To say that I have not written in a while is to understate the obvious. (How do you understate the obvious? Simple. As in the first sentence, you say something that does not need to be said and then you say it in the blandest, most boring way possible using the barest, least evocative terms, thereby pissing people off--at least, those who have enough time to be annoyed by such a simple, innocuous thing as an understatement).
It doesn't mean I have not eaten, or enjoyed eating, in all this time. It means, simply, that I have not found anything to write about since 2 months ago. I could have written about the time a couple of weeks back when I ate champorado (chocolate rice porridge) and fried tilapia while watching Trillanes and company mount Oakwood 2: Not Quite A Siege, Very Much A Blunder at the Manila Pen. But, really, what was there to write about other than it was the first time in a long time that I had eaten this not-so-strange combination? Or that the original combination actually calls for tuyo or daing (dried fish) but simple fried fish worked just as well? Seemed too prosaic, too dull, to write about, and frankly, I've had so much on my plate that I couldn't really muster the needed panache to make champorado and tilapia seem like the most exciting meal since red snapper in marsala sauce with creamy mashed potatoes. I could have written about how I ate it with my heart in my throat, eyes glued to the TV, fearing the worst for my country. But I can only lie so much. The truth was, Oakwood 2 was just another day in my life and that champorado-tilapia combo just another meal.
Alas, I feared I have become, like many Filipinos, apathetic. Which--again with the stating of the obvious--is not good. Definitely something to rail against. So when I read Mareng Winnie Monsod's Inquirer column yesterday (which can be found here... http://opinion.inquirer.net/inquireropinion/columns/view/20071215-106987/Shameful!)... part of me wanted to do something, to respond in my own way, in any way, to the injustice done to the Sumilao Farmers. To share my solidarity in the way that I can. What way, though? What to do, I thought.
Aha! The answer seemed simple enough. I decided to boycott San Miguel CorpoRAPEtion because SMC is the huge-ass company that's basically using the farmers' lands as a piggery. (I urge you to check out the Winnie Monsod column as well as other news articles about this so you can be informed about the DAR rules that have been flouted in this particular case. And, ahem, also so that you can make up your own mind.).
Boycott San Miguel. Seemed pretty simple. It's not like I drink beer so San Miguel Beer, Lite or otherwise, won't even be an issue. We use Datu Puti vinegar at home so the San Mig vinegar's not going to hold a candle there. I drink Nescafe so San Mig coffee's out too. Easy-peasy, right?
Not quite.
The second I told my sister I was planning to boycott San Miguel products, she said, "Di ba ang Purefoods San Miguel?"
Picture me with my lardy ass flat on the floor. I'm no Gandhi. Obviously.
These are the bricks that make up the San Miguel wall I am up against: no more Purefoods corned beef. Purefoods Tender Juicy Hotdogs are out. This Christmas, Purefoods Fiesta Ham won't be an option. No more Purefoods "Ma-Ling" or chorizo de bilbao. And this is just the Purefoods label. Additional research has informed me that SMC also holds the Magnolia, Monterey, Gusto, and Dari-Creme labels, among others.
As you can see, I am a Greek outside the impregnable walls of Troy. This, of course, is just a fancy way of saying I am well and truly f--ked. If you've read enough of this blog, you would know how much I love processed foods. You would also know that I invariably turn to Purefoods for my canned goods cravings. To boycott SMC products is to boycott some of the foods I love to eat. The question is can I do it? Can I give up, even for a time, some of these wants in a show of solidarity?
But when I think about it some more, I realize that maybe I don't need to give up eating canned goods and processed foods. I just have to switch labels, so to speak. The challenge, I suppose, is not so much to destroy the wall but find a way around it or, to be accurate to myth, through it. The challenge is to make my own Trojan horse.
If this boycott is to push through with success, then I must be resourceful and look for viable alternatives to the aforementioned products. Already I have some in mind...
Argentina Gold label Corned Beef -- this is a great alternative to Purefoods corned beef. We actually switched to this already, so I already know that it tastes just like Purefoods corned beef but is several pesos cheaper.
CDO or Swift Hotdogs -- I really have brand loyalty where Tender Juicy hotdogs are concerned, so while I acknowledge that CDO and Swift have their own hotdogs, I think I (and also my sister) would rather just go for CDO's chicken longganisa as an alternative.
Specialty Hams -- maybe for this Christmas, it's about time my family tried something different. I've been thinking about trying those specialty hams like Majestic Ham anyway. Now's probably the best time to do so.
Fat & Thin Chorizo de Bilbao -- if and when I crave chorizo de bilbao, I might as well go for the more authentic tasting.
Arce Dairy -- great ice cream. Mura pa. Buh-bye, Magnolia.
Eden Cheese -- better low-end cheese than Daily Quezo anyway so, again, this shouldn't be a problem.
Wet Market meats -- we buy our meats at the wet markets so we don't have to go Monterey or anything.
