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".)
Showing posts with label love. Show all posts
Showing posts with label love. Show all posts
Saturday, May 12, 2007
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.
Wednesday, May 02, 2007
The Definition of S.I.N.
Sin is… slices of lechon (roast pig) in a hoisin-mayonnaise sauce, with one celery leaf to lessen the guilt a bit, all wrapped in soft pita, tied with a green onion stalk...
Last Saturday, 28th of April, my sister and now brother-in-law got married on their 10th anniversary as a couple. It was a simple affair—short, solemn, sweet. The reception was modern, forgoing the usual trite traditions like the bouquet and garter toss and couple’s dance. Instead, it was a night of music and words, songs and poetry, sweet tribute and sour wit..
The best thing about my sister and bro-in-law’s wedding was not the gowns—although the bride was radiant in ecru and, if I may brag, my other sister and I were hopelessly cute in our funky gray-blue and magenta dresses. (The designer, Mitzi Quilendrino, is all about the quirky, and it worked out really well. I wouldn’t be surprised if we find our photos in wedding magazines. In fact, I’d be surprised if we didn’t). It was not the brilliant hosting I did, at turns innocent and scathing. (Obviously, I don’t suffer from that illness called modesty and obviously, I’m my own publicist). Or the brilliant sarcasm that spewed forth from my mother’s mouth… “Levi, you are very fortunate to now be a member of our family… My daughter will love you even if you are unlovable…”
No, the best thing about last Saturday’s wedding was the food prepared by Kaye Cunanan. Below are various definitions of S.I.N…
Appetizer
Salmon Blinis: coin-sized pita circles topped with slivers of smoked salmon on a bed of wasabi mayo and garnished with herbs
Lechon Wrap: slices of Cebu Lechon (roast pig) in a hoisin-mayo sauce and celery leaves wrapped in soft pita
Salad
Pan-seared fois gras, scallops, and mandarin orange segments on a bed of fresh greens, drizzled with balsamic dressing
Rice
White Rice with herbs and nuts
Carrot Rice: buttered white rice with flecks of carrots
Main Course
Grilled Tiger Prawns, served with roasted vegetables
Red Snapper baked in smooth, creamy sauce and mashed potatoes, topped with almond slivers
Osso Buco: braised beef shank with soft, melting bone marrow, aka Swiss bulalo
Dessert
Fresh yoghurt drizzled with honey and sprinkled with chopped nuts
Tangy Orange Sorbet
Last Saturday, 28th of April, my sister and now brother-in-law got married on their 10th anniversary as a couple. It was a simple affair—short, solemn, sweet. The reception was modern, forgoing the usual trite traditions like the bouquet and garter toss and couple’s dance. Instead, it was a night of music and words, songs and poetry, sweet tribute and sour wit..
The best thing about my sister and bro-in-law’s wedding was not the gowns—although the bride was radiant in ecru and, if I may brag, my other sister and I were hopelessly cute in our funky gray-blue and magenta dresses. (The designer, Mitzi Quilendrino, is all about the quirky, and it worked out really well. I wouldn’t be surprised if we find our photos in wedding magazines. In fact, I’d be surprised if we didn’t). It was not the brilliant hosting I did, at turns innocent and scathing. (Obviously, I don’t suffer from that illness called modesty and obviously, I’m my own publicist). Or the brilliant sarcasm that spewed forth from my mother’s mouth… “Levi, you are very fortunate to now be a member of our family… My daughter will love you even if you are unlovable…”
No, the best thing about last Saturday’s wedding was the food prepared by Kaye Cunanan. Below are various definitions of S.I.N…
Appetizer
Salmon Blinis: coin-sized pita circles topped with slivers of smoked salmon on a bed of wasabi mayo and garnished with herbs
Lechon Wrap: slices of Cebu Lechon (roast pig) in a hoisin-mayo sauce and celery leaves wrapped in soft pita
Salad
Pan-seared fois gras, scallops, and mandarin orange segments on a bed of fresh greens, drizzled with balsamic dressing
Rice
White Rice with herbs and nuts
Carrot Rice: buttered white rice with flecks of carrots
Main Course
Grilled Tiger Prawns, served with roasted vegetables
Red Snapper baked in smooth, creamy sauce and mashed potatoes, topped with almond slivers
Osso Buco: braised beef shank with soft, melting bone marrow, aka Swiss bulalo
Dessert
Fresh yoghurt drizzled with honey and sprinkled with chopped nuts
Tangy Orange Sorbet
Monday, December 18, 2006
This Just In... No More Meat, Rice, Pasta for Bochog!
