An Inclusive Culinary School In WA… Dedicated Accessibility and Inclusion...
Content…
A book of quiet memories, baked with truth and love…
🌿 Preface – In the Silence, I Baked My Dreams ✨
📘 Chapter 1.1 – My comfort, my shield, my teddy bears... 🧸
📘 Chapter 1.2 – That was where it all began... An unforgettable taste... 👩🏻🍳
📘 Chapter 1.3 – My Father, my hero... 🛡️
🌿 A Note From The Heart (1)... ❤️
👩🏻🍳 Ivory’s Childhood Dish : Special Egg Rolls ~ A Simple Dish With Unforgettable Flavour…
📘 Chapter 2.1 – An Unforgettable Lesson Dad Taught Me... 🚲
📘 Chapter 2.2 – The Chicks, The Ducklings And The Day I Faced Cruelty ...🐥🦆
📘 Chapter 2.3 - A Sudden Attack In The middle of the Night... 🌃
🌿 A Note From The Heart (2)... ❤️
👩🏻🍳 Ivory’s Childhood Dish ~Pok Chang ~ Where Sweetness and Savory Meet...
📘 Chapter 3.1 – Stay Tune!!
Welcome to my eStorybook...In these quiet pages,
I’ve poured my memories, my healing, and my love…
one story, one recipe, one tender moment at a time...
Preface
🌿 Softly Baked, Gently Shared…
I was shaped by two hands…
one that carried me with warmth, and one that taught me through hardship.
My father… my hero…
My mother… a woman who had no childhood of her own,
yet still gave me the only love she knew.
From them, I learnt that life is not always soft…
but it can still be tender… and dreams can still rise, even from the heaviest days.
This book is more than just a collection of recipes…
it holds my life, gently folded between memories and meals, silence and strength,
pain and healing, longing, hope, and the quiet journey of finding my dreams…
I was once a quiet girl who often hid away from the world,
overwhelmed by its noise and unsure of where I belonged…
But through the language of food,
I slowly found a way to express love and meaning…
A way to say “I care,” “I understand,” “You are not alone.”
Much of who I am today comes from the two people who shaped my earliest days…
My father, my hero, and my mother,
whose love was shown in ways that were sometimes hard for me to understand.
She grew up in a world that did not value daughters the way it valued sons… denied an education…
given the weight of a household on her small shoulders before she had even grown up herself.
From a young age, she rose before the sun to grind soya beans for tofu to sell in the morning wet market.
She would come home to wash laundry, prepare meals, complete endless house chores,
then soak another batch of beans for the next day’s work.
She had no choice… no childhood of her own… only responsibilities and survival.
Because she was raised in hardship,
she raised me in the only way she knew.
I can never blame her… because I know she had already endured more than most before she became my mother.
I am grateful for the lessons she gave me… lessons in resilience,
in working hard without complaint, in carrying on even when the load feels too heavy.
Ivory Cakes Baking & Cooking School was founded from this place…
not just to teach baking and cooking,
but to create a safe space for young people with autism and disabilities to be seen,
supported, and gently guided toward their full potential and dreams.
This book is for you.
Every chapter tells a part of my journey…
through the flavours I grew up with,
the hands that taught me, and the dishes that comforted me when words couldn’t…
May these pages bring you warmth,
like a bowl of congee on a quiet, rainy day…
something we reach for when the heart feels tender…
simple, warm, and comforting…
just like love should be, or the scent of fresh bread filling a still kitchen.
And if you are reading this, wondering if your path is worth it…
I want to tell you this…
You are worthy… You are capable… And your dreams matter…
With all my heart,
Chef Ivy (Ivory)
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🌸 Chapter 1.1: My comfort, my shield, my teddy bears...🧸
My story began in Singapore…
in a quiet corner of Toa Payoh, where the flat was small…
and I was just a little girl, about three years old,
curious about everything around me.
In our bedroom, there was a double bed and a foldable metal bed placed side by side.