Anchor Butter -- this is actually more expensive than Dari Creme and also Star Margarine. It's the same range as Magnolia Gold label. Maybe we don't need to do butter too much? I might just go with our usual which is Simply Canola Oil (the cheapest I've seen so far) for frying, Bertoli Olive Oil every now and then for pastas, and Top Choice Sesame Oil for Asian-style cooking.
Obviously, it's not a comprehensive list. But it makes me feel good about my decision to list things because then I realize I do have options still. And it won't be too hard to boycott SMC.
So yeah, this is what I'm writing about. My own personal boycott for my own personal reasons.
I am fully aware that SMC cares shit-all about what individual consumers such as myself do. I'm also aware that I might be going on the assumption that other corporations are stellar in the way they do business. So what do I do if, say, the makers of Argentina Gold label Corned Beef turn out be just as greedy?
Well, hoss, ah reckon ah bettah corn mah own beef.
Sunday, December 16, 2007
Tuesday, October 09, 2007
My Sweet 16th
“Marami-rami rin akong nakain dahil pinilit ko talaga…”
This sentence appears in a journal entry dated May 18, 1994. I wrote it a day after my 16th birthday, perhaps my most memorable birthday to date. (And when I say ‘perhaps,’ I really mean ‘certainly’). It’s a difficult sentence to translate in English. How do you translate marami-rami, for instance? The root word, madami, means ample, plentiful, copious. The word form marami-rami denotes a quantity less than ample but still more than enough and certainly not lacking or scarce. The phrase “marami-rami rin akong nakain,” roughly translated, means “I ate quite a bit too,” while the phrase “dahil pinilit ko talaga” literally means “because I forced it.”
The whole sentence, in English, reads thus: I ate quite a bit too because I forced it. It doesn’t make sense in the way the Tagalog one does. Perhaps a better translation, at least one that approximates the flavor of the original sentence, would be: I was able to eat quite a bit but only because I forced myself.
This, as well as the original, sentence begs the question: Under what circumstances did I have to force myself to eat a lot? Don’t I do it, ie eat a lot, often enough, willingly enough, under no duress, and gladly even? Why did I have to force myself to do it?
The answer is in the story behind the sentence. It is the same story that made my 16th birthday a truly sweet one.
Thirteen years ago, in 1994, I had sore throat on my 16th birthday. It started, like all sore throats do, as just a tickle at the back of my throat. I paid the tickling sensation no mind because it was my birthday and I was spending it with my sisters. Our parents were both in the States at that time, leaving us three kids gloriously alone, joyfully parentless, and ecstatically independent. Our independence showed up in the brilliant gastronomic scheme we had devised for ourselves: breakfast at McDonald’s, lunch at Tokyo-Tokyo, and dinner at Barrio Fiesta. We shunned cooking and any form of food preparation. At least, at the start. Pretty soon, we realized the folly of blowing the budget on burgers, fries, potato balls, ika fry, tempura, all-you-can-eat dinners, and cakes at Sugar House. The weekly remittance was usually gone in a few days and we would have to starve for the rest of the week until the next trip to the ATM.
But back to my birthday. My sisters and I spent it at SM City, the mall we grew up prowling. My first birthday meal consisted of Chicken McNuggets, French Fries, and a Chocolate Shake, which we bought to go from McDonalds. I munched on the nuggets while I laughed at Jim Carrey as Ace Ventura: Pet Detective. It was starting to get difficult to swallow, but I ignored the twinge of pain and polished off my McDonald’s birthday meal.
I don’t remember what we did after the movie. But I remember dinner at Barrio Fiesta. We ordered Bouillabaise, Kare-kare, and Crispy Pata. By this time, my throat was already sore and hurting. Every swallow was hellish labor. Still, I persevered through the meal. I sampled everything. The thick, creamy soup. The oily, nutty ox tripe. The crunchy fried pig thigh that scratched my throat with every swallow. I forced them all down my poor, violated throat. Nothing was going to keep me from enjoying my birthday, not even streptococcus.
I went home with a pleased stomach and an angry throat. By all accounts, I enjoyed myself. I laughed at the movie and concluded, rightly, that Jim Carrey was comic genius. I enjoyed my sisters’ company (as I usually do). And most importantly, I ate well. Really well, in fact, considering I had strep throat.
It was a simple birthday for a simple girl, and I went to bed glad. Sometime in the middle of the night, I woke up to the most excruciating pain in the history of sore throats. My throat was raw and I was burning from my jaw up to my ears. My sisters had to rub me down with a face towel soaked in cold water because I was already running a fever.
It was not a good end to my birthday, and the next day I would question the wisdom of shoving, forcing all that good food down my abused throat.
In my journal, I would write:
“Marami-rami rin akong nakain dahil pinilit ko talaga…Kaya lang lumala sore throat ko… Ngayon, hilo ako sa antibiotics at kamumumog…” (“I was able to eat quite a bit but only because I forced myself… Except my sore throat has gotten worse… I am now lightheaded from the antibiotics and having to gargle all the time…”)
Pain renders people short sighted, unable to take the long view. In my pain, I would call the whole day a “bad trip.” Thirteen years later, I can actually say it was a good day. The sore throat was just the price I had to pay, the ticket I had to buy for a good trip.
