Bogchi ni Bochog

BOCHOGNOMICS 2: Two Pestos and A Pao

2012-01-01T12:53:00.002+08:00

Happy New Year to the zero people who are still following this blog and to the voice inside my head that forced me to cook meatless pasta (gasp!). I know that the past year has been almost devoid of posting on my part and I can't honestly promise myself that I will write more about my food trips this new year. And I certainly will never promise that I will from here on out take photographs of my food before I eat it. The best I can do is try. Cliche, really, but that's all I have.

To start off my new year, I offer 3 new recipes from the Media Noche meal I prepared last night. This meal was fueled by the guilt of having eaten too much during Christmas week, the necessity of preparing relatively healthier eats for my SC folks (that's senior citizen--hurrah for the 32% aggregated discount!), and my personal conviction that no meal is complete without some kind of meat. As with the first installment of Bochognomics (exactly one year ago), prices quoted are Unimart prices, except where indicated. There are no pictures--I was halfway through my second bacon pao when I remembered that I should have taken photos. I finished my bacon pao instead.

MEATLESS PASTA: Spaghettini with Red Pesto Sauce

Ingredients:
500g spaghettini (Php 54.50, Balducci brand)
1 small bottle sun-dried tomatoes in oil (Php 195, Molinera brand)
extra virgin olive oil (stock, but I use either Capri or Doña Elena, around Php 200 per 500ml bottle)
1/3 cup sliced black olives (Php 48.50 for 1 small bottle, Doña Elena brand)
1/2 cup fresh basil, washed and dried (Php 30 to 40)
1/2 cup fresh curly leaf parsley, washed and dried (Php 30 to 40)
salt and pepper to taste
2 cloves garlic
grated Parmesan (Php 77.50 for a 250g bottle, Magic Time brand)
1/4 wedge, Smoked Dutch cheese, cut into cubes (Php 161.75 for 1 wedge)
3-4 tbsp soft Goat cheese (stock, Camembert can be substitued, Php 300++ for a small disc)

Procedure:

For the red pesto:
1. Slice sun-dried tomatoes into semi-thick strips (to facilitate pulsing in the food processor). Reserve the oil.
2. In food processor, put sun-dried tomatoes and the oil. Add garlic, basil, parsley, olives, and 3 cheeses (all amounts according to your taste, really).
3. Pulse until everything is ground and blended. Check consistency. If too thick, thin out with EVOO (around 1/2 cup).
4. Add salt and pepper, and more cheeses, to taste.

For meatless pasta:
1. Cook 500g spaghettini in salted boiling water, then drain. Reserve 1 cup pasta water.
2. Pour the red pesto sauce into pan or pot. Saute for 3-5 minutes, then add the pasta back in.
3. Make sure the sauce coats every strand of pasta. If it is too thick due to the cheeses, add the pasta water.
4. Add salt and pepper to taste.
5. Top with more parmesan cheese, and serve with green pesto raisin bread (recipe below).

GREEN PESTO RAISIN BREAD

Ingredients:
Raisin bread loaf (Php 65 thereabouts, Gardenia brand)
Prepared pesto

For Pesto:
3 cups fresh basil
2 cups fresh parsley
1/3 cup capers (Php 55 for 1 small bottle, Capri brand)
2-3 cloves garlic
1 cup EVOO
parmesan cheese
goat's cheese
Smoked Dutch cheese, cubed
juice from 1/2 lemon (Php 15/pc)
salt and pepper, to taste

Procedure:

For the pesto:
1. Place all ingredients, except EVOO, s&p, and lemon juice, in food processor.
2. Remove seeds from lemon and squeeze juice into food processor. Add salt and pepper.
3. Pulse while pouring EVOO into the lid's spout.
4. Check for taste and consistency. Add s&p, oil, or more cheeses, to taste, then pulse one final time to achieve smooth consistency.

For the bread:
1. Slice raisin bread (or any bread) pieces into halves, so if you have 5 pieces, you'll end up with 10 small ones.
2. Take a small piece of bread and slather with pesto, including a little bit of oil.
3. Toast in the oven at 200 degrees C for around 3-5 minutes (assuming oven has been preheated for 5 minutes).

BACON PAO

Ingredients:
8-10 pcs Man Tao or Chinese buns (Php 60)
250g bacon, cut into bits (Php 80, Holiday brand--though I would recommend pricier brands for a smokier flavor)
Optional: smoked dutch cheese, thin slices

Procedure:
1. Cut bacon into bits and fry in its own fat. Add a small amount of canola oil to aid in frying.
2. While the bacon is frying, steam the man tao for around 3-5 minutes.
3. When the man tao is ready, slice horizontally to form 2-sided buns. Place hot bacon bits inside. Add cheese as preferred. (Might also work with a bit of mustard and/or mayo).

Off-topic: I found my essays!

2011-06-18T12:51:00.004+08:00

Well, my sister did (thanks, Ate My!).

A few years back, I wrote some essays that were published in the website Indie Bloggers but eventually got lost in the ether (or so I thought). Turns out, Indie Bloggers renamed itself into Indie Ink. My sister found a link to one of my essays. Apparently, my essay submissions are still in the archives of that site--which is great for me as some of those essays I had lost my copies of. Needless to say, I am immensely pleased at this fortunate turn of events.

Anyway, many of these aren't about food, but I'm similarly glad to share them with anyone who'd like to read:

The Happiest Accident http://indieink.org/2007/04/10/the-happiest-accident/
Coffee, Tea, and Me http://indieink.org/2007/04/12/coffee-tea-and-me/#comments
My Dad and J. Lo http://indieink.org/2007/04/page/17/
This Is Why http://indieink.org/2007/04/26/this-is-why-wc10/#comments
Sunday Morning Mom http://indieink.org/2007/10/25/sunday-morning-mom/
Matin and Babochai http://indieink.org/2007/09/11/matin-and-babochai-wc/
i am free http://indieink.org/2007/12/14/i-am-free/
About A Boy http://indieink.org/2007/12/14/1303/
The Tao of Kage http://indieink.org/2007/07/28/the-tao-of-kage/

Gastronomically Grateful

2011-01-03T13:13:00.007+08:00

I am ringing in 2011 with a decision. A decision, mind you, not a resolution. Resolutions are for plebeians. Of course the five of you who are still (but most probably are no longer) reading this blog may argue that I am, in fact, one of you, common folks. You may well be, technically, objectively, right. But not if you factor in narcissism as an increasingly universal value. So factoring in my narcissistic mindset, I would be perfectly right in assuming that I am not plebeian and am, in fact, ultra unique and stellar. Ergo, you would be wrong. Entirely, massively. Wrong.

But this musicless ditty is not about narcissism and its grandchild, ungratefulness (its child being, of course, entitlement). This, instead, is about the conceptual opposite, gratitude.

I decided that at least for this year, I will adopt a more grateful, thankful, mindset. Why? Because, frankly, sometimes when you don't decide--deliberately, forcefully--to be thankful, you forget. And I don't want to forget. My memory's bad enough as it is.

So I'm starting my year of being grateful with the easiest thing in the world to be thankful about. This here is my fit of gastronomic gratitude.

Cyma's Roka Salata. Best salad ever. My mom thinks so too. We order this every time we eat at Cyma, along with the Solomos pasta (with salmon, feta cheese, and angel hair pasta in a tomato cream sauce). I also love...

Cyma's generous portions. Even if the dishes seem pricey, if you are a party of at least 3, Cyma turns out to be affordable, but fine, dining. Lovely.

Abe's. My friend, Ange, treated me and our friends to this wonderful place that serves Kapampangan dishes. We had sauteed crickets, lamb adobo, kare-kare, and bamboo rice (white rice steamed inside a piece of bamboo). As Ange described the experience, everything was Just Right. Just enough salty, just enough sweet, and a lot savory.

Pulled Pork Sandwich at Charlie's Carwash and Grill. The new Charlie's branch in Greenhills opened last year. Ditchie and I ate there during their soft opening. She had the burger while I had the pulled pork sandwich with coleslaw. We also shared some buffalo wings. The pork sandwich was good, tender and moist, drenched in sweet and tangy barbecue sauce. Ditchie also liked her burger. We didn't care much for the wings, though. For the best wings we ate last year, my thanks go to...

Buffalo Wings and Things. Which, alas, has closed its doors in the Greenhills mall. I had some good times in this place, with Ditchie and with my friend, Lee. The Garlic Parmesan wings are killer, great paired with dirty rice and blue cheese dip. Wings and Things, you will be missed, sorely. I hope to see you in another location soon.

Indonesian food. Last year, I got to visit Yogyakarta, Indonesia (for a conference). Three things I loved about that trip: a) we stayed at the house of one of Indonesia's most prominent contemporary artists, it was like living in a cozy art gallery; b) I got to see Borobudur! and c) I got to eat Indonesian food like Gado-gado (a mixed greens and beans salad with peanut dressing and topped with hard boiled eggs). Indonesian food is kind of like our food, but a lot spicier. Yum. An Indonesian guy I talked to told me that when he visited Manila and tried the food, he missed the spiciness and found our food bland. So someone told him to go to Bicol and try the spicy, gata based, dishes there. So I had to recommend Bicol Express and Pinangat. He said he'll try it when he visits next. Don't know when that will be. I was just making small talk and didn't really want to find out those details.

Kopiko 3-in-1 coffee, with brown sugar. Hands down, the best instant coffee mix. Ever. I know there's already an ad airing on TV but why isn't it more popular? It's not too strong and bitter but the taste of coffee is distinct. The white sugar version is fine as well, but for me, the brown sugar variant works best just because I prefer brown sugar as it has a rounder, butterscotch, flavor.

Baby Ruth MINT flavor. I love the American goods store in Greenhills Shopping Center, where most of the items sell for only 79 to 99 pesos. The Baby Ruth Mints sell for 99 pesos per 8-piece pack.

Kraft Caramels. I am always grateful for these. And for the fact that Unimart puts these on sale every now and then.

Smiley's Chocolate Covered Mint Cookies. See last post.

Athiporn's Bagoong Rice Maki. I got my first taste of these goodies at a Christmas get together in the home of my professor, Ma'am Bo. Athiporn, a grad student in our department, has caters Thai food. These tiny morsels of bagoong infused sticky rice, with chicken, scrambled egg, and onion bits, wrapped in seaweed are their bestseller, and rightly so. You can easily polish off seven of these babies in one sitting. I should know. That's what I did. I wish I could say, no worries, I didn't eat anything else that night. Some wishes shall remain unfulfilled.

Lomi at a Batangas roadside eatery. My family and I had emergency lunch on the way home from the resort we stayed at for our Christmas vacation. It was nearing 2pm, we were hungry, and there was no decent restaurant in sight. So we decided to get some "laman tiyan" (literally, stomach filler) to temporarily soothe hunger pangs while we looked for a place we wanted to eat at. Ate My, Ditchie, and Mama ordered Goto while I, Daddy, Kuya Levi, and Daya ordered Lomi. The Lomi was a hot bowl filled with fat, yellow, egg noodles in a thick, creamy, light brown gravy, topped with pork innards and fried meat rolls. It was delicious. No surprise there. The big surprise that day was the Goto. My sisters and Mama were expecting a savory rice porridge, because in Manila, that's what Goto is: a rice dish. Apparently, in Batangas, Goto is a bowl of hot bile over pork innards and liver. In Manila, that's called Papaitan. Lesson learned: don't assume that Goto is the same dish anywhere in the Philippines. It's not.

That concludes my fit of gastronomic gratitude. Goodbye, 2010. My tummy shall surely miss you. 2011, meet my tummy. Tummy, 2011.

Been A Long Time...

2010-09-05T11:24:00.005+08:00

... and I should have written about Smileys Chocolate Covered Mint Cookies and all my Unimart finds and experiences since my family moved to Greenhills area and I officially stopped being QC Girl :( and became San Juan woman with all the baggage that comes with it (read: living in Ejercito territory where constituents are greeted during New Year's by a banner over at City Hall proclaiming greetings from, and I quote, "President Joseph Ejercito Estrada, First Lady Gia Ejercito, and Mayor JV Ejercito". Emphasis on First Lady. Snort.). Somehow, though, life has a way of taking you away from what's important (like food) by distracting you with such trivialities as work, family obligations, and research required for what used to be a for-fun-Ph.D. but is now the Holy Grail of my life as a beleaguered doctoral candidate. But I don't like to complain.

So instead I will just wax, albeit belatedly, about the glorious, cheap, finds and steals that trusty, crusty, old Unimart has been offering its equally crusty, old, Chinoy and Kastilaloy (my sister's term for Castilian Pinoys) merchant community.

1) Arbitrary Sales of imported chips, candies, and choccies. We've been doing grocery shopping at Unimart for almost two years now and have, on numerous occasions, enjoyed imported chips, candies, and chocolate at reduced prices. There seems to be no reason for these sales, perhaps other than that the products are nearing their best-before date. Although, the sales happen so arbitrarily and ostensibly without schedule that I sometimes doubt it's about inventory clearance. Anyway, it matters not why, only that I get to enjoy Cheetos Puffs, Cheetos Crunchy Jalapeno, Butter Fingers Crisps, and Kraft Caramel Candies, etc. at 20% off. Not bad for a grocery store that doesn't seem to have a budget for cleaning its grimy exterior and replacing the signage. Good thing I'm not finicky.

2) Democratic pricing. The price range for many products sold at Unimart is unbelievably wide, from lowest of the low end options to high end stuff. This is great for shopping within a specified budget. It also allows you to buy, on a regular basis, those products that would normally be relegated to your "for special occasions" buys. My favorite "chourmet" (that's my word for cheap gourmet) buys are EVOO and red wine vinegar (Capri brand is the cheapest so far and, frankly, not so bad, good for everyday cooking and my twice-a-week hair conditioning; followed by Dona Elena and Bertolli's) and pasta (Balducci is a good, cheap, brand; also, San Remo for its vegeroni). Clara Ole has cheap, but tasty, spaghetti sauces. I've tried 3 variants so far and they all work particularly the Italian Style and Three Cheese sauces. Del Monte also has a new Tomato Cream sauce that I've used for making a ham and cheese quesadilla. (Although, it's easy to make your own tomato cream sauce. Just combine your favorite marinara/tomato/spaghetti sauce and all purpose cream, et voila! Tomato cream.).

3) Swift Black Label Corned Beef. This is our new, cheaper, alternative to Purefoods Corned Beef since our original alternative, Argentina Gold Label, disappeared from Unimart's shelves. The Swift Black Label tastes just like the Argentina Gold and is cheaper than Purefoods by around 3-5 pesos I think (which translates to a lot if you buy 6-8 cans at a time).

4) Smileys Chocolate Covered Mint Cookies. I made this happy discovery at Unimart. At only around 31 pesos for a box of 8 cookies, it's a really tasty, economical, find. The strawberry option is not at all tasty like the mint one, so to me, it's not worth the price. Only the mint cookies are worth the price. I introduced my good friend, Lin, to Smileys and she and her boys are now even bigger fans. Prior to these cookies appearing on the shelves of other grocery stores, I used to buy her 2 boxes at a time for her Smileys fix.

5) Frozen meats and the deli section. You can find Santi's and other brands of cold cuts and sausages at Unimart's frozen meats section. My favorites are the lyoners, hungarian and garlic sausages, and pepperoni. I pair gourmet sausages with cheap CDO or King Sue brand bacon for my meat pasta. It's always good to pair ordinary with gourmet quality because if you go too cheap with your ingredients, your final product might taste just that, cheap.

6) Kastilaloy before you at the counter. This is neither a find nor a steal. Rather, it's a quirk of the Unimart shopping experience, an immensely enjoyable quirk. My sister and I, one time, were behind this big-boned, Castilian grandma. We knew she was Castilian not because she had the aquiline nose and high brow, but because she was speaking in a mix of Spanish and Castilian-accented English and, hilariously, paying with a check with the amounts written in Spanish. So instead of writing on her check "18,000.00 pesos" or "Eighteen Thousand only" (she bought a lot of stuff; I think I saw 1 gallon bottles of some kind of liquor), she wrote "18.000,00" (because as we know, the Spanish write their numbers with the dot and comma interchanged) and "Dieciocho Mil".

Only in Unimart. This would never have happened in Shopwise.

It's A Crazy, Sploggy World Out There!

2010-04-28T23:02:00.002+08:00

Test post after crazy splog scare. I think I accidentally flagged my own blog (doink!) when I tried to report abuse (spam in my comments section). And not the tasty kind of SPAM. Ugh. I'm hoping Blogger doesn't disable or lock or remove this blog, but I guess I'll have to wait.

Hope this post appears.

The Burning Question... Answered

2010-04-19T16:11:00.004+08:00

I started this blog in August, 2006, almost four years ago, and in all that time, I've posted only around 5 pictures of the foods I cook, eat, and rave about. Well, maybe not 5; more like... 7 or 8. The point is, I seem to have posted too few food photos that I'm sure at least some of you may be wondering... What does she have against food photography?

Just to set the record straight--because there are days when I like to pretend that I'm a celebrity "setting the record straight", as it were, in an effort to contain the backlash of a controversy I am embroiled in. Today is one of those days...

Anyway, just to set the record straight, I don't have anything against food photography. (Twit your friends...)

I think it takes great skill to, for instance, take a cheesecake, set it against a magenta background, top it with real blueberries with a berry or two falling off the cake, drizzle it with viscous blueberry puree so that the creamy, white, cake looks like it's drooling blueberries... and not eat the cake. Instead, you get your trusty camera, fiddle with it while ignoring. Ignoring the cake. Then you take a photograph of your cake because, perhaps, you'd rather have the photograph than the real thing.

THAT takes skill... and a little bit of crazy.

One of the more well-known experiments in psychology was the Marshmallow Test where children were brought, one by one, into a room where a marshmallow sat on a plate on a table. A pretty, yummy, marshmallow. The children were told, "You may eat the marshmallow. However, you have a choice to not eat this marshmallow and wait a bit. If you can wait, oh say, 5 minutes, someone will come in and give you another one. So then, you can have two marshmallows. Two." Then they were left alone to make that all important decision: to eat (now) or not to eat.

Well, turns out, some kids gobbled up the marshmallow immediately. The promise of a second marshmallow was not enough to override the hunger to have the first marshmallow, NOW!

I'm convinced that food stylists and photographers would have passed the marshmallow test as children. I wouldn't have. I would have gobbled up that marshmallow even before the experimenter finished her spiel. I would have set a new record for failing the marshmallow test. It would have shamed my parents.

That's why I don't take too many pictures of the foods I cook. I don't have the patience for it. Usually, my plate's half empty by the time I remember to take a picture. And it seems vainglorious to insert a photo of me or my family AFTER having eaten, looking sated and almost Zen. (Seriously, have you ever encountered or yourself used the word "vainglorious" in a blog post? Uh-may-zing. Sometimes, I surprise myself).

You can't take a pic of your cake and eat it too. At least, not at the same time.

BOCHOGNOMICS: Pasta, Pasta, y Quesadilla

2010-01-01T12:07:00.004+08:00

To kick off the new year, and per Ate My’s suggestion, I am changing the way I present recipes to include pricing. I am calling my new recipe series Bochognomics. This, of course, is in tribute to Kitchenomics, Del Monte’s popular marketing campaign. It’s very 90s but I am, after all, a 90s kid.

For this first installment of Bochognomics, I present two pasta and a quesadilla recipes. Pricing, by the way, is based mostly on Unimart prices. (More on the glory of Unimart in a subsequent post).

Sardine Pasta

This is a recipe for the Linguine with Sardines that I cooked for the Faculty Christmas Party of UP Psych where I now teach. The professors and instructors loved it and polished off all 1.5 kilos of it. Ma’am Ly, a colleague, asked if I took orders. To which I replied, “If I took orders, I’d never finish my dissertation.” By the way, if the recipe seems familiar, that’s because it’s quite similar to past sardine pasta recipes I’ve created.

Ingredients: (Pricing)
1.5 kg linguine (Php 44.75 / 500g Balducci brand)
7 cans fried sardines (Php 15.95 / can)
6-7 native tomatoes, chopped (Php 47.00 approx.)
1 bottle capers, drained (Php 84.75 Doña Elena brand)
2 160g cans tomato paste (Php 16.50 / 160g Jolly brand)
2 tbsp minced garlic (from pantry)
1 tbsp minced onions (from pantry)
olive oil, for sautéing (from pantry, Capri and Doña Elena are cheap but good brands in the Php 100++ range / 500 ml for pure and extra virgin)
Italian seasoning, s&p (from pantry, Php 38.25 / 13g bottle McCormick brand)
Fresh basil, all torn up (from pantry, Php 37.75 / 100g approx)
Grated parmesan (optional) (Php 94.50 / 200g Kraft brand)

Procedure:
1 Saute onions and garlic.
2 Add tomatoes. Season with salt and pepper. Saute for a few minutes.
3 Add fried sardines. (Debone sardines and remove laurel leaves prior to adding them). Stir for a few minutes.
4 Add tomato paste. Add water to thin the sauce if it gets too thick.
5 Add fresh basil, Italian seasoning, and capers. Season with s&p, to taste.
6 Let simmer.
7 Add cooked linguine (or any other pasta). Toss.
8 Serve and enjoy.

Pasta with Meat Sauce

I cooked this last night for New Year’s Eve dinner. I used the same meat sauce for the quesadilla I also made, the recipe for which will be detailed after this one.

Ingredients: (Pricing)
1.5 kg pasta (Php 44.75 / 500g Balducci brand)
½ kg ground lean beef (Php 120 / 500g, Nepa Q-mart)
¼ kg ground lean pork (Php 40 / 250g, Nepa Q-mart)
1 kg spaghetti sauce (Php 64.75 Clara Ole brand)
4 native tomatoes, chopped (Php 47 / 6-7 pcs, approx)
3 peppers, chopped (Php 27, approx)
1 can mushrooms (Php 23.75 / 400g can Tai Hing brand)
grated cheese (Php 94.50 / 200g parmesan Kraft brand, or Php 130++ / 500g processed cheese Che Vital brand, approx)
4 tbsp minced garlic (from pantry)
2 tbsp minced onion (from pantry)
2 tbsp fresh basil, torn up (from pantry, Php 37.75 / 100g approx)
2 tbsp fresh parsley, chopped (from pantry (Php 23.75 / 100g, approx)
Italian seasoning, s&p (from pantry, Php 38.25 / 13g bottle McCormick brand)

Procedure:
1 Saute 2 tbsp garlic and onions. Add meats. Cook until juices from the meat have evaporated and the meat has turned brown. Set aside cooked meat.
2 Saute the rest of the garlic. Add the tomatoes. Season with salt and pepper.
3 Add the mushrooms and peppers. Saute for a few minutes.
4 Add the meat. Saute for a few minutes.
5 Add the spaghetti sauce, basil, parsley, and Italian seasoning. Stir and let simmer for a few minutes. Add s&p, to taste.
6 Add cooked pasta. Toss.
7 Top with grated cheese. Enjoy.

Quesadilla y Quesadilla

I made 2 kinds of quesadilla for last night’s dinner, a ham and cheese quesadilla and a meat quesadilla using the same meat sauce I used for the pasta.

Ingredients: (Pricing)
4 pcs large tortillas (Php 89.50 / 6 pcs Village Gourmet brand)
8-10 medium thick slices of ham (Php 564 / 700g Adelina brand, approx)
1 pack tomato cream sauce (Php 25 / 250g Del Monte brand)
4 tbsp meat sauce
grated cheese (from pantry, Php 130++ / 500g Che Vital brand, approx)
1 tbsp fresh basil, torn up (from pantry, Php 37.75 / 100g, approx)

Procedure:
To make the ham and cheese quesadilla:
1 Place one large tortilla on a big plate. Put 3 big dollops of tomato cream sauce and spread.
2 Arrange ham slices to cover the whole tortilla up to 1 inch from the edge.
3 Top with grated cheese.
4 Take another tortilla and smear with tomato cream sauce.
5 Cover the tortilla with toppings to make a tortilla sandwich.
6 Heat in turbo broiler for 10 minutes at 200 C.
7 Cut into 6-8 pieces.
8 Serve and enjoy.

To make the meat quesadilla:
1 Place one large tortilla on a big plate. Put 3 big dollops of meat sauce and spread all over the tortilla.
2 Top with basil and grated cheese.
3 Take another tortilla and smear with tomato cream sauce.
4 Cover the tortilla with toppings to make a tortilla sandwich.
5 Heat in turbo broiler for 10 minutes at 200 C.
6 Cut into 6-8 pieces.
7 Serve and enjoy.

The Mission: Raise Your Blood Pressure...