I was a curious little girl… everything around me felt exciting.
I loved jumping on the bed with my brother…
bouncing, laughing, flying just a little…
until one day, I wasn’t laughing anymore.
My head hit the floor…
I don’t remember how… just the silence that followed.
I lost consciousness… and then I woke up in a place I’d never seen before… a hospital.
I was scared.
Everything felt cold and strange.
I cried loudly, calling out for my parents.
My voice echoed through the corridors…
I think the whole hospital could hear me.
The nurses were kind… they gave me candies and tried to calm me down.
But not long after, I saw Dad and Mum walking toward me from a distance…
I began to cry even louder.
When they reached my side,
Dad gently told me that I needed to stay in the hospital.
I shook my head in fear, tears pouring out as I cried,
“I don’t want to stay… I don’t want to stay in the hospital…”
Mum grew upset.
Her voice was sharp and loud.
“You deserved it! Who asked you to jump on the bed?”
Her words stung more than the pain in my leg.
But Dad sat beside me, his voice softer…“If you stop crying,” he said, “I’ll buy you a teddy bear.”
True to his word, the very next evening after work,
Dad brought me a teddy bear…
the first of many he would give me… each one a quiet promise…
that I wasn’t alone.
I don’t remember every word he spoke,
but I remember the feeling…the feeling when he placed that teddy bear into my arms.
A little less alone… a little bit safe…
Every time he visited, he brought me another teddy bear.
Soon, my bed was filled with them, big and small, all different colours.
I carried them everywhere… to X-rays, to the doctor’s room…
They became my comfort, my shield.
In the hospital, I was loved by all the doctors and nurses.
They said I had the cutest baby face… with big round goldfish eyes,
and a beautiful pair of ears shaped just like Buddha’s… long and kind.
They adored me.
I didn’t really understand why back then…
but their smiles made me feel special.
Maybe for a while… even with my head still hurting and my teddy bears slowly disappearing,
there was still a little bit of light…
But only my mum… every time she came to visit me at the hospital,
she would scold me for jumping on the bed…
as if it were still my fault I had to stay there.
No matter what I did, I always seemed to be in trouble with her.
Even when I was quiet… even when I tried my best to be a good girl…
There were no kind words.
No praise.
She never told me I was lovely… or brave… or good.
Just scolding.
Again… and again… like the world was angry at me for existing the way I was.
When it was time to leave the hospital, she didn’t let me bring the teddy bears home.
I begged and begged… in the end, she allowed me to take just one.
I chose the green one…but not long after, she threw it away.
I cried so hard… that moment,
I didn’t understand everything…
but deep inside, I somehow knew…
I would never get the real love I needed from my mum.
That’s one of the stories I remember…I felt love from my father.
🧸🧸🧸🧸🧸🧸🧸🧸🧸🧸🧸🧸🧸
🥛1.2: That was where it all began... An unforgettable taste... 🍼
I grew up with this milk powder… Dumex… full cream… vitaminized.
The red-and-white tin with the smiling boy became something I saw almost every day.
It wasn’t just milk.
It was comfort. It was part of my childhood routine…
the warm drink that made things feel okay, even if the world outside felt confusing.
And I was very naughty… I just couldn’t resist that tasty milk powder...
Back then, I was about four years old and my youngest brother was three years old.
My mum used to leave us locked at home while she went marketing,
getting groceries from the wet market nearby.
I was curious about everything… especially how to make milk on my own.
So, with no idea what I was doing,
I attempted to make myself a luxurious cup of milk from the brand-new tin Mum had just bought.
I filled my cup and my brother's milk bottle with as much milk powder as I could…
no measuring, no holding back.
Then, instead of using hot water, I added room-temperature water.
I tried stirring… but the powder turned lumpy, sticky, stubborn.
It didn’t dissolve the way I imagined it would.
In the end, I gave up.
But I wasn’t disappointed…
Because when I scooped the thick, lumpy milk with the little spoon still in the cup…
and brought it to my brother's and my mouths…
we were in love with that taste.