This sentence appears in a journal entry dated May 18, 1994. I wrote it a day after my 16th birthday, perhaps my most memorable birthday to date. (And when I say ‘perhaps,’ I really mean ‘certainly’). It’s a difficult sentence to translate in English. How do you translate marami-rami, for instance? The root word, madami, means ample, plentiful, copious. The word form marami-rami denotes a quantity less than ample but still more than enough and certainly not lacking or scarce. The phrase “marami-rami rin akong nakain,” roughly translated, means “I ate quite a bit too,” while the phrase “dahil pinilit ko talaga” literally means “because I forced it.”
The whole sentence, in English, reads thus: I ate quite a bit too because I forced it. It doesn’t make sense in the way the Tagalog one does. Perhaps a better translation, at least one that approximates the flavor of the original sentence, would be: I was able to eat quite a bit but only because I forced myself.
This, as well as the original, sentence begs the question: Under what circumstances did I have to force myself to eat a lot? Don’t I do it, ie eat a lot, often enough, willingly enough, under no duress, and gladly even? Why did I have to force myself to do it?
The answer is in the story behind the sentence. It is the same story that made my 16th birthday a truly sweet one.
Thirteen years ago, in 1994, I had sore throat on my 16th birthday. It started, like all sore throats do, as just a tickle at the back of my throat. I paid the tickling sensation no mind because it was my birthday and I was spending it with my sisters. Our parents were both in the States at that time, leaving us three kids gloriously alone, joyfully parentless, and ecstatically independent. Our independence showed up in the brilliant gastronomic scheme we had devised for ourselves: breakfast at McDonald’s, lunch at Tokyo-Tokyo, and dinner at Barrio Fiesta. We shunned cooking and any form of food preparation. At least, at the start. Pretty soon, we realized the folly of blowing the budget on burgers, fries, potato balls, ika fry, tempura, all-you-can-eat dinners, and cakes at Sugar House. The weekly remittance was usually gone in a few days and we would have to starve for the rest of the week until the next trip to the ATM.
But back to my birthday. My sisters and I spent it at SM City, the mall we grew up prowling. My first birthday meal consisted of Chicken McNuggets, French Fries, and a Chocolate Shake, which we bought to go from McDonalds. I munched on the nuggets while I laughed at Jim Carrey as Ace Ventura: Pet Detective. It was starting to get difficult to swallow, but I ignored the twinge of pain and polished off my McDonald’s birthday meal.
I don’t remember what we did after the movie. But I remember dinner at Barrio Fiesta. We ordered Bouillabaise, Kare-kare, and Crispy Pata. By this time, my throat was already sore and hurting. Every swallow was hellish labor. Still, I persevered through the meal. I sampled everything. The thick, creamy soup. The oily, nutty ox tripe. The crunchy fried pig thigh that scratched my throat with every swallow. I forced them all down my poor, violated throat. Nothing was going to keep me from enjoying my birthday, not even streptococcus.
I went home with a pleased stomach and an angry throat. By all accounts, I enjoyed myself. I laughed at the movie and concluded, rightly, that Jim Carrey was comic genius. I enjoyed my sisters’ company (as I usually do). And most importantly, I ate well. Really well, in fact, considering I had strep throat.
It was a simple birthday for a simple girl, and I went to bed glad. Sometime in the middle of the night, I woke up to the most excruciating pain in the history of sore throats. My throat was raw and I was burning from my jaw up to my ears. My sisters had to rub me down with a face towel soaked in cold water because I was already running a fever.
It was not a good end to my birthday, and the next day I would question the wisdom of shoving, forcing all that good food down my abused throat.
In my journal, I would write:
“Marami-rami rin akong nakain dahil pinilit ko talaga…Kaya lang lumala sore throat ko… Ngayon, hilo ako sa antibiotics at kamumumog…” (“I was able to eat quite a bit but only because I forced myself… Except my sore throat has gotten worse… I am now lightheaded from the antibiotics and having to gargle all the time…”)
Pain renders people short sighted, unable to take the long view. In my pain, I would call the whole day a “bad trip.” Thirteen years later, I can actually say it was a good day. The sore throat was just the price I had to pay, the ticket I had to buy for a good trip.
Tuesday, August 28, 2007
EGG: A Tribute
It’s been a year—give or take a few days—since I decided to start this blog and inflict any remotely food-related thoughts I had on the 5 people who frequent it. That would be my 2 sisters, my friend, Aly… let me revise… the three people who frequent this blog.
I just realized that I haven’t written anything about my most favorite food in the world, Egg. I have been remiss. This mistake must be corrected. Tribute must be paid, and so it shall.
