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.

Sister stories

Two women have been the subject of my posts recently so I guess it’s about time I let you meet them. Nang, on the right with short(er) hair, is my soup-sipping eldest sister. On her left is my Goldilocks-cake-loving sister, Rae, who incidentally happens to be the real nurse in the family. I took this picture last April 6, Friday, during the family’s Eat-All-You-Can Japanese lunch.

We three sisters were together the day before, braving the still-chilly air to go to Nang’s plastic surgeon. Her drain tube was about to be taken off. With Nang’s husband Chris at work, Rae drove for her to the hospital. As for me, well, it just felt right to tag along.

At the clinic, my sister’s name was called out while we were in the waiting area. Rae and I wanted to accompany her all the way inside so Rae asked, “Can we come inside too?” Nang answered, “I’m not sure.” I suggested, “Let’s just go for it and wait for them to drive us away.”

No driving away happened when Dr. Borah (who should be grateful the last letter of his surname was an H) saw us. The big doctor with a balding head, amused, simply quipped, “You’ve brought a whole team here.”

Yeah, one’s from Indiana, and the other’s from the Philippines, Nang wanted to answer back. She was expecting the worst, with somebody giving her first-hand information weeks before about how painful the actual removal of the tube felt like. The surgeon, with his skillful hands, immediately went to work. No screaming happened which prompted me to say out loud, “That wasn’t too bad.” In retrospect, I should’ve kept my mouth shut lest the doctor think this petite Filipina was evaluating his performance, he, the chief of plastic surgery at Robert Wood Johnson of all people. No offense, doc. I’m kinda nice in real life, just not always tactful. Going back to the procedure, after ten minutes, we were already on our way out.

Our next stop was at McDonald’s where we had a quick lunch peppered with talks about family, food, and why the honey mustard wrap I ate tasted like it was slathered with nail polish. Then it was time for the sisters’ favorite activity: shopping. But this time, it was controlled (the act of looking and the spending itself) because my eldest sister’s upper body movement was still limited. But you can’t really put a good shopper down—with surgery and all (Rae was already shopping for her daughter’s clothes in the hospital the day after her C-section). Determination, unexplainable strength, love for shopping—what woman doesn’t have these strengths?

* * * * * * * * * * *

I’m already back in the Philippines, still trying to fight off jetlag at the time of this writing. But I brought home more than two heavy checked-in luggages with me. And am I glad that no airport officer can make me surrender this: memories of moments spent with family who should be getting the most costly investment from us—our time.

Sidepost:

Here are pictures of me (taken using a Canon powershot camera and my low-res SE cellphone) with my sisters’ kids: Nang’s Ian and Noah, Rae’s Ethan and Emma. Don't they look adorable? But of course, this Tita is biased. :)

mini-thoughts after my hiatus

thanks to all who have been for praying for my sister. i was telling her, in room 6 of north 6 surgical oncology ward of the robert wood johnson hospital in new brunswick, that of all the patients being operated on last monday, she was the one most drenched in prayers. the next day after the surgery, i was surprised to see her being able to sit up and move her arms a bit. it wasn't really that difficult being her on-call "nurse" at the hospital because all i had to do then was order her food, help her stand up to go to the bathroom, drain the blood being collected from the tube on her surgery site[okay, for the squeamish, that last part might be hard to visualize. sorry.] now while she's home my duties are more varied. aside from the draining, i prepare her in-the-bedroom meals, remind her to take her meds, shampoo her hair [and blowdry it], and watch tv with her--with the last being the easiest task. no sweat, really. :)

* * * * * * * * * *

the number of goods, products and services here in the US is overwhelming. when we go to the grocery, i walk the aisles and see every product imaginable. i turn on the tv and aside from the QTV channel offering things from acne treatment to jewelry, i also see lawyers advertising their services. one in particular ended his spiel with these words: "get all the money you deserve." seriously. oh man, filipino lawyers would have a field day here.

* * * * * * * * * *

i still do some cooking here whenever i get the chance. just this lunchtime, i cooked the leftover crabs from yesterday and turned it into an crab/red pepper omelette. what i'm missing is baking though. you don't need to go to a bakeshop to buy cakes here. so there's really not much motivation to make one from scratch. what about fish? you can't see fish with their eyes on here. [well, technically, most fish on the frozen meat section are fillets, so what they're actually missing are the heads]. crazy what i notice.

the people? most people here are nice. especially those who might feel you need them to be extra clear about what they're saying lest you don't understand english. "No ingrish.me japanese.moshi-moshi," but they won't buy it. my eyes aren't chinky enough.

Fun Saturday

Yesterday, my sister Nang (more on her in future post/s) and I braved the snowstorm to go to NY. Two seats were waiting for us to be filled at the Marquis theater in Broadway. And two minutes before The Drowsy Chaperone, the musical within a comedy, start did we arrive.

It was hilarious and entertaining. I wonder how long actors rehearse before they can deliver flawless performances at Broadway. Incidentally, Lea Salonga is playing Fantine in another theater within the area. While walking along the snow-carpeted streets, I saw this poster which simply said: "She's Back." And then below the two words is the image associated with Les Miserables. [I wondered then if she was actually referring to Lea and today, that hunch was confirmed when I saw it splashed in a Philippine-American newspaper, with a reference to her underneath. Wow. Her presence was enough to make people come. She had that great drawing power. I am proud to be pinay. :)]

After a very late lunch at Pongsri, a Thai restaurant, we were walking towards the Port Authority when I saw this three-storey shop: M&M's world. Needless to say, we just had to go inside. Right across is the Hershey's store but it was boring compared to this shop. I never saw so many M&M's--and in every color imaginable (black, lavender, pink, aqua--name it!)--and other M&M's products under one roof. I could live here. Health-conscious people would advise: Eat your greens. In that case, I'm taking their advice. I won't mind eating all the green M&Ms here.

Look, it's a bird

Ian, 7, is doing his assignment. He asks me for words starting with letter Q and I almost told him, "Come back to me when you get to letter S."

Queen. Check, he got that one already.
Quota. No, too complicated. He doesn't know what it means.
Quail. Yes, that could work.

And then I spell it out for him. Q-U-A-I-L.

What's that Tita Beng, is that a bird or a noun? (Or so I heard. I'm blaming it on jetlag. And I think I slept a million braincells to oblivion.)

It's a bird, Ian. It's