It is a testament to my sad, sorry, defensive state that I am referring to myself in the 3rd person. As we all know, no one of sound mind does this. Let me amend that, no non-celebrity of sound mind refers to herself in the 3rd person. (I make this necessary amendment because I have heard through the grapevine that Ate Vi, bless her, calls herself "Vilma Santos." When asked to endorse a laundry bar, she apparently said, "Parang hindi naglalaba si Vilma Santos gamit ang kamay. Kung maglalaba si Vilma Santos, siguro gagamit siya ng washing machine." Let me take a moment to, in internet speak, ROTFLMAO. I don't know if this is true, and I don't particularly care. It's a hilarious story.).
But back to more serious matters, the kind that make people ponder metaphysical questions. In particular, what is identity? How is one's identity connected to the container one is housed in, ie one's body?
I ask these questions because I have just been told by the doctor to lose weight. Now, this is not a rare occurence. I have been told all my life to lose weight by doctors and non-doctors alike, by people I know and virtual strangers, by people who truly care and those who only care to expound on the virtues of being... not fat (in sum, that one would be more attractive and that from this increase in attractiveness, everything else will follow: boyfriend, husband, family, success, great life--hell, maybe even a spot in heaven!).
Most times, I am able to shrug these things off. I just tell people that I'm happy with myself and they are free to make of it what they will. This time, I couldn't dismiss the doctor telling me to lose weight because it wasn't so much being told to lose weight that bothered me, it was being told to, ahem, cut portions. Specifically, cut rice and pasta portions. And no pork, he said. Fish and chicken and veggies and fruits (except the ones that are too sweet) are all right. But no meat. No meat.
Ladies and gentlemen, may I present... the Devil in a White Coat. Fancying telling me not to eat meat anymore. Not to cook pasta. The horror! Telling me to find another hobby besides food and cooking and eating. Que barbaridad! Even asking me if I have an eating disorder (his exact words were, "hindi ka ba yung tipong kumakain ng marami tapos isusuka?" Uh, you mean, am I bulimic? A great, big DUH!!! to you, Doc. If I were bulimic, that would suck 'cause, basically, all that purging obviously doesn't work and I'm still fat. A fat bulimic. That's a funny oxymoron right there. I'd be laughing my lardy ass off if it weren't my gastronomic future on the line). I told Doc Devil that I'm very well-adjusted, thank you. To which he said, "Mukha ngang masaya ka sa sarili mo." I don't know if he was being sarcastic but I take that as a compliment because I am happy with myself. It's just other people who sometimes aren't happy with me.
Don't get me wrong. Doc Devil wasn't mean. In fact, he seemed genuinely concerned. It's just that I feel that the minute he saw me, he automatically went on a crusade to get me to lose weight and virtually reduced my health issues to the fact of being big. And while I do think his dietary suggestions are valid (in fact, since Friday I have been eating no more than 1 cup of rice every meal instead of my usual, uh, 2 plates . I feel--quite rightly--self-congratulatory.), I think it was simplistic of him to blame my weight for my stuffy nose and scratchy throat. Another great, big DUHHH!!! Ever heard of a viral infection, Doc? No? Maybe you should go back to med school then.
I do know that I get very defensive when people comment and ask about my bigness. I get especially prickly when people tell me maybe I should lose weight. It's classical conditioning. People tell me I'm too big, which elicits a conditioned response of bristling resentment. People often talk about finding it hard to like and love themselves. I've never found it hard. I've always liked me, enjoyed my own company, thought myself deserving of anything I seek and work to have, and loved me. That hasn't been hard at all. It also hasn't been hard accepting the reality that not many people will probably like and love me to the same extent that I do myself. I have been ok with that fact. What I am not ok with and probably will never be ok with is the cavalier way with which people seek to impose their standards of beauty, sometimes disguised as concern for my health, on me when I take great pains to let them be. Be beautiful, be ugly. Be smart, be stupid. Be anything. (To illustrate: I don't tell people, "maybe you should try to be smarter." Or, "you'd be more attractive if you changed your face." That would be downright mean. What people don't get is that it's the same kind of mean to tell someone she'd be more attractive if she lost weight. Because then you assume that the person you're concerned about holds the same views about herself that you hold, ie that she is not smart enough, not pretty enough, not anything enough. Why would anyone make, let alone articulate, such harsh assumptions?).
