Kitchen Talk

Today has been a kitchen day for me. I woke up earlier than usual (for a weekend) so I could get many things done. My plan was simple: Cook the meals I will try to teach a class how to do in the next couple of days. During our upcoming 3-day company retreat in Laguna, I am tasked to show a dozen or so participants how to wield the kitchen wand. (Actually, I am filling in the shoes of the real kitchen whiz, the wife of an officemate, who begged off when she realized that she’ll do more teaching than cooking.) With my finished products on the refrigerator, I think I can teach them how to make embotido, beef tapa and ham and cheese pimiento spread.

Learning to cook is just like learning any other skill. Motivation is the key. You’d have to want to do it. If I were marooned on an island, I’d be motivated to learn how to make a boat even if I don’t have the slightest interest in acquiring shipbuilding skills. So why did I learn to cook, with no husband egging me to cook his favorite meal or no mother-in-law expecting me to serve her son with lavish meals fit for a king?

My top of the mind answer is my mother. She never had an office job yet she shone in the kitchen. I remember seeing her possessed by the kitchen muse which would account for the delicious food spread on the table several hours after her kitchen confinement. I didn’t know it yet then but now, looking back, maybe that was it: She made me want to be a cook.

No marriage or hope of it prompted me when I first wore the apron many years ago. I was still in college when I would bake snickerdoodles and crinkles which my older sister would then sell to her classmates. I’d stay up most of the night mixing batter and waiting for the oven toaster to signal that my cookies are done. From then on, I graduated to baking cakes and preparing non-pastry treats. Longtime friends, especially those who are frequent visitors, would request specific meals. Carrot cake for Divine, lasagna for Terry. As much as possible, I give in to their requests. Their reward for making it to our house, relatively far from where they live, on my birthday. [I cook on my birthday…and Christmas :) , among many other special days.]

I am saying this to inspire women to try cooking sometime. You don’t have to cram acquiring culinary knowledge two months before your wedding. Try cooking even if Mr. Right hasn’t proposed yet. (And even if he never shows up, there will always be people who can benefit from your cooking.) You are never too young, or too old, to learn how to make a meal. Yes, there are many food products now available in groceries—in cardboard packages, waiting to be microwaved for three minutes. But believe me when I say that there is a certain kind of fulfillment that makes your own cooked food taste better than the most expensive five-star hotel meal.

Just ask Nora Daza. Or better yet, ask my Ma.

Rusty

If I had a dog, maybe that’s what I could name him. But for now, I’d have to let “rusty” refer to me. (Rusty for "getting rusty with my writing")
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It’s been a couple of weeks since I last posted an entry in this space.For once in my entire bloglife (which spans to almost two years now), I have decided to deliberately keep my thoughts to myself. In retrospect, that wasn't too hard. But I miss blogging. So here are the other B-s on my mind lately.

Brownies.
Baking has now become a part of my weekly activities. I've gone back to old-school oven cooking and I'm enjoying it again. Most of my finished products make it with me to the office where I distribute them to my officemates. More than one has told me I shoud sell them but I decline. I absolutely have no business sense. So they, in turn, offer to sell them for me. I just laugh it off. It's like grace. People should just take the brownie when I give it. But what if I tell them I accept donations? Hmm...nah.:)

Blind date.
I agreed to go on one. Prior to my "yes-ing", I've been hearing contemporaries say that it should be treated like any other social exercise. And so, when the opportunity (more like a risk, if you ask me) presented itself, I felt extra brave and said yes to a friend whose friend referred me to her friend. First time. I haven't done this yet in my entire life (I don't count the time when a couple invited me for dinner and some other single guy just happened to be there). Now, honestly, I'm feeling jittery about it. Does every social exercise have to be this nerve-wracking? I'm psyching myself that I'll just do this for the experience in the same way some other adventurous person would try his hand at bungee-jumping for once in his life.

Bunny.
I once had a puppy whom I named Bunny. He was all-white, cute and tame. The day he was given to me, I held him on my lap and treated him as if he was the most precious thing in the world. The next day, I think he forgot all about me and started to bark at and bite me. Hard as I try, I can't remember anymore what happened to him.

Now, speaking of dogs, yes, Rusty sounds like a good name. But I'm not getting a dog anytime soon. Apart from the fact that I have zero dog-caring skills, I don't think I could let a creature with four legs tug at my heart and break it when he dies or forgets about me. My heart can handle only so much heartache.

So Rusty? I'll take that name. But I don't want this name for so long. With one or ninety-nine readers, I'll try to post entries on my blog more frequently again. Rusty sounds too masculine a name for me.

of baking bread and distilling thoughts

No warm, freshly-baked white bread yet.

Coming home from work, with my loot from Sweetcraft, I initially planned to use my new Breadmaker for the first time. I've searched long and wide and worked hard enough for this moment. I've combed through the aisles of baking products in three supermarkets, in three separate days, before I realized that the right shop was just P7.50 ride away from my office. [I've been trying to find bread flour. Incidentally, all our supermarkets offer are variations of the All-Purpose Flour.]

Any kind of cooking is therapeutic and relaxing for me. In fact, last night I texted a guy friend, when he asked why I cook, that I actually find joy in culinary activity. It's an extension of my creative self--instead of stringing together words, I mix together ingredients.