I love eggs. I love eggs by themselves or with other ingredients in a main dish. I love them fried sunny side up, or scrambled, or as omelet. I love them hard-boiled with a pinch of salt. I used to love them soft-boiled, almost raw and mixed in with rice, or completely raw stirred in with Sarsi or Mirinda True Orange. I love century eggs. Red (duck) eggs, quail eggs. I would love to try ostrich eggs someday.
If health weren’t an issue, I’d eat at least one egg, or one dish made with eggs, everyday for the rest of my life. But since I can’t do that—I want to live longer than 35 years old—I’ll just have to settle for making a happy list of EGGy foods I love. Making a list makes me happy. Eggs make me happy. Making a list about eggs just about gives me a happy:
1. Sausage Scramble at Heaven N’ Eggs. Heaven N’ Eggs is a place everyone should go to get an egg fix. My favorite is the Sausage Scramble, which is actually an omelet (because, as we know, when Filipinos say “scrambled egg,” we mean “omelet” and when we say “omelet,” we actually mean ground pork patties. It’s a crazy country we live in.) filled with chorizo, longganisa bits, and green and red bell peppers. My second favorite is the Macarena Scramble, an omelet filled with ground beef, chorizo bits, corn, and peppers. Both omelets come with a choice of rice or pancakes and fries or hash browns. The last time I ate at HnE, though, I was massively disappointed. They pretty much changed their menu, and not in a good way. Names have been changed because, basically, they cut some necessary ingredients from their main dishes. So the sausage scramble is just longganisa now. And I think the Macarena is gone. And the portions are smaller! Que barbaridad! Needless to say, I have not been back since early this year, I think. I hope HnE has shaped back up since then. I hate restaurants that make their serving sizes smaller. I’d rather pay more for the same amount of food than pay the same price for significantly less. Bad restaurant, bad.
2. Scrambled egg, with sardines, tomatoes, and onions. In Bicol, early this year, during counseling mission. Partnered with amazingly good and greasy Argentina corned beef. People in Bicol know how to cook. My mom also used to cook sardine scramble eggs when I was a kid. But, honestly, the cooking woman in Bicol did it better.
3. Egg Salad Sandwich. Hot pan de sal or crunchy baguette.
4. Century Egg. I had my first taste of what is basically rotten egg in high school. Had a great meal at a Chinese resto with my high school best pal and her family. I never thought something as gross looking could be as delicious.
5. Crab Foo Yong. (Tama ba spelling?)
6. Sunny Side Up, with longganisa, tocino, corned beef, or all 3, on the side.
7. Scrambled, with tinapang fish, or 555 Hot and Spicy Fried Sardines, or Spanish Sardines, or Spanish Style Bangus on the side.
8. Quail Eggs. Hard-boiled, with salt, sold along any street in packs of 5.
9. Hard-boiled chicken egg, with salt.
10. Red egg, with sliced tomatoes. Perfect with pork barbecue at the Beach House in UP. Or with adobo flakes. (This second one is a favorite of Ate My. She orders this at Chocolate Kiss. She cooked this one time at home too. It worked out well for my tongue).
11. Quiche.
12. Kwek-kwek! Hard-boiled quail eggs, dipped in orange batter, and deep-fried. With a sweet-sour-spicy sauce and/or garlic, onion, and chili-infused vinegar. Sold along any street corner.
13. Nido or Bird’s Nest Soup, with Quail Eggs. At any Chinese resto. Or instant, courtesy of Knorr.
14. Instant chicken or beef noodles with egg. Great for when you’re sick or… when you’re not.
15. Egg pie!
16. Egg pie!!
17. Egg pie!!!
18. Sausage McMuffin with Egg. At McDonald’s.
19. Omelet, with diced potatoes and onions. Homemade by my mom.
20. Omelet, with hotdog bits and grated cheese. My own invention. Quick and easy.
Ingredients:
3 eggs
2-3 hotdogs, cut into bite-sized pieces
1 cup grated cheese
salt, pepper, garlic powder, herbs to taste
oil for frying
Procedure:
1. Beat eggs. Season with salt and pepper.
2. Fry hotdogs. Set aside.
3. Pour beaten eggs. Season with garlic powder.
4. When eggs are almost cooked, add hotdogs then cheese.
5. Fold omelet if you can. If it breaks, no worries. It’s all good.
6. Sprinkle herbs like basil, rosemary, thyme, marjoram, or chives on top.
7. Serve and enjoy.
21. Liver Spread and Scrambled Egg Pan De Sal. Again, my baby.
Ingredients:
4 large pan de sal, sliced to form buns (or 8 pcs sandwich bread)
2 eggs, scrambled
1 small can liver spread (Reno)
Procedure:
1. Optional: Toast pan de sal.
2. Smear a good amount of liver spread on each pan de sal face.
3. Divide scrambled eggs into 4 pieces. Sandwich one between each pan de sal bun.
4. Serve with hot coffee or hot chocolate or Milo.
I just realized that I haven’t written anything about my most favorite food in the world, Egg. I have been remiss. This mistake must be corrected. Tribute must be paid, and so it shall.