I don't like being told what to do and how to be. I know this. It is almost pathological. My professor told me that things "told" me should be couched in egalitarian terms, terms that speak nothing of power imbalances, hierarchical relationships, and societal standards of being and worth.
I am trying to be pragmatic (for once in my life) and reasonable about it. Which means I have to take off my political/ideological lenses and view the matter from a more, er, neutral health perspective. (And no, I won't question the assumption that a health perspective is politically neutral. 'Cause this post is never going to end if I do that). I have a particular health concern, ie kabag (which is going away now, thank you). It may be an acute reaction to something (a virus or whatever) or it may be a symptom of an underlying digestive problem brought about by my fondness for food that's not, shall we say, optimal for health. What to do then? It pains me to say it but Food and I? We're gonna have to COMPROMISE.
So I will try to cut my rice portions to 1 cup per meal and my pasta portions to a single serving (around 100 grams, according to most cookbooks). Our bi-monthly menu only includes 2-3 pork dishes, of which I hope to limit myself again to only one serving. (When I say single serving, I mean a normal-sized portion and not my usual family-sized portions.). I've actually been eating more fish, veggies, and fruits so that's not really a problem. As for exercise, I'm going to continue strutting my beautiful bum around my village, maybe just more regularly.
But I say this now, I don't plan to ever swear off pork and rice and pizza and pasta. Doing so would guarantee the failure of this compromise agreement. I love food and I'll never force myself to stop loving food. That's non-negotiable. Maybe it's a matter of loving not just with my heart and gut but also with my head.
Like I told my Ditchie and Claire, though, I see hard times ahead. I see possible bouts of anger and depression. I see philosophical railings and metaphysical meanderings all in the name of food and weight and identity and love. Such is the nature of a committed relationship, I guess. It evolves, and you have to make certain changes to keep it going. Of course, just writing this makes me sad all over again. Reminds me of Shakespeare's idea of love:
Love is not love
which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove.
O, no! It is an ever fixed mark
That looks on tempests and is never shaken.
But back to more serious matters, the kind that make people ponder metaphysical questions. In particular, what is identity? How is one's identity connected to the container one is housed in, ie one's body?
I ask these questions because I have just been told by the doctor to lose weight. Now, this is not a rare occurence. I have been told all my life to lose weight by doctors and non-doctors alike, by people I know and virtual strangers, by people who truly care and those who only care to expound on the virtues of being... not fat (in sum, that one would be more attractive and that from this increase in attractiveness, everything else will follow: boyfriend, husband, family, success, great life--hell, maybe even a spot in heaven!).
Most times, I am able to shrug these things off. I just tell people that I'm happy with myself and they are free to make of it what they will. This time, I couldn't dismiss the doctor telling me to lose weight because it wasn't so much being told to lose weight that bothered me, it was being told to, ahem, cut portions. Specifically, cut rice and pasta portions. And no pork, he said. Fish and chicken and veggies and fruits (except the ones that are too sweet) are all right. But no meat. No meat.
Ladies and gentlemen, may I present... the Devil in a White Coat. Fancying telling me not to eat meat anymore. Not to cook pasta. The horror! Telling me to find another hobby besides food and cooking and eating. Que barbaridad! Even asking me if I have an eating disorder (his exact words were, "hindi ka ba yung tipong kumakain ng marami tapos isusuka?" Uh, you mean, am I bulimic? A great, big DUH!!! to you, Doc. If I were bulimic, that would suck 'cause, basically, all that purging obviously doesn't work and I'm still fat. A fat bulimic. That's a funny oxymoron right there. I'd be laughing my lardy ass off if it weren't my gastronomic future on the line). I told Doc Devil that I'm very well-adjusted, thank you. To which he said, "Mukha ngang masaya ka sa sarili mo." I don't know if he was being sarcastic but I take that as a compliment because I am happy with myself. It's just other people who sometimes aren't happy with me.
