I hate to eat and run, but...

You could call me a food fugitive--the curse of a weak stomach tends to make me eat and run

I'm a true-blue Singaporean. As a native of the land of plenty when it comes to food, I can - like many of my fellowmen - be counted on to go abroad and, within a few days, start hunting for the nearest Chinese take-out joint, dreaming of prata, yearning for mee goreng, and kicking myself for not having brought along a bottle of Sin Sin chilli sauce so I can at least smother my double cheeseburger with it.

Oh, there's no denying my taste for rich, tongue-burning, eye-watering food. I just don't have the stomach for it.

If I fancy a plate of greasy char kway teow loaded with harm (cockles) and krok-krok (deepfried lard bits), I'll wash it down with a piping hot cup of teh-o. No tall, sweating glass of teh peng for me - not even on a scorching day.

The guy at my favourite meepok tah stall serves me a work of art - flat noodles swimming in onion oil, vinegar and garnished with minced pork, prawns, fishcake, a couple of fishballs and the inevitable krok-krok - sans the dollop of super-hot chilli sauce. If I'm feeling brave, I'll ask for a just a dash of chilli for more authentic flavour. Any more, and my stomach burns and I have to make a run for it.

Much as my husband loves taking me with him to Katong to slurp up a bowl of laksa without the use of chopsticks, he usually ends up bringing a packet home to me, where I can zap the lot in the microwave for a couple more minutes to make it hot enough to burn my mouth. Reasoning: if my lips can't feel a thing, then neither can my stomach, so it won't stir up any trouble.

Going for a banana leaf lunch or a spicy Thai meal with friends is a major tactical maneuver. First, my handbag is re-stocked with tissues. Then I down a couple of my trusty Lomotil pills before heading for the restaurant. Once there, I recce the place, taking care to take a seat that allows me freedom of movement while making mental note of the fact that the washroom is at 2 o'clock from where I'm sitting.

While my friends order enough curry to drown a pondful of fish, my contribution to the variety of dishes would either be a chicken korma or an order of deepfried prawn rolls with sweet sauce. They wash it all down with gallons of lime juice, chendol or even ice-kacang while I bury my face into my cup of hot tea and enjoy a mini-facial steam.

Sure I get to enjoy chendol or ice-kacang whenever I want. I simply have a nice bowl of wonton mee soup or a plate of chicken rice (without the garlicky chilli sauce) about a half hour before that. That gives the royal highness time to decide if it's feeling benevolent enough to grant me a taste of this ambrosia of the gods.

But don't feel sorry for me.

The fact is, I live in Singapore, a food paradise. There's enough variety of good food for me to enjoy for a long, long time, without fear of running out of delicious things to eat. And it so happens that I love chicken rice enough to eat the pandan-fragrant rice every day, as long as it's mixed with some deliciously thick, dark soya sauce. It doesn't take much to make me happy. As long as I've got my diarrhea pills, that is. I never leave home without them.

Text by Jasmine Miller