I love eggs. I love eggs by themselves or with other ingredients in a main dish. I love them fried sunny side up, or scrambled, or as omelet. I love them hard-boiled with a pinch of salt. I used to love them soft-boiled, almost raw and mixed in with rice, or completely raw stirred in with Sarsi or Mirinda True Orange. I love century eggs. Red (duck) eggs, quail eggs. I would love to try ostrich eggs someday.
If health weren’t an issue, I’d eat at least one egg, or one dish made with eggs, everyday for the rest of my life. But since I can’t do that—I want to live longer than 35 years old—I’ll just have to settle for making a happy list of EGGy foods I love. Making a list makes me happy. Eggs make me happy. Making a list about eggs just about gives me a happy:
1. Sausage Scramble at Heaven N’ Eggs. Heaven N’ Eggs is a place everyone should go to get an egg fix. My favorite is the Sausage Scramble, which is actually an omelet (because, as we know, when Filipinos say “scrambled egg,” we mean “omelet” and when we say “omelet,” we actually mean ground pork patties. It’s a crazy country we live in.) filled with chorizo, longganisa bits, and green and red bell peppers. My second favorite is the Macarena Scramble, an omelet filled with ground beef, chorizo bits, corn, and peppers. Both omelets come with a choice of rice or pancakes and fries or hash browns. The last time I ate at HnE, though, I was massively disappointed. They pretty much changed their menu, and not in a good way. Names have been changed because, basically, they cut some necessary ingredients from their main dishes. So the sausage scramble is just longganisa now. And I think the Macarena is gone. And the portions are smaller! Que barbaridad! Needless to say, I have not been back since early this year, I think. I hope HnE has shaped back up since then. I hate restaurants that make their serving sizes smaller. I’d rather pay more for the same amount of food than pay the same price for significantly less. Bad restaurant, bad.
2. Scrambled egg, with sardines, tomatoes, and onions. In Bicol, early this year, during counseling mission. Partnered with amazingly good and greasy Argentina corned beef. People in Bicol know how to cook. My mom also used to cook sardine scramble eggs when I was a kid. But, honestly, the cooking woman in Bicol did it better.
3. Egg Salad Sandwich. Hot pan de sal or crunchy baguette.
4. Century Egg. I had my first taste of what is basically rotten egg in high school. Had a great meal at a Chinese resto with my high school best pal and her family. I never thought something as gross looking could be as delicious.
5. Crab Foo Yong. (Tama ba spelling?)
6. Sunny Side Up, with longganisa, tocino, corned beef, or all 3, on the side.
7. Scrambled, with tinapang fish, or 555 Hot and Spicy Fried Sardines, or Spanish Sardines, or Spanish Style Bangus on the side.
8. Quail Eggs. Hard-boiled, with salt, sold along any street in packs of 5.
9. Hard-boiled chicken egg, with salt.
10. Red egg, with sliced tomatoes. Perfect with pork barbecue at the Beach House in UP. Or with adobo flakes. (This second one is a favorite of Ate My. She orders this at Chocolate Kiss. She cooked this one time at home too. It worked out well for my tongue).
11. Quiche.
12. Kwek-kwek! Hard-boiled quail eggs, dipped in orange batter, and deep-fried. With a sweet-sour-spicy sauce and/or garlic, onion, and chili-infused vinegar. Sold along any street corner.
13. Nido or Bird’s Nest Soup, with Quail Eggs. At any Chinese resto. Or instant, courtesy of Knorr.
14. Instant chicken or beef noodles with egg. Great for when you’re sick or… when you’re not.
15. Egg pie!
16. Egg pie!!
17. Egg pie!!!
18. Sausage McMuffin with Egg. At McDonald’s.
19. Omelet, with diced potatoes and onions. Homemade by my mom.
20. Omelet, with hotdog bits and grated cheese. My own invention. Quick and easy.
Ingredients:
3 eggs
2-3 hotdogs, cut into bite-sized pieces
1 cup grated cheese
salt, pepper, garlic powder, herbs to taste
oil for frying
Procedure:
1. Beat eggs. Season with salt and pepper.
2. Fry hotdogs. Set aside.
3. Pour beaten eggs. Season with garlic powder.
4. When eggs are almost cooked, add hotdogs then cheese.
5. Fold omelet if you can. If it breaks, no worries. It’s all good.
6. Sprinkle herbs like basil, rosemary, thyme, marjoram, or chives on top.
7. Serve and enjoy.
21. Liver Spread and Scrambled Egg Pan De Sal. Again, my baby.
Ingredients:
4 large pan de sal, sliced to form buns (or 8 pcs sandwich bread)
2 eggs, scrambled
1 small can liver spread (Reno)
Procedure:
1. Optional: Toast pan de sal.
2. Smear a good amount of liver spread on each pan de sal face.
3. Divide scrambled eggs into 4 pieces. Sandwich one between each pan de sal bun.
4. Serve with hot coffee or hot chocolate or Milo.
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.