It was so heavenly tasty…
like a soft explosion in our mouths… as if butterflies were flying above our heads.
We giggled and laughed happily... that taste was unforgettable...
One cup after another… one milk bottle after another…we couldn’t stop...
I was completely in love with that taste...
Then… oh no… Mum came home.
She saw the tin… half empty… her face changed.
She was mad.
She took a cane and whacked me like crazy.
She shouted at me, saying awful things I couldn’t understand.
She said I was a bad example to my brother.
She blamed me for everything…I didn’t understand.
I was just a little girl who loved the taste of milk…and wanted to make something for myself...
but all I got was pain.
As for my brother... he was always the lucky one,
because in the 70s, boys were always the pampered ones...
That was the first time I got curious about food…
mixing something with water… watching it change… and tasting it,
even if it wasn’t perfect.
I didn’t know it back then…but maybe, that was where it all began...
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👨🦳1.3: My Father, my hero... 🛡️
That year, I was about four and a half years old.
My mum tied me under the dining table.
She said I had naughty hands… that whatever I touched would be ruined.
I didn’t understand why...I wasn’t trying to break anything…
I was just a very curious little girl back then… curious about everything.
While I was tied under the table, my siblings, together with the neighbour’s kids…
began to play a strange game around me.
They acted like Red Indian tribes.
They surrounded me as if I were a captured outsider.
They were dancing, jumping, singing…
like they were having some kind of tribal ceremony.
But I didn’t feel like laughing.
I felt so uneasy...
Very angry...Very sad... I begged them to untie me.
I was desperate to go to the toilet… but they refused.
I cried for help… repeatedly… but no one cared.
They all laughed at me.
And in the end…
I couldn’t hold it anymore... I peed in my undies, and I wet my dress.
I stayed tied under the dining table for almost the whole day.
No one let me out.
No one helped me.
I sat there in my wet clothes… feeling small, ashamed, forgotten.
Then my dad came home from work.
He saw me… and without a word, he untied me.
My hero dad rescued me...
When I look back at these stories now,
I realize… this was domestic violence.
In the early 70s, no one really knew or spoke about it that way.
No one realized that being tied under a table,
beaten with a cane, or left crying in fear…
were not “normal punishments”… they were abuse.
Back then,
with so many uneducated parents,
children like me were often punished severely…
not just by mothers or fathers,
but by grandparents too.
It was common...
But just because it was common… didn’t make it right.
🛡️🛡️🛡️🛡️🛡️🛡️🛡️🛡️🛡️🛡️🛡️🛡️🛡️
🌿 A Note from the Heart… ❤️ – Threads from My Early Childhood
Looking back on these three moments from my early childhood…
I see a little girl learning about love, courage,
and belonging in ways far beyond her years.
My father’s teddy bears wrapped me in comfort…
an unforgettable taste sparked a lifelong passion for cooking…
and my hero’s quiet strength taught me how to stand again when life felt too heavy.
These memories are like threads…
some warm and bright, others frayed and tender…
all stitched into the fabric of who I am today.
They remind me that love, in its truest form,
can be as simple as a gift held in gentle hands…
a meal cooked with care… or the steady presence of someone who believes in you.
I carry them with me, not as weight, but as warmth…
a reminder that even the smallest acts of kindness can leave a mark that lasts a lifetime.
🌿🌿🌿🌿🌿🌿🌿🌿🌿🌿🌿🌿🌿
🥚Ivory’s Childhood Egg Rolls (Makes 2 Rolls)
🍳 A childhood recipe I remember with every sense…
I’d love to bring it to you… not just as a recipe, but as a little piece of me.