2009-09-05T14:35:00.005+08:00

The Means: My Aligue (Crab Fat) Pasta

The Materials:

1 huge crab, boiled, use both fat and meat
1/2 shrimp or any seafood boullion cube
1 cup hot water
250 ml all purpose cream
4-5 medium-sized tomatoes, diced
1-2 large red or green bell pepper/s, diced
2 tbsp chopped garlic
1 tbsp chopped onion
canola and/or sesame oil for sauteing
salt and pepper to taste
400 g spaghetti or any long pasta
grated parmesan cheese, optional

The Method:

1 Boil the crab. Harvest the fat and meat from the crab. Separate the meat from the fat.
2 In a separate bowl, dissolve the crab fat and boullion cube in hot water. Season with pepper (and salt, if necessary).
3 Saute garlic and onions. Add tomatoes. Season immediately with salt and pepper.
4 Add peppers, then crab meat. Stir for a few minutes.
5 Add crab fat mixture. Simmer.
6 Add cream. Simmer.
7 Taste. Season with salt and pepper, if necessary.
8 Add cooked spaghetti. Toss.
9 Serve as is or topped with grated parmesan cheese.
10 Enjoy.

Mission accomplished when...

11 Feel the back of your neck start to throb.
12a Take hypertension meds.
12b Or, go to nearest hospital.
12c Or, die smiling.

What really went on during that 1 million peso dinner...

2009-08-09T10:18:00.006+08:00

Today's newspaper carried the headline "GMA Dined for P1M in NY". This news story, of course, shocked and angered so many people who perhaps still expect an iota of self restraint, respect for others' grief, and observance of propriety from a woman who has shown time and again that she is perhaps genetically incapable of any of these so-called "human" emotions. So what if President Aquino had just died and left not only her family but the whole nation saddened and grieving? So what if 40 percent of Filipinos have at one point in their lives experienced hunger? These are but trifling matters. Besides, it's not as if it was just a casual dinner where nothing of great import was discussed. No, I have it on good authority that GMA and cohorts were celebrating the inauguration of a new political party of which GMA is, naturally, the chimerical head. Below is a transcript of her inaugural address:

Good evening, men, women, harlots all.

Tonight, as I was being driven here in my sleek black stretch limousine, the sight of rows and rows of matchstick houses, squatter slums, assaulted my eyes. Dirty, hungry looking street urchins loitering, littering the street like trash, only aggravated the situation. For a while I thought I would be seized by a pure wave of pity and compassion for our kababayan and their karukhaan. For a while I was terrified that my conscience would rise up from the murky depths of my unconscious to bug the hell out of me... Then I remembered, I had it securely tethered to a 10-billion tonne weight which was sure to keep it down in the abyss of my mind, the black depths of which approximates that of the Mindanao Trench... Whew! That was close, I thought to myself. For a while there... I shuddered then heaved a huge sigh of relief as I settled back against my plush leather seat to contemplate the historic nature of this night.

Tonight is, indeed, a historic night. Tonight we celebrate the beginning of what I have no doubt will be the most profitable political party in Philippine political history. I welcome you, harlots, as members of KKK, which for our purposes, stands for Kakapalan ng mukha, Kawalan ng hiya, Katiwasayan ng bulsa. Specifically, ating bulsa.

Our mission is simple: to do whatever is necessary--without regard for honor, trust, integrity, respect, and all things valiant...and abstract--to remain in power and add to our, let's face it, already unimaginable wealth. Modesty is not a value. Moderation is taboo.

Ang ating misyon: ipakita sa taongbayan na wala silang maaasahan sa atin, kahit singkong duling, ika nga ng mga matatanda.

Wala nang pagpapanggap.

Wala nang magpapanggap na may batas na sinusunod. Pretty soon, we shall effect such a transformation as to render our old laws moot and create new ones that more accurately reflect the lawlessness of our actions. We shall render rules and regulations--even those that govern the conferring of honorific awards--optional. Sufficient but not necessary. So what if the likes of Lumbera, Bencab, Luz, and Almario raise a ruckus about it? Let those old fogeys have a coronary. Or three.

Wala nang pagpapanggap na may pagtingin tayo sa mahihirap. In this regard, this dinner should serve to put across this particular point. A necessary conclusion from two premises:

Premise 1: Forty percent of the Philippine population has suffered hunger at least once during the past year.
Premise 2: The current but pseudo Philippine president and her cohorts spent a million pesos on dinner in New York.
Conclusion: The pseudo president and her cohorts simply do not care. Are simply not bothered by the gaping incongruity that exists between the truth of Premise 1 and that of Premise 2.

Wala nang pagpapanggap na marunong tayong makiramay. Again, this dinner should serve to drive home this point. Another necessary conclusion from two premises:

Premise 3: The Philippines has just lost a much admired, even beloved, leader, one who lived and breathed simplicity, non-frivolity, and integrity.
Premise 4: The current but pseudo Philippine president and her cohorts spent a million pesos wining, dining, and generally making merry in New York while every Filipino (and even many non-Filipinos) elsewhere were grieving.
Conclusion: The pseudo president and her cohorts simply do not care. Are simply not bothered by the gaping incongruity that exists between the truth of Premise 3 and that of Premise 4.

(Thunderous applause almost shakes the foundations of Le Cirque)

(Chortles) I do try... (To waiter) I'll have that tenth bottle of Chardonnay, please...

I hope it is clear to everyone that I will not countenance any sort of good behavior, "good" defined as noble, heroic, selfless... I shudder to even say this word. I suggest you all exercise the same vigilance in staying away from all that is good and true and keeping close to our vision of an unjust, inhumane, society as a necessary consequence of the selfishness of our ambition.

I thank... no one... not even their God.

(Cheers and thunderous applause once more)

Finding the time for another pasta recipe

2009-07-03T21:12:00.003+08:00

I'm finding myself overtaken by the new, and at times unsettling, experience of teaching. Yes, I have now joined the other side of the educational divide. I am now a guro, a titser (eep yu wil), at least for the year covering my appointment period. While I am enjoying certain aspects of it, as in the actual interaction with my students, I am still getting used to the administrative work that goes with it, the utter tediousness of preparation for classes, and the paradigm shift I have had to suffer through. I am, alas, not just a student anymore. Where before I used to sit in class, say something only when I wanted to and space out whenever I felt like it, I now have to stand in front of class, say the same things at least twice over, and try not to space out on my students. I am, too, not a freelancer anymore. I still have other projects but, for the better part of this year and next, I am fully employed by the university that made the sorry mistake of appointing me Assistant Professor 1, with 12 units teaching load, teaching 2 classes of General Psychology and 1 Experimental Psychology class. Did I say I have had to suffer through a paradigm shift? Make that still suffering.

It's not so bad, though. Frankly, half the time, I just like to create issues out of thin air. This, after all, is one of my favorite things to do. As irritating as being made to represent my department to college meetings can be, at least I have another new experience tucked under my belt and as busy and hectic as my schedule has gotten, at least I can still sneak in another pasta recipe, such as the one below. Suckiest segue, don't you think? Hopefully, the pasta is better than this post. Read--and cook--on...

Sausage-Shitake Pasta in Tomato Cream Sauce

Ingredients:
400 g cooked fusili (pasta twists)
1/2 to 1 large piece hungarian sausage, cut into not-too-thin but not thick slices
5-6 medium sized pieces shitake mushrooms
1 tbsp chopped garlic
2 medium tomatoes, chopped
1 small can (around 100 g) tomato paste
1 250 ml pack all purpose cream
2 tbsp oil, for frying
salt, pepper, italian seasoning, basil, and paprika to taste
optional: cheese to top

Procedure:
1 Fry hungarian sausage slices.
2 Slide sausage slices to one side of the pan. Add garlic. Saute.
3 Add tomatoes. Season immediately with salt.
4 Add mushrooms. Saute everything for a few minutes.
5 Season with italian seasoning and basil, to taste.
6 Add tomato paste. Thin with water if the mixture becomes too thick.
7 Add cream. Decrease fire. Season with salt, pepper, paprika, to taste. Simmer.
8 When the sauce starts to boil, add cooked pasta. Toss.
9 Optional, top with cheese.
10 Serve and enjoy.

Pasta Recipe for Dean

2009-05-12T09:52:00.002+08:00

This recipe is dedicated (like a song!) to my friend, Dean, who now lives in the UK with her life partner and who is now starting a love thing with cooking... and eating what she cooks. It's a simple recipe that can be eaten as is or serve as a base for heartier pasta dishes.

ROASTED VEGGIE FUSILI

INGREDIENTS
500 grams fusili (pasta twists; can also use penne)
5-7 pcs medium-sized tomatoes, cut into med-sized chunks
3-4 pcs red and green bell peppers, cut into med-sized chunks
5-7 cloves of garlic, whole
fresh whole basil leaves
1 small can tomato paste
olive oil
salt and pepper, to taste
italian seasoning, to taste

PROCEDURE
1 Place tomatoes, peppers, and garlic cloves in a baking pan. Drizzle with olive oil until each piece is coated. Add salt and pepper. Toss. Roast in pre-heated oven, at 200 degrees C, for 30-40 minutes or until veggies are soft.
2 After roasting, mash the softened garlic and add tomato paste, italian seasoning, and fresh basil leaves to the vegetable mixture. Season again with salt and pepper, if necessary.
3 Add cooked pasta.
4 Can be enjoyed as is. Or, you can add fried meats such as bacon, ham, or hungarian sausage. You can also use canned tuna.
5 Top with parmesan or italian blend cheese.
6 Serve with garlic toast. Enjoy.

Coerced Creativity

2009-05-11T12:22:00.002+08:00

Last week, I had another attack of nasty kabag that left me feeling blue, worried about it (which exacerbated it, I'm sure) and, frankly, unsexy. As I told my friend, Lin, via text, kabag is bad. It takes away the sexy.

The silver lining to this grayest of clouds, however, is that I was coerced by circumstances, "forced to good" ika nga, to come up with relatively healthier but still tasty bogchi to put in my lovely, flabby, tummy.

Here are the results, featuring the very "meaty" shitake mushroom and 5-spice powder:

For breakfast, SHITAKE SALMON...

INGREDIENTS
1 small can Salmon in Natural Oil (the salt in this dish comes from the canned salmon)
1-2 shitake mushrooms, chopped
1 tsp atsuete oil (annato seeds soaked in canola oil)
1-2 cloves garlic, chopped
1 small shallot, chopped
1 stalk, green onion, chopped
1 green chili, chopped
kasuba, to taste
5-spice powder, to taste
sesame seeds, to taste (optional: toasted)

PROCEDURE
1 Saute garlic, onions, and chili in atsuete oil. Add the mushrooms.
2 Add 5-spice powder to the mix and saute for a few seconds.
3 Add salmon.
4 Sprinkle kasuba and sesame seeds.
5 Serve with brown rice or multi-grain toast.

For lunch or dinner, SHITAKE PASTA...

INGREDIENTS
100 grams flat pasta, cooked and drained
2-3 shitake mushrooms, sliced
1-2 cloves garlic, chopped
1 small shallot, chopped
2 stalks green onion, chopped
fresh basil leaves
fresh curly leaf parsley
5-spice powder, to taste
spanish paprika, to taste
1/2 cup soy sauce (optional: use patis or plain salt)
1 tsp cornstarch, dissolved in water
1-2 tbsp atsuete oil

PROCEDURE
1 Saute garlic and onions in oil. Add the mushrooms.
2 Add the 5-spice powder, paprika, and soy sauce.
3 Thicken with cornstarch.
4 Add cooked pasta and some pasta water (if sauce is too thick).
5 Add fresh basil, parsley, and green onions.
6 Toss until leaves are wilted.
7 Serve with multi-grain toast.

For a quick dessert, FAUX APPLE PIE...

INGREDIENTS
1 medium apple, sliced into thin wedges
1 cup granola
1 tsp cinnamon powder
1 tsp 5-spice powder
1 pat unsalted butter
1 tbsp honey

PROCEDURE
1 Mix granola, spices, butter, and honey.
2 Arrange apple wedges in a shallow bowl. Top with the granola crumble.
3 Blitz in microwave for 4-5 minutes.
4 Enjoy.

I have an announcement to make...

2009-04-01T20:51:00.003+08:00

I've decided to shed enough pounds to be what others may consider thin and sexy. I struggled with this decision because I have spent my life refusing to judge my appearance, and by intimate extension, myself, by other people's standards. It hurts to have to pretty much take back everything I've ever written about in this blog, everything I ever said to anyone about accepting oneself and not attaching one's sense of worth and beauty to the container one is housed in. But, damn it, there must be some truth to what people have been telling me all my life: that I would, in fact, be prettier if I lost a bit or a lot of weight. I consider myself a fairly curious person, so in the interest of satisfying curiosities, at least, I've decided to really try to be thinner... and prettier. (I'm tired of being passably pretty and very smart!). I don't want to just exercise or make changes in my diet for health's sake. That seems to me now like such a cop out. Health Schmealth, right?

Starting tomorrow, April 2, I will be going on a pretty strict diet. Think only one cup of brown rice a day for carbs. I'm also joining a gym instead of just doing Hip Hop Abs at home or walking up and down several flights of stairs.

I hope that my family, friends, and any random stranger who happens upon this blog will understand this massive Kuhnian type paradigmatic shift of my mind and heart. From now on, this blog will be about food still--but only healthy food and healthy eating. Which means no more pasta recipes. I hope I can still find much meaning in eating salad greens and veggiemeat and be able to write about connections between protein and, say, peace and justice.

Here's to a new (read: thinner, prettier!) me and (fingers crossed) an even better blog about healthy bogchi. I can't wait!

By the way, what day is it today?

Presenting… BOCHOG’S ALL CARB DIET

2009-02-15T22:07:00.002+08:00

Inspired by those LOSE/GAIN WEIGHT? sticker ads usually found on restroom doors and outdoor posts, Bochog’s All Carb Diet is designed to achieve the 2nd option that these sticker ads present: GAIN WEIGHT. Emboldened by the recognition that weight can be a matter of choice—that one can choose and wish to gain weight as much as another can choose to lose—the creator of this diet decided to crystallize the gastronomic principles she has lived by for 3 decades into an easy-to-follow diet that doesn’t skimp on taste. Bochog’s All Carb Diet is the first diet of its kind, a diet that can target weight gain as a goal but one that does not demand it. Bochog believes that there doesn’t have to be guilt or remorse should one follow the diet and still maintain one’s weight. After all, Bochog lives by the saying (which she made up herself)…

“There are no judgments here.”

Unlike other diets that advocate the reduction, even elimination, of carbohydrate intake, this diet advocates maximum intake of carbohydrates. The All Carb Diet, however, does not discriminate against other food groups, for instance, proteins such as meat, meat, and all meat. Instead, it advocates a balanced diet which consists of carbohydrates, some protein to make the carbs extra special to the palate and to ensure the continued employment of butchers and others who work in the meat procurement and processing sector, a few servings of veggies for those who have to contend with guilt (although, again, there are no judgments here), and the requisite chocolate caramel bar drink. Fruits may be substituted for some of the processed sweets. Beware, though. Studies have shown that those who eat more than one piece of fruit a day have a higher risk of having regular bowel movement and are, therefore, likelier to feel nature’s call at the most inopportune moments, like during a business meeting or right in the middle of an intimate moment with one’s partner or, like, whenever. (Sucks, right?).

The diet consists of a 3-day breakfast, lunch, merienda (afternoon snacks), and dinner menu. Meals are interchangeable. This allows the dieter latitude and freedom in creating his/her own diet plan while staying within the admittedly permeable boundaries set by the All Carb Diet. Dieters can create one-day menus using different combinations such as, for instance, Day 1 Breakfast, Day 2 Lunch and Merienda, and Day 3 Dinner.

This diet is contraindicated for those who want to lose weight as well as those in whom the very word carbohydrate triggers severe allergic reactions that may lead to anaphylactic shock. This diet is also recommended for those whose tongues are planted firmly in cheek.

DAY 1

Breakfast

1 cup, or 3, white rice (steamed or fried in STAR margarine with ham, bacon, and chorizo bits, and green peas and carrots for 1/16 serving of veggies)
1 multi-grain bagel (plain or slathered with a butter and cream cheese pimiento)
1 glazed donut (or 2…amounts are entirely optional)
1 glass Bochog Shake (to make: combine 1 banana cut up into pieces, half an apple, juice of 1 orange, ½ cup milk, 1 tbsp honey, and 1 Snickers bar, in a blender. Blend until smooth. For added joy, again entirely optional, top with cut up pieces of Twix bar, peanut butter flavor)

Lunch

1 small (or big) plate of pasta with simple marinara sauce (or aligue sauce)
1 slice (or loaf) of whole wheat bread (plain or slathered with garlic herb butter. For a Southeast Asian take, substitute butter with ghee… and coconut milk)
1 simple salad, made of store bought mixed greens and your favorite dressing, on a bed of croutons, topped with grated cheese and bacon bits
1 glass diet root beer (with 2 scoops vanilla ice cream… there will be no judgments should you deem it necessary to add a 3rd scoop.)

Merienda

3 layers of sapin-sapin
1 platter palabok
3-4 pieces puto (with 1 bowl dinuguan)
1 tall glass sago gulaman (with extra arnibal)

Dinner

1 bowl asado mami
1 piece bola-bola siopao (with extra pao… or extra asado siopao)
1 cup white rice (can be substituted with 1 plate paella)
for dessert: 1 llanera leche flan (topped with slivers of sweet macapuno and a generous serving of caramel)

DAY 2

Breakfast

1 sausage platter (A sausage platter is just a large plate filled with at least 3 different kinds of sausages: ex. Chorizo de Bilbao, Hungarian, Italian, Bratwurst, Vigan Longganisa, Lucban Longganisa)
3-4 large pan de sal (with kesong puti)
1 cup brewed coffee (with lots of cream and sugar. Lots.)

Lunch

1 10-inch all meat pizza
1 big bowl Caesar salad
1 plate Carbonara (2nd plate optional)
1 liter diet soda (1.5 liter if 1 liter bottle is not available)

Dinner

½ to 1 slab bbq pork or beef ribs (according to preference)
1 pot chili
2-3 servings creamy mashed potatoes (to make: boil 10 potatoes, add 2 cups heavy cream, 2 sticks butter, salt and pepper to taste. Ham, bacon, or sausage bits are optional.)
for dessert: bread pudding (with caramel sauce)

DAY 3

Breakfast

3 large pancakes (topped with a blueberry or raspberry compote, whipped cream, and lots of maple syrup)
3-4 slices French toast (soaked in more maple syrup)
1-2 servings hash browns
3-10 pieces bacon
1 fruit platter (any fruit, fresh or candied, will do)
1-4 cups hot chocolate e

Lunch

1-2 plates Pinoy style spaghetti (for a recipe, ask your mom)
2-3 pieces fried chicken
1-2 slices toast (plain or buttered and topped with grated cheese)
1.5 liter bottle diet soda (regular soda if diet soda not available)

Merienda

10 pieces fish balls
10 pieces squid balls
10 pieces chicken balls
3-5 sticks isaw baboy
3-5 sticks isaw manok
3-5 sticks betamaks
2 liter bottle Sprite or 7 Up

Dinner

1 platter white sauce pasta (alfredo or carbonara)
2-3 servings beef stroganoff (with rice, or pasta again)
1 rack of lamb
1-2 servings assorted roasted veggies (like potatoes, carrots, eggplant, peppers)
for dessert: cake sampler (sample slices of the ff. cakes: tiramisu, caramel cake, sans rival, moist chocolate cake, cheesecake, chocolate mousse, carrot cake, etc.)

Shrimp Pasta for 2 People I Like

2008-12-10T09:42:00.003+08:00

Day and I cooked shrimp pasta for her 25th birthday this past monday, Dec. 8. Below is the recipe, which I'm also dedicating (like a song!) to my friend with the alliterative name, Leah Lupisan Laxamana, whose birthday is Dec. 9 (yesterday here in Manila, today in California). Sorry, I can't cook it for you, Ley. Tutal, self-reliance is the way to go, so cook it yourself! :)

Shrimp Pasta

Ingredients:

750 g spaghetti
500 g tomato sauce
1 250 ml pack all-purpose cream
1/4 cup olive oil
2 tbsp minced garlic
2 tbsp minced onion/shallots
2 pcs green chili, deseeded and chopped
5 medium tomatoes, chopped
400-500 g shrimps, peeled
salt, pepper, cayenne pepper, chili flakes, basil, and italian seasoning blend, all to taste
grated cheese

Procedure:

1. Saute onions then garlic in olive oil. Then add green chili.
2. After a couple of minutes, add the tomatoes. Season immediately with salt and pepper, then other spices.
3. Add shrimps (half-cooked).
4. When shrimps are pink, add tomato sauce.
5. When sauce is bubbling, add cream.
6. Check for taste. Add seasonings as needed.
7. Add cooked pasta to the sauce. Toss.
8. Place in baking dish. Add layer of grated Cheese.
9. (Optional) Bake until cheese melts.
10. Serve with buttered toast or garlic bread.
11. Enjoy.

BIKES, BEEF SOUP, AND THE BALINGKINITAN RATIO: Ho Chi Minh and the Concept of Scale

2008-12-08T13:05:00.003+08:00

The Vietnamese idea of scale and proportion is small. It’s not a bad kind of small. It may be similar to our idea of “tingi” and the sari-sari store, which is all about just enough, nothing in excess. I stayed for 3 days in Ho Chi Minh 2 months ago and the main thing I brought home from that trip, aside from the coffee and coconut candies, is the realization that big is not a natural imperative. In Vietnam, balingkinitan seems to be the norm. In that place, where the buildings weren’t too tall, the streets were just wide enough to accommodate more bicycles than cars, and the people were no bigger than I was… in 2nd grade… there seemed to be no need to go large scale.

The people, the streets, the buildings all share one thing—they take up the least amount of space possible. Balingkinitan. Little and willowy. There really is no other word to describe them. The main highways are half the size of EDSA. The streets of Ho Chi Minh feature clusters of narrow buildings that look like concrete reeds of varying height but never reaching the kind of heights that buildings here do. And they don’t have malls and shopping complexes a la Megamall or Trinoma. Think Star Mall. Much of our shopping was done in the stores along the side streets of the city, which sold different goodies at half the price the same products were being sold for in Ben Thanh market, the central market that was supposedly the place to go for good buys. Supposedly. My friend, Claire, bought a pair of shades at Ben Thanh for the equivalent of 300 pesos. Naturally, we would later spot a side street store selling shades for as low as the equivalent of 100 pesos. I reckon it sucked to be her, at that point.

The people in Vietnam are all smaller than me. I never saw one Vietnamese larger or even at least as large. There was this one Vietnamese salesgirl who was probably already their idea of “fat”, and she looked like she was the same size I was in fifth grade. The strange thing is, though, when it came to food, they served pretty big portions. Claire and I had dinner in this eatery that serves only beef soup. We each ordered one. The owner put a huge bowl in front of me filled with soup, vermicelli, and about twenty thin slices of beef, with a plate of assorted vegetables on the side. I couldn’t finish all of it. You’d think I’d be able to finish a big bowl of beef soup. But, I guess, where Vietnamese beef vermicelli soup is concerned I’m a figurative lightweight.

I wonder where they put all that beef. Or the pork. They’re fond of pork too. We had lunch at a place that served shredded pork as a side dish to… pork. So, I actually had a pork-on-pork meal. I know where all the food I eat goes. I actually look like I like to eat. They look like freaky health fanatics who consume only 10 calories a day. Times like these I find myself asking fundamental life questions, like, “What the hell?”

But I couldn’t bring myself to resent the Vietnamese. They seemed so sweet and innocent, never mind the Viet Cong and their wily ways that led to the defeat of the US Army. Which brings me to another point, you know those underground tunnels that the Viet Cong built to aid them in their guerilla warfare against the American imperialists? I like that word. Imperialist. Reminds me of Mark Twain and his anti-imperialist essays. And of that French guy in the Highlander series who said, “Imperialist! I spit on the ground you walk on.” Who in turn reminds me of John Cleese’s French Guard character in Monty Python and the Holy Grail, the one who kept mocking King Arthur and said, “I fart in your general direction! Your mother was a hamster and your father smelt of elderberries!”

I love the French, especially when they’re all… stereotypical… But I digress…

As I was saying, those underground tunnels were really tiny too. And narrow. Bawal ang malaki, to rephrase that Clusivol commercial. You won’t fit inside the hole if you’re as big as G.I. Joe. In fact, the tour guide said that the Viet Congs’ small frame helped them evade the American soldiers, some of whom would actually try and stick their massive bodies into these small holes, to no avail, obviously. (This reminds me of the late American comedian, Chris Farley, who got laughs stuffing his huge body into David Spade’s coat, and singing, “Fat guy in a little coat…”).

Roads and streets in Ho Chi Minh are all relatively narrower. Certainly, they don’t have a main thoroughfare like EDSA. Not that they really need one. People don’t drive much in Vietnam. They ride motorbikes instead. To get an idea of how many bikes traverse the streets at any one time, imagine the number of cars along EDSA vis a vis the number of motorcycles. Then, imagine the reverse. That’s how it’s like in Ho Chi Minh’s roads. It can be crazy-making trying to dodge all those bikes zipping past you. It’s like a thousand mechanical lemmings coming at you. One of them makes eye contact just before that moment when you’re sure you’re about to get hit by a bike in Vietnam. And then, in a split second, the biker tilts her hips to the left, or to the right, slanting away from you with only a tiny increment of space between you and her. It’s all quite cozy and intimate, these brushes with death. What do the French call it? Le petit morte? The little death. Of course, they were talking about something else altogether, but that same phrase applies here. It’s very suave the way the Vietnamese avoid collisions. They wouldn’t be able to do that, avoid hitting someone with only an inch of space in between, if they were big-boned, muscle-toned, fat-framed types.