Friday, July 13, 2007
I TAKE TIME OUT...
… from my usual preoccupation with food and eating to pay tribute to a man. I am not at all given to honoring men. The only man I have ever honored is my father. No other man has been special enough to merit the affections of my heart and the attentions of my pen.
But that changes, if only for today. Today I honor another man.
He went by the name Fredegusto David. F.G. for fashionably short. Sir David, we called him. He taught us, his students, at the Department of Psychology in the University of the Philippines – Diliman. He was short, bald, and handsome, looking like a quirky cross between the Simpsons’ Montgomery Burns and Sting. He had a love for words and a propensity to sound like a dictionary. He studied English Literature in undergrad and was a poet. One of his poems hangs, framed, on one of the walls of the Department Office. And one of his last major peeves, it seemed, was the war in Iraq. How a young, upstart regime can wage war against and ruin a great, ancient civilization was beyond him.
Yesterday, Sir David had a stroke. Today, he is gone.
I mark it in the calendar of my mind: 13 July 2007, Friday.
If you believe in superstition, you would say that today is certainly an unlucky day. But if you studied statistics under Sir David, even if you did believe in superstition, you would have to say that the unluckiness of today is not certain, because nothing ever is. You would say that we can never make statements of certainty. We can only make statements of probability. So you say that today is an unlucky day, the unluckiness of which you can be reasonably certain within a 0.01 margin of error. After all, to demand more than 99% surety is to exercise hubris. Or to be an Atenean, as Sir F.G. used to say, making jocose reference to our brothers and sisters in that Jesuit institution in Katipunan Avenue.
To be an Atenean meant to invoke faith as the wall against which surety rests, a heinous crime in a field that fancies itself a science.
Today, against everything that F.G. tried to teach me in my undergraduate biopsychology class and my graduate statistics classes, against his assertions that “the only universal constant is c2, the speed of light”, but in honest, heartfelt tribute to him, I say… I am only 99% certain that today is an unlucky day, especially for his kin, his friends, and his colleagues and students at the UP-Diliman Department of Psychology. But I am 100% sure, the surest I can ever be, that it is a sad day, for me and everyone else who was ever taught by this man.
I gladly and willingly invoke faith. It is the wall against which our sadness rests.
I do not honor this man because he was a great man. I only knew him as my teacher, after all, and therefore, cannot make such global judgments.
I honor him because he was a man who taught. A man who had a desire to teach more than what was covered by the syllabus. A man who seemed to take it so personally when his students flunked his exams. A man who still went to class even when he was so obviously sick that the class ended up getting canceled anyway and his students had to take him home.
He was a man who taught. For this alone, I pay tribute.
But that changes, if only for today. Today I honor another man.
He went by the name Fredegusto David. F.G. for fashionably short. Sir David, we called him. He taught us, his students, at the Department of Psychology in the University of the Philippines – Diliman. He was short, bald, and handsome, looking like a quirky cross between the Simpsons’ Montgomery Burns and Sting. He had a love for words and a propensity to sound like a dictionary. He studied English Literature in undergrad and was a poet. One of his poems hangs, framed, on one of the walls of the Department Office. And one of his last major peeves, it seemed, was the war in Iraq. How a young, upstart regime can wage war against and ruin a great, ancient civilization was beyond him.
Yesterday, Sir David had a stroke. Today, he is gone.
I mark it in the calendar of my mind: 13 July 2007, Friday.
If you believe in superstition, you would say that today is certainly an unlucky day. But if you studied statistics under Sir David, even if you did believe in superstition, you would have to say that the unluckiness of today is not certain, because nothing ever is. You would say that we can never make statements of certainty. We can only make statements of probability. So you say that today is an unlucky day, the unluckiness of which you can be reasonably certain within a 0.01 margin of error. After all, to demand more than 99% surety is to exercise hubris. Or to be an Atenean, as Sir F.G. used to say, making jocose reference to our brothers and sisters in that Jesuit institution in Katipunan Avenue.
To be an Atenean meant to invoke faith as the wall against which surety rests, a heinous crime in a field that fancies itself a science.
Today, against everything that F.G. tried to teach me in my undergraduate biopsychology class and my graduate statistics classes, against his assertions that “the only universal constant is c2, the speed of light”, but in honest, heartfelt tribute to him, I say… I am only 99% certain that today is an unlucky day, especially for his kin, his friends, and his colleagues and students at the UP-Diliman Department of Psychology. But I am 100% sure, the surest I can ever be, that it is a sad day, for me and everyone else who was ever taught by this man.
I gladly and willingly invoke faith. It is the wall against which our sadness rests.
I do not honor this man because he was a great man. I only knew him as my teacher, after all, and therefore, cannot make such global judgments.