Comforting… Flavourful… & Unforgettable…
A simple dish that once filled my little tummy…💫
Ingredients:
•4 large eggs, beaten
•A pinch of salt and white pepper
•1 small red onion, thinly sliced
•1 small tomato, diced
•½ small cucumber, shredded
•1–2 tbsp tomato ketchup
•150g minced pork
•A pinch of salt, sugar, and pepper (for pork)
•A drizzle of sesame oil
•Cooking oil for frying
🍳 Method:
1. Marinate the pork:
-
Mix minced pork with salt, sugar, pepper, and sesame oil. Set aside.
2. Cook the filling:
-
Heat a wok and stir-fry the pork until fully cooked. Set aside.
3.Prepare the egg base:
-
In a bowl, beat the eggs with salt and white pepper.
4. Make the egg sheets:
-
Heat a flat non-stick pan.
-
Swirl in a little oil.
-
Pour in just enough egg mixture to coat the pan thinly.
-
Cook until about 75% set.
5. Assemble the filling:
-
Spread cooked pork, raw onion, tomato, and cucumber evenly across the egg sheet.
-
Add a light drizzle of tomato ketchup.
-
6.Roll & slice:
-
Gently roll up the egg sheet with the filling inside.
-
Let it rest for a minute before slicing into 5–6 equal pieces.
💬 “The combination of juicy pork, fresh cucumber, and raw onion wrapped in soft egg…
with that touch of sweet-sour ketchup… was like nothing else.
The satisfaction I felt from those flavours is hard to put into words.
It was one of the happiest tastes of my childhood.”
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👨🦳Chapter 2.1 – An Unforgettable Lesson Dad Taught Me... 🚲
I was about five years old…
when my parents bought a new four-room flat in Ang Mo Kio…
A fresh, untouched place in a brand-new government estate…
Not long after…we packed our lives into boxes and moved into our new home.
Beside our new block stretched a long red brick pathway…
Lined on both sides with beautiful rain trees…
Their branches arching toward each other…casting soft, dappled shade over the ground.
The breeze carried the clean scent of laundry swaying on bamboo poles…
mingling with the warmth of sunlit leaves.
Children from the neighbourhood loved playing there…
Badminton shuttles drifting like tiny white birds…
Bicycles whirring past…their chains humming softly…
And sometimes, the ice-cream man would park his little motorbike along the side…
ringing his bell… selling handmade rainbow ice-cream from the small fridge at the back.
It was there… my father taught me how to ride a bicycle…
because I would often lean on him with playful sweetness…
begging him to teach me.
Before this… back in our old rented flat…
my siblings and I had shared a four-wheeled bicycle…steady and safe… with no fear of falling.
One day, Dad came home with a two-wheeled bicycle…
its bright red paint gleaming in the sunlight…the rubber tyres smelling faintly of newness.
My eldest sister and youngest brother learned quickly…their laughter ringing out as they pedalled away.
But I was slower…
Those three words slow in learning often appeared in my school report book.
Still… I didn’t stop trying.
That day, I gripped the cold metal handlebars…
my small hands slipping slightly on the smooth chrome.
My legs were still too short to catch the pedal…
until Dad turned it for me… showing how a gentle push of my foot could bring it within reach…
A simple lesson hidden inside a loving moment.
I pedalled… wobbled… and fell.
The rough pathway scraped my knees until the skin tore… and blood trickled warm and sticky.
The sting made my tears spill fast…my cries carrying down the pathway.
Dad walked over… his steps unhurried…his shadow falling over me like a shield.
He bent down… brushed the grit from my skin…and spoke in a voice steady and deep…
"It’s okay to stumble," Dad told me softly."
Life will give you many lessons… and sometimes you won’t get them right the first time.
When that happens… stand where you fell… start over… and keep going.
Don’t let your heart give up before your feet do.
"Those words sank into me… like sunlight into soil…
planting a quiet strength that would grow with me through the years.
After a few more tries…
I finally balanced myself on that incredible two-wheeled bicycle…
and when I looked at my father’s face…
I saw happiness there…his eyes soft… his smile gentle…
As if, in that moment, he had given me both freedom and courage.
