Sometimes it’s hard to say even one thing true
When all eyes have turned aside
They used to talk to you
And people on the street seem to disapprove
So you keep moving away
And forget what you wanted to say
Little bird, little bird
Brush your gray wings on my head
Say what you said, say it again
They tell me I’m crazy
But you told me I’m golden
Sometimes it’s hard to tell the truth from a lie
Nobody knows what’s in the hold of your mind
We are all buildings and people inside
Never know who’ll walk through the door
Is it someone that you’ve met before?
Little bird, little bird
Brush your gray wings on my head
Say what you said, say it again
They tell me I’m crazy
But you told me I’m golden
I know what I know
A wind in the trees
And a road that goes winding under
From here I see rain, I hear thunder
Somewhere there’s sun, and you don’t need a reason
Sometimes it’s hard to find a way to keep on
Quiet weekends, holidays, you come undone
Open your window and look upon
All the kinds of alive you can be
Be still, be light, believe me
Little bird, little bird
Brush your gray wings on my head
Say what you said, say it again
They tell me I’m crazy
But you told me I’m golden
I’m golden
– Lyrics from Little Bird by The Weepies –
We are all multifaceted creatures. There was a time, years ago, when I felt a need to impress, and I hung out at quirky bookstores searching for obscure literary books so that I’d have a topic of conversation should the need arise. What I didn’t bank on was a failing memory, one that would ensure that I’d be tongue-tied when someone finally asked me something that required an intelligent answer and I’d go, “hmmm…that is an interesting question… *long uncomfortable pause*,” and wait for the earth to open up and swallow me. I think age makes you realise that you don’t have to pretend. That people don’t gauge your worth by the books that you read or your degrees or the number of skiing trips that you make every year. And then, there is another side of me. Beneath this ageing figure is a girl who twitters at the sight of pretty objects and is warmed by a shade of pastel blue because pretty colours make her happy. Oh to sit on a deckchair in verdant vegetation in an infinite landscape with The Weepies on my iPod and nothing in my head.
Little things that make me smile. Being presented with a hand stitched menu printed on scraps of cloth announcing simple Japanese offerings like miso soba noodles with egg and chicken katsu curry don. Chicken rolls and okonomiyaki. Tofu cheese cake. The attention paid to detail. A perfectly cooked egg yolk in my miso soup that, upon breaking, oozes out smooth buttery liquid sunshine. Tender pieces of chicken that are breaded and freshly fried and served with thick sweet Japanese kare. Seaweed rolls, with chicken and crabstick, that are far from soggy, the texture so light and crisp, as if shrouded by a blanket of virtual starch. A fluffy and simple okonomiyaki deriving its flavour from eggs and prawns. A tofu cheese cake that is not very sweet, reminiscent of desserts consumed in Tokyo several years back.
There is no rich datin behind the cash register.
Run by a boy, a girl, and a mother, Poco Homemade is clearly a labour of love.
Poco Homemade
1 Lorong Kurau, Bangsar, KL.
Map on website.
Tel: 03-2287 5688
Opening hours: Tuesdays to Sundays. 12pm to 9.30pm. (Closed Mondays)