I honor him because he was a man who taught. A man who had a desire to teach more than what was covered by the syllabus. A man who seemed to take it so personally when his students flunked his exams. A man who still went to class even when he was so obviously sick that the class ended up getting canceled anyway and his students had to take him home.
He was a man who taught. For this alone, I pay tribute.
Monday, July 09, 2007
WHAT DO YOU GET...
… when you cross a good thing with another good thing? Well, sometimes you get a bad thing, an awful thing, what puritans would call a disgusting abomination, an unpredicted and unpredictable freak that makes the Punnett Square look like a useless heuristic. Like the animals in The Island of Dr. Moreau. Or the Cockadoodle. This is why our parents always tell us, “Don’t mess with a good thing.” Actually, my parents have never told me this. But someone’s parents must have said this at one time or another.
The point is this: sometimes it’s not good to mess with a good thing, or two good things.
Sometimes.
Sometimes, though, when you cross a good thing with another good thing, you get a brilliant thing, a wonderful explosion of goodness, something marvelously unpredicted—like all serendipities—but predictably marvelous. A thing of wonder that makes you write awful prose in tribute to it.
Last month, my sister brought home from her month-long honeymoon in Estados Unidos a big jar of roasted almonds and a pack of Kraft caramel candies. Roasted almonds are a good thing. They’re crunchy, and nutty, and salty. They make you thirsty like the proverbial man in the desert, crawling across the sand, croaking out, “agua… agua…” Then when the water comes, it’s so good as it goes down your parched throat. (I’m pretty sure this is a scene from Sesame Street).
Kraft caramel candies are a wonderful thing. And not just because I have a sweet tooth the size of Regine Velasquez’s fake molars, but because they stick to your teeth and gums and it takes a lot of chewing and mashing to get them off, and when you swallow, you feel your throat muscles working, clenching and unclenching, to get that sticky thing through your esophagus and down to your stomach. And you don’t feel guilty about basically eating sugar (literally!) because your mouth, your jaw, your throat, your whole face feels like you just worked out at the face gym, if there’s such a place. It’s wonderful! Awesome! A gift from God, courtesy of Kraft.
You don’t need to know what I was doing or not doing when this bit of cross-pollination occurred. All you need to know is that I was working my facial muscles, working out the caramel in my mouth, when I spotted the big jar of roasted almonds. I looked at it as I chewed. And I thought, in the spirit of experimentation and curiosity and Frankenstein’s monster, what the hell…
I took another caramel candy and popped it in my mouth. Then I took a couple of roasted almonds and popped them in my mouth. Then, I chewed…
And, suddenly, angels were singing in the background. And I saw Moses sitting at the right hand of God. He was eating caramel candies and roasted almonds too!
I was in heaven. (Forgive the Judaeo-Christian bias. I would have said I was in Nirvana, but since Nirvana is an “undifferentiated and undefined state of bliss,” attempting to differentiate and define it would have been missing the point. And I do so hate to miss the point.).
Heaven only lasted as long as it took me to chew and swallow this new sweet-salty confection I had invented. In about five seconds I was back on earth, specifically my living room, armed with new, celestial knowledge, another mini-epiphany to add to my ever-growing list.
Caramel candies and roasted almonds are a great pair. The crunch of the almonds cuts through the sticky caramel, and the salt somehow makes the caramel sweeter. You don’t lose one flavor over the other. You can still taste both, only at the same time. So you’re chewing and your tongue makes clicking noises against the roof of your mouth. But now you also hear the crunch, and you taste the nuttiness. It’s a marriage between equals. It is well-defined bliss.
I’ve decided to give my invention a name like those one-named celebrity pairings. I’m thinking of calling them Caramonds. Or Almamels. Hmm… I think Caramonds sounds nicer.
Caramonds. They’re a good thing.
The point is this: sometimes it’s not good to mess with a good thing, or two good things.
Sometimes.
Sometimes, though, when you cross a good thing with another good thing, you get a brilliant thing, a wonderful explosion of goodness, something marvelously unpredicted—like all serendipities—but predictably marvelous. A thing of wonder that makes you write awful prose in tribute to it.
Last month, my sister brought home from her month-long honeymoon in Estados Unidos a big jar of roasted almonds and a pack of Kraft caramel candies. Roasted almonds are a good thing. They’re crunchy, and nutty, and salty. They make you thirsty like the proverbial man in the desert, crawling across the sand, croaking out, “agua… agua…” Then when the water comes, it’s so good as it goes down your parched throat. (I’m pretty sure this is a scene from Sesame Street).
Kraft caramel candies are a wonderful thing. And not just because I have a sweet tooth the size of Regine Velasquez’s fake molars, but because they stick to your teeth and gums and it takes a lot of chewing and mashing to get them off, and when you swallow, you feel your throat muscles working, clenching and unclenching, to get that sticky thing through your esophagus and down to your stomach. And you don’t feel guilty about basically eating sugar (literally!) because your mouth, your jaw, your throat, your whole face feels like you just worked out at the face gym, if there’s such a place. It’s wonderful! Awesome! A gift from God, courtesy of Kraft.