From that day on… whenever life placed an obstacle in my path…
I found my balance… stood up… and began again…
🚲🚲🚲🚲🚲🚲🚲🚲🚲🚲🚲🚲🚲
🐥Chapter 2.2 – The Chicks, The Ducklings And The Day I Faced Cruelty ...🦆
I was about eight years old when one day,
Dad came home carrying a box that chirped.
Inside were five fluffy chicks and five tiny ducklings,
their little eyes bright, their downy feathers warm against my fingertips.
The moment I saw them, I was in love.
Dad built them a cozy double storey home out of carton boxes.
Every day, my siblings and I took turns feeding them,
watching the chicks peck eagerly at their grain,
and the ducklings tilt their heads as if listening to our voices.
At the kitchen laundry area, we had a huge red basin,
the one Mum used to wash the family laundry.
We would fill it halfway with water and let the ducklings have their swim.
Their little webbed feet would flap so quickly,
sending tiny ripples across the surface.
I would laugh until my cheeks hurt,
feeling as if nothing in the world could be more joyful than that moment.
But the joy did not last long...Within weeks, they grew quickly,
too big for the space we had at home.
Grandma said they needed more land to roam,
so Dad decided to bring them to his factory backyard.
I begged them not to take my little friends away,
but I was too young to change their minds.
Some weeks later, news came that broke my heart.
Wild dogs had entered the yard and most of my chicks and ducklings were gone.
Only three ducks remained.
When Grandma brought those three home, I thought maybe, just maybe,
we could keep them this time.
But the next day, I learned they would be used for food.
I cried and begged, but there was nothing I could do.
That evening, I saw Mum in the kitchen, holding one of my ducky’s neck.
For a moment, I froze… my mind refused to believe what I was seeing.
Then the truth hit me all at once...
I screamed, my voice breaking as I begged her to stop.
My heart pounded so hard it hurt…as if a knife had cut away a piece of me...
I could not move, I could only stand there, crying until my legs felt weak.
That night, I only ate plain rice.
When I closed my eyes, I saw them again in my dreams…
and I woke with tears on my cheeks.
From that day on, I never ate duck again...
To recall back then, at that age…
I never imagined my little world of fairy tales could be shattered in a single moment…
That was the first time I stood face to face with death and cruelty…
and I never forgot it.
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Chapter 2.3 – A Sudden Attack From The Middle Of The Night... 🌃
It was a quiet evening…
not long after dinner, my home tutor arrived to give me tuition.
Education in Singapore… seriously speaking…
I really couldn’t cope.
There were always piles of unfinished school homework, and on top of that,
extra assignments from the tutor… for every single subject except Mandarin.
At the age of eight, it felt like torture.
That night became one I would never forget for the rest of my life.
Dad was always working until very late at night… almost every single day.
Mum was unhappy about him coming home late… and whenever he did,
the house would fill with the sound of shouting.
I would hide under my blanket, press my hands over my ears, and cry until sleep finally came.
That night… I drifted into a deep, dreamless sleep.
The room was dark and still, with only the muffled sounds of distant traffic outside.
Then, without warning, the peace shattered.
My bedroom door burst open. Heavy footsteps came towards me.
Before I could even open my eyes properly,
Mum grabbed me by the arm and yanked me out of bed.
The cold air hit my skin, and before I could understand what was happening,
the sharp sting of the cane landed on my legs and arms.
She was screaming, her voice echoing through the room,
after discovering I had not finished my school homework.
The strikes came fast, each one biting deeper into my skin.
The next moment, she dragged me into the bright living room.
The light above was harsh and glaring, burning my tired eyes.
My tears wouldn’t stop.
My arms and legs throbbed with pain, the skin swelling and marked with deep red lines…
some already bleeding.
I was only eight years old.
Why did I have to be punished so severely… just because I had forgotten to finish my homework?
In the middle of the night,
she had gone through my school bag, found the incomplete work,
and decided to wake me in such a violent way.