Don't get me wrong. Doc Devil wasn't mean. In fact, he seemed genuinely concerned. It's just that I feel that the minute he saw me, he automatically went on a crusade to get me to lose weight and virtually reduced my health issues to the fact of being big. And while I do think his dietary suggestions are valid (in fact, since Friday I have been eating no more than 1 cup of rice every meal instead of my usual, uh, 2 plates . I feel--quite rightly--self-congratulatory.), I think it was simplistic of him to blame my weight for my stuffy nose and scratchy throat. Another great, big DUHHH!!! Ever heard of a viral infection, Doc? No? Maybe you should go back to med school then.
I do know that I get very defensive when people comment and ask about my bigness. I get especially prickly when people tell me maybe I should lose weight. It's classical conditioning. People tell me I'm too big, which elicits a conditioned response of bristling resentment. People often talk about finding it hard to like and love themselves. I've never found it hard. I've always liked me, enjoyed my own company, thought myself deserving of anything I seek and work to have, and loved me. That hasn't been hard at all. It also hasn't been hard accepting the reality that not many people will probably like and love me to the same extent that I do myself. I have been ok with that fact. What I am not ok with and probably will never be ok with is the cavalier way with which people seek to impose their standards of beauty, sometimes disguised as concern for my health, on me when I take great pains to let them be. Be beautiful, be ugly. Be smart, be stupid. Be anything. (To illustrate: I don't tell people, "maybe you should try to be smarter." Or, "you'd be more attractive if you changed your face." That would be downright mean. What people don't get is that it's the same kind of mean to tell someone she'd be more attractive if she lost weight. Because then you assume that the person you're concerned about holds the same views about herself that you hold, ie that she is not smart enough, not pretty enough, not anything enough. Why would anyone make, let alone articulate, such harsh assumptions?).
I don't like being told what to do and how to be. I know this. It is almost pathological. My professor told me that things "told" me should be couched in egalitarian terms, terms that speak nothing of power imbalances, hierarchical relationships, and societal standards of being and worth.
I am trying to be pragmatic (for once in my life) and reasonable about it. Which means I have to take off my political/ideological lenses and view the matter from a more, er, neutral health perspective. (And no, I won't question the assumption that a health perspective is politically neutral. 'Cause this post is never going to end if I do that). I have a particular health concern, ie kabag (which is going away now, thank you). It may be an acute reaction to something (a virus or whatever) or it may be a symptom of an underlying digestive problem brought about by my fondness for food that's not, shall we say, optimal for health. What to do then? It pains me to say it but Food and I? We're gonna have to COMPROMISE.
So I will try to cut my rice portions to 1 cup per meal and my pasta portions to a single serving (around 100 grams, according to most cookbooks). Our bi-monthly menu only includes 2-3 pork dishes, of which I hope to limit myself again to only one serving. (When I say single serving, I mean a normal-sized portion and not my usual family-sized portions.). I've actually been eating more fish, veggies, and fruits so that's not really a problem. As for exercise, I'm going to continue strutting my beautiful bum around my village, maybe just more regularly.
But I say this now, I don't plan to ever swear off pork and rice and pizza and pasta. Doing so would guarantee the failure of this compromise agreement. I love food and I'll never force myself to stop loving food. That's non-negotiable. Maybe it's a matter of loving not just with my heart and gut but also with my head.
Like I told my Ditchie and Claire, though, I see hard times ahead. I see possible bouts of anger and depression. I see philosophical railings and metaphysical meanderings all in the name of food and weight and identity and love. Such is the nature of a committed relationship, I guess. It evolves, and you have to make certain changes to keep it going. Of course, just writing this makes me sad all over again. Reminds me of Shakespeare's idea of love:
Love is not love
which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove.
O, no! It is an ever fixed mark
That looks on tempests and is never shaken.
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.