In Vietnam, being balingkinitan makes a lot of sense. It helps you evade the enemy and eventually defeat them. It also helps you cheat death several times on the way to work.

The Meaning Of Mechado

2008-10-29T12:48:00.002+08:00

Wednesday. 29th of October. One minute after One. PM. I am in the middle of finishing a lunch that consists of pork mechado and brown rice. The pork mechado is left over from yesterday's dinner. Our kasambahay, Daya, has left for her annual vacation to her hometown in Bacolod and she cooked enough mechado and adobo to last us several days.

So sometime before One, I decided... make that MY MIND... my mind decided to heat it up and eat it for lunch. Not a mind-boggling, spectacular decision. Except my mind is making up this whole big deal about what I know to be just a regular meal. I'm not explaining it well. It's...

My mind's racing. It's been racing for close to 20 minutes now. You know that feeling, that you're on the verge of an important discovery, or you're about to have some kind of life changing epiphany? That feeling of anticipation, on the verge of a Eureka moment... and yet, you know, you know, there's no meaning to be had, to be found, to be created... in mechado!

There are no epiphanies in brown rice! Heating up a meal made of left overs is NOT up there with undertaking your life's most important research study! It won't get you the ultimate brilliant idea for a script that will win the country's first Oscar for Best Original Screenplay!

Your body moves in the same slow, lethargic manner you usually have, but your mind--at least the part that does not contain, imprison, YOU--says and feels otherwise. You're all jumpy and nervous and excited inside a sluggishly moving body. You're waiting for that Zen moment--which you know will never happen because moments of Zen don't come to those who expect.

Expectation is the antithesis of Zen.

You know this, yet your mind is telling your body to behave otherwise, to act like you're on the verge of a profound realization. But your body just can't get with your mind's current programme.

You feel incongruent. Discordant. Unreal.

You just have to wait this out, this excruciating moment of feeling like something's going to happen while knowing, being entirely convinced, that something never will.

Mechado sucks.

Nakainom Ako Ng Melamine!!!

2008-10-09T13:12:00.005+08:00

Thanks to last night's news, I found out that we've been consuming milk laced with melamine these past few months. See, we switched over from Milk Magic low fat milk to Jolly Cow Slender low fat milk because the latter was, ahem, cheaper. And since we mistakenly assumed that it is always a wise decision to go cheaper if you can, especially during these times, we started buying Jolly Cow low fat milk. It didn't taste any different and, prior to last night's announcement, we've consumed probably around 4 cartons of it over a period of several months. We used it mostly for oatmeal, of which mama ate the most. When news about melamine in milk went around, we stopped drinking it just to be on the safe side, but when BFAD announced that Jolly Cow regular milk was found negative of melamine, I guess we figured it's probably the same results for the low fat kind since these were the same brand, from the same company, anyway.

Lo and behold (is it a mark of melanine poisoning to be using old fashioned, hokey phrases such as "lo and behold"?), we tuned in to last night's news only to find a health official holding up a carton of the same brand of milk we'd been consuming, yes, Jolly Cow Slender, at a press conference, announcing that said brand has been found to contain melamine.

I think my jaw dropped a hundred storeys.

A quick internet search reveals the following effects of melamine poisoning (sourced from WHO): irritability, blood in urine, little or no urine, signs of kidney infection, and high blood pressure. I think I'm safe from every one of those save the first. I get easily irritated but I think that's more of a personality quirk than an effect of a chemical in my bloodstream.

In any case, it seems pointless to agonize, as my sister says, about what are really small amounts of milk we ingested in the past. And as yet, we experience nothing of the supposed effects of melamine poisoning. Maybe the chemical has been washed out of our system already. But I'm not taking any chances. No milk for me anytime soon.

Thank God for non-dairy creamer.

Wait, non-dairy creamer doesn't have milk in it. Ergo, it can't possibly have melamine, right?

Is paranoia an effect of melamine poisoning?

"Methinks it is, lassie!" says the voice in my head.

ARGGHHH!!!

On Food, Violence, and Power

2008-09-15T22:26:00.003+08:00

A quick google using the key words “vegetarian dictator” reveals links to the sorely contested idea that Adolf Hitler, mass murderer and all around asshole, was a vegetarian. Some historians have argued that Der Fuhrer did not eat meat, that the man who got it into his head to attempt to exterminate a whole race in a sincerely, insanely, misguided effort at purification, only nibbled on plants and cared not for carnivorous pleasures such as steak, foie gras, ham, bologna, salami, sausages, fried chicken, roast turkey, grilled fish, and other cooked permutations of formerly living, breathing, walking, and swimming members of kingdom Animalia.

I can imagine how vegetarians, especially those who don’t eat meat for moral reasons, would be gagging about this. Since vegetarianism is often associated with a pacifistic philosophy and lifestyle that seeks to respect all forms of life even, say, bacteria, it of course won’t do for one’s moral code to be associated with a man who had zero respect for any life other than his.

I myself am skeptical of the idea that Hitler only consumed plants because… well… A vegetarian dictator? Somehow, it’s hard to imagine such a creature ever existing.

A dictator is one who superimposes his will onto that of the weak. He doesn’t ask for anything, he just takes it, grabs it, keeps it then spews it out whenever, wherever, at whomever he wants to. A dictator doesn’t wish, he wills. His is power that renders others’ moot. Equality and respect are anathema to him. Superiority and dominion are his raison d’etre.

It’s difficult to imagine that someone like this would have a diet that reflects a “live and let live” philosophy.

To my mind, dictators don’t just consume, they devour. They don’t just nibble, they take huge, jaw-breaking bites. They don’t pick their food; they spear it, stab it, and tear the flesh off it.

After all, at a most basic, primitive level, eating is an exercise in power. To eat is to reinforce the hierarchy to which all living organisms belong. Science calls it the food chain and humans are taught early on about our place, occupying the top position, in it. Science and pedagogy collude to instill in us the idea of our inherent superiority to all other species.

Hamlet’s soliloquy might as well have been, “To eat, or not to eat…and make a pet out of.”

The food chain represents the vast gastronomic options we as a species have before us. We exercise our power through the choices we make, the answers we come up with to the question of what to eat and not to eat.

The choice is made expedient by the act of naming and personifying. You cannot eat that which you have named. It is atavistic will, simple and without logic. All other unnamed species, all those you have not made pets out of… have at it.

Even after you have made the choice of what to eat, you come up against another question: how to procure the food. Procurement of food is almost always an act of violence. You hunt, you capture, you slaughter and let the blood flow, then you make a fire and burn it. It’s making sure whatever it is is truly dead. Some people can stand this knowledge more than others. These people don't mind actively involving themselves in this procurement process. We call them "hunters", "butchers", "cooks". The others we call consumers, passive receivers of food already deadened and prepared. Or more quaintly so, we call them "foodies".

After this, the question: how to eat it. The answer to this question often flows from answers to the previous questions. Say you, like most folks, have decided to eat lower animal forms. It is very likely that you are at least aware that your food is procured in a fairly violent fashion. At least, we hope none of us are so deluded as to think that the cows, pigs, chickens, and fish we eat have all died convenient, natural deaths. Because these animals have flesh, which is tough and often unpalatable in its raw state, you would have to subject your animal of choice to all manner of beating (which you would call “tenderizing”), destroying (which you would call “processing”) and burning (which you would call “cooking”).

Euphemisms abound where violence resides.

So, how to eat it? You can, like members of polite society, saw it with a knife and stick a fork in it. Or you can pretend less and just use your hands and your teeth to pull a chunk off it.

Or you can be a vegetarian.

You can choose to limit your eating to living things that can’t walk or run away from you, hopelessly unable to evade your capture, living things that are stuck to the earth and are virtual sitting ducks, ready for you to pick them. Then you can yank your food from the ground, by its stems, to reveal its naked roots, chop off its leaves and shred them. And you could call this shredding “to julienne”.

Euphemisms abound where violence resides.

So, how to eat your plants? You can poke at them with a fork and slice the larger pieces with a knife. Or again, you can pretend less—and be truer to your no less violent nature—and just use your hands to pick your little, refined slices of death and put them in your mouth.

To nibble.

On second thought… maybe it’s not so impossible that Hitler was a vegetarian.

Going (Gasp!) Vegetarian

2008-08-30T12:50:00.003+08:00

Yeah, you heard me. VE.GE.TA.RI.AN...

Two nights ago, I decided not to have dinner because I had had a very late lunch. So, naturally, after deciding on no dinner, I promptly got hungry. Since I never could get behind tinolang manok, and our cupboard is due for another major trip to Shopwise, I had to make do with what little was left in our fridge. By "little" I mean "no more meat" which would have, ordinarily, sucked. But deprivation breeds resourcefulness and some good came out of this no meat situation, in the form of a new recipe for a spicy snack, herein so detailed...

Spicy Tomato Dip/Sauce/Palaman/Whatever on Whole Wheat Crackers:

Ingredients (for single serving):
1 medium sized tomato, diced
1 tsp olive oil
basil and italian herbs to taste
salt and pepper to taste
1-2 dash/es cayenne pepper or paprika (optional, for spice)
1 tsp light mayonnaise
1 tsp mustard
3-4 whole wheat crackers (the new Rebisco crackers are awesome!)

Procedure:
1. Mix all ingredients (save the mayo, mustard, and crackers) in a small bowl.
2. Blitz in microwave for 1-2 minutes, or until tomatoes are soft.
3. Stir in mayo and mustard.
4. Spread on to crackers.
5. Enjoy.

Yesterday, I walked all the way from the Ortigas office where I work part-time to the MRT station in Ortigas. Got off at Cubao and walked around, bought some stuff in, Gateway mall. Took the LRT. Got off at Katipunan then walked home. So I was walking a total of 1 and a half hours. To reward myself, I made some vegetarian tortillas for dinner. No meat is all right if you can have beans. Beans, baby. Beans...

Tomato and Refried Bean Dip/Sauce/Filling/Whatever on Tortillas:

Ingredients:
1 can fat free refried beans
3-4 medium sized tomatoes, diced
1 tbsp garlic, minced
1 tbsp onion, minced
herbs to taste
barbecue seasoning (with chilies) to taste
salt and pepper to taste
1-2 dash/es cayenne pepper or paprika (optional, for spice)
1/2 cup tomato ketchup
1/4 cup warm water
shredded cabbage
grated cheese (optional)
small tortillas

Procedure:
1. Saute garlic and onions.
2. Add tomatoes. Sprinkle salt and pepper.
3. Add herbs. Stir until tomatoes are soft.
4. Add refried beans and some water to thin it out a bit.
5. Add tomato ketchup and cayenne pepper. Simmer til thick.
6. Heat tortillas in a pan.
7. Spread generous amount of tomato-refried bean stuff.
8. Top with cabbage and/or cheese.
9. (Optional) Heat til cheese melts.
10. Enjoy.

Going Tropical

2008-08-13T11:59:00.003+08:00

Yesterday, I was walking along Quezon Avenue when I, seemingly suddenly, got a hankering for a Tropical Hut hamburger. It was midday, time for lunch, and I was contemplating going into Red Ribbon for some empanada and palabok. Then I remembered that there was a Tropical Hut at the other side of the road. The last time I ate a Tropical Hut hamburger was maybe 7 years ago when my mom brought home a couple for me. Tropical Hut isn't exactly a bright red spot on the burger radar like McDonalds or Jollibee. Which is really, if you think about it, a strange thing because Tropical Hut hamburgers actually taste great. The only reason I've not eaten some in the past years is because there's not too many Tropical Hut branches around Metro Manila anymore. So when I get a craving for a burger, I go with either the McDonalds Quarter Pounder or Double Cheeseburger or the Jollibee Champ. If I feel like gourmet burgers then it's Brothers or HotShots. Invariably, Tropical Hut gets pushed out of the picture. No blinking red spot on the radar.

So thank goodness I was in the vicinity of the only Tropical Hut branch I know in Quezon City. And thank goodness I was hungry at that time. I was overdue a taste of Tropical Hut burger, with the firm yet fluffy sesame seed bun and the burger pattie that tastes like a joining of beef, pork, kinchay, and spices. It's the pattie that often makes the difference for me, and Tropical Hut's burger patties are soft and feel almost crumbly. They're not greasy and they remind me a lot of the concept of the 5th taste, Umami. The meat slides down your throat like tasty, crumbly tofu.

I'm glad I opted to go Tropical yesterday.

A Good Day...

2008-07-14T19:21:00.002+08:00

...can begin in many different ways. It can begin with waking up from a sweet dream or the deepest, dreamless sleep you've had since statistics class in college. It can begin a bit later with tocino, fried egg, and fried rice, washed down with creamy, sugary brewed coffee. It can begin still a bit later, on the way to meet a friend, in a cab being driven by a most curious fellow.

I didn't get his name. I neither needed nor wanted it. It was going to be like any other cab ride. The driver, as far as I was concerned, needed only to keep quiet as he wove his way from Katipunan to North Avenue. Conversation was not a requirement, especially not if it covered the oft-repeated Cab Driver's Lament: "Gas is up; my profit's down. Want to give me 150 pesos for a 75 peso ride?"

But somewhere along C.P. Garcia, Cabbie and I started the most wonderful, insightful discussion about Psychology, its uses and applications, the implications of imposing psychological knowledge and metaphor--with its assumptions of self and individualism--on local communities, its stand on the question of God, and what makes it different from fortune-telling.

Cabbie asked the following questions, questions that not all psychologists ask themselves. He asked, "Meron po ba talagang natutulong yang counseling na hindi ko makukuha kung magkekwento lang ako sa kaibigan ko?" In English and in slightly more academic terms, this question translates to "How does the therapeutic relationship differ from, and how is it better than, an ordinary friendship?"

Cabbie asked, "Ang mga tulad niyo po bang psychologist naniniwala sa Diyos?" ("Do psychologists believe in God?")

Cabbie also asked, "Ano po ang pagkakaiba ng ginagawa ninyo sa ginagawa ng manghuhula?" ("What makes your work different from what a fortune teller does?")

Cabbie asked many other related, and pertinent, questions which all got me thinking about my work and its place in the grand idea of supposed helping. I told Cabbie that those were good questions he was asking. And he said that he was just like me, curious and full of questions, and that his job is the best because it gives him the opportunity to talk to different kinds of people.

Cabbie and I parted ways at the SM Hypermart. I went on to meet my friend. And my good day continued to Binondo where said friend Muriel, I, and two other friends, Angela and Belen, went on a WOKing tour of the place, courtesy of Old Manila Walks.

For 850 pesos (of which Muriel and I only paid 500, thanks to good ol' Len's generosity), we got to sample the various gastronomic fare that Chinatown offers. We had thick chocolate e at a stall that sells 10 tableas for only 58 pesos (unsweetened), which is around 30 pesos cheaper than in supermarkets. Then we had Fookien/Hokkien fried rice, fishball soup, and iced brewed coffee at Cafe Mezzanine. After that, we walked to a small eatery owned by a BS couple, as in Bagong Salta (or newly arrived/migrated), and were served steamed pork-kinchay and shrimp dumplings and this fluffy, crispy fried pancakes stuffed with meat and veggies. Then we had chicken egg preserved in tea a couple of streets away. And after that, fried siopao. The last stop was at a lumpia house in an art deco building, where we ate a meat and veggie lumpia with the chewiest wrap and lots of mung bean sprouts, carrots, minced pork, shrimps, green onions, etc.

For pasalubong, I bought 3 kinds of hopia (which means "good cookie" because, of course, when you eat hopia, you can't help but say, "This is good cookie!") and authentic kikiam. Not that fake stuff we buy off the streets at 10 pesos per 3 tiny pieces. No, this is the real stuff, with the wrinkly wrap made of soy and the minced pork and veggie with no extenders. I got my first taste of authentic kikiam (and I know I'm not calling it by its correct name, but I forgot) when I was around 5 years old. I think it was at a food fair organized by our church. Or something. I just remember these huge white tents and all these stalls serving different kinds of food. I remember nothing else of what I ate, save for the kikiam drenched in sweet peanut sauce. It always does my heart glad to revisit food memories. I can't wait to have my first taste of original Chinese kikiam and see if it really is the stuff that makes 5-year-olds eat, savor, dream, and remember.

A good day ends in as many different ways as it started. It can end with going home, stomach and mind full, to sisters who await your arrival. As mine did.

Salad and a Coffee, Please

2008-07-02T21:13:00.003+08:00

Spicy Coffee

I've been enjoying Colombian coffee the past couple of months, thanks to my sis and brother-in-law who gave me almost half a kilo of the good stuff. Since Ate My also gave me some ground cinnamon, I've been spicing up my coffee, ovaltine, and coffee-ovaltine with it. Today, I added another spice to my coffee: cayenne pepper. It added more heat to my coffee.

Ingredients:
ground coffee, 1 tbsp to brew 1 cup
cinnamon, 2-3 dashes
cayenne pepper, 2-3 dashes
muscovado sugar, 1 1/2 tsp (not so sweet)
creamer, 1 tsp
optional: chocolate malt powder or cocoa powder, 1 tsp

Procedure:
1. Put ground coffee, cinnamon, and cayenne pepper in manual coffee press.
2. Pour hot water into press. Brew for 3-5 minutes. Then press down.
3. Pour coffee in your favorite cup or mug. Add sugar, creamer, and choco powder.
4. Stir. Wait to cool a bit. Then, enjoy.

Easy-Peasy Everyday Salad

Ingredients:
store-bought salad greens
juice from 2 pcs calamansi (for single serving)
honey, 1 tsp
oil, 1 tsp (for asian flavor, use sesame oil; for mediterranean, use olive oil)

Procedure:
1. Mix calamansi juice, honey, and oil.
2. Pour over salad greens.
3. Let sit for a bit. Then, enjoy as side salad. Or, add grilled tuna flakes and brown or red rice for a full meal.

Bad, Bochog. Bad!

2008-06-19T22:51:00.006+08:00

I've been a bad, bad, non-posting girl. It's not like I have not been eating since my last post this past April. And it's not like I've not had any food-related thoughts or foodgasms the past almost 2 months! I have. I've just been busy with non-food related endeavors, such as earning money... to buy more food.

I even missed writing about my birthday last month, my 30th, my entrance into the 3rd decade. My birthday, which I share with the following pseudo-famous folks: 1) Dennis Hopper, bad guy in Speed; 2) Bob Saget, one of the dads in Full House; 3) Jordan Knight, of the New Kids on the Block (who have just reunited, fyi); and 4) Andrea Corr, lead singer of The Corrs. (I like to know these things).

That blows.

I, in fact, had a lovely birthday dinner with my family (except Daddy, who's in the US right now), the college best pal, and friends from grad school. I enjoyed the company and, equally importantly--oh who am I kidding, when I say "equally" we all know I really mean "more"... so, more importantly, I enjoyed the catered food. Yes, catered. Nothing but good stuff to mark my exit from 20-something angst and entrance into 30-something lassitude. So, if I may be allowed this indulgence (and please, forget the fact that this blog is one massive indulgence anyway), I present... My 30th Birthday Dinner Menu:

Shrimp and Potato Salad - Shrimps, boiled eggs, diced potatoes, tomatoes, on a bed of salad greens. With mayo-based dressing.
Lasagna - Enough said.
Lengua - Ox tongue with mushrooms in a buttery sauce. Heart-clogging.
Chicken Relleno
Lumpiang Shanghai
Buko Pandan Cream. Strips of coconut meat, sago, and pandan flavored gelatin, in cream sauce.

There was no cake, however. I had thought about getting myself a cake, it being a birthday and all. But, at the last minute, I decided this celebration did not really need a cake. It needed only me. Besides, I'd already stuffed myself silly with cake from the sisters' birthdays so I temporarily lost my taste for it. The Buko Pandan Cream worked spectacularly as dessert and no one missed, or asked for, cake. Of course, it's possible they were just being polite. I don't particularly care.

I say there was no need for cake. There was no need for cake.

I think I'm trying to convince myself.

Still Speaking of Cake

2008-04-22T20:26:00.005+08:00

The Saturday after Ditchie's, Ate My celebrated her own birthday with family, friends, and a huge Estrel's lemon caramel cake. It was a beautiful cake, creamy custard between 2 layers of soft chiffon cake and covered in velvety icing. It was cake that you could eat any time of the day, any day of the week, a cake that can make ordinary days into special occasions and special occasions into seminal events. Safe to say I wasn't the only one who loved the cake (and the rest of the food, which was catered by my mom's best friend). That huge rectangle was gone by night's end. Of course, Mama had to take home a small slab of it for us to polish off--which we did the next day.

There's something about Estrel's cake. I think it's the custard filling. It's not actually sweet but it's not bland either. It's creamy yet light. So is the icing. Which is pretty dangerous because you don't feel like you've eaten enough. So you get one more slice, and one more, and one more. The next thing you know, half of it's gone and you haven't even finished the cup of coffee that you brewed to go with it.

There's only one person I know who doesn't like Estrel's, that's Ditchie. It's only because she doesn't really like caramel and custard cakes. Her absolute fave is mocha. That's it. You buy her Mocha roll at Goldilocks or Red Ribbon and she's set.

Anyway, this will probably be my last post about cake... at least until my birthday next month. I don't usually get a cake for my birthday but since this upcoming one marks my entry into the 3rd decade of life, I figure it's special enough to merit a cake. Yeah, I'll definitely get myself a birthday cake, with sticky marshmallow icing.

Speaking of Cake...

2008-04-01T14:57:00.003+08:00

... (see previous post), last weekend was Ditchie's birthday, and her boss gave her a mocha cake from Hizon's as a birthday present. It was a huge cake. Two dense layers of chocolate chiffon with custard filling in between and a thick layer of butter icing covering the whole thing. It was huge.

Anyway, Ditchie brought home only little more than half of the cake but that was more than enough for me. In fact, there's still some left over even though I've been eating 1 to 2 hefty slices of cake everyday since Friday night. Another co-worker gave Ditchie a Mango Torte from Dulcelin Gourmet, and it was also family size. It's supposed to be kept frozen but it doesn't fit in our freezer. I was going to help it along by, you know, eating some (and by "some" I mean "a whole lot") just to reduce the size so it can fit in our refrigerator's small freezer. Except, I didn't like it much. I'm not a huge fan of mango--which I know is sacrilege for a Filipino to even think, let alone articulate--but I really can't get behind it. I like green mangoes (the indian variety) with alamang and dried mangoes as well but, the truth is, my tongue doesn't generally like interacting with mangoes. It likes to keep its distance from kind of cloying fruits. So I ate maybe a couple of slices of the torte, mostly because I liked the crust and the cream, but I removed the huge slices of ripe mango and put them on Ditchie's plate. She can have the whole torte, for all I care. I just don't like mango.

But back to that Hizon's cake. It actually isn't all that phenomenal. I still prefer Estrel's caramel cake (which Ditchie doesn't like. Oh well, whatever ices your chiffon.), although, frankly, from stories I've heard from Ate My and also a friend of mine, Estrel's service leaves much to be desired. Appartently, the people in that not-so-cult-anymore bakeshop sometimes have an air of haughtiness around them, so arrogant just because people virtually line up to buy and eat their cake. Which reminds me of the French during Marie Antoinette's ignoble reign. Except, of course, they didn't actually have money to buy and eat cake and were, in fact, being thrown scraps. So I don't really know why I remembered that.

Anyway, the point is that Hizon's mocha cake, tastewise, isn't really rocking. But I've been eating blocks of it. And yesterday, I went 5 hours without eating anything after I ate cake. Which made me realize why I love cake. I love cake because it fills you up and leaves no space for anything else. You eat cake and you're set--at least until the next meal. You don't get this feeling that you should have something else, something to finish up the meal you just had, like a small piece of Max's caramel bar. Cake is appetizer, entree, and dessert, all in one. It doesn't even have to be tasty. It just has to be cake, just two layers of chiffon, preferably with custard in between, and loads of icing.

Maybe Marie Antoinette was onto something when she said, let them eat cake.

What Kind of Cake Are You?

2008-03-05T01:17:00.002+08:00

Chanced upon this quiz thingee through my friend, Cenon's blog. Judging from the results, I dare say it's a very accurate test. Snort.

You Are a Lemon Cake

Strong, sexy, and overpowering.

You know who you are, and you're not afraid to show the world your fabulous self.

You're confident, charming, and extremely popular.

What Kind of Cake Are You?

These Little Bogchi Moments

2008-03-04T19:40:00.003+08:00

Just taking the time to log in little moments of satisfaction and gastronomic discovery that I have savored but not had the chance to gush or rave about...

