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.
Showing posts with label Filipino. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Filipino. Show all posts
Sunday, December 16, 2007
Thursday, April 12, 2007
Coffee, Tea, and Me
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)
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)
Thursday, September 21, 2006
My Favorite De Latas
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.
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.
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