Tuesday, August 29, 2006
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 18, 2006
EQUAL OPPORTUNITY EATS
This is my earliest memory of a perfect meal: I was five years old, maybe six. Doesn’t matter, I was young. I was home while my older sisters were in school. It was lunchtime and my mother, for one reason or another, didn’t cook lunch like she usually did. Instead, she gave me five pesos and a Tupperware bowl, with instructions to go outside, walk to the nearest eskinita, and buy myself five pesos’ worth of fish balls. Fish balls. That was to be my lunch. Not my mom’s yummy adobo with the sauce thick and slightly sweet and the pork fat soft and almost melting, just the way I liked it. Not her hotdog omelet fried to oily perfection. Not her specialty macaroni sopas, with chicken and hotdog bits drowning in milky, margarine-yellowed soup.
Lunch was fish balls. I couldn’t have been more ecstatic.
At that time, fish balls cost only ten centavos apiece so the five pesos my mom gave me bought 50 pieces. 50 fish balls, drowning in a sweet-hot-sour sauce made of parts ketchup and soy sauce, sugar and sili. All of it mine. I remember doing a happy dance as I walked home carrying my Tupperware of fish balls. I remember my mom’s indulgent smile as she watched me wolf down fish balls and rice.
This was only my first perfect meal. I have enjoyed the gastronomic pleasure of more than one perfect meal in my life. Granted, from the aforementioned example, it does not seem too difficult to please my taste buds. In fact, one may say—quite rightly—that I am ridiculously easy to please. One may say that I’ll eat anything. And one would be right—crass and rude, but right.
I am not a gourmet. When it comes to food, I believe in equal opportunity for all food groups to be consumed, nay, devoured by moi. Well, maybe fruits and veggies are at a slight disadvantage… And although I can be finicky about my pizza and pasta, foods I love so much I consider them to be a separate food group, on the whole, I eat indiscriminately.
So when it comes to the perfect meal, or in my case, perfect meals, it isn’t so much a matter of taste or how good the food is as it is a matter of passion, of the emotions food evokes. The perfect meal is also about memory, and discovery. Take, for instance, another perfect meal I had when I was an easily pleased child: pan de sal (Filipino bread) with ketchup as palaman (filling).
The scene unfolded thus: I was looking inside the refrigerator, pan de sal in one hand, searching for palaman. A glance at the condiment section revealed no mayonnaise, no chiz whiz, no peanut butter, no coco jam. In other words, no palaman. Since, to me, pan de sal without palaman is like kanin (rice) without ulam (viand), I had to look for something to spread onto my pan. As if fated, my young, easily pleased eyes fell on a bottle of Papa banana ketchup. An image came to mind, of an older cousin sticking his index finger in a pan de sal, pretending it was a hotdog sandwich. New knowledge settled in my ken like a Catholic-style epiphany… Ah, anything can be palaman, if one wishes it. Mayo, chiz whiz, peanut butter, coco jam. Yes, even index finger. And if index finger, why not ketchup? Why not, indeed. Faultless logic and almost mystical intuition, the same stuff scientific discoveries are made of.
I remember the glee with which I poured a huge dollop of Papa onto my pan de sal, the joy I felt as I bit into my ketchup sandwich, the giggle that escaped my lips even as ketchup dribbled onto my chin. It was the perfect meal, messy and joyous and full of discovery.
I don’t eat ketchup sandwiches anymore. (These days I prefer Mang Tomas Lechon Sauce). And I have had near-perfect meals that involved relatively more sophisticated foods. But I find that, invariably, the best meals I’ve had, I was eating cheap, simple, hearty foods that filled my stomach—without wiping out my pocket—and made my heart glad, whether it’s create-your-own pizza and oily carbonara at Napoli’s or sweet-spicy pork barbecue and salted egg at Beach House in UP.
So much has been said about emotional eating. Mainly, it has been blamed for the increasingly high incidence of weight problems. Diet experts say that the only goal of eating is, or at least should be, nutrition and nothing else. Eat to live, as the old folks liked to say. Therefore, eat routinely and without emotion because emotions invest food with a purpose higher than mere sustenance and staving off of physical hunger.