1 Tempura Shrimp Flavored Snack. I was introduced to this chicheria made by Regent around a month ago by some folks at the Ortigas office I do freelance corporate assessment for. People were passing this yellow plastic bag around, and everyone who tasted it seemed to really like it. So my friend, Ange, and I gave it a try and, what do you know, I developed a quick favorite. At around the same time (give or take a day or two), Ditchie made the same discovery, also during work, at the SC. So now, Tempura is a staple chicheria, along with Oishi Potato Chips... Speaking of Oishi Potato Chips, I've compared it to other chips in terms of calorie count and, so far, it has the LEAST number of calories per bag. I kid you not... What's the point of knowing the calorie count for chips, you ask? After all, you say, all chips are just bags of fried grease. Well, haven't you heard of information for information's sake? It's all about KNOWLEDGE of what you put in your mouth, genius. I never said you should actually DO something other than count calories. Maybe I just like numbers, geez. Someone's a wet blanket.

2 Asian Buffet at Cebu Midtown Hotel. I was in Cebu to help facilitate a work evaluation workshop. On our last day, we had all you can eat lunch at Cebu Midtown. The Asian Buffet was not a wide selection but I enjoyed all the viands available, particularly the BBQ Pork Ribs (so soft!), the Bam-I Guisado, and the Fish Fillet with Veggies. The Dessert bar was not so sweet but I'm not much of a dessert person anyway. It was cheap and sulit for 350 pesos. The great thing about it was that the manager and wait staff were so nice, they actually served us brewed coffee for free, even though it wasn't part of the buffet. I love free food!

3 Thai food at Silk, in Serendra. We had Christmas dinner last year at Silk Restaurant. It was a bit pricey but the food was great, even though I'm not actually a big fan of gata. I liked the Pad Thai, the salad with pomelos and shrimps, and the gata shrimp (I forget what it's called).

4 Danggit, danggit, danggit! From Cebu. Super matabang, doused in spicy Ilokano vinegar. Forgive the indiscretion, I did not have time to buy Pinakurat so I had to make do with the Ilokano vinegar at home. Which worked out equally great.

5 Pita with all kinds of dip -- chick peas, sour cream, cream cheese, even creamy and cheesy vegetarian pasta. At Cyma, in Trinoma.

Death by Ate My

2008-03-03T20:41:00.011+08:00

Note: I unwittingly made this photo series during dinner to celebrate my older sister, Ditchie's passing the Bar exams in April 2005, almost 3 years ago. When I looked at the pictures I took with my mobile phone, this story popped out because of 2 things: 1) Daddy looked positively dead in one photo, and 2) my eldest sister, Ate My, looked like she had something to do with Daddy's so called death. I suppose it's a bit morbid, some might say even disrespectful of my dad. But he loved it when I showed the series to him. I made a comic in my Macbook but the software I used doesn't translate to PC. So I just made a low-tech version to finally share my little gem of morbid serendipity to anyone who likes some black comedy with their bogchi. Dead straight.

Sandaang Bogchi sa UP... 11-20

2008-02-16T22:06:00.007+08:00

11 Monay with Cheese. Sold along the streets of UP Diliman.
12 Mongolian Barbecue. At the College of Engineering, UP Diliman.
13 Tapa mix. Mang Jimmy's.
14 Ground pork and lumpiang shanghai. Aristo-cart, Eng'g Bldg, UP Dil.
15 Chicken Mami at hamburger. Vinzon's Hall, UP Dil.
16 Corn with cheese powder. Sold along the streets, UP Dil.
17 Mojos at Potato Corner in Vinzon's.
18 Sapin-sapin, nilupak, and other kakanin. Outside Shopping Center, beside the COOP.
19 Pita Sandwiches, at Oz Cafe. (Which has now closed shop).
20 Pesto Chicken Pasta. Choco Kiss.

Thanks to Rita Badilla, Rin Bautista, Chet Del Rosario, and 78-14985, for contributions. 21-30 coming soon.

Ang Tanda Mo Na! (Sandaang Bogchi sa UP)

2008-01-13T16:55:00.002+08:00

To celebrate the centennial of my alma mater, University of the Philippines, I have decided to get myself and other Yupistas reminiscing about the good, old days. So I’m going to make a list of one hundred good eats at UP because I find that the subject of food always gets people fired up like an Andok’s Manok rotisserie, and UP… well, UP always gets the true blue UP citizen waxing. I don’t know if I can make it to 100 all by myself so I’ll be surveying other UP folks in my admittedly tight and small circle to find out what they consider to be good eats, or even the best eats, UP style.

Actually, all UP students—young and old both, UPCAT takers and transferees alike ☺, are welcome to add to this list—or make their own list! I always say if people just spent their time making lists instead of plundering their own country (attention: politicians!) or invading perfectly sovereign territories (attention: US and other imperialist nations!) or killing off journalists and dissenters (attention: current administration!), then the world would be an infinitely better place—an earthly heaven—to live in. Unless, of course, you were making a list of ways to plunder your country, or a list of sovereign territories to invade, or journalists and dissenters to kill. The point is, it may be a tad OC, but making a list never hurt anybody. In fact, making a list about food would probably make anybody just the tiniest bit happy.

So, without further ado, I am starting off this list (in random order now) and hopefully add to it as I get more bogchi info/reviews. I hope to get examples from other UP campuses although, since I studied in Diliman, it will at least at the start be a bit Diliman-centric.

1 Breaded Porkchop with rice and sautéed togue (mung bean sprouts). Slathered with artery-clogging gravy and sprinkled with Knorr seasoning. At CASAA.

2 Seafood Pasta in White Sauce. At the Orange House (which used to be Green House), beside AS 101, during my undergrad stay (circa late 90s to 2000). The place was consigned to Albergus so there were some pretty good—not so cheap but worth it—eats there. The pasta station offered a choice between white, red, and meat sauce. It’s been a while since I graduated from college. It’s not there anymore. The Seafood Pasta in White Sauce remains alive, to quote Debbie Gibson, “only in my dreams.”

3 Kwek-kwek, fishballs, squidballs, chickenballs. In any random street corner or in front of any building. In Diliman, noteworthy are the ones in front of the MassComm building, Main Lib, and on either side of Shopping Center. Best with a side order of a Blue Book (for when there are exams).

4 Keema with Squid. Or is it Squid with Keema? Anyway, it’s pieces of squid with hot, spicy, curried ground beef. At that place in Arcade that serves Persian food (daw. Hehe).

5 Mechado rice. There was this house in Area 1 (just beside the Post Office) that served rice meals (rice and any one viand). You could ask for your rice to be topped with Mechado sauce regardless of what your ulam is! It was awesome, like getting 1 and ½ ulam. So at any given day, your meal could be Adobo with Rice… and Mechado! (Which of course begs the question: Adobo AND Mechado? What gives? To which I say… Up yours, Food Fascist! This space is reserved only for gastronomic pluralists. Hmph!).

6 ISAW, ISAW, ISAW (entrails). Plus some dugo (dried, grilled blood), barbecue, and adidas (chicken feet). Best places for these are near Balay Kalinaw and beside the Post Office.

7 Dayap Chiffon Cake. Two layers of soft cake sandwiching sweet lime custard, covered in sweet, birthday cake icing. At Choco Kiss.

8 Combisilog. Combination of hotdog, luncheon meat, and shredded tapa (beefsteak), with egg of choice and fried rice. At Rodic’s or Paper Cup. In Shopping Center. (May Paper Cup pa ba?).

9 Fruits in Cream. The cheapest FiC, at P15 per scoop. Green Tea flavor is great. Shopping Center.

10 Fried lumpiang gulay (vegetable wrap). With spicy chili-vinegar. In any random street corner or in front of any building.

… 10 down. 90 to go…

Boycotting Bogchi

2007-12-16T22:10:00.003+08:00

To say that I have not written in a while is to understate the obvious. (How do you understate the obvious? Simple. As in the first sentence, you say something that does not need to be said and then you say it in the blandest, most boring way possible using the barest, least evocative terms, thereby pissing people off--at least, those who have enough time to be annoyed by such a simple, innocuous thing as an understatement).

It doesn't mean I have not eaten, or enjoyed eating, in all this time. It means, simply, that I have not found anything to write about since 2 months ago. I could have written about the time a couple of weeks back when I ate champorado (chocolate rice porridge) and fried tilapia while watching Trillanes and company mount Oakwood 2: Not Quite A Siege, Very Much A Blunder at the Manila Pen. But, really, what was there to write about other than it was the first time in a long time that I had eaten this not-so-strange combination? Or that the original combination actually calls for tuyo or daing (dried fish) but simple fried fish worked just as well? Seemed too prosaic, too dull, to write about, and frankly, I've had so much on my plate that I couldn't really muster the needed panache to make champorado and tilapia seem like the most exciting meal since red snapper in marsala sauce with creamy mashed potatoes. I could have written about how I ate it with my heart in my throat, eyes glued to the TV, fearing the worst for my country. But I can only lie so much. The truth was, Oakwood 2 was just another day in my life and that champorado-tilapia combo just another meal.

Alas, I feared I have become, like many Filipinos, apathetic. Which--again with the stating of the obvious--is not good. Definitely something to rail against. So when I read Mareng Winnie Monsod's Inquirer column yesterday (which can be found here... http://opinion.inquirer.net/inquireropinion/columns/view/20071215-106987/Shameful!)... part of me wanted to do something, to respond in my own way, in any way, to the injustice done to the Sumilao Farmers. To share my solidarity in the way that I can. What way, though? What to do, I thought.

Aha! The answer seemed simple enough. I decided to boycott San Miguel CorpoRAPEtion because SMC is the huge-ass company that's basically using the farmers' lands as a piggery. (I urge you to check out the Winnie Monsod column as well as other news articles about this so you can be informed about the DAR rules that have been flouted in this particular case. And, ahem, also so that you can make up your own mind.).

Boycott San Miguel. Seemed pretty simple. It's not like I drink beer so San Miguel Beer, Lite or otherwise, won't even be an issue. We use Datu Puti vinegar at home so the San Mig vinegar's not going to hold a candle there. I drink Nescafe so San Mig coffee's out too. Easy-peasy, right?

Not quite.

The second I told my sister I was planning to boycott San Miguel products, she said, "Di ba ang Purefoods San Miguel?"

Picture me with my lardy ass flat on the floor. I'm no Gandhi. Obviously.

These are the bricks that make up the San Miguel wall I am up against: no more Purefoods corned beef. Purefoods Tender Juicy Hotdogs are out. This Christmas, Purefoods Fiesta Ham won't be an option. No more Purefoods "Ma-Ling" or chorizo de bilbao. And this is just the Purefoods label. Additional research has informed me that SMC also holds the Magnolia, Monterey, Gusto, and Dari-Creme labels, among others.

As you can see, I am a Greek outside the impregnable walls of Troy. This, of course, is just a fancy way of saying I am well and truly f--ked. If you've read enough of this blog, you would know how much I love processed foods. You would also know that I invariably turn to Purefoods for my canned goods cravings. To boycott SMC products is to boycott some of the foods I love to eat. The question is can I do it? Can I give up, even for a time, some of these wants in a show of solidarity?

But when I think about it some more, I realize that maybe I don't need to give up eating canned goods and processed foods. I just have to switch labels, so to speak. The challenge, I suppose, is not so much to destroy the wall but find a way around it or, to be accurate to myth, through it. The challenge is to make my own Trojan horse.

If this boycott is to push through with success, then I must be resourceful and look for viable alternatives to the aforementioned products. Already I have some in mind...

Argentina Gold label Corned Beef -- this is a great alternative to Purefoods corned beef. We actually switched to this already, so I already know that it tastes just like Purefoods corned beef but is several pesos cheaper.

CDO or Swift Hotdogs -- I really have brand loyalty where Tender Juicy hotdogs are concerned, so while I acknowledge that CDO and Swift have their own hotdogs, I think I (and also my sister) would rather just go for CDO's chicken longganisa as an alternative.

Specialty Hams -- maybe for this Christmas, it's about time my family tried something different. I've been thinking about trying those specialty hams like Majestic Ham anyway. Now's probably the best time to do so.

Fat & Thin Chorizo de Bilbao -- if and when I crave chorizo de bilbao, I might as well go for the more authentic tasting.

Arce Dairy -- great ice cream. Mura pa. Buh-bye, Magnolia.

Eden Cheese -- better low-end cheese than Daily Quezo anyway so, again, this shouldn't be a problem.

Wet Market meats -- we buy our meats at the wet markets so we don't have to go Monterey or anything.

Anchor Butter -- this is actually more expensive than Dari Creme and also Star Margarine. It's the same range as Magnolia Gold label. Maybe we don't need to do butter too much? I might just go with our usual which is Simply Canola Oil (the cheapest I've seen so far) for frying, Bertoli Olive Oil every now and then for pastas, and Top Choice Sesame Oil for Asian-style cooking.

Obviously, it's not a comprehensive list. But it makes me feel good about my decision to list things because then I realize I do have options still. And it won't be too hard to boycott SMC.

So yeah, this is what I'm writing about. My own personal boycott for my own personal reasons.

I am fully aware that SMC cares shit-all about what individual consumers such as myself do. I'm also aware that I might be going on the assumption that other corporations are stellar in the way they do business. So what do I do if, say, the makers of Argentina Gold label Corned Beef turn out be just as greedy?

Well, hoss, ah reckon ah bettah corn mah own beef.

My Sweet 16th

2007-10-09T09:10:00.002+08:00

“Marami-rami rin akong nakain dahil pinilit ko talaga…”

This sentence appears in a journal entry dated May 18, 1994. I wrote it a day after my 16th birthday, perhaps my most memorable birthday to date. (And when I say ‘perhaps,’ I really mean ‘certainly’). It’s a difficult sentence to translate in English. How do you translate marami-rami, for instance? The root word, madami, means ample, plentiful, copious. The word form marami-rami denotes a quantity less than ample but still more than enough and certainly not lacking or scarce. The phrase “marami-rami rin akong nakain,” roughly translated, means “I ate quite a bit too,” while the phrase “dahil pinilit ko talaga” literally means “because I forced it.”

The whole sentence, in English, reads thus: I ate quite a bit too because I forced it. It doesn’t make sense in the way the Tagalog one does. Perhaps a better translation, at least one that approximates the flavor of the original sentence, would be: I was able to eat quite a bit but only because I forced myself.

This, as well as the original, sentence begs the question: Under what circumstances did I have to force myself to eat a lot? Don’t I do it, ie eat a lot, often enough, willingly enough, under no duress, and gladly even? Why did I have to force myself to do it?

The answer is in the story behind the sentence. It is the same story that made my 16th birthday a truly sweet one.

Thirteen years ago, in 1994, I had sore throat on my 16th birthday. It started, like all sore throats do, as just a tickle at the back of my throat. I paid the tickling sensation no mind because it was my birthday and I was spending it with my sisters. Our parents were both in the States at that time, leaving us three kids gloriously alone, joyfully parentless, and ecstatically independent. Our independence showed up in the brilliant gastronomic scheme we had devised for ourselves: breakfast at McDonald’s, lunch at Tokyo-Tokyo, and dinner at Barrio Fiesta. We shunned cooking and any form of food preparation. At least, at the start. Pretty soon, we realized the folly of blowing the budget on burgers, fries, potato balls, ika fry, tempura, all-you-can-eat dinners, and cakes at Sugar House. The weekly remittance was usually gone in a few days and we would have to starve for the rest of the week until the next trip to the ATM.

But back to my birthday. My sisters and I spent it at SM City, the mall we grew up prowling. My first birthday meal consisted of Chicken McNuggets, French Fries, and a Chocolate Shake, which we bought to go from McDonalds. I munched on the nuggets while I laughed at Jim Carrey as Ace Ventura: Pet Detective. It was starting to get difficult to swallow, but I ignored the twinge of pain and polished off my McDonald’s birthday meal.

I don’t remember what we did after the movie. But I remember dinner at Barrio Fiesta. We ordered Bouillabaise, Kare-kare, and Crispy Pata. By this time, my throat was already sore and hurting. Every swallow was hellish labor. Still, I persevered through the meal. I sampled everything. The thick, creamy soup. The oily, nutty ox tripe. The crunchy fried pig thigh that scratched my throat with every swallow. I forced them all down my poor, violated throat. Nothing was going to keep me from enjoying my birthday, not even streptococcus.

I went home with a pleased stomach and an angry throat. By all accounts, I enjoyed myself. I laughed at the movie and concluded, rightly, that Jim Carrey was comic genius. I enjoyed my sisters’ company (as I usually do). And most importantly, I ate well. Really well, in fact, considering I had strep throat.

It was a simple birthday for a simple girl, and I went to bed glad. Sometime in the middle of the night, I woke up to the most excruciating pain in the history of sore throats. My throat was raw and I was burning from my jaw up to my ears. My sisters had to rub me down with a face towel soaked in cold water because I was already running a fever.

It was not a good end to my birthday, and the next day I would question the wisdom of shoving, forcing all that good food down my abused throat.

In my journal, I would write:

“Marami-rami rin akong nakain dahil pinilit ko talaga…Kaya lang lumala sore throat ko… Ngayon, hilo ako sa antibiotics at kamumumog…” (“I was able to eat quite a bit but only because I forced myself… Except my sore throat has gotten worse… I am now lightheaded from the antibiotics and having to gargle all the time…”)

Pain renders people short sighted, unable to take the long view. In my pain, I would call the whole day a “bad trip.” Thirteen years later, I can actually say it was a good day. The sore throat was just the price I had to pay, the ticket I had to buy for a good trip.

EGG: A Tribute

2007-08-28T21:55:00.002+08:00

It’s been a year—give or take a few days—since I decided to start this blog and inflict any remotely food-related thoughts I had on the 5 people who frequent it. That would be my 2 sisters, my friend, Aly… let me revise… the three people who frequent this blog.

I just realized that I haven’t written anything about my most favorite food in the world, Egg. I have been remiss. This mistake must be corrected. Tribute must be paid, and so it shall.

I love eggs. I love eggs by themselves or with other ingredients in a main dish. I love them fried sunny side up, or scrambled, or as omelet. I love them hard-boiled with a pinch of salt. I used to love them soft-boiled, almost raw and mixed in with rice, or completely raw stirred in with Sarsi or Mirinda True Orange. I love century eggs. Red (duck) eggs, quail eggs. I would love to try ostrich eggs someday.

If health weren’t an issue, I’d eat at least one egg, or one dish made with eggs, everyday for the rest of my life. But since I can’t do that—I want to live longer than 35 years old—I’ll just have to settle for making a happy list of EGGy foods I love. Making a list makes me happy. Eggs make me happy. Making a list about eggs just about gives me a happy:

1. Sausage Scramble at Heaven N’ Eggs. Heaven N’ Eggs is a place everyone should go to get an egg fix. My favorite is the Sausage Scramble, which is actually an omelet (because, as we know, when Filipinos say “scrambled egg,” we mean “omelet” and when we say “omelet,” we actually mean ground pork patties. It’s a crazy country we live in.) filled with chorizo, longganisa bits, and green and red bell peppers. My second favorite is the Macarena Scramble, an omelet filled with ground beef, chorizo bits, corn, and peppers. Both omelets come with a choice of rice or pancakes and fries or hash browns. The last time I ate at HnE, though, I was massively disappointed. They pretty much changed their menu, and not in a good way. Names have been changed because, basically, they cut some necessary ingredients from their main dishes. So the sausage scramble is just longganisa now. And I think the Macarena is gone. And the portions are smaller! Que barbaridad! Needless to say, I have not been back since early this year, I think. I hope HnE has shaped back up since then. I hate restaurants that make their serving sizes smaller. I’d rather pay more for the same amount of food than pay the same price for significantly less. Bad restaurant, bad.

2. Scrambled egg, with sardines, tomatoes, and onions. In Bicol, early this year, during counseling mission. Partnered with amazingly good and greasy Argentina corned beef. People in Bicol know how to cook. My mom also used to cook sardine scramble eggs when I was a kid. But, honestly, the cooking woman in Bicol did it better.

3. Egg Salad Sandwich. Hot pan de sal or crunchy baguette.

4. Century Egg. I had my first taste of what is basically rotten egg in high school. Had a great meal at a Chinese resto with my high school best pal and her family. I never thought something as gross looking could be as delicious.

5. Crab Foo Yong. (Tama ba spelling?)

6. Sunny Side Up, with longganisa, tocino, corned beef, or all 3, on the side.

7. Scrambled, with tinapang fish, or 555 Hot and Spicy Fried Sardines, or Spanish Sardines, or Spanish Style Bangus on the side.

8. Quail Eggs. Hard-boiled, with salt, sold along any street in packs of 5.

9. Hard-boiled chicken egg, with salt.

10. Red egg, with sliced tomatoes. Perfect with pork barbecue at the Beach House in UP. Or with adobo flakes. (This second one is a favorite of Ate My. She orders this at Chocolate Kiss. She cooked this one time at home too. It worked out well for my tongue).

11. Quiche.

12. Kwek-kwek! Hard-boiled quail eggs, dipped in orange batter, and deep-fried. With a sweet-sour-spicy sauce and/or garlic, onion, and chili-infused vinegar. Sold along any street corner.

13. Nido or Bird’s Nest Soup, with Quail Eggs. At any Chinese resto. Or instant, courtesy of Knorr.

14. Instant chicken or beef noodles with egg. Great for when you’re sick or… when you’re not.

15. Egg pie!

16. Egg pie!!

17. Egg pie!!!

18. Sausage McMuffin with Egg. At McDonald’s.

19. Omelet, with diced potatoes and onions. Homemade by my mom.

20. Omelet, with hotdog bits and grated cheese. My own invention. Quick and easy.

Ingredients:
3 eggs
2-3 hotdogs, cut into bite-sized pieces
1 cup grated cheese
salt, pepper, garlic powder, herbs to taste
oil for frying

Procedure:
1. Beat eggs. Season with salt and pepper.
2. Fry hotdogs. Set aside.
3. Pour beaten eggs. Season with garlic powder.
4. When eggs are almost cooked, add hotdogs then cheese.
5. Fold omelet if you can. If it breaks, no worries. It’s all good.
6. Sprinkle herbs like basil, rosemary, thyme, marjoram, or chives on top.
7. Serve and enjoy.

21. Liver Spread and Scrambled Egg Pan De Sal. Again, my baby.

Ingredients:
4 large pan de sal, sliced to form buns (or 8 pcs sandwich bread)
2 eggs, scrambled
1 small can liver spread (Reno)

Procedure:
1. Optional: Toast pan de sal.
2. Smear a good amount of liver spread on each pan de sal face.
3. Divide scrambled eggs into 4 pieces. Sandwich one between each pan de sal bun.
4. Serve with hot coffee or hot chocolate or Milo.

The Eleventh Commandment

2007-08-12T11:54:00.003+08:00

I once had a pet duck named Coochie. He came from the province, via the North Luzon Expressway, to live with my family for what I thought was forever.

Forever, as it turned out, only lasted 5 days.

I did not question why a duck would travel four hours to live with people he did not know. And I wonder now, on hindsight, what made me so sure that Coochie was male. I realize that I never had evidence to prove it; his maleness was a fact I took on faith.

I also wonder why, if I believed him to be male, I nonetheless named him Coochie. Did I, in my 6-year-old wisdom, intuit that he was gay? Or was I setting him up for a lifetime of ribbing from other ducks? Naming a male duck Coochie, after all, is like naming a boy Joy. It’s a cruel exercise of power by the Namer over the Named.

Coochie, however, seemed neither aware nor caring of the political implications of gendered nomenclature. In fact, he seemed neither aware nor caring of anyone and anything but himself. Coochie, I remember, was not sweet and approachable like his name made him out to be. Like most ducks, he walked with a girly gait, feathery bottom swinging left and right like a ramp model. But his head was raised a tad too high, his beak a tad too upturned. Coochie was aloof. He had a wall around him like the biblical city, Judah. And I felt like an Assyrian—or was it a Philistine? Anyway, I felt like one of the thousand strong army of Judah haters who wanted to invade it. I wanted to break down Coochie’s wall.

I talked to Coochie a lot seeing as I couldn’t cuddle him. Because, really, how do you cuddle a duck? They’ll be wiggling and waddling all over the place. You’ll have feathers stuck to your clothes. And, frankly, ducks stink. Coochie, God bless him, was like every other duck in that regard. He stunk up the place, specifically the small laundry area of the apartment we lived in at the time.

I felt real affection for Coochie even though he did not seem to feel the same way. I guess I also liked the idea of talking to someone—or in this case, some animal—who I could pretend was listening.

I remember a time during Coochie’s 5-day stay with us, when I was mad at our Yaya, Ate Vilma. I don’t quite remember what I was angry about. I just remember being angry and petty. While she was doing the laundry, I talked to Coochie about her and said some mean things when she was within earshot—which was the whole time. She graciously let it slide, like water off a duck’s back. Coochie, as usual, couldn’t be bothered to care.

Coochie came on a Monday. He went on a Saturday. It was afternoon. I had just woken up from siesta. I went out of my room, down the stairs, only to find Coochie at the bottom. He lay in a small, blue batya. His neck was severed, his blood pooling around him like a ritual bloodletting gone wrong. The culprits, my uncle and cousin, looked up from their slaughtering of my duck and said nothing. No explanations, no reasons for the murder they had just committed.

I screamed and wailed like I had never before and never since in my life. They killed my duck and felt no guilt about it.

As it turned out, Coochie was never meant to be my duck. The five days he stayed with us was the grace period before his execution. They were fattening him up for the next day’s meal. Coochie was Sunday lunch.