Now, I'm on a baking mode. Last night my hands were busy making chocolate chip cookies (which my teammates devoured this morning). But tonight, I changed my mind before cutting open the package of the all-important flour.

And so why am I denying myself this pleasure now?

Let me tell you about Dr. Izzie Stevens. She is a fictional character in Grey's Anatomy who, after experiencing a major heartbreak, retreated to the kitchen. There she built a fort. There she whipped as many muffins as the kitchen (and Joe's Bar, and Seattle Grace hospital) could hold. Unstoppable. It was as if in every bowl of batter she prepares, an anesthetic would seep through her hands and find its way to her heart. I understand. For while cooking, she didn't have to think of a dead boyfriend, or her expulsion from the internship program in the hospital.

I ask myself if I am being Izzie Stevens. Am I trying to numb myself of whatever pain it is I am feeling by doing something that will at least deaden it, albeit temporarily?

Not like the pretty doctor's reasons for sadness is how I would describe mine. Nevertheless, I am still sad. Primarily, for and because of my sister. [And until my sister gets healed completely, I will carry this lingering sadness in my heart. Yet please do not mistake this sadness for loss of hope. I know, and I am sure, that God is much bigger than the cancerous tumor in Nang's breast. But for a second, hear me out: Isn't it normal for us human beings to at least feel a pang of melancholy upon knowing that there's this shadow of uncertainty hanging over our loved one's life?]

There are other reasons for sadness. A text received the other night, exposing an inadequacy on my part to fill a role I realized I wasn't qualified enough to fulfill. I ask myself over and over: How does one overcome the guilt of having hurt someone she had no intentions of failing? How will she make things right?

And so I don't bake. And refuse to touch any cooking utensil that will provide artificial happiness. Instead, I distill my thoughts using words I can form. And later on, I will be using more words-- to voice my sadness to the One who can clearly hear the emotions behind them.

The baking pan can wait another day.

Savoring my best meals

What’s the best part of a meal? Is it the appetizer, salad or piping-hot soup? Is it the main course, made exquisite with the choicest ingredients, the most succulent meat and the most exotic of spices? Or could it be the sweet and (usually) sinful dessert?

It has never been what’s on my plate; it’s always who’s on the other side of the table. Even a dish fresh out of the French chef’s kitchen is no match to the taste of warm and enjoyable company. It’s the long and meaningful conversation, peppered with laughter, seasoned with affection, richly thickened by shared ideas. Ask me to recall my best meals and I will hardly remember what I ate. But I can easily tell you who I was with, what we talked about, how much fun I had. And so it is possible for me to enjoy a meal sitting on a wooden stool by the corner eatery in the same way, or even more, than say, a six-course dinner in an upscale restaurant in Makati.

Last night I had a great meal. It was with a friend who was into numbers, into music, into writing. Over a Thai dinner, we scooped on each other’s plates the latest offerings of life and had a buffet. We blabbered on, listened intently, clarified thoughts, shared sentiments, laughed heartily. It was a filling andsatisfying meal—even if the two dishes we ordered had portions left on them when we stood up to leave.

A meal I’m still relishing even after the taste of curry has long passed my lips.

A Culinary Piece

Today I inspected vegetables, weighed dressed chicken, read the label on a bottle, decided between buying four 270-gram packs of vermicelli noodles or buying two 500 gram-packs. Three plastic bags and thirty minutes later, I’m back home. In no time, my figurative chef’s hat is on top of my head and my hands are ready to work.

I chopped, boiled, sliced, diced, sautéed, mixed plus almost all the verbs you read in cookbooks. A confession: I fall into a trance while cooking. Our neighbor could be shouting “Fire!” and I probably wouldn’t even notice. I barely spoke a word while I stayed in the kitchen, with my mental and physical energy funneled into the pots and pans.

In the heat of the kitchen, I made three discoveries: (1) My eyes have already grown immune to the sulfuric acid in onions. Surprisingly, they didn’t sting anymore while I was chopping onions (“Look Ma, no more tears!”). (2) I need to buy a can opener soon. I searched our drawers and couldn’t find a working one. I had to open a can of pineapple chunks using a knife (Successfully, if I may add. “Look Ma, no blood!”). (3)Two hours of ingredients preparation plus 30 minutes of actual cooking time will make me secrete a gallon of sweat which is probably equivalent to three hours of weightlifting, using the treadmill and stationary bike, and doing aerobics in a gym.

Cooking, in some ways, is like writing. A creative pursuit, cooking also demands an investment of passion and critical thinking. Even before the cashier scans the code of the first ingredient, I should already have committed myself to the completion of the piece er. . . dish. If I am mindful about including a sentence in a paragraph, then I should be equally vigilant about an ingredient making it into the pan.

Several hours after my trip to the grocery, I finally enjoy the sight of my family eating. We’re celebrating my sister’s birthday two days early and I offered to cook for her. On hindsight, I realize it’s been a while since I last cooked (That is, not counting the three-minute instant noodles I occasionally “cook” for my nephew Pong).

If in my dreams Martha Stewart would ask me what’s the best seasoning I’ve ever used, I wouldn’t say salt and pepper. Not even curry, oregano or ginger. I’d tell her anybody could make a spectacular dish, just add a generous sprinkling of love.