iot in the Kitchen

I don’t know if this is true, but I’ve certainly heard this quote bandied about enough number of times to make it seem plausible: The quickest way to a man’s heart is through his stomach.

Unfortunately for me, I bomb at cooking. It’s not that I don’t cook; I just can’t. I’d count myself lucky if I fry eggs with the yolk still intact. The only dishes I know I can make, without causing minor kitchen emergencies, are fried beef loaf, boiled egg, and instant noodles. I’m no less hopeless at wielding knives. It takes me forever to chop cloves of garlic or lop off rings of ampalaya because I have to have them in uniformly cut portions; and I’d just itch in frustration if I don’t see my rinds and cloves in similar - if not identical - sizes.

There are days when I wish my mother were still here so she can teach me to cook. My grandparents never tire of telling us what a great cook my mom had been, how tasty and filling the meals she prepares are. My father can cook, too, and it’s his cooking I pine for whenever I feel sick or nostalgic. Often, this longing for Papa’s cooking drives the husband nuts.

What do you mean it doesn’t taste like your Papa’s beef steak? Wett burst out one Sunday as he stabbed the helping of meat on his plate. I marinated it the way he said I should. It can’t not taste of Papa’s beef steak.

But it doesn’t, I told him mournfully. I’ll eat this, don’t worry; but this, papoo, isn’t what I asked for.

Well, I can’t cook like Achilles does. The best I can do is try.

Oyes, in our household, it’s the husband who does the cooking, not I. Still, I wish my mother were here to help me navigate my way through onions, beef steak, cauliflower, and chicken. She might be able to teach me to use the stove for purposes other than frying and boiling.

So, is the quickest way to a man’s heart through his stomach? Perhaps, but there must be other routes that are just as effective, too, because the husband adores me, my knack for burning things and the inability to name vegetables or chop anything quickly considered.

iot in the Kitchen

I don’t know if this is true, but I’ve certainly heard this quote bandied about enough number of times to make it seem plausible: The quickest way to a man’s heart is through his stomach.

Unfortunately for me, I bomb at cooking. It’s not that I don’t cook; I just can’t. I’d count myself lucky if I fry eggs with the yolk still intact. The only dishes I know I can make, without causing minor kitchen emergencies, are fried beef loaf, boiled egg, and instant noodles. I’m no less hopeless at wielding knives. It takes me forever to chop cloves of garlic or lop off rings of ampalaya because I have to have them in uniformly cut portions; and I’d just itch in frustration if I don’t see my rinds and cloves in similar - if not identical - sizes.

There are days when I wish my mother were still here so she can teach me to cook. My grandparents never tire of telling us what a great cook my mom had been, how tasty and filling the meals she prepares are. My father can cook, too, and it’s his cooking I pine for whenever I feel sick or nostalgic. Often, this longing for Papa’s cooking drives the husband nuts.

What do you mean it doesn’t taste like your Papa’s beef steak? Wett burst out one Sunday as he stabbed the helping of meat on his plate. I marinated it the way he said I should. It can’t not taste of Papa’s beef steak.

But it doesn’t, I told him mournfully. I’ll eat this, don’t worry; but this, papoo, isn’t what I asked for.

Well, I can’t cook like Achilles does. The best I can do is try.

Oyes, in our household, it’s the husband who does the cooking, not I. Still, I wish my mother were here to help me navigate my way through onions, beef steak, cauliflower, and chicken. She might be able to teach me to use the stove for purposes other than frying and boiling.

So, is the quickest way to a man’s heart through his stomach? Perhaps, but there must be other routes that are just as effective, too, because the husband adores me, my knack for burning things and the inability to name vegetables or chop anything quickly considered.

Make Like Madonna

I’ll never make like Madonna, I swore. I was eighteen then, grim, determined, and critical of all things pop and commercial. Had I known what I was swearing off, I would have bitten my tongue not once but four, perhaps even five, times before committing myself to such a pledge.

Why make like Madonna? Why? Why not?

Yes, I know. I’m in my mid-twenties. I shouldn’t play dress-up anymore; only little girls do. But my little girl plays dress-up, and I play along with her. We dress up in my clothes, playing with outrageous combinations that look funky and pretty to us, but would never consider wearing outside the house. We fix our hair, put makeup on, turn up the music high, and catwalk around the room with a haughty sway of hips, arms, and legs. The husband - bless his soul - is always generous with compliments, no matter how ridiculous we look.

I suppose I’ll have to give up this hobby once Alex grows up and starts requiring a more sensible mom; but while I’m 25, thin, and still capable of pouting, I’m going to make like Madonna in the confines of our bedroom.

I’m apprehensive about…

going back to school this semester. Please God, don’t give me teachers who’d give me hell. Don’t give me seatmates who have shiny things and talk with little girl lisps. Don’t give me classmates who are shiny and annoying in a teenager way.

Amen.

Mondays and Fireflies

It’s getting harder to wake up to Mondays, and even more difficult to convince myself it’s a good idea to roll out of bed and face the world. "Is it possible to work and have fun at the same time?" I broached the question to the hub.

"It is if you’re doing something you love."

I’m not sure I’m doing something I love or would not fall out of love with for the next ten years. What I do know is that I’m doing something familiar. I work with people I like and for a boss I trust, and most days, I like the work I do. That makes me one of the lucky ones, doesn’t it?

My father seems to think so. He’s been teaching for almost 25 years, and teaching is something he’s good at but has grown tired of. You could see it in the way his eyes glaze over each time he holds a textbook. I know there had once been a time when teaching made him happy, when he couldn’t wait to stride into a classroom and address a sea of eager faces. I know because I used to accompany him to work. I wonder: are we all headed for the same direction?

Yesterday, the hub prepared an impromptu picnic. He, Alex, and I ate dinner by the terrace at five in the afternoon. Then, we talked and drank - she had iced tea; we had tequila - until nine, at which point I was too tipsy and sleepy to carry on a decent conversation even with a three-year-old.

It’s lovely to spend days lazily - to wake up at ten in the morning with nary a thought about being late for work; to spend afternoons watching movie after movie, and nights cooking food we’ve never eaten before. The only damper to the long holiday was Alex’s fever. The little one kept running a high temp, and Wett’s taking her to the doctor this afternoon and have her checked because we’re paranoid like that, and we want to rule out the possibility of dengue.

The funny thing about being a parent is that you know you did nothing but go through the biological process of begetting a child. You get pregnant; and almost overnight, you find yourself responsible for a tiny human being inside you, a wee thing that thinks you know everything there is to know and looks at you like you’re God. While being God in someone’s little mind can be quite nice, it’s also terrifying; and you get moments when you struggle and get stumped, and ocassionally - in between questions and crisis, you find yourself stopping - just stopping - and waiting for what comes next. You don’t know if you’re doing the right thing. How could you? There is no way for anyone to know; and even though you’d rather be able to know the future as intimately as you know your closet, for example, it just isn’t possible. There is no way you can wear down all paths for your little one. So, she’d go through life as uncertain as you once had been, get her heart broken many times, wait and wonder, and maybe cry. It cannot be helped. You try not to let this frighten you beause there are so many pleasant things in the present to live for. What life would your daughter have if she were too busy shielding herself against an unknown future? She wouldn’t be able to live fully in the here and now because she would be too busy contemplating what lies ahead. Nothing could be sadder than not living fully because you know - you know - if you were to shield her from every hurt and disappointment, she would not see fireflies the way you once did.