It was the first meal I missed.

Twenty-three years later, I still don’t eat duck. It is my speed of light, my one absolute rule:

Thou shall not eat duck.

It is the one thing that keeps me from being a true connoisseur of Chinese food. As we all know, duck figures heavily in Chinese cuisine. Peking duck, grilled duck, fried duck, duck pancakes, duck dumplings, sweet and sour duck.

I never touch any of that. It is out of the question. I can eat balut even though it’s aborted duck fetus. But I won’t ever eat dead adult ducks, out of respect for the dead duck who was never truly mine but sure felt like it.

Sometimes I feel that it’s time to move on, especially when everyone keeps telling me that duck tastes really good, that its meat has more marbling, i.e. fat. Sometimes I think Coochie wouldn’t want me missing out on the quintessential Chinese dish. Maybe he wouldn’t want me suffering through an awkward, tortured conversation like this:

You love Chinese food?
I sure do!
Have you tried Peking duck? It’s awesome.
No, I haven’t.
Oh, come on! I thought you love Chinese food?
…
I don’t eat duck. I had a pet duck once. He died a horrible, violent death. No one told me he was Sunday lunch. They let me name him. NAME him! Only to kill him and offer him to me as FOOD! Like I would eat my pet! Who in their right mind would EAT their PET?!
Uh… I guess… no one…
…
That’s right. No one… Anyway… I don’t eat duck.

Other times, I think Coochie—wherever he is—could care less. He never cared before, why should he care now? It’s almost enough to make me want to reach out and spear a piece of duck on my fork and bring it to my open, waiting, salivating, mouth.

Coochie never asked for my respect. He never demanded it. He never even tried to earn it. But he had it anyway. He still does.

Thou shall not eat duck. It’s my eleventh commandment.

Thank God I never had a pet pig.

I TAKE TIME OUT...

2007-07-13T14:15:00.002+08:00

… from my usual preoccupation with food and eating to pay tribute to a man. I am not at all given to honoring men. The only man I have ever honored is my father. No other man has been special enough to merit the affections of my heart and the attentions of my pen.

But that changes, if only for today. Today I honor another man.

He went by the name Fredegusto David. F.G. for fashionably short. Sir David, we called him. He taught us, his students, at the Department of Psychology in the University of the Philippines – Diliman. He was short, bald, and handsome, looking like a quirky cross between the Simpsons’ Montgomery Burns and Sting. He had a love for words and a propensity to sound like a dictionary. He studied English Literature in undergrad and was a poet. One of his poems hangs, framed, on one of the walls of the Department Office. And one of his last major peeves, it seemed, was the war in Iraq. How a young, upstart regime can wage war against and ruin a great, ancient civilization was beyond him.

Yesterday, Sir David had a stroke. Today, he is gone.

I mark it in the calendar of my mind: 13 July 2007, Friday.

If you believe in superstition, you would say that today is certainly an unlucky day. But if you studied statistics under Sir David, even if you did believe in superstition, you would have to say that the unluckiness of today is not certain, because nothing ever is. You would say that we can never make statements of certainty. We can only make statements of probability. So you say that today is an unlucky day, the unluckiness of which you can be reasonably certain within a 0.01 margin of error. After all, to demand more than 99% surety is to exercise hubris. Or to be an Atenean, as Sir F.G. used to say, making jocose reference to our brothers and sisters in that Jesuit institution in Katipunan Avenue.

To be an Atenean meant to invoke faith as the wall against which surety rests, a heinous crime in a field that fancies itself a science.

Today, against everything that F.G. tried to teach me in my undergraduate biopsychology class and my graduate statistics classes, against his assertions that “the only universal constant is c2, the speed of light”, but in honest, heartfelt tribute to him, I say… I am only 99% certain that today is an unlucky day, especially for his kin, his friends, and his colleagues and students at the UP-Diliman Department of Psychology. But I am 100% sure, the surest I can ever be, that it is a sad day, for me and everyone else who was ever taught by this man.

I gladly and willingly invoke faith. It is the wall against which our sadness rests.

I do not honor this man because he was a great man. I only knew him as my teacher, after all, and therefore, cannot make such global judgments.

I honor him because he was a man who taught. A man who had a desire to teach more than what was covered by the syllabus. A man who seemed to take it so personally when his students flunked his exams. A man who still went to class even when he was so obviously sick that the class ended up getting canceled anyway and his students had to take him home.

He was a man who taught. For this alone, I pay tribute.

WHAT DO YOU GET...

2007-07-09T21:09:00.001+08:00

… when you cross a good thing with another good thing? Well, sometimes you get a bad thing, an awful thing, what puritans would call a disgusting abomination, an unpredicted and unpredictable freak that makes the Punnett Square look like a useless heuristic. Like the animals in The Island of Dr. Moreau. Or the Cockadoodle. This is why our parents always tell us, “Don’t mess with a good thing.” Actually, my parents have never told me this. But someone’s parents must have said this at one time or another.

The point is this: sometimes it’s not good to mess with a good thing, or two good things.

Sometimes.

Sometimes, though, when you cross a good thing with another good thing, you get a brilliant thing, a wonderful explosion of goodness, something marvelously unpredicted—like all serendipities—but predictably marvelous. A thing of wonder that makes you write awful prose in tribute to it.

Last month, my sister brought home from her month-long honeymoon in Estados Unidos a big jar of roasted almonds and a pack of Kraft caramel candies. Roasted almonds are a good thing. They’re crunchy, and nutty, and salty. They make you thirsty like the proverbial man in the desert, crawling across the sand, croaking out, “agua… agua…” Then when the water comes, it’s so good as it goes down your parched throat. (I’m pretty sure this is a scene from Sesame Street).

Kraft caramel candies are a wonderful thing. And not just because I have a sweet tooth the size of Regine Velasquez’s fake molars, but because they stick to your teeth and gums and it takes a lot of chewing and mashing to get them off, and when you swallow, you feel your throat muscles working, clenching and unclenching, to get that sticky thing through your esophagus and down to your stomach. And you don’t feel guilty about basically eating sugar (literally!) because your mouth, your jaw, your throat, your whole face feels like you just worked out at the face gym, if there’s such a place. It’s wonderful! Awesome! A gift from God, courtesy of Kraft.

You don’t need to know what I was doing or not doing when this bit of cross-pollination occurred. All you need to know is that I was working my facial muscles, working out the caramel in my mouth, when I spotted the big jar of roasted almonds. I looked at it as I chewed. And I thought, in the spirit of experimentation and curiosity and Frankenstein’s monster, what the hell…

I took another caramel candy and popped it in my mouth. Then I took a couple of roasted almonds and popped them in my mouth. Then, I chewed…

And, suddenly, angels were singing in the background. And I saw Moses sitting at the right hand of God. He was eating caramel candies and roasted almonds too!

I was in heaven. (Forgive the Judaeo-Christian bias. I would have said I was in Nirvana, but since Nirvana is an “undifferentiated and undefined state of bliss,” attempting to differentiate and define it would have been missing the point. And I do so hate to miss the point.).

Heaven only lasted as long as it took me to chew and swallow this new sweet-salty confection I had invented. In about five seconds I was back on earth, specifically my living room, armed with new, celestial knowledge, another mini-epiphany to add to my ever-growing list.

Caramel candies and roasted almonds are a great pair. The crunch of the almonds cuts through the sticky caramel, and the salt somehow makes the caramel sweeter. You don’t lose one flavor over the other. You can still taste both, only at the same time. So you’re chewing and your tongue makes clicking noises against the roof of your mouth. But now you also hear the crunch, and you taste the nuttiness. It’s a marriage between equals. It is well-defined bliss.

I’ve decided to give my invention a name like those one-named celebrity pairings. I’m thinking of calling them Caramonds. Or Almamels. Hmm… I think Caramonds sounds nicer.

Caramonds. They’re a good thing.

Hammered Crab Omelet

2007-06-08T22:42:00.001+08:00

My mom brought home a big bag of fish and crustaceans that we had to scramble to clean, cook, and give away to folksies who like seafood. Well, technically, the fish were from a fresh water fishpond, not the sea—which is salt water, fyi. And technically, it was my dad who did the scrambling and the cleaning. He boiled some huge crabs. I took one, and because we didn’t have one of those… what do you call them? Those pliers-like things that you crack crabs with? Anyway, we didn’t have one of those, so I took the hammer from my dad’s toolbox and pounded away at the poor crab, and harvested the meat and fat. And made crabmeat omelet. And named the recipe Hammered Crab Omelet. And thought, people might think I dunked the crab in a vat of beer to get it drunk so I could have my way with it, as it were. And shrugged because it’s a nice image anyway. And thought, what the hell does “as it were” mean? And digressed so far away from the beaten path that it took me ages to get back on track. And used 2 effin’ clichés and mixed metaphors in a single sentence. And made some adjustments to the recipe to make it, in future, tastier. And finally posted said revised recipe in this blog…

Ingredients:
Meat and fat from one humongous crab (don’t know how that translates to pounds or kilos)
2 large green/red bell peppers, diced
2 medium-sized tomatoes
juice of 5-6 calamansi (or lemon)
garlic and onion to sauté
salt, pepper, spices (like basil, garlic powder, chili pepper flakes or hot sauce), to taste
mustard, to taste
4-5 eggs
oil and butter for frying

Procedure:
1. Mix crabmeat/fat, bell peppers, tomatoes, calamansi juice, and seasonings.
2. Beat the eggs (ever so slightly, my dear. Ever so slightly). Season with salt.
3. Pour a small amount of oil in a semi-hot pan (canola, for less guilt founded on self-delusion) and add a pat of butter.
4. Saute garlic and onion. Add crab mixture. Saute for a few minutes then set aside.
5. In same pan, pour beaten eggs. When the eggs are almost set, return crab mixture to pan. Fold egg over the meat.
6. Slide onto a serving dish.
7. Enjoy.

… And stopped writing.

Bochog, 29

2007-05-19T15:38:00.002+08:00

Two days ago, I entered my 29th year as a breathing, eating, living specimen of female humanity. (I share my birthday with Dennis Hopper, Bob Saget, and Jordan Knight of the New Kids On The Block. Or NKOTB—when they tried to stage a comeback in 1992, releasing the wannabe OG single, “Dirty Dawg,” which not many people got but which I liked ‘cause it was Donnie Wahlberg being resident bad boy… I like to know these things).

Anyway… In celebration thereof, I present, in random order...

Bogchi, 29
(29 Eats)

1. Breaded Porkchop. With gravy, rice, and bean sprouts. At CASAA, UP-Diliman.
2. Quikiam. Authentic Chinese. With spicy sweet sauce. At a food fair my parents brought me to when I was a kid.
3. Green Tea and Sesame Seed Ice Cream. At Teriyaki Boy.
4. Lumpiang Shanghai. Best with Nido with Quail Eggs Soup. At Chopstick Restaurant, Cubao, when I was a kid and the waiters/waitresses all told me to come back and eat some more. I did come back, several times, and I ate. More and more. The Chopstix restaurant in Cubao today is not the same restaurant. It’s a poor replacement.
5. Chicken Macaroni Sopas. With hotdog bits, carrots, green peas, raisins, and yellowed with a block of margarine. Homemade, by my mom.
6. Dayap Chiffon Cake. At Chocolate Kiss.
7. Leche flan.
8. Salted Fried Squid. At North Park.
9. Pork BBQ. Great with itlog na pula (duck egg), misua soup, and of course, 1 and ½ rice. At Beach House, UP-Diliman.
10. Pancit Malabon. In Malabon.
11. HFIK. Hotdogs fried in ketchup.
12. Quarter Pounder. With Twister fries. At McDonald’s. McDonald’s should make Twister fries a regular part of their menu. I should petition McDonald’s. I probably won’t, though. Have lots of nothing to do.
13. KFC Chicken. Original.
14. Carbonara. At Napoli’s / A Veneto.
15. Halo-Halo. Minimalist, just 3 ingredients. At Razon’s.
16. Lechon Wrap. With hoisin-mayo sauce. My sister’s wedding.
17. Zeb-Zeb. Cheesy puffed corn. In Malabon.
18. Isaw. Pig and chicken entrails. Grilled, charred, dunked in vinegar sauce. At UP, near SC and also near Balay Kalinaw.
19. Root beer float. At A&W. The only thing that keeps A&W, ahem, afloat.
20. Chicken and/or Seafood Crepe. With some kind of white garlic cheese sauce and a siding of veggies. Best with Maggi Savor. At Full House in Katipunan, during the late 90s when I was a dorky college student. Full House has been replaced by The Old Spaghetti House, which I’ve not been to. After all these years, I still long for Full House, with its nursery school ambience, Maggi Savor on every table (or was it Knorr Seasoning? I can’t remember.), and profiteroles in cups. Sweet.
21. Sisig. Chopped pig face (ears and cheeks), sautéed until crispy, seasoned with Knorr Seasoning, calamansi juice, and hot sauce. At Gerri’s Grill. At Congo’s, too, for sisig with mayonnaise. Monterey’s for instant sisig.
22. Ika Fry and Potato Balls. At Tokyo-Tokyo.
23. Yakisoba. Instant Japanese style cup noodles. Nissin’s.
24. Apple flavored wine.
25. Fresh orange juice.
26. Green mango with alamang (shrimp paste).
27. All meat pizza.
28. Longganisa, longganisa, longganisa.
29. Chilli dog. Smokey’s. There’s one in Ortigas, which is great ‘cause I thought Smokey’s had ceased operations. What a beautiful surprise! Will be in Ortigas on Monday. Might drop by Smokey’s, see if the hotdogs are still, in the words of future inmate Paris, HOT.

Sunday Morning Mom

2007-05-12T15:03:00.003+08:00

My mother was up early that Sunday morning cooking food for 30 people. She had celebrated her birthday a few days earlier, so the pastor of the small church she and my father were attending called in a request for her to cook lunch for the post-service fellowship. Apparently, that was the pastor’s idea of a birthday gift—a strange one--but mother did not seem to mind.

When I woke up, she was well into cooking the first of two viands on her menu, giniling, or ground pork, potatoes, carrots, and raisins stewed in a proudly Filipino combination of 1 part tomato sauce, 10 parts ketchup. The pot was already simmering and the sauce was beginning to thicken as I made my way downstairs, still sleepy but determined to offer my mother some help.

I had been strangely anxious about her latest project. For some unexplained reason, I did not feel that my mother was up to the task. Two nights before, I had badgered her about the lack of a menu. I could see in her eyes that she wasn’t bothered by it, and that alarmed me. Cooking for 30 potentially judgmental Baptists wasn’t adding a wrinkle to her remarkably smooth 50-something face. She assured me that she already had a simple menu planned: giniling, which she was going to cook, and chicken lollipops, ordered from her caterer friend.

The fact that she was going to cook only one viand eased my discomfort somewhat. Until the next day when she announced that her friend was out of town. It meant my mother was going to have to wing the chicken wings.

That was why I was up earlier than usual that morning, ready to be the wind beneath her wings. But my mother was already flying high all by herself. She had everything under control; there was no need for wind. The robust, meaty smell that greeted my nose as I went into the kitchen told me the giniling was going to be a hit. The chicken wings were already breaded and waiting for the oil to heat, and the rice was already cooked white and fluffy. All I had to do was make the sawsawan (dipping sauce) for the chicken, which I did with much gladness and no small amount of relief.

An hour later, the wings were fried and arranged on a large serving dish. There was even an extra plateful. My mother had cooked as if a great famine was going to sweep across the land. She had pulled through. Without breaking into much of a sweat, she was able to cook enough food for 30 Baptists, with something extra for her family.

So instead of helping my mother, what I did was become a kid again, sitting in the kitchen, greasing up my mouth and fingers with my mom’s crispy, crunchy chicken lollipops. All the while, I gushed to my sister about what a culinary genius our mom was. “She didn’t need my help,” I crowed. “She did it all by herself.” I sounded not unlike mothers who are seeing their babies walk unaided for the first time.

Later, I would find out from my father that the Baptists also loved the food. All judgments were positive, all comments glowing.

As I sat at the table, licking my chicken-flavored fingers, chicken bones littering the space in front of me, I wondered why I ever doubted my mother’s skill and panache. It’s not like cooking for 30 Baptists was the hardest thing she ever did in her life. Yet, somehow, I had forgotten the various feats of parenting she had performed to raise three willful, independent, slightly smart and, therefore, considerably condescending daughters. This was my mother who, among other things, taught us the difference between the “p” and the “f” sounds (a difficulty for many Filipinos), cooked the best chicken macaroni sopas, and even made ham and tocino (candied pork) herself instead of buying them at the market.

When I was younger, such doubts would never have entered my mind. My heart would have told my mind to believe and my mind would have done so. But I am not as young as I used to be. I carry inside me almost three decades’ worth of questions and the illusion that at least some of these have answers. The thing with asking questions, though, is that it requires an admission of the temporality of suppositions. What we believe today flies in the face of what we held true yesterday. Certainty is a ship with holes trying, nevertheless, to stay afloat in a sea of ambiguity.

It is not that I know more than I did when I was younger. It is that I doubt more and, therefore, believe less. In the case of my mother, it had been a long time since I took her word without checking with other sources. Like all children, I started out believing firmly that there wasn’t much she couldn’t do. Not that I thought she was perfect, but I never thought she was imperfect. Her imperfections existed, yes, but they did so outside of my mind and, therefore, they never crossed it. The end result was the same: my mother, as with all mothers, might as well have been perfect. Her word always seemed final.

But like all children, I got older and started to grow my own mind. The illusion of maternal perfection gradually dissolved to reveal my mother as just another flawed human like myself, and her word as just another hypothesis to be tested.

There are times when I wonder how it must be like to be a mother. (I am not one, and I probably won’t be for a while.) What I imagine is that motherhood is an exercise in heartbreak. Human development proceeds from a state of relative ignorance and innocence to one of (at least, ostensible) knowledge and awareness. It is the gradual replacement of wonder with unbelief, awe with indifference. The heart thrives on people’s ability to be pleased. We begin our lives with this ability but we lose it steadily as we learn more, know more. Knowledge is power, the power to be fastidious. And the fastidious mind breaks hearts.

To be a mother, then, is to be the object of opinions that are bound to change. The evolution of Mother, from the child’s changing perspective, is from one who can do no wrong to one who can do no right. From supreme repository of all worldly knowledge to hack who knows nothing about Me and the Stuff I Am Going Through. Motherhood, I realize, is an inevitable fall from grace.

And yet, watching my mother work her culinary magic that Sunday, I also realize that evolution does not preclude reverting to earlier ways of seeing and believing—at least for a while. Maybe magic exists outside of the natural imperative to grow up and to mature. Maybe the fastidious mind can still open itself up a little—and be pleased, after all.

That Sunday morning, I saw my mother again through younger, easily pleased eyes. That Sunday morning, my mom could do no wrong. She did everything crispy, crunchy perfect. Just like she used to, when I believed more and doubted less, when my knowledge of her was still pure, untainted by my knowledge of anything else.

(Published in the Youngblood Column of the Philippine Daily Inquirer, 12 May 2007 issue, with the title "Perfect Mom".)

ABOUT A BOY, Part Deux

2007-05-07T23:49:00.002+08:00

I once met a boy named Reynaldo, who ate his snot, in that juvenile purgatory we call grade school. We were classmates for two years, in Grades 1 and 2, and got along famously. He was sweet and non-threatening, so fat that to call him chubby would have been lying. He was cute and we were friends. Our friendship was based on two very important things, food and love, these two things rumored to be, at times, interchangeable. We both loved food, and we both loved Zierlyn.

Zierlyn was my best friend in elementary school. We met in first grade and were inseparable. We were in the same section, after all. That is, until fifth grade. Then she transferred to a different section and, I guess, we were not that difficult to separate, after all. But while we were together, we were the best of friends. No matter that she was too quiet, too demure, too not funny. No matter that I think she lied about her dad owning a Mercedes. None of that mattered. I loved her, with a whimsical kind of love, the kind that wraps its recipient in fancy, making her seem more than she actually is, more interesting, more alive. It was a grade school, we’ll be best friends forever, kind of love.

Reynaldo loved Zierlyn in a different way, whimsical too but different. They weren’t best friends. They weren’t even regular friends. Reynaldo was mere classmate to Zierlyn, a random, could-be-anyone classmate. But none of that mattered. To Reynaldo, Zierlyn was purpose, specific and localized in his heart.

Reynaldo had a plan, and I was part of that plan. I may have planted the seeds of it in his mind for my own selfish gastronomic interests, but my memory’s not to clear on that one anymore. The mind, after all, chooses to forget, chooses what to forget, keeps for itself memories that make us seem better than we ever were and discards those that show us up to be everyday occurrences instead of the extraordinary phenomena we all wish we were.

The plan was to woo Zierlyn with food, specifically gelatin cups. I was to be the bridge. My job description was specific: deliver the gelatin cups to Zierlyn and put in a good word about Reynaldo. I worked on commission, getting for myself one for every gelatin cup I passed on to Zierlyn. (It was a sweet deal, and I wonder now what happened to me. Because, clearly, I had what it takes to do sales and make money when I was a kid. I was a greasy, sleazy, balding salesman with a sweep-over. Oh, how times have changed).

This went on for several months, Reynaldo shyly handing over the food, me passing Zierlyn’s gelatin while I slurped mine, Zierlyn shyly taking it and saying thank you. But I never put in a good word for Reynaldo. It was obvious that Zierlyn didn’t have any kind of crush on him, and maybe I didn’t have the heart to tell him to quit hope. It’s the cruelest thing one can do to another, to take away one’s hope. Or maybe I just didn’t want my supply of JellyAce to stop. I don’t remember, and I don’t know who to blame for these huge gaps in my memory.

One thing I remember well, though… one image my mind won’t let me un-remember is of Reynaldo standing over a trashcan during recess with a finger up his nose, digging like a crazed prospector of gold. It is disgustingly crystal in my head: Reynaldo pulling out his finger full of snot, rolling and balling it around, then popping it into his mouth faster than you could say… nothing. Because witnessing something like that leaves you with nothing to say and nowhere to look but at him, chewing.

I was a shy child but loud when I felt I needed to be. This was a time for loudness. So I announced Reynaldo’s act to everyone within earshot, and that included Zierlyn.

Yuck!!! Reynaldo ate his booger!!! I shrieked, and I think they heard me in Timbuktu, but I’m not too sure.

Reynaldo denied it, disowned the act he had just so gleefully committed, and denied it so vehemently that the others knew. He did it. Truth is in Denial.

Everyone had a laugh. I don’t remember if Reynaldo felt humiliated or if he suffered years of teasing because I told on him. Zierlyn and Reynaldo never got together. I don’t think it was because of my horrid announcement. My outing of Reynaldo’s gastronomic fetish was entirely separate from Zierlyn’s inability to develop a crush on him. Still, I sometimes feel guilty about taking all those gelatin cups and giving back nothing in return. That’s not good, equitable friendship in my book. Reynaldo could sue me for breach of contract and he would win. After all, instead of putting in a good word for him to Zierlyn, I put him on the spot and made him a possible object of ridicule.

This was not a shining moment for me.

I think now of Reynaldo, and I cringe. Eating unearned gelatin cups is worse than eating snot.

The Definition of S.I.N.

2007-05-02T00:17:00.001+08:00

Sin is… slices of lechon (roast pig) in a hoisin-mayonnaise sauce, with one celery leaf to lessen the guilt a bit, all wrapped in soft pita, tied with a green onion stalk...

Last Saturday, 28th of April, my sister and now brother-in-law got married on their 10th anniversary as a couple. It was a simple affair—short, solemn, sweet. The reception was modern, forgoing the usual trite traditions like the bouquet and garter toss and couple’s dance. Instead, it was a night of music and words, songs and poetry, sweet tribute and sour wit..

The best thing about my sister and bro-in-law’s wedding was not the gowns—although the bride was radiant in ecru and, if I may brag, my other sister and I were hopelessly cute in our funky gray-blue and magenta dresses. (The designer, Mitzi Quilendrino, is all about the quirky, and it worked out really well. I wouldn’t be surprised if we find our photos in wedding magazines. In fact, I’d be surprised if we didn’t). It was not the brilliant hosting I did, at turns innocent and scathing. (Obviously, I don’t suffer from that illness called modesty and obviously, I’m my own publicist). Or the brilliant sarcasm that spewed forth from my mother’s mouth… “Levi, you are very fortunate to now be a member of our family… My daughter will love you even if you are unlovable…”

No, the best thing about last Saturday’s wedding was the food prepared by Kaye Cunanan. Below are various definitions of S.I.N…

Appetizer
Salmon Blinis: coin-sized pita circles topped with slivers of smoked salmon on a bed of wasabi mayo and garnished with herbs
Lechon Wrap: slices of Cebu Lechon (roast pig) in a hoisin-mayo sauce and celery leaves wrapped in soft pita

Salad
Pan-seared fois gras, scallops, and mandarin orange segments on a bed of fresh greens, drizzled with balsamic dressing

Rice
White Rice with herbs and nuts
Carrot Rice: buttered white rice with flecks of carrots

Main Course
Grilled Tiger Prawns, served with roasted vegetables
Red Snapper baked in smooth, creamy sauce and mashed potatoes, topped with almond slivers
Osso Buco: braised beef shank with soft, melting bone marrow, aka Swiss bulalo

Dessert
Fresh yoghurt drizzled with honey and sprinkled with chopped nuts
Tangy Orange Sorbet

2 Pastas and A Pizza Pan De Sal

2007-04-17T00:54:00.002+08:00

Spicy Sardine Vegeroni

Praise the Lord, Hallelujah, for 555! I recently discovered 555’s Hot and Spicy Fried Sardines. It’s like Spanish style sardines but with tomato sauce in it. Because it’s fried, there’s none of the tinny aftertaste that you usually get with regular sardines in tomato sauce. Plus, good heavens, it’s profanely cheap (only 14 pesos for a small can)! So, because I like putting different things in my pasta (especially if they cost me virtually nil), I had to try this with my San Remo vegeroni. The result won’t win any gourmet awards, but it’s tasty enough for everyday meals.

