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.
Showing posts with label eat. Show all posts
Showing posts with label eat. Show all posts
Monday, January 03, 2011
Tuesday, March 04, 2008
These Little Bogchi Moments
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.
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.
Sunday, August 12, 2007
The Eleventh Commandment
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.
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.
Saturday, May 19, 2007
Bochog, 29
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.
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.
Saturday, May 12, 2007
Sunday Morning Mom
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".)
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".)
Monday, May 07, 2007
ABOUT A BOY, Part Deux
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.
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.
Tuesday, April 17, 2007
2 Pastas and A Pizza Pan De Sal
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.
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.
Friday, January 26, 2007
Playing Favorites
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.).
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.).
Wednesday, January 03, 2007
The Post Mortem on Purefoods Christmas Ham
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.
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.
Sunday, December 03, 2006
Losing Eat
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.
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.
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.
Tuesday, September 19, 2006
Spicy Ham and Tuna Spaghetti
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.
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.
Friday, September 15, 2006
NOT QUITE A VEGAN
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.
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.
Tuesday, August 29, 2006
THE BEST... Attention: Aly!
... 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.
... 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?
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!
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!
Friday, August 25, 2006
The Best...
... 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.
... 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.
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