Many people are embarrassed to admit that they, like every other human being on the planet, do eat emotionally and for reasons that have nothing to do with nutrition. Eating, much like other biological imperatives like sleep and sex, is motivated by things that go beyond the physical. When we eat emotionally, therefore, we assert our ability to push the limits of our biology, even to transcend it. This is admittedly a roundabout way of saying… I am not embarrassed. I admit it. I do eat emotionally. And I never quite understood why I should eat only to live. I eat with joy, with glee, with passion, with love. I eat as I live. There’s nothing embarrassing about that.
bochog
Lunch was fish balls. I couldn’t have been more ecstatic.
At that time, fish balls cost only ten centavos apiece so the five pesos my mom gave me bought 50 pieces. 50 fish balls, drowning in a sweet-hot-sour sauce made of parts ketchup and soy sauce, sugar and sili. All of it mine. I remember doing a happy dance as I walked home carrying my Tupperware of fish balls. I remember my mom’s indulgent smile as she watched me wolf down fish balls and rice.
This was only my first perfect meal. I have enjoyed the gastronomic pleasure of more than one perfect meal in my life. Granted, from the aforementioned example, it does not seem too difficult to please my taste buds. In fact, one may say—quite rightly—that I am ridiculously easy to please. One may say that I’ll eat anything. And one would be right—crass and rude, but right.
I am not a gourmet. When it comes to food, I believe in equal opportunity for all food groups to be consumed, nay, devoured by moi. Well, maybe fruits and veggies are at a slight disadvantage… And although I can be finicky about my pizza and pasta, foods I love so much I consider them to be a separate food group, on the whole, I eat indiscriminately.
So when it comes to the perfect meal, or in my case, perfect meals, it isn’t so much a matter of taste or how good the food is as it is a matter of passion, of the emotions food evokes. The perfect meal is also about memory, and discovery. Take, for instance, another perfect meal I had when I was an easily pleased child: pan de sal (Filipino bread) with ketchup as palaman (filling).
The scene unfolded thus: I was looking inside the refrigerator, pan de sal in one hand, searching for palaman. A glance at the condiment section revealed no mayonnaise, no chiz whiz, no peanut butter, no coco jam. In other words, no palaman. Since, to me, pan de sal without palaman is like kanin (rice) without ulam (viand), I had to look for something to spread onto my pan. As if fated, my young, easily pleased eyes fell on a bottle of Papa banana ketchup. An image came to mind, of an older cousin sticking his index finger in a pan de sal, pretending it was a hotdog sandwich. New knowledge settled in my ken like a Catholic-style epiphany… Ah, anything can be palaman, if one wishes it. Mayo, chiz whiz, peanut butter, coco jam. Yes, even index finger. And if index finger, why not ketchup? Why not, indeed. Faultless logic and almost mystical intuition, the same stuff scientific discoveries are made of.
I remember the glee with which I poured a huge dollop of Papa onto my pan de sal, the joy I felt as I bit into my ketchup sandwich, the giggle that escaped my lips even as ketchup dribbled onto my chin. It was the perfect meal, messy and joyous and full of discovery.
I don’t eat ketchup sandwiches anymore. (These days I prefer Mang Tomas Lechon Sauce). And I have had near-perfect meals that involved relatively more sophisticated foods. But I find that, invariably, the best meals I’ve had, I was eating cheap, simple, hearty foods that filled my stomach—without wiping out my pocket—and made my heart glad, whether it’s create-your-own pizza and oily carbonara at Napoli’s or sweet-spicy pork barbecue and salted egg at Beach House in UP.
So much has been said about emotional eating. Mainly, it has been blamed for the increasingly high incidence of weight problems. Diet experts say that the only goal of eating is, or at least should be, nutrition and nothing else. Eat to live, as the old folks liked to say. Therefore, eat routinely and without emotion because emotions invest food with a purpose higher than mere sustenance and staving off of physical hunger.
Many people are embarrassed to admit that they, like every other human being on the planet, do eat emotionally and for reasons that have nothing to do with nutrition. Eating, much like other biological imperatives like sleep and sex, is motivated by things that go beyond the physical. When we eat emotionally, therefore, we assert our ability to push the limits of our biology, even to transcend it. This is admittedly a roundabout way of saying… I am not embarrassed. I admit it. I do eat emotionally. And I never quite understood why I should eat only to live. I eat with joy, with glee, with passion, with love. I eat as I live. There’s nothing embarrassing about that.
bochog
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)