Ingredients:
1 small can 555 Hot and Spicy Fried Sardines (or any brand of fried sardines in oil)
3 medium tomatoes, 1 green, 2 ripe, diced
2 tbsp garlic, minced
1 shallot, minced
1 pat of butter
Salt, pepper, basil to taste
200 grams pasta (I use San Remo vegeroni spirals)

Procedure:
1. Cook pasta according to instructions.
2. Melt butter in pan. Sautee garlic, onion, and tomatoes. Add a bit of oil from sardines. Season with salt, pepper, and basil.
3. Add the sardines. Simmer for a few minutes.
4. Place pasta in bowl. Add sardines. Toss.
5. Sprinkle with parmesan or Italian blend cheese.
6. Enjoy.

Tuna Longganisa Macaroni

I cooked this pasta dish a couple of years ago when all I had in my freezer was some Monterey Lucban Longganisa and in my cupboard, a tin of Century Hot and Spicy Tuna and about 300 grams of macaroni. Vigan longganisa works just as great as both sausages are garlicky and spicy. I’ve also tried using sweet sausages but I prefer spicy, local longganisa in my pasta. Italian sausage can also be an awesome substitute, but it’s rather pricey.

Ingredients:
4 pieces spicy longganisa (Lucban or Vigan)
1 small can Hot and Spicy Tuna
2 tbsp garlic, minced
1 shallot, minced
1 pat of butter
Salt, pepper to taste
Basil, rosemary, thyme, marjoram, optional
300 grams macaroni

Procedure:
1. Cook pasta according to instructions.
2. Remove sausages from casing. Break up the meat as it fries in the pan.
3. Remove meat from pan. Add butter to the lard left in pan. Sautee garlic and onion.
4. Return sausage. Add tuna. Season with salt, pepper, and favorite herbs.
5. Place pasta in a bowl. Add sausage and tuna mixture. Toss.
6. No need for cheese. Just enjoy. But, of course, if you still want to put cheese on it, be my guest. I’m an easy person to convince. Most times.

Tuna Pizza Pan De Sal

I created this from a can of Del Monte Spaghetti Meat Sauce and a can of Century Hot and Spicy Tuna (can you tell I love the stuff?).

Ingredients:
1 small can hot and spicy tuna
1 small can (250 g) spaghetti meat sauce (Italian Style spaghetti sauce is a good substitute)
salt, pepper, garlic powder, basil, and other herbs, to taste
quickmelt or cheddar cheese
pan de sal

Procedure:
1. Combine tuna, spaghetti sauce, and spices.
2. Spread mixture onto pan de sal halves. Top with grated cheese.
3. Toast for 4-5 mins, or until cheese has melted.
4. Serve and enjoy.

Coffee, Tea, and Me

2007-04-12T22:26:00.002+08:00

I’m making my morning cup of coffee—it goes well with my peanut butter and guava jelly pan de sal (Filipino bread)—when it occurs to me that I’ve drank more caffeine this year than I ever have in my life. I’ve never been a coffee or tea person. My taste in breakfast beverages has always leaned towards the “she’s a growing girl” kind of drink, that is to say, milk, Milo (a local, less expensive, chocolate malt drink), and “imported”, pricier Swiss Miss for special occasions like… Wednesdays. Because weekdays are special occasions too. (That is a great slogan. Or a one-liner in a greeting card. Attention: Hallmark.).

I pause in stirring and feel a vague sense of apprehension, the kind that signals that I am on the verge of a realization, the significance of which may be far-reaching but, heretofore, unknown.

Yes, I think. I am, indeed, having a sort of epiphany as I have, quite clearly, turned temporarily British. Forgive me.

I begin to wonder when it was that I started ingesting unusually large amounts of caffeine on a regular basis. The tea drinking, I’m certain, started last year, around the time my liver went to war with my well-being. (In brief: I had been hospitalized and prescribed antibiotics that set off an allergic reaction in the form of gas. The gas in my stomach kept recurring for months until, 2 gastroenterologists and an ultra sound later, we discovered the culprit: I had a fatty liver).

To detonate the hot air bombs inside me, I had taken to drinking my mom’s Chinese medicinal tea—bitter, potent stuff that helped me feel and look less like a Buddha inviting everyone to rub her tummy for good luck.

And while I’ve occasionally enjoyed a cup of coffee, I’ve never done so on an almost daily basis. Until I discovered a simple formula for making chocolate taste even more like chocolate and that is to mix a bit of coffee in it. So, I’ve taken to drinking Swiss Miss and coffee, even writing a haiku or two about it.

It has reached the point where any given day would find me having a coffee (with or without chocolate) in the morning and tea at night, both in the service of my sensitive stomach and my profligate tongue.

This isn’t necessarily a bad thing, I think. It may not even be, shall we say, a big deal. Except… it kind of is, for me. And I wonder again as I resume stirring.

I’m pretty sure what irks me about the incessant caffeine ingestion is the glowing sign on the marquee announcing the fact of my adulthood and grown-up-ness.

I suppose, at almost 29, I should have at least been ready for it. But I think I’ve always been a bit of a Peter Pan, wanting to remain forever young, wanting an excuse to keep throwing tantrums, talking in a ridiculously high-pitched voice, laughing at the most inane things, and avoiding terrible grown-up things to do like earn a regular salary, get out of school, pay taxes, and the like.

It pains me somewhat that I’m not a growing girl anymore. I am, in truth and fact, a grown woman, though you wouldn’t know it by looking at me. Or, at least, I hope you wouldn’t. I’m vain enough to hope that you think I can’t be more than 23, 25, tops.

People often watch out for signs of aging in their faces. Are my eyelids starting to droop? Am I forming crow’s feet? Are the laugh lines getting deeper? Is my skin turning splotchy?

I find the signs of my personal march towards death in the changes in my drinking habits. I’ve always associated, albeit unknowingly, coffee and tea with old folks. The image in my mind is of an old man, his back stooped so low he is half the height he once was, slouching at a table, cataract eyes staring uselessly, a cup of dark coffee in hand. He takes a drink, his grip shaky and firm, as if the coffee burning his tongue and the cup around which gnarled fingers are wrapped are the only things keeping his body somewhat erect, somewhat animate, barely alive, As if the minute he lets go of the coffee, his body would then slump to the ground in a way only the dead can do.

The image itself is not particularly terrifying to me. I’ve always been able to imagine being dead. What I can’t imagine is the middle, the vast grey unknown between the end and its beginning.

When I was a kid, a literal kid and not the over-grown one I sometimes am these days, I used to suffer from a great sense of deprivation because I was never allowed to drink as much Sustagen (a powdered energy drink for kids that comes in 2 variants: vanilla and chocolate) as I wanted. My parents were far from selfish. But Sustagen was a bit pricey and we didn’t have much when we were growing up. That meant that chocolate-flavored health drinks were reserved for my thin, ostensibly undernourished eldest sister. Since I was bigger, my parents concluded (probably rightly) that I did not really need help in the nutrition department.

So the stuff my sister didn’t relish taking, I wanted to guzzle. I envied her not only the Sustagen but also the Cetrin, a sweet, orange-flavored syrup, and the Scott’s Emulsion, a white, viscous fluid. God forgive me, I think I may even have resented her taking cod liver oil.

My perspective on such things has changed a lot. I don’t feel deprived anymore, mainly because I’ve lost the taste for awful-flavored vitamins (although, I must admit to maintaining a fondness for Sustagen). It also helps that I can now afford to buy my own chocolate-flavored drinks, although I still pilfer from my dad’s stash of Swiss Miss.

I take a sip of my coffee. It is now cold. I hate the taste of cold coffee, but I don’t heat it up. I drink it, thinking, wanting to believe, that I don’t need it to enervate me just yet.

I make a note to self: buy Swiss Miss. I realize the check from my last job isn’t ready. I amend note to self: buy Milo.

(Also published in IndieBloggers)

About A Boy

2007-04-01T21:23:00.001+08:00

I once met a boy named Louie, who stole my brownie, in that childhood hell we call pre-school. I was 5 years old and it was my first time to attend formal school. In those days, pre-school was merely an option; kids weren’t required to go through kinder or prep before entering the elementary level. Not like today, when kids have to labor and maneuver their way through First Step, Kinder 1, Kinder 2, and Prep just to prepare for Grade 1. It’s first grade, for chrissakes. What the hell is there to prepare for? Is there a pre-alphabet to the alphabet, or a make-believe set of real numbers to the actual, real set of real numbers? What do these kids do in kinder? In my day, early childhood education consisted of old Sampaguita and LVN movies in the afternoon courtesy of Channel 9.

But back to pre-school, and Louie, who stole my brownie. My parents had decided to enroll me in a small pre-school that styled itself a Montessori one. It was, I remember, a serious school. I don’t remember much playing. What sticks to my mind, instead, are the math lessons. At prep level, our teachers thought we were cognitively mature enough to handle the inverse applications of addition-subtraction and multiplication-division. I guess our teachers weren’t cognitively mature enough to fully understand Montessori’s concept of sensitive periods, but I don’t like to criticize.

I remember only 2 people I met in that place. One of them was Sunshine, who had curly hair and who always wore frilly, girlish, party dresses when everyone else wore shirts and shorts. She was the Paris Hilton of our set, and she befuddled my childhood mind. Once, I asked her why she always wore Sunday dresses. She said it was because it was her birthday that day, and every other day, in fact. According to her mom, everyday was Sunshine’s birthday. But that’s impossible, I said. If everyday was your birthday, you’d be 1000 years old by now.

Sunshine didn’t like me all that much.

And then there was Louie. While I have an image of Sunshine in my head, the same cannot be said for Louie. Louie is a named but faceless memory to me. It doesn’t matter what he looks like, see. Only that he stole my brownie. Or, more accurately, ate half of it.

I was a shy child, given to making observations without due regard for tact, yes, but shy nonetheless. Louie knew this. I think he was the devil appearing to me as an ugly, little bastard. Or it could just be residual anger talking. Anyway, Louie had taken to teasing me. I tried to ignore him. Until the day he touched my food.

It was recess, and I had just gone to the girl’s lavatory. I returned to my table to find half of my brownie gone. Just gone. I looked around in confusion; I didn’t remember eating my brownie. I had taken it out of the lunchbox but I hadn’t taken a bite out of it yet. Or had I? The kids at my table were laughing. Louie ate your brownie, they said. I was furious, enraged, livid. I was homicidal, suicidal, mad as Miriam Defensor Santiago. And, most of all, I was hurt. In my world, no one stole no one’s brownie. No one snacked on no one else’s snack.

Louie didn’t even bother denying it. I guess he couldn’t talk because his mouth was full of brownie. He just looked at me, smug, daring me to do something about it. I marched up to my teacher and told her, Louie ate my brownie. Thereafter, Teacher told Louie not to eat my brownie anymore. Which is, really, the stupidest thing anyone can say in this situation. He’s already eaten it! Of course, he’s not going to eat it anymore. To be fair, she did say afterwards that it’s not good to eat other people’s food without asking if you can have some. But they remained empty words to me. My brownie was already half-gone, and we all know half-gone is as good as gone.

You know that first bite, when your teeth first sink into a piece? It could be a cut of meat, or a chunk of bread, or a melting sliver of chocolate confection. You remember that anticipation that thickens your saliva, curls your tongue, flares your nostrils, and makes your taste buds stand erect? Louie took that away from me. He didn’t just eat half of my brownie. He stole a first bite from me.

Some things cannot, must not, be forgiven.

I'm Not A Purefoods Chicken Nugget...

2007-03-14T09:09:00.002+08:00

But, being a true 90s kid, I sang along to this hit commercial jingle. I remember this song now because, well, my sister asked me if I still remember the words to it. I did. So, we sang. And that reminded me how much I loved that song. It was a true anthem as commercial jingles go, that and the Nano-Nano* song. But while the Nano-Nano song was pure J-pop, senseless and effervescent, the Chicken Nuggets song derived its ethos from… grunge. Yes, grunge. As in Smells Like Teenage Spirit, Jeremy (spoke in class today—those who grew up to this song know that you can’t say the title without plunging into the whole chorus. You can’t just say, “My favorite Pearl Jam song is Jeremy.” You say, “My favorite Pearl Jam song is Jeremy… spoke in cla-a-ass toda-aayy!!!” you end up bellowing like Eddie Vedder. Try it.), Spoonman, and Would. Ah, grunge. The movement I never really followed, being still hung up on 80s metal and loving Britpop, until Jerry Cantrell, Alice In Chains guitarist and my personal rock god, caught my fancy.

But back to the theory, that the Chicken Nuggets jingle reflected grunge philosophy. This is, admittedly, a controversial statement. Well, assuming, of course, that enough people who: 1) are 90s kids; and 2) loved grunge; and 3) know this song; 4) will actually read this post; 5) have enough time to form an opinion about commercial jingles vis-à-vis movements in rock music; and 6) be inclined to do so. Whew! I seem to have made a whole load of assumptions there. If this were a dissertation, I’d probably flunk defense.

Anyway, to study the Nuggets-Grunge connection, consider these words…

It's not easy to be a nugget
You look like all nuggets do
They don’t know what really matters is what’s inside of you
I’m a Purefoods Chicken Nugget
More chicken under my shell
A chunky, juicy, chicken delight
In every nugget bite.

The line, “I’m a Purefoods Chicken Nugget,” is a defiant assertion of identity and individuality, kind of like “I’m the man in a box” (AIC, 1990). The first three lines are angst-filled, an existential lament for the sorry fact of form superseding substance (check out the video for Soundgarden’s Black Hole Sun), with reference to a disembodied force, They, that demands conformity and shuns uniqueness. Uniqueness, you may recall, was something all grungers either aspired to or already fancied themselves as having. To be set apart, to exist outside the mainstream… and sell millions doing so. The last four lines, at first glance, seem too cheerful and optimistic, too self-assured to be grunge. But I prefer to see them as a credible exercise in irony and tongue-in-cheek humor. What’s grunge about that, you ask? Was Kurt Cobain ever tongue-in-cheek? Were Alice in Chains ever light-hearted? Did Eddie Vedder ever laugh? Yes, yes, and… hmm… maybe not. For tongue-in-cheek Nirvana, check out In Bloom. For light-hearted AIC, there’s an audio file out there of Jerry Cantrell and Sean Kinney doing a brilliant rendition of Disco Inferno. They laugh at the end of it. As for Eddie Vedder laughing… Ah, I confess I’m not quite sure. Not that I’m an expert on the guy. All I remember about him was watching PJ receive an MTV award and, in lieu of a thank you speech, Eddie ranting about how phony awards are. So forgive me if I think the guy’s way too serious.

That’s the theory. It’s not much. It probably won’t stand up to rigorous hypothesis-testing. Oh, let’s face it. It won’t even get past first reading. No one’s going to award me a Doctor of Arts or a Ph.D. for this one.

Hmm, maybe a Master’s.

* Nano, nano, nano, nano…
Oh, Nano-Nano, you make me happy
I really love what you do to me
Sweet, sour, and salty
Nano-nano, nananano,
Nano-nano!

Chicken Candy

2007-02-19T21:56:00.001+08:00

I'm running out of ways to cook chicken. Since we only prepare a pork dish once a week, the rest of the week sees us eating fish and chicken alternately. It can get pretty boring, especially if the chicken you eat is always adobo or afritada or chicken curry or bbq or fried. Even the chicken and potatoes recipe has gotten a tad old. Last week, we tried to cook the chicken the same slow-cook way as the chicken and potatoes recipe. But instead of herb oil, we used the following marinade:

250 ml Clara Ole bbq sauce
1/2 cup mustard
1 tomato, diced
1 small onion, diced
basil, garlic powder, pepper to taste
water to thin (if too thick)

This marinade made the chicken sweet, candy sweet, underlaid by tart (due to the mustard). The dish, because of the sweetness, got mixed reviews. My sisters enjoyed the sweet chicken but Daya did not. I swear that girl can't be pleased. She makes up her own mind, thank you.

Hindi ko gusto, 'te.

You don't say.

Well, that's what we love about her. She's adelantada like the rest of the family. It occurs to me that she, like the whole family, is just like this Chicken Candy recipe. Sweet and tart.

Tawilis at Terry's

2007-02-12T07:21:00.001+08:00

Last Sunday, Ate My treated me, Ditchie, and Kuya Levi (bro-in-law to be) to dinner at Terry’s Selection Gourmet Store at The Podium. Dinner was nice. This sentence, by the way, is my first understatement for 2007. I plan to make more understatements as the year progresses. It’s all part of my new year’s bid to be droll, fastidious, and ironic because that’s the closest I’ll ever get to being British. Bugger.

Anyway, last Sunday’s dinner was breaded, butterflied, fried tawilis and gambas in garlicky olive oil that we ate with crispy slices of flattened bread. And, because one can never have too much carbo, we also had some silky potatoes with peppers and bits of Spanish sausage. Like I said, dinner was nice. My stomach loved everything. The fried tawilis, with balsamic vinegar for dipping, was a precious discovery, much like Magellan’s discovery of our islands for Spain’s King Philip. Shrimps are always a good thing, even better when they’re shelled and de-veined for no-fuss eating, and best when they’re drowning in a sea of olive oil with about 5,000 garlic cloves and 1,000 siling labuyo. My liver made its protest known a bit later in the evening but I’d gladly live the rest of my life burping like a wee babe just so my tummy can have these gorgeous gastronomic moments.

And the potatoes? Well, I love potatoes. Any way I can eat them is fine by me. I like them fried, boiled and mashed, baked, slathered with mayonnaise, or like last Sunday, sautéed with tomatoes, peppers, and red sausage. It was home food from a home I’ve never been in, of a friend I haven’t met. That last statement didn’t make any sense, did it? That’s another one of my new year’s resolutions, to be glib, and smooth, and suave, because that’s the closest I’ll ever get to being Spanish. Merde.

The menu is in Spanish and I don’t quite remember the actual names of the food I ate. I just remember textures and emotions. We didn’t stay long enough for me to browse through the stacks of gourmet items so I can’t say anything about the store itself, except that it looked like what I imagined Lawson’s store to be. What is Lawson’s store, you ask? Well, it’s the general goods store described in one of Ate My’s historical romance novels, this one set in early 1900s America, around the time of the San Francisco earthquake. I enjoyed reading that book. It was cheesy and sweet, like Pom-Poms and Chiz Curls. Anyway, Terry’s Selection looks like that, only newer and more modern. So I guess it’s retro Lawson’s. Whatever.

The verdict, as if it weren’t obvious, is 4 fishballs and a kwek-kwek* for Terry’s Selection Gourmet Store.

*Rating System:

4 fishballs and a kwek-kwek – Excellent! I could eat this forever!
4 fishballs, no kwek-kwek – V.G.!
3 fishballs – Good.
2 fishballs – Fair. Pwede na.
1 Fishball – Poor. Laman tiyan ka lang.
No Fishball, no kwek-kwek – Pwe! I’d rather go hungry for the rest of my life!

Playing Favorites

2007-01-26T20:54:00.002+08:00

I like lists, like most people… with issues. I make To Do lists even when I have nothing in particular to do. I like to list books I want to read, restaurants I want to dine in, movies I want to watch. I list the things I am thankful for as well as areas that I need to make improvements in. In 2003, I made an Areas for Improvement list and one item in that list read: Be more assertive. Not assertive enough.

Four years after I wrote it, I’m still laughing my substantial behind off thinking about it. Anyone who knows me knows I couldn’t possibly be more assertive. That item should have read: Be less assertive. Not everyone’s out to get you. Most people don’t give a rodent’s derriere about the horrible things you’re going through. Get over yourself, schmuckette.

I still don’t know why I ever thought I needed to assert myself more. I couldn’t be less api than if I donned greasy, cut-up rags, smeared dirt on my face, and pretended to be a vagrant at the overpass in Philcoa. (A stout vagrant? Have you ever seen such a sight, Nigel? No, can’t say that I have, Miss.). But I digress. Like I always do. I like tangents. I especially like going off them. If there’s a tangent to go off on, I’m there.

The point, however, is lists, i.e. that I like to make them. One kind of list I like to make is a favorites list. It’s a heady feeling wracking your brain for—to paraphrase that early 90s rap/dance group, C&C Music Factory—things that make you go, “Uh-uhmm!” It gives me great joy and I’d rather do this than… work. Frankly.

So, without further ado, these are a few of my favorite things…

My Favorite BREAKFAST ITEMS:

1) longganisa (especially Vigan, Lukban, and hamonado)
2) tocino (the pinker, the better!)
3) hotdogs
4) corned beef
5) French toast
6) Pancakes
7) Pan de sal with palaman, either chiz whiz pimiento or nutella or Reno
8) Fried eggs
9) Omelets
10) Garlic fried rice
11) Post raisin and nut bran flakes
12) Swiss Miss (great with a bit of coffee. I wrote a haiku about this. It goes:

Tamis at pait
Masarap pagsamahin—
Swiss Miss and coffee.)

13) Milo (as in #12, great with coffee)
14) Danggit
15) Tinapang Salinas
16) Spanish sardines
17) VMC Spanish style bangus
18) Champorado with tuyo or bulad
19) Hash browns
20) Chocolate-e
21) Fresh orange juice (straight from the bottle. Beri, Beri Good!)
22) Peanut butter and jelly sandwich
23) Reno liver spread (kailangan ulitin. It cannot be emphasized more.)
24) Day-old pizza
25) Leftovers from last night’s dinner

My Favorite MEATS:

1) cold cuts (pepperoni, lyoners, etc.)
2) Italian sausage
3) Hungarian sausage
4) Vigan and Lukban longganisa
5) Tocino
6) Hotdogs
7) Spam / maling
8) Ham
9) Bacon
10) Chorizo de bilbao
11) Corned beef
12) Chicken longganisa
13) Chicken hotdogs
14) Beef franks
15) KFC original recipe chicken
16) Max’s fried chicken
17) Balat ng lechon
18) Lechon kawali
19) Liempo sa Andok’s
20) Chicken nuggets
21) Vienna sausage
22) Meat loaf / beef loaf
23) Hamburger patties
24) Pork chops (lalo na breaded)
25) Siomai at dumplings
26) Meatballs

My Favorite DESSERTS:

1) Dayap Chiffon Cake (at Chocolate Kiss)
2) Bread Pudding (at Circles Resto buffet and EDSA Shangri-La’s breakfast buffet)
3) Leche flan (anytime, anywhere. Kahit butas-butas yan, papatusin ko.)
4) Halo-halo in Razon’s
5) Halo-halo ingredients, like: sweet beans, nata de coco, and kaong
6) Brazo de Mercedes and the Yang to its Yin, Canonigo
7) Sapin-sapin, specifically the white biko-like layer
8) Birthday cake. The ones with marshmallow icing, sweet and sticky.
9) Green Tea and Sesame Seed ice cream (at Teriyaki Boy)
10) Macapuno
11) Inipit

(Note: Actually, I’m not really a dessert person. Hence, the brevity of this list.).

A Note on Gata

2007-01-25T14:36:00.002+08:00

Just got back from a counseling mission in Daraga, Albay, where the people--many of them, anyway--remain optimistic and passionate. Albay is a place of myth and its people, firm believers in the power of story. Camalig, the town we were in, lies at the foot of Mayon. It's difficult to describe Mayon without sounding like a press release from the Department of Tourism. The phrase that immediately came to mind when I got my first look at that voluptuous volcano is "magandang mabagsik." Later in the day, I would talk to a woman who had a similar perspective. Mayon, she said, takes her beauty from the lives of the people she kills. Mayon, like Albay, like its people, is both beautiful and fierce. Unrelenting, feral, passionate.

But this isn't a note on Mayon, as gorgeous as that bit of rock and molten lava is. This is a note on the other thing that makes Albay famous: gata. I'm not a big fan of coco milk. It scares me, to be honest. I never know how my stomach will take it. Gata, after all, is not for the faint of heart and queasy of tummy. It's quite like Mayon, I think, in that it caresses your tongue and palate beautifully, sensually, then crash lands into your tummy and explodes out of—ahem, you get the point.