That night, I sat at the table, my small hands trembling as I tried to write through the blur of my tears.
I could hardly think…
I was so sleepy. I wished so badly for Dad to walk through the door and save me.
But he wasn’t home yet… he was still at work.
I struggled for more than an hour, fighting against my heavy eyelids,
until I finally finished my schoolwork.
I was about to go to bed when I heard the sound of keys at the door.
Dad was finally home.
He looked at me with concern and asked why I wasn’t in bed.
Before I could speak, Mum’s voice cut in from behind, shouting,
“Your daughter never finished her schoolwork!”
Dad turned to me, and I quickly told him,
“Finished.” He told me to hurry and go to bed.
I rushed back to my room, still sobbing softly under my breath.
Not long after, the shouting began again between Mum and Dad.
I buried my face in my pillow and cried until sleep finally took me.
I remember…
when morning came,
I had to wear a long-sleeved sweater to school to hide the cane marks on my arms.
I told my school teacher and classmates that I wasn’t feeling well… that I was cold.
But the truth was, I was sweating underneath.
🌃🌃🌃🌃🌃🌃🌃🌃🌃🌃🌃🌃🌃
🌿 A Note from the Heart… ❤️ - The Quiet Lessons That Shaped Me
Looking back on these three moments from my growing years…
I see a little girl learning about freedom, love, loss, and fear...
all before she even knew how to name them.
On the red-brick pathway lined with rain trees,
Dad’s gentle patience taught me how to find my balance…
to stand where I fell… and to try again.
Then came the joy of my tiny chicks and ducklings...
their soft feathers and curious eyes filling my days with laughter.
But joy turned to grief in the space of a moment… and I learnt, for the first time,
how fragile life could be.
And there was the night when peace was shattered by anger…
when pain and fear replaced the safety every child deserves.
That night left marks on my skin… and deeper ones on my heart.
These memories are stitched into me…
some soft, some jagged… but all part of who I became.
They remind me that even in the moments that broke me,
something quietly kept me standing… and that courage, once planted,
will find a way to grow.
🌿🌿🌿🌿🌿🌿🌿🌿🌿🌿🌿🌿🌿
🍃 I remember the sound of the pan… the smell of eggs…
Simple pancakes that filled my tummy and warmed my heart.
Pok Chang wasn’t just food…
sometimes sweet, sometimes savory… always unforgettable.
A little pancake… holding big memories. ✨
A humble taste that filled my childhood tummy with joy… 🌈💖
🥞 Ivory’s Childhood Sweet Pok Chang (Makes 6 Pancakes)
•167g plain flour
•112g beaten egg (≈ 2 large eggs)
•250g water
•30g raw sugar (for sweeter taste, adjust with +1 tbsp more)
•A pinch of salt👉
🍳 Method:
1.Whisk eggs with water.
2.Add raw sugar and salt, stir until dissolved.
3.Sift in the flour and whisk until smooth.
4.Rest batter 15–20 minutes.
5.Cook very thinly in a lightly oiled pan until golden on both sides.
🥞🥞🥞🥞🥞🥞🥞🥞🥞🥞🥞🥞🥞
✨ Ivory’s Childhood Savory Pok Chang (Makes 6 Pancakes)
🍳 Method:
1.Whisk eggs with water.
2.Add raw sugar and salt, stir until dissolved.
3.Sift in the flour and whisk until smooth.
4.Add in the chives and gently mix through.
5.Rest batter 15–20 minutes.
6.Cook very thinly in a lightly oiled pan until golden on both sides.
💭 “Thin, soft, and simple… sometimes sweet, sometimes savory…
Pok Chang was never just food to me.
Each piece carried warmth and comfort that words can barely hold.
It was one of the gentlest, most unforgettable tastes of my childhood.” 🌈💖
🥞🥞🥞🥞🥞🥞🥞🥞🥞🥞🥞🥞🥞
🥞🥞🥞🥞🥞🥞🥞🥞🥞🥞🥞🥞🥞