp in chilli paste means extra protein is optional ... though this one could be a little spicier. The texture is a bit rough but it's a given, and the occasional crunch of shrimp shell feels kind of good.

The temptation to add extra sambal is strong after the first few bites. This contains shellfish, so those with allergies are cautioned. Several relatives on my dad's side developed allergies to shrimp, a future that might be on my cards. But until then, I'll be living it up.

The Sambal Bunga Kantan - torch ginger flower sambal - was new to me, though not necessarily novel. Others, I would learn, are making this. Mellow, floral, yet zesty, it made me think of all the Nyonya dishes I've seen in cookbooks.

The flavours also brought me back to my family dining table in Penang - specifically, to Mom's sambal-stuffed mackerel. The stuffing might be the same thing, albeit another recipe.

Again, I just want to pile this on, but keep in mind not to mix other stronger flavours that tend to overpower it. Let it be the star in a rice or pasta dish, or spread on bread or croissant. I can also see this going into a mackerel or used as a marinade.

I couldn't find many uses for the ginger-scallion paste, which also has garlic. I imagine it would go well with stir-fried vegetables, atop steamed white fish, chicken or pork, or mixed into congee. I was surprised to find that it gave my base rice a Hainanese note - like chicken rice.

An ex-colleague suggested marinating some chicken with it, plus some soya sauce, then steaming it. I suppose it could also be used as a composite ingredient, like the ginger-garlic paste that YouTube chef Sanjay Thumma often uses for his curries.

Looks like raw chicken is going into my shopping list for next week.

I don't dare eat this for dinner or use too much of it because ginger really gets your blood pumping - not good if you're winding down before bedtime. Also, this paste tends to brown while thawing and exposed to the air, so it's probably best to stir it into whatever you're cooking as soon as it's out of the jar.

Wonderful stuff, though the pastes harden when refrigerated - probably because of the oil. No preservatives means a shorter shelf life - up to three to four weeks if kept in a fridge, but at the rate I'm going the jars will be empty by then. At least that's better than having to throw out what's left that's gone bad.

It would be great if this venture can grow. With so much competition out there, however, it'll be quite a slog. But in this climate, we do what we can. I wish The Night Owls success.