Anyway, when in Bicol, one must have Bicol Express—which, for the ignorami amongst us (or is it ignoramuses? For that matter, is the plural of hippopotamus hippopotami or hippopotamuses? Both, or neither? Questions, questions. Too many questions, never enough answers.), is pork cooked in gata. Not exactly health food heaven but what the hey. So had Bicol Express I did. Partnered it with Laing, in fact. Definition: Laing – gabi leaves in, tadah!, gata.

Will state the obvious now: tummy very happy. Full of air but very happy.

Gata, gata,
Everywhere gata.
In the air,
on my tongue;
in my tummy,
out my bum.
Gata.

I Thank You.

Chicken and Potatoes

2007-01-13T21:37:00.001+08:00

My dad brought a cool titanium pot when he came home from the States. It's a pretty thing, and functional too. It takes only a small flame to heat it up so menos gastos sa gas. My dad claims food cooked in it tastes better too. But that's my dad, the infomercial believer, talking. I still think it's the chef factor (but, of course).

Anyway, in my quest to discover healthy but tasty dishes for my poor, bloated tummy, I experimented with a chicken and potatoes recipe that turned out great. Now, I know I always say that the recipes I create in my humble kitchen are awesome. But that's only because it's true, they are awesome. And as an amateur cook, I'm pretty skilled. (And modest too!).

So, again, here's another recipe from the ever expanding menu of Bogchi ni Bochog. Again, amounts are arbitrary. Cooking is an art, not a science. Or, it's an inexact science. Depends on the perspective you take regarding the methodological distinctions between art and science (but that's neither here nor there).

CHICKEN AND POTATOES

Ingredients:
1 chicken, whole or cut into parts
1 cup olive oil
2 medium-sized heads of garlic, minced
1 medium head of garlic, in cloves
1 medium onion, halved
3 medium tomatoes, halved
juice of 4 calamansi
dry basil, crushed pepper flakes, chili powder, salt, pepper, and other spices (all to taste)
6 medium potatoes, quartered

For the gravy: butter, cornstarch, chicken stock, salt and pepper

Procedure:
1. Mix 3/4 of the olive oil, calamansi juice, minced garlic, and all spices. Marinade chicken in the mixture for at least an hour.
2. Coat bottom of pot with the remaining olive oil. Put the chicken along with the potatoes, garlic cloves, onion halves, and tomato halves. (When using whole chicken, stuff the garlic cloves, onions, and tomatoes into the chicken cavity. Place the potatoes along the sides of the pot, surrounding the chicken).
3. Put pot on low heat. Cook for 40 minutes.
4. After cooking, transfer the chicken (which by this time is flaky, the meat falling off the bones) and potatoes onto a serving bowl or dish.
5. To make the chicken stock, get the aromatic veggies along with bones and meat that have stuck to the bottom of the pot and put them in another pot. Pour 2 cups of water and bring to a boil. Season with salt and pepper.
6. To make the gravy, add 2 pats of butter and some cornstarch to the drippings in the pot where the chicken and potatoes cooked. Add the chicken stock and stir. Season with salt and pepper.

A note about the gravy: Uh... it's not healthy. It actually defeats the whole purpose of not frying the chicken and letting the fat and drippings run out. But then, one cannot reasonably expect gravy which, by definition, is made from drippings, to be healthy. Right? So, for health buffs, the chicken and potatoes taste good enough. The gravy is an option. A very heavenly option that spells the difference between joy and ecstasy.

The Devil Is Right, After All

2007-01-12T00:22:00.001+08:00

Two guesses who's got a fat liver. Yep, me! Not so whee!, though, because having a fat liver--the technical term being fatty liver, duh--means I really have to lose weight by going low fat (gasp!) and low carb (agh! my heart! oh, my heart!).

In a previous post, I ranted about Doctor Devil in A White Coat telling me to lose weight as if that was the only explanation for my recurring kabag. (Gah! I've said it before, I'll say it again, kabag sucks. It's the biggest bitch ever. It's a monkey on my back, or more appropriately, a gorilla in my tummy.). Well, I went to another doctor who ordered an ultra sound, which I had last Saturday. Thank the Lord, no stones! Everything normal, everything pretty healthy. Except for that "impression" of a "fatty liver," according to the ultrasonologist. So Doc Number 2 said the only treatment for that is to change my diet and lose weight because having a fatty liver makes me more prone to acid reflux and awful gas in my lovely tummy.

Sucks to be me right now. Sucks to be me.

I am hating, loathing, writing it but... those Devils in White Coats are on to something. The kabag takes so much from me and the only way to manage it is to manage my eating habits. I can't believe I'm writing about managing food. Even as I write, my mind screams, food isn't to be managed! It is to be eaten, consumed, nay, devoured! As devils devour the souls of the wicked!

I'm doing well, so far, keeping to a less rice/pasta/pork diet. Taking it a day at a time works well. If you happen upon this blog and this particular post and you have a low carb and/or low fat recipe to share, I'd love to get those. I'm stocking up on spices and tuna (in brine. Sigh.) and brown rice and wheat bread. I've even created a tuna tomato spread that doesn't taste all that healthy... but is, honest!

I must fight that niggling sense of having sold out to the hippie-dippie health buffs. I am still me. I will not be signing up for pilates lessons anytime soon. But I will be having a salad next time I eat out. I suspect I will try to enjoy the salad even as I miss carbonara. And when the missing becomes too great, I probably will have carbonara one of these days (hopefully, just a single serving of it).

I am still me because, low on carbs or high on it, I still like to create issues out of what to other folks is really nothing. A diet isn't just a diet. There's a reason it's spelled D-I-E-t.

The Post Mortem on Purefoods Christmas Ham

2007-01-03T00:30:00.001+08:00

What's wrong with Purefoods' hams? That's all I can say. Well, obviously, that's not all I can and will say. In fact, I just said more. The point is, Purefoods' hams suck. Bad. My sisters and I have noticed that for the past two christmases at least, the hams we've been buying and consuming for noche buena/media noche--oh, who am I kidding? We open them, slice them up, and eat them the minute we buy them. As in right after paying, straight out of the grocery bag, and not even out of Shopwise yet... Anyway, the hams have not been up to par.

Let me preface such a criticism with a brief discussion of the Salvador Sisters' Criteria for Good Christmas Ham. First, the marbling in the meat. Any Christmas ham worth its salt must have a good proportion of fat to meat so that every slice has a nice white streak of marble at one end. Second, the sweetness factor. Great Christmas hams have a nice, thick, melting film of sugary sauce that lends a hint of sweetness to every fried slice. Sometimes, ham makers go overboard with the sweetness and sometimes, they scrimp on it. Neither is good enough for anyone, except maybe for Jesus (and that's only because everything and everyone is good enough, even precious, to him, even vile sinnahs such as yoself! Ruh-pent! Ruh-pent!).

Now, it's pretty obvious that I'm a big fan of Purefoods products, from their hotdogs to their corned beefs to their chorizo de bilbaos to their luncheon meats. And yes, we've been eating Purefoods Christmas ham every Christmas for a long time now. And for a long time, it's been good. But this Christmas, and the one before, the hams have lost a little of its charm. The fat's still there, which is obviously a good thing. But the sauce isn't as thick and syrupy as it used to be. Before, it was like candied pork. Now, it's just like regular Dak's ham with a little bit of sweet sauce to make you remember and miss how good and sweet it was before.

Still, we'll probably have Purefoods Christmas ham again next Christmas. Heck, we'd have it in the middle of the year if they sold it in June. We don't even think about going Swift's. But maybe now is a good time to think about exploring other options. Maybe we've been missing out on a whole load of goodies just 'cause we don't like Swift's corned beef. Hmm, it's definitely something to think about for the new year. Along with other important things like world peace, of course.

This Just In... No More Meat, Rice, Pasta for Bochog!

2006-12-18T11:22:00.002+08:00

It is a testament to my sad, sorry, defensive state that I am referring to myself in the 3rd person. As we all know, no one of sound mind does this. Let me amend that, no non-celebrity of sound mind refers to herself in the 3rd person. (I make this necessary amendment because I have heard through the grapevine that Ate Vi, bless her, calls herself "Vilma Santos." When asked to endorse a laundry bar, she apparently said, "Parang hindi naglalaba si Vilma Santos gamit ang kamay. Kung maglalaba si Vilma Santos, siguro gagamit siya ng washing machine." Let me take a moment to, in internet speak, ROTFLMAO. I don't know if this is true, and I don't particularly care. It's a hilarious story.).

But back to more serious matters, the kind that make people ponder metaphysical questions. In particular, what is identity? How is one's identity connected to the container one is housed in, ie one's body?

I ask these questions because I have just been told by the doctor to lose weight. Now, this is not a rare occurence. I have been told all my life to lose weight by doctors and non-doctors alike, by people I know and virtual strangers, by people who truly care and those who only care to expound on the virtues of being... not fat (in sum, that one would be more attractive and that from this increase in attractiveness, everything else will follow: boyfriend, husband, family, success, great life--hell, maybe even a spot in heaven!).

Most times, I am able to shrug these things off. I just tell people that I'm happy with myself and they are free to make of it what they will. This time, I couldn't dismiss the doctor telling me to lose weight because it wasn't so much being told to lose weight that bothered me, it was being told to, ahem, cut portions. Specifically, cut rice and pasta portions. And no pork, he said. Fish and chicken and veggies and fruits (except the ones that are too sweet) are all right. But no meat. No meat.

Ladies and gentlemen, may I present... the Devil in a White Coat. Fancying telling me not to eat meat anymore. Not to cook pasta. The horror! Telling me to find another hobby besides food and cooking and eating. Que barbaridad! Even asking me if I have an eating disorder (his exact words were, "hindi ka ba yung tipong kumakain ng marami tapos isusuka?" Uh, you mean, am I bulimic? A great, big DUH!!! to you, Doc. If I were bulimic, that would suck 'cause, basically, all that purging obviously doesn't work and I'm still fat. A fat bulimic. That's a funny oxymoron right there. I'd be laughing my lardy ass off if it weren't my gastronomic future on the line). I told Doc Devil that I'm very well-adjusted, thank you. To which he said, "Mukha ngang masaya ka sa sarili mo." I don't know if he was being sarcastic but I take that as a compliment because I am happy with myself. It's just other people who sometimes aren't happy with me.

Don't get me wrong. Doc Devil wasn't mean. In fact, he seemed genuinely concerned. It's just that I feel that the minute he saw me, he automatically went on a crusade to get me to lose weight and virtually reduced my health issues to the fact of being big. And while I do think his dietary suggestions are valid (in fact, since Friday I have been eating no more than 1 cup of rice every meal instead of my usual, uh, 2 plates . I feel--quite rightly--self-congratulatory.), I think it was simplistic of him to blame my weight for my stuffy nose and scratchy throat. Another great, big DUHHH!!! Ever heard of a viral infection, Doc? No? Maybe you should go back to med school then.

I do know that I get very defensive when people comment and ask about my bigness. I get especially prickly when people tell me maybe I should lose weight. It's classical conditioning. People tell me I'm too big, which elicits a conditioned response of bristling resentment. People often talk about finding it hard to like and love themselves. I've never found it hard. I've always liked me, enjoyed my own company, thought myself deserving of anything I seek and work to have, and loved me. That hasn't been hard at all. It also hasn't been hard accepting the reality that not many people will probably like and love me to the same extent that I do myself. I have been ok with that fact. What I am not ok with and probably will never be ok with is the cavalier way with which people seek to impose their standards of beauty, sometimes disguised as concern for my health, on me when I take great pains to let them be. Be beautiful, be ugly. Be smart, be stupid. Be anything. (To illustrate: I don't tell people, "maybe you should try to be smarter." Or, "you'd be more attractive if you changed your face." That would be downright mean. What people don't get is that it's the same kind of mean to tell someone she'd be more attractive if she lost weight. Because then you assume that the person you're concerned about holds the same views about herself that you hold, ie that she is not smart enough, not pretty enough, not anything enough. Why would anyone make, let alone articulate, such harsh assumptions?).

I don't like being told what to do and how to be. I know this. It is almost pathological. My professor told me that things "told" me should be couched in egalitarian terms, terms that speak nothing of power imbalances, hierarchical relationships, and societal standards of being and worth.

I am trying to be pragmatic (for once in my life) and reasonable about it. Which means I have to take off my political/ideological lenses and view the matter from a more, er, neutral health perspective. (And no, I won't question the assumption that a health perspective is politically neutral. 'Cause this post is never going to end if I do that). I have a particular health concern, ie kabag (which is going away now, thank you). It may be an acute reaction to something (a virus or whatever) or it may be a symptom of an underlying digestive problem brought about by my fondness for food that's not, shall we say, optimal for health. What to do then? It pains me to say it but Food and I? We're gonna have to COMPROMISE.

So I will try to cut my rice portions to 1 cup per meal and my pasta portions to a single serving (around 100 grams, according to most cookbooks). Our bi-monthly menu only includes 2-3 pork dishes, of which I hope to limit myself again to only one serving. (When I say single serving, I mean a normal-sized portion and not my usual family-sized portions.). I've actually been eating more fish, veggies, and fruits so that's not really a problem. As for exercise, I'm going to continue strutting my beautiful bum around my village, maybe just more regularly.

But I say this now, I don't plan to ever swear off pork and rice and pizza and pasta. Doing so would guarantee the failure of this compromise agreement. I love food and I'll never force myself to stop loving food. That's non-negotiable. Maybe it's a matter of loving not just with my heart and gut but also with my head.

Like I told my Ditchie and Claire, though, I see hard times ahead. I see possible bouts of anger and depression. I see philosophical railings and metaphysical meanderings all in the name of food and weight and identity and love. Such is the nature of a committed relationship, I guess. It evolves, and you have to make certain changes to keep it going. Of course, just writing this makes me sad all over again. Reminds me of Shakespeare's idea of love:

Love is not love
which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove.
O, no! It is an ever fixed mark
That looks on tempests and is never shaken.

Losing Eat

2006-12-03T15:27:00.001+08:00

I was struck by a viral infection that rendered me housebound for the better part of November, with only enough energy to sleep a lot and eat a little. I'll say that again. Eat A LITTLE. Up to now, I still can't quite believe that I went through a period of time not feeling like eating. Not wanting food, or needing it, or loving it, or having any kind of emotion about it. This, to state the obvious (something that I like to do every now and then), was uncharacteristic of me. It had never happened, in fact. I've felt worse in the past and have actually been sick with gastroenteritis (which I believe is God's punishment for eating indiscriminately). But even during that hellish period of alternating nausea and diarrhea punctuated by 3 needle shots, I still found in me the will to eat. For about one week last month, I lost it. I lost the will to eat.

This is how it happened. My loving, generous mother came home from Hong Kong bearing the gift of Zhen de Shou, a Chinese herbal supplement that purportedly helps one lose weight. My mom, bless her, had taken it upon herself to help us, her three daughters, lose weight. Not that we were begging for help. In fact, not that we were trying to lose weight either. Well, maybe my two sisters. Kinda. It's just that my mother is one of those people who believe that people are more beautiful when they're not fat. She thinks we're beautiful, yes. But I think she believes that we'd be downright ravishing if only we lost a bit of weight (in my case, a LOT of weight). I don't have the heart to tell her that being downright ravishing requires not just a certain weight but also a certain mien, an oomph that not everyone who's beautiful and thin may have. (Case in point, Lani Mercado, objectively a beautiful woman but, also objectively, about as 3D, sexy, and ravishing as a thumb tack). I just don't have that oomph. Maybe my sisters. But me? Not so much.

But when your mother brings home a month's worth of herbal supplements that cost quite a bit of money, you do not say no. You do not go into a pseudo-feminist rant about restrictive standards of beauty. Instead, you say, "Ok. Thanks, Mama. Love you. This doesn't have side effects naman, di ba?" And even though you rarely pray these days, you say a quick but heartfelt prayer that this works. If not for you, then for your mom. Who's obviously desperate about YOUR weight.

So I took them pills for three days. And on the 3rd day, God created Bochog's Loss of Appetite, a state or condition characterised by a lassitude that cannot be accounted for by a simple viral infection. Such lassitude includes an alarming apathy towards food and a similar disinterest in any kind of activity that constitutes the concept of LIVING. I did not feel like moving, dreaming, thinking, eating. I did not feel like doing anything.

The Loss of Appetite terrified me and prompted me to quit taking the pills and go to the hospital. The doctors at the hospital thought it was just another symptom of the viral infection. But when I asked my sisters, they said they were also feeling the same inertia. Mine was just worse because I was already sick with the viral thingy (I just didn't know it). I think also that my experience was worse because you do not go from thinking the world of food to not having any kind of thought or feeling about it in zero seconds flat. That just doesn't happen. Needless to say, my sisters quit too. And Ate My urged Mama to stop taking the pills. Turns out, Mama was feeling those things too. Except she was attributing them to high BP. When Ate My told her what happened, she realized it was those bleeding Zhen de Shou supplements. They make you lose weight, all right. They do it by making you lose your joie de vivre and turning you into a zombie. Or an anorexic trapped in the body of a fat girl. To which I say, no thanks. I'd rather be fat, passably pretty, and happy. I don't need to be thin and drop dead gorgeous.

So now we have around a dozen unopened boxes of those blasted pills. I'm not even going to give them to anyone. They're horrible. My sisters and I have never been so happy about quitting anything. Quitting those pills was like quitting sadness. And I'll always quit that.

BATTLE OF THE BRANDS

2006-11-17T22:19:00.001+08:00

A couple of months ago, I was having merienda with a college classmate at CASAA in UP. He reminded me of an article I supposedly wrote for the Psych newsletter. Supposedly because I don't actually remember writing it. I have only vague memories of being asked to write something. According to my batchmate, I wrote about the all-important question of which KFC chicken tastes better: Original or Hot and Crispy? He remembers, my batchmate said, because my article came out in the same issue where he and a former girlfriend wrote presumably incisive commentaries on the phenomenon of People Power (presumably because I don't remember reading his article so I really wouldn't know). His article was about his opinions and experience as a "loyalista" and his ex's was the opposite. His reaction to my article was one of amused dismay (or was that dismayed amusement? I forget.). He apparently made a career of writing a serious op-ed piece (in Tagalog, kinareer niya.) about an important historical and political event, only to find it juxtaposed with my food review which I'd be willing to bet was an equally serious treatise on the merits and demerits of variations in chicken batter and breading.

So, as a tribute to this KFC treatise I supposedly wrote (and, trust me, I may not remember, but it's not out of character for me to have written something like that), I present... Bochog's Battle of the Brands...

1) Purefoods Tender Juicy vs. Swift's Mighty Meaty (and, well, every other hotdog brand). Purefoods Tender Juicy is Manny Pacquiao. Swift's Mighty Meaty is Erik Morales. Pacquiao knocked down Morales, who is one hot dawg. Pound for pound, Pacquiao is the best fighter we have today, so boxing afficionados say. I say, kilo for kilo, Purefoods Tender Juicy hotdogs are the best hotdogs... ever. (A caveat: by hotdogs, I mean those cute red tubes of processed meat rejects. If they're not red, they're not hotdogs, they're franks. Capice?).

2) Purefoods Corned Beef vs. Swift's Corned Beef. Again, Purefoods trumps Swift's in the corned beef department. Everyone I know prefers Purefoods corned beef because the beef is juicy without being smelly. Plus, there's no aftertaste when you eat it. I hate it when you eat corned beef and then, afterwards, your breath smells like you just ate corned beef. Swift's corned beef is too juicy, if that's at all possible. It's over the top beefy as opposed to Purefoods' subtle flavor. Of course, one can argue that maybe Swift's corned beef is juicier and beefier because it's got more real beef than Purefoods. To that I say, if I want real corned beef, I'd make my own.

3) Milo vs. Ovaltine. This is a draw. For drinking, Ovaltine is my choice chocomalt drink. But as ulam, Milo is it. One of my favorite childhood meals was rice topped with heaping spoonfuls of Milo powder. Uh-uhm.

4) Lipton vs. Nestea. Again, pretty difficult to call this one. On one hand, Nestle iced tea is a sentimental favorite because I remember the first time I drank iced tea (during a Bible study that my dad dragged us children to), it was Nestle iced tea. How do I know this? I don't, really. But I believe, hallelujah, in the same way I believe that the Lord sent his only begotten son, Jesus Christ, to save us from sin (John 3:16). Amen. Praise the Lord. It is possible that the iced tea I drank that long time ago was, in fact, Lipton iced tea. But because the popular commercial during that time was Nestea's (you know, the one where people drink Nestea and splash into a fake pool of agua), all iced tea became Nestea to me. So, Nestea wins this one due to marketing savvy. Nestea should change its slogan to: Nestea. Ang Colgate ng mga iced tea.

4) Burger Machine vs. Scott Hamburger. This seems like a ridiculously easy one. Burger Machine, right? It is, after all, the Mama of burger stands. At least back in the day, when 24-hour service was not yet uso and food chains closed shop at 9 pm even after Martial Law. The theory is this: All those food stands that were so big during the 80s, like Burger Machine, Scott Hamburger, Pedro Pendito, 3M Pizza, etc. lagged in the evolutionary race and eventually died a natural death because the bigger food chains decided to go all 7-11 on everyone during the mid-90s. Since people now had a McDo or a Jollibee to go to in the wee hours of the morning, Burger Machine, et. al. lost their tenuous hold on the market of desperately hungry folks who don't bother with taste at 3 in the morning. It's a reasonable explanation. But maybe one that is not all that pertinent to the discussion at hand. The point is this: in terms of taste, Burger Machine beats Scott. All burgers beat Scott Hamburger, in fact. Scott Hamburger is the worst burger ever. But. But, I don't have the heart to write it off that easily because my mom used to buy me Scott hamburgers by the dozen. Since no one (but my mom, obviously) was buying burgers from Scott, they had this perpetual Buy 1, Take 1 promo. So my mom, the bargain hunter, would always buy one and take one. Six times over. So for taste, it's Burger Machine. But as an indicator of Mama's love, Scott pacquiao's Burger Machine at 3 am and any other time.

5) Sprite vs. 7-Up. Sprite is sweeter. Sprite makes for a prettier name for a child. (My 1st grade classmate's older brother was named Sprite. Her older sister was Mirinda. She was Orange, as in Royal Tru.). Sprite makes for the best shrimp marinade. Yum.

Spritey Shrimps (Mama's Recipe)

shrimps
sprite (bottle size depends on amount of shrimps to marinade)

Soak shrimps in Sprite. Then fry. Then enjoy.

TO BE CONTINUED.

LILET AND BALATONG

2006-10-28T18:25:00.001+08:00

I think sometimes I've become fastidious, finicky, even when it comes to food. I would be the last person to restrict good eating to fine dining. As long as I'm eating good, clean, cheap food in a clean, nice smelling place, I'm set. Sometimes, I can forgive the occasional funky odor if the food is worth it. The siopao in Ma Mon Luk, for instance, is worth the sticky floors and pungent air. (Tip: if you're worried about utensils being less than clean, douse them with alcohol, wipe, then air dry for just a few seconds. I'm not sure if it really works, but the psychological duping effect is A-rated bliss).

Like everyone else, though, I have set tastes. And although my gastronomic standards are relatively broader, I still have preconceived images of good eats in my mind. I must confess, eating at a poorly-funded sanctuary for victims of military atrocities was not my idea of gastronomic heaven.

I was wrong. Last thursday's merienda and yesterday's lunch at the said sanctuary deserve a moment in posterity through this humble blog. Thursday's merienda was a bowl of gooey sweet rice pudding with roasted mung beans. I was searching my memory for the name, asking my companions, but no one knew. They didn't seem to care, in fact. They just kept eating. Thank God for my professor's assistant who supplied the lost moniker: lilet balatong. Lilet Balatong! I hadn't eaten lilet balatong since I was a kid, I think. The lilet b. at the sanctuary wasn't all that great. But as I've said before, I like to eat memories, and I enjoyed the feeling of remembrance, of enjoying a bowl of warm lilet b. as a kid.

Yesterday's lunch also featured the versatile mung bean. Munggo is one of my all-time favorites. I can eat munggo every day. In fact, I just had munggo for lunch today. But yesterday's munggo was possibly the best munggo I've tasted. The beans were crushed into a smooth and silky stew with dried fish, ampalaya leaves, and chicharong hibe (dried and fried baby shrimps: infanticide never tasted better) adding layers of salty/bitter flavor.

But balatong, or any food for that matter, also only tastes as good as the company you keep while eating. And the people at the sanctuary made for some of the finest company I've been blessed to dine with. They weren't particularly articulate, and conversations weren't punctuated by middle-class, intelligentia wit. It was more the feeling that I was surrounded by good, decent people who, despite being villified and violated by those in power, and forced to leave their homes and family and go into hiding, are still able to smile and say, with conviction, that things will get better.

I guess mush can sometimes be good for the soul.

The Aftermath

2006-10-06T15:30:00.001+08:00

Seconds after I post awful haiku, I am siezed by a longing to go back to Malansing Street, Malabon, go to all the sari-sari stores littering it and buy me some Zeb-Zeb, Pom-Poms, putoseko, nougat, fake white rabbit, fake tootsie roll, and chicharong parihaba. Maruya I could buy at the wet market or fried lumpia for my dose of veggies. Wash it down with pink scramble from one of the vendors along the road. Go back home with bacteria and a virus or two, tummy full of air, and mind full of memories. That may or may not, in fact, have happened. It may turn out that I actually ate Zeb-Zeb, et.al. not in Malansing Street, Malabon, but in Road 4, Pag-asa, Quezon City. Right now, though, I'm feeling Malansing. So Malansing I remember.

A couple of months ago, I was in Tatalon with some classmates. We were walking around, touring the place like the upstart wannabe community psychologists we were so horribly aware we are, when I spotted Pom-Poms dangling from the window of a sari-sari store. I did not react calmly. I remember there was frantic pointing and a jump for joy. It was exciting to come across a snack I used to enjoy as a child. Granted, the packaging was different (now orange where before it was a sunny, summery yellow with blue lettering) and the cheese curls were bigger (and, again, orange where before they were smaller and a sunny, summery yellow). But the sentiment was strong as ever.

I bought some and as I opened a Pom-Pom, a classmate said, "Pahingi. Gusto kong matikman ang alaala mo." Whoever said it's impossible to purvey profundity via childhood chicheria has obviously never met a left-leaning activist/community worker/masseuse/alternative lifestyle guru before.

As I had my first taste of Pom-Poms in possibly a decade, maybe even more, I was overcome by a feeling of... blandness. Yon na yon? Evidently, yes. That was it. Fake cheese and air. And all I have to show for it is bad poetry. Well, that and the realization that all the foods I ate when I was younger and more foolish/wiser will never taste as perfect as they do in my memories. My classmate was right. It is the memory we taste. Not the food. Lord, definitely not the food.

I guess I like to eat memories.

Bad Haiku, Bad!

2006-10-06T15:16:00.001+08:00

ZEB-ZEB

Popcorn or cornick?
I ponder as my teeth crack,
Why can't it be both?

POM-POM

Fake cheese on my hand
I miss the crunch of empty--
Full of air am I.

MALANSING

Sa Malansing lang
ako nakatikim ng
Putosekong Pink.

(These awful haikus are brought to you by Childlike Lament for Snacks That Don't Taste As Good As I Remember.)

My Favorite De Latas

2006-09-21T18:04:00.001+08:00

1. Purefoods Chorizo de Bilbao. Salty, sour, spicy, sweet, greasy, fatty, yummy. Kinda pricey though.
2. Purefoods Corned Beef. Beef without the aftertaste. Not stringy. Not runny. (I can't imagine having eaten any other brand of corned beef but when I was younger, I used to eat King Sue corned beef. Probably not a good idea now, as I remember it being too wet. Eesh.).
3. Phillips Meat Loaf. Comfort food on a budget.
4. Reno Liver Spread. Can't be beat. Hot pan de sal and a good coffee short of breakfast heaven.
5. Century Tuna Hot and Spicy. The best tuna. In a sandwhich, or pasta. Or with rice. Ginisa or straight from the can. The only canned fish that rocks.
6. SPAM. Spam, spam, spam!
7. Purefoods Chinese Style Luncheon Meat. Takes the place of Ma-Ling. (I don't think Ma-Ling has ever recovered from that smear campaign during the 90s that implicated it in serious cases of food poisoning. Then again, maybe that's just all in my head. Basta, I remember I stopped buying and eating Ma-Ling during the 90s 'cause I didn't want to die. But I still call luncheon meat Ma-Ling. As in Purefoods Ma-Ling.).
8. Phillips, Purefoods, or Gusto Vienna Sausage. Fried or straight from the can. I love sausages.
9. Victoria's Spanish Style Bangus. Uh-uhm! Aces. I'm not a big bangus fan like my sister (who orders daing na bangus when she eats out. Who the hell orders daing na bangus in a restaurant?!? I swear, that will always remain a mystery to me.) but I love the timpla of this de lata. And the bangus meat is soft, the bangus fat melting.
10. Purefoods Chicken Bits. Good for chicken potato salad.

I'm hungry.

This reminds me of a conversation I had with Gina where she told me that Hollywood films are like canned goods. You like them. You enjoy them. But they don't really call to you. They're not rooted in your personal and cultural experience. At that time, I agreed with her. But having just listed my favorite de latas, I think I may have to disagree a little bit. Not about Hollywood films, obviously.

Eating de lata is a deep, integral part of my experience as a Filipino. I will always eat de lata. I will always love de lata. De lata will always call to me: Come. Eat me. Let me fill you right up. I'm not asking to take the place of good, old-fashioned home-cooking. All I want is my own space in your cupboard...

I'm hungry.

Spicy Ham and Tuna Spaghetti

2006-09-19T14:37:00.001+08:00

Do you like your pasta sauce red or white? I like mine orange. Spicy hot orange. Yum!

I served my family this pasta dish a couple of years ago. It blew their taste buds to bits, if I may say so myself. My professor and classmates in Family Therapy class also got a taste when I brought some on the last day of class. Certified box-office gold. My writer friends gobbled it up when I cooked it for them. Aces.

This pasta dish rocks. It has never not rocked. It probably never will. I think it's because of the orange sauce. Feel free to find out for yourself.

Ingredients:

1 kg spaghetti (I use del monte italiana)
1 large can century hot and spicy tuna (drained of oil)
1 large can whole mushrooms (sliced into quarters)
1 250 g pack ham (diced)
your favorite cheese (I use cheddar or parmesan, depending on the state of my wallet. Leftover queso de bola works really well too.)

For the orange sauce:

1 kg italian style spaghetti sauce (I use clara ole)
1 250 ml tetrapack all-purpose cream (I use alaska crema)
garlic and onion (minced), according to preference
salt and pepper, to taste
your favorite herbs/spices (I use mccormick basil, terragon, italian seasoning, and/or pizza seasoning)

For the Garlic Bread:
your favorite bread (I use pan de sal, rye bread, or baguette)
real garlic or garlic powder
olive oil or butter

Procedure:
1. Fry ham. Set aside. Drain oil.
2. Saute garlic and onion. Return ham to pan. Add tuna and mushrooms. Stir-fry.
3. Add spaghetti sauce. Let simmer.
4. Add cream, herbs/spices, salt and pepper. Let simmer. Set aside.
5. Cook spaghetti. Then toss in sauce.
6. In a large baking dish, layer the spaghetti and cheese. Blitz in oven til cheese bubbles.
7. For the garlic bread, mix olive oil or butter with garlic or garlic powder. Blitz in microwave for about 10 seconds. Spread mixture onto bread. Grill/toast for 4-5 minutes.
8. Take out the huge plates. Pasta is not meant to be served on a platito.
9. Turn TV on and enjoy. Or, turn on family chika. Or, both.

NOT QUITE A VEGAN

2006-09-15T09:43:00.002+08:00

Yesterday, I had my first 99% almost no meat vegetarian meal. It was lunch at The Sicilian Express in T.Morato with my friend Gina. Who wanted to eat veggies. For what reason it was not so clear. Or I forget, I don't know.

I must clarify that we did not expressly, consciously, decide to eat a full-on vegetarian meal. Gina just wanted some veggies (at least that's what she told me) to eat for lunch. That did not bother me as I, too, have been known to eat veggies with my meat. And The Sicilian Express is not exactly Bodhi. It's a nice Italian restaurant that has both flora and fauna in its menu. So, really, it posed no threat.

We had a nice lunch, actually. We ordered the sicilian salad which had about five token chicken bits to make up for the mangoes. (Mangoes in a salad is not a good idea for me. But, strangely enough, the salad worked. The chicken with the greens was a good combination). We also had a margarita pizza, which is basically just cheese, tomatoes, and basil. At every step, Gina asked if I was ok with the foods we were to order. And strangely, I put up no fight. I said yes, every time. And actually meant it.

It was only later that I realized certain things: 1) I just ate pizza without pasta; 2) I just ate a no-meat, instead of an all-meat, pizza; and 3) I just had a meal that had more plants than animals in it. And I'm not even upset about it!

Contrast this with 4-5 years ago when Clarsy and I had lunch at Struan and Tang's in Power Plant. I ordered fried squid, and almost pitched a fit when the waiter brought out a plate of breaded squid with brown rice. BROWN rice. For all you geniuses out there, brown rice is healthier--and, therefore, less tasty--than white rice. (The word "rice" in the previous sentence sure is a landmine. Imagine if I substitute "a" for "i". That wouldn't make for an egalitarian statement. Good thing I'm just taking about race, este, rice. Rice.).

What the f--?! This is brown rice, I said, because I sometimes like to state the obvious. Clarsy, quick to do some psychological bullshitting work, said, "Yes, but the squid is fried." I swear, that made me feel a lot better. A lot. Of course, looking back, I can admit that we skated around the very real possibility that the squid was fried in olive oil (which, again for the geniuses amongst us, is generally considered to be the healthiest of oils, notwithstanding the threat from the extra virgin coconut oil camp). We did not acknowledge that possibility as I was already overwrought bordering on queenish.

Given my history of aversion to healthy eating, my reaction to yesterday's almost vegetarian meal might seem to be a tad uncharacteristic. A more bochog-typical reaction would have been to end my friendship with Gina. Yes, over meat (or the lack thereof). Instead, I affirmed a good friendship over a surprisingly good meal. And I enjoyed myself.

I think I'm realizing that eating veggies, and eating healthy, may not be so bad after all. I'm not about to give up my meats. And I'm not about to eat a 100% vegetarian meal anytime soon. I am too much a hedonist, and for some strange reason, I cannot imagine experiencing nerve-sizzling pleasure when all you eat are plants. (Case in point, the Epicureans of Rome. Who binged all they wanted. I doubt if they gorged themselves on lettuce.). Yesterday's meal was pleasant. Nice. But if I had had meat as usual, then the meal would have been just as exciting, dramatic, inspiring as the conversation that accompanied it.

Excuse Me While I B.A.R.F.

2006-09-07T12:31:00.002+08:00

Was praying with my family, ie my dad, 2 sisters, and our kasambahay Daya, last Saturday (Mama was out making money, which can be a form of prayer, I suppose, if you do it religiously and ritualistically. Ahem.). While it was not an unusual occurence for mi familia to pray together, it had been a long time since the last group thanksgiving-slash-supplication. We (and by we, I really mean my eldest sister and my dad) just felt like saying thank you to God because we've been feeling especially blessed the past few days. So in a fit of Protestant gratitude, we prayed.

When it was my turn to pray, I felt fake because I hadn't prayed in a long time. A long time. Possibly years. The kind of prayer that requires sincerity, heartfelt gratitude, and more importantly, the acknowledgement of God's control over one's life. I've become too William Ernest Henley, too "Master of My Fate", for that. Nevertheless, I prayed. It was sincere enough but I knew too that I was just regurgitating many of the words. And then... out of nowhere, the words came out of my mouth, "Lord, help each one of us carve our own paths."

That sounded so foreign to me, and a little bit jarring. Not because I've never said or thought about carving one's own path (in fact, that's all I think about) but because I had never ever prayed it. I was brought up to believe that a Christian could never be a Humanist and vice versa because to be humanist is to assert man's inferiority to no one (much less to someone who remains unseen).

And yet there I was praying what can only be called a humanist's prayer. And while I was jarred for a microsecond, I felt good afterwards. Imagine that. One can be a Humanist Christian, I suppose, or a religious academic, one who prays in a scholarly (seemingly secular) manner. Sometimes, I wonder at my Westernized academic orientation with its inordinate fondness for creating artificial dichotomies. As if we don't live our lives in a fairly integrated (and unconscious) manner. (Don't you just love the mind? It's a lean, mean, rationalizing machine. Hehe.)

What does prayer have to do with FOOD? Uh... it's food for the soul?

THE BEST... Attention: Aly!

2006-08-29T12:29:00.001+08:00

... sisig is still Gerry's sisig. Dencio's rocks too. Congo Grill's tastes unique 'cause they put mayo in it. For store-bought sisig, Monterey's is tops. Haven't tried Purefoods... Speaking of Purefoods, their chorizo bilbao is Y.U.M.M.Y. Mahal nga lang.

... veggie balls can be found in Pag-asa, Quezon City. In an eskinita somewhere there. I remember it's the road leading to the wet market. It's a regular fishball stand in front of a house. But instead of fishballs, they sell their own homemade veggie balls made of diced carrots, onions, and garlic, and fried like regular fishballs. They look like mini veggie kwek-kweks. I ate a lot of them as a kid growing up in Pag-asa. It was either fishballs or these. Those were good times. Good times.

What are the chances?

2006-08-29T11:37:00.001+08:00

I was googling Viggo Mortensen. Heh. I was googling Viggo Mortensen. That sounds funny. Pervy and funny. Actually, I was googling a poem that he wrote. So I typed the words "Communion by Viggo Mortensen" on google.com.

One of the links read "From federation to Communion: The History of the Lutheran World Federation." It was a link to an Amazon page selling a theology book. By Aragorn! How dorky hot is that?! Not only does the guy write wonderful poetry ("You ordered me off my knees. Wasn't to beg that I knelt: only to see you once from below." Say it with me. Aww.), steal scenes in movies, play the best Lucifer ever!, take brilliant photos, and take off his clothes in his movies, he also writes about God and organized religion?! What in heaven's name?!

Say it with me. AWW.

A scene flashed before my eyes. Me and Viggo. Excuse me, I mean, Viggo and I. The two of us, loungingly artfully artlessly in a cozy study. Books, papers, pens, portraits, art and literature all around us. A glass of wine in his right hand. And his left stroking my hair. We talk about art, religion, and science as we feed each other melon balls wrapped in prosciutto. We talk randomly. Yet we make sense.

He says things like, "Sola scriptura. Scripture alone. But whose scripture?"

I put forth my theory of the biopsychosocioeconomic dimensions of the construct we call Love. To which, my God, he is able to contribute insights from evolutionary science. Insights that fit nicely within his Lutheran framework!

We reach our own integration of art, science, and religion, a syncresis of seemingly contradictory ways of knowing and being...

End scene.

I clicked on comments to see if Viggo's book is any good and apparently, it is a lucid treatise on the Lutheran World Federation. Apparently too, some Viggo fans bought the book, thinking much the same as me, that they were buying a book on Lutheranism that Aragorn wrote.

Except it wasn't Viggo Mortensen who wrote it. Well, it was Viggo Mortensen, but another Viggo Mortensen. The Viggo Mortensen who wrote that theology book is not Viggo Mortensen, actor/poet/artist/hottie. It's Viggo Mortensen, theologian and religious historian, who may or may not be a hottie. We don't know.

End scene indeed. End fantasy.

Oh well. Viggo Mortensen, actor/poet/artist/hottie, still is pretty cool. I never would have thought there'd be 2 Viggo Mortensens, though. It's not like Viggo's a common name.

What does Viggo Mortensen, or 2 Viggo Mortensens, have to do with food? Nothing much. Except that a) they're both Danish (like the pastry) and b) I could eat Viggo Mortensen, actor/poet/artist/hottie, with a spoon. Yum!

The Best...

2006-08-25T20:30:00.001+08:00

... fishballs are sold along the intersections of K-I and K-8th and K-I and K-7th streets, Kamias, QC. All fishballs are the same (since they're procured from the same smelly, fishy place, anyway). It's the sauce that makes the difference. The sauce used by vendors along K-I, particularly in front of the Holy Family Parish Church tastes different from your regular fishball sauce. Usually, the sauce for fishballs (which, according to a vendor I talked to, is made up of ketchup, soy sauce, sugar, cornstarch, and spices) tastes more ketchupy, if you're lucky. If you aren't, it just tastes like burnt flour with siling labuyo. But the K-I sauce retains the sweet-sourness of the soy sauce. The color is darker (which probably reflects the greater proportion of soy sauce) and the texture is smoother. It's the best sauce I've ever had with my fishballs. (The next best fishballs are found along Katipunan, but they come nowhere near Kamias').

... isaw baboy, bituka, betamaks are found in UP-Diliman. If you're a true-blue UP student, you know what of I speak. 2 places vie for the best when it comes to isawan in UP, the one beside the post office and the one near balay kalinaw. Both are at opposite ends of the road along which the SC is located. The isaw at these places are crispy, crunchy, and clean! (At least, they taste clean, and I've never had strep throat eating them. Which is not what I can say about the isaw in Malansing Street, Malabon. I made the mistake of eating isaw there a few days before my 17th birthday. It gave me the worst case of sore throat. Ever. Never eat isaw in Malansing Street, Malabon. It might kill you.). The sauce they dip the isaw in rocks too. Near the post office, the isaw sauce is sweeter. Near balay kalinaw, it's more vinegary. Both rock my tongue.

HFIK

2006-08-22T18:53:00.001+08:00

1988. 4th grade. My 10th year as a human girl. This was a seminal year for me. This was the year I first learned to swear, graduating from the clean “Shaks!” and its variants “Shackers!” and “Shakening potpot!” to the A-Grade filth of “P.I.” (P.I. mo, P.I. niya, P.I. niyong lahat!). When I first realized I couldn’t keep a secret, blurting out to my whole family that my best friend just had her first period. And when I first got a taste of hotdogs fried in ketchup.

Frying hotdogs in ketchup is entirely different from frying hotdogs then putting ketchup on them. Ketchup, in the latter case, is mere condiment, an option that may be done away with. In the former, ketchup is sauce, an integral part of the dish, a necessary and sufficient condition (to rip off Carl Rogers; for more of his ideas, check out “The Necessary and Sufficient Conditions for Therapeutic Change”). While I can claim credit for this recipe, I have to give props to the mother of my Grade 4 classmate, Christine Joy Caraig, who prepared this dish for Christine Joy’s lunchbox. On hindsight, I don’t think I even got to taste Christine Joy’s hotdogs. I just know that I saw them and they looked different—and tasty!—swimming in oily ketchup. I couldn’t wait to make my own. So I did and I’ve been eating HFIK since then, especially when I’m in the mood to jazz up regular hotdogs.

Behold, my recipe for HFIK:

3-4 hotdogs, chopped into bite-sized pieces
3 tbsp* tomato ketchup (you can use spicy or sweet, depending on your taste)
1 tbsp soy sauce (you can also use Worcestershire sauce or Knorr seasoning, just adjust sugar)
1 tsp brown sugar
pepper

Procedure:
1. Fry hotdogs according to preference (some like it raw-looking, others like it almost burned). Set aside.
2. Combine ketchup, soy sauce, and brown sugar. Mix and season with pepper. (You may also add your favorite spices like basil or crushed red pepper flakes).
3. Pour the ketchup mixture into the same pan (but with most of the oil removed) and cook over low heat until the sauce bubbles.
4. Return hotdogs to pan. Cook for a few minutes, allowing the ketchup to smother the hotdogs.
5. Serve with fried rice.
6. Turn TV on and enjoy.

*Amounts are arbitrary. Consider them guides, not set values.

EQUAL OPPORTUNITY EATS

2006-08-18T21:12:00.001+08:00

This is my earliest memory of a perfect meal: I was five years old, maybe six. Doesn’t matter, I was young. I was home while my older sisters were in school. It was lunchtime and my mother, for one reason or another, didn’t cook lunch like she usually did. Instead, she gave me five pesos and a Tupperware bowl, with instructions to go outside, walk to the nearest eskinita, and buy myself five pesos’ worth of fish balls. Fish balls. That was to be my lunch. Not my mom’s yummy adobo with the sauce thick and slightly sweet and the pork fat soft and almost melting, just the way I liked it. Not her hotdog omelet fried to oily perfection. Not her specialty macaroni sopas, with chicken and hotdog bits drowning in milky, margarine-yellowed soup.

Lunch was fish balls. I couldn’t have been more ecstatic.

At that time, fish balls cost only ten centavos apiece so the five pesos my mom gave me bought 50 pieces. 50 fish balls, drowning in a sweet-hot-sour sauce made of parts ketchup and soy sauce, sugar and sili. All of it mine. I remember doing a happy dance as I walked home carrying my Tupperware of fish balls. I remember my mom’s indulgent smile as she watched me wolf down fish balls and rice.

This was only my first perfect meal. I have enjoyed the gastronomic pleasure of more than one perfect meal in my life. Granted, from the aforementioned example, it does not seem too difficult to please my taste buds. In fact, one may say—quite rightly—that I am ridiculously easy to please. One may say that I’ll eat anything. And one would be right—crass and rude, but right.

I am not a gourmet. When it comes to food, I believe in equal opportunity for all food groups to be consumed, nay, devoured by moi. Well, maybe fruits and veggies are at a slight disadvantage… And although I can be finicky about my pizza and pasta, foods I love so much I consider them to be a separate food group, on the whole, I eat indiscriminately.

So when it comes to the perfect meal, or in my case, perfect meals, it isn’t so much a matter of taste or how good the food is as it is a matter of passion, of the emotions food evokes. The perfect meal is also about memory, and discovery. Take, for instance, another perfect meal I had when I was an easily pleased child: pan de sal (Filipino bread) with ketchup as palaman (filling).

The scene unfolded thus: I was looking inside the refrigerator, pan de sal in one hand, searching for palaman. A glance at the condiment section revealed no mayonnaise, no chiz whiz, no peanut butter, no coco jam. In other words, no palaman. Since, to me, pan de sal without palaman is like kanin (rice) without ulam (viand), I had to look for something to spread onto my pan. As if fated, my young, easily pleased eyes fell on a bottle of Papa banana ketchup. An image came to mind, of an older cousin sticking his index finger in a pan de sal, pretending it was a hotdog sandwich. New knowledge settled in my ken like a Catholic-style epiphany… Ah, anything can be palaman, if one wishes it. Mayo, chiz whiz, peanut butter, coco jam. Yes, even index finger. And if index finger, why not ketchup? Why not, indeed. Faultless logic and almost mystical intuition, the same stuff scientific discoveries are made of.

I remember the glee with which I poured a huge dollop of Papa onto my pan de sal, the joy I felt as I bit into my ketchup sandwich, the giggle that escaped my lips even as ketchup dribbled onto my chin. It was the perfect meal, messy and joyous and full of discovery.

I don’t eat ketchup sandwiches anymore. (These days I prefer Mang Tomas Lechon Sauce). And I have had near-perfect meals that involved relatively more sophisticated foods. But I find that, invariably, the best meals I’ve had, I was eating cheap, simple, hearty foods that filled my stomach—without wiping out my pocket—and made my heart glad, whether it’s create-your-own pizza and oily carbonara at Napoli’s or sweet-spicy pork barbecue and salted egg at Beach House in UP.

So much has been said about emotional eating. Mainly, it has been blamed for the increasingly high incidence of weight problems. Diet experts say that the only goal of eating is, or at least should be, nutrition and nothing else. Eat to live, as the old folks liked to say. Therefore, eat routinely and without emotion because emotions invest food with a purpose higher than mere sustenance and staving off of physical hunger.

Many people are embarrassed to admit that they, like every other human being on the planet, do eat emotionally and for reasons that have nothing to do with nutrition. Eating, much like other biological imperatives like sleep and sex, is motivated by things that go beyond the physical. When we eat emotionally, therefore, we assert our ability to push the limits of our biology, even to transcend it. This is admittedly a roundabout way of saying… I am not embarrassed. I admit it. I do eat emotionally. And I never quite understood why I should eat only to live. I eat with joy, with glee, with passion, with love. I eat as I live. There’s nothing embarrassing about that.

bochog

Kain na!

2006-08-18T20:09:00.002+08:00

Hi, hello, and mabuhay!

You have strayed into Bogchi ni Bochog, my blog about all things gastronomic. This is my first attempt at blogging. For a while I had been hesitant to create a blog because the idea of having an online journal and laying bare my soul to virtually any curious cat with a few hours to kill did not sit well with me. But I liked the idea of having my own space on which to dump any thoughts or, shucks, feelings I may have about a particular subject. But because I do not wish to write extensively about my self and my life in a Dear Diary way, I decided I needed a topic I could wax endlessly about.

Enter FOOD.

Now, if you are a friend of mine, or if you are family... Heck, even if you've only known me for a minute, you would know how much I love food. I'll say it again. I love food. Food is my friend. Food is right up there with Claire, my best pal from college. Right up there with my Ate My and Ditchie. Right up there with writing. Psychology and my grad studies do not even come close to Food. If I were stuck in a boat in a raging storm with food and You and I could only save one, I probably wouldn't save You.

Food, good food, is as necessary to me as punctuation is to a run-on sentence. I love to eat. And when I'm not eating, I think about eating. Sometimes, I have deep, existential thoughts centering on food and eating, and I feel so strongly, keenly about it.

So there's my topic. And here's my blog, Bogchi ni Bochog. This is also the name of my dream eatery which, in my mind, I shall put up in place of Arcade (which I shall have leveled and demolished, in true capitalist fashion, haha!) in my alma mater, UP-Diliman. Bogchi ni Bochog, the eatery, shall be a place where students can eat cheap but good food (all of it my recipes), hang out, and read books from the extensive collection of social science and fiction tomes (tomes, baby, tomes!). I even have a menu laid out already. But that's for another post.

Meanwhile, I welcome You, curious cat, to my humble kitchen. May you find here good thoughts, good feelings, and maybe a recipe or two.

Kain Na!

bochog