You don’t need to know what I was doing or not doing when this bit of cross-pollination occurred. All you need to know is that I was working my facial muscles, working out the caramel in my mouth, when I spotted the big jar of roasted almonds. I looked at it as I chewed. And I thought, in the spirit of experimentation and curiosity and Frankenstein’s monster, what the hell…
I took another caramel candy and popped it in my mouth. Then I took a couple of roasted almonds and popped them in my mouth. Then, I chewed…
And, suddenly, angels were singing in the background. And I saw Moses sitting at the right hand of God. He was eating caramel candies and roasted almonds too!
I was in heaven. (Forgive the Judaeo-Christian bias. I would have said I was in Nirvana, but since Nirvana is an “undifferentiated and undefined state of bliss,” attempting to differentiate and define it would have been missing the point. And I do so hate to miss the point.).
Heaven only lasted as long as it took me to chew and swallow this new sweet-salty confection I had invented. In about five seconds I was back on earth, specifically my living room, armed with new, celestial knowledge, another mini-epiphany to add to my ever-growing list.
Caramel candies and roasted almonds are a great pair. The crunch of the almonds cuts through the sticky caramel, and the salt somehow makes the caramel sweeter. You don’t lose one flavor over the other. You can still taste both, only at the same time. So you’re chewing and your tongue makes clicking noises against the roof of your mouth. But now you also hear the crunch, and you taste the nuttiness. It’s a marriage between equals. It is well-defined bliss.
I’ve decided to give my invention a name like those one-named celebrity pairings. I’m thinking of calling them Caramonds. Or Almamels. Hmm… I think Caramonds sounds nicer.
Caramonds. They’re a good thing.
Friday, June 08, 2007
Hammered Crab Omelet
My mom brought home a big bag of fish and crustaceans that we had to scramble to clean, cook, and give away to folksies who like seafood. Well, technically, the fish were from a fresh water fishpond, not the sea—which is salt water, fyi. And technically, it was my dad who did the scrambling and the cleaning. He boiled some huge crabs. I took one, and because we didn’t have one of those… what do you call them? Those pliers-like things that you crack crabs with? Anyway, we didn’t have one of those, so I took the hammer from my dad’s toolbox and pounded away at the poor crab, and harvested the meat and fat. And made crabmeat omelet. And named the recipe Hammered Crab Omelet. And thought, people might think I dunked the crab in a vat of beer to get it drunk so I could have my way with it, as it were. And shrugged because it’s a nice image anyway. And thought, what the hell does “as it were” mean? And digressed so far away from the beaten path that it took me ages to get back on track. And used 2 effin’ clichés and mixed metaphors in a single sentence. And made some adjustments to the recipe to make it, in future, tastier. And finally posted said revised recipe in this blog…
Ingredients:
Meat and fat from one humongous crab (don’t know how that translates to pounds or kilos)
2 large green/red bell peppers, diced
2 medium-sized tomatoes
juice of 5-6 calamansi (or lemon)
garlic and onion to sauté
salt, pepper, spices (like basil, garlic powder, chili pepper flakes or hot sauce), to taste
mustard, to taste
4-5 eggs
oil and butter for frying
Procedure:
1. Mix crabmeat/fat, bell peppers, tomatoes, calamansi juice, and seasonings.
2. Beat the eggs (ever so slightly, my dear. Ever so slightly). Season with salt.
3. Pour a small amount of oil in a semi-hot pan (canola, for less guilt founded on self-delusion) and add a pat of butter.
4. Saute garlic and onion. Add crab mixture. Saute for a few minutes then set aside.
5. In same pan, pour beaten eggs. When the eggs are almost set, return crab mixture to pan. Fold egg over the meat.
6. Slide onto a serving dish.
7. Enjoy.
… And stopped writing.
Ingredients:
Meat and fat from one humongous crab (don’t know how that translates to pounds or kilos)
2 large green/red bell peppers, diced
2 medium-sized tomatoes
juice of 5-6 calamansi (or lemon)
garlic and onion to sauté
salt, pepper, spices (like basil, garlic powder, chili pepper flakes or hot sauce), to taste
mustard, to taste
4-5 eggs
oil and butter for frying
Procedure:
1. Mix crabmeat/fat, bell peppers, tomatoes, calamansi juice, and seasonings.
2. Beat the eggs (ever so slightly, my dear. Ever so slightly). Season with salt.
3. Pour a small amount of oil in a semi-hot pan (canola, for less guilt founded on self-delusion) and add a pat of butter.
4. Saute garlic and onion. Add crab mixture. Saute for a few minutes then set aside.
5. In same pan, pour beaten eggs. When the eggs are almost set, return crab mixture to pan. Fold egg over the meat.
6. Slide onto a serving dish.
7. Enjoy.
… And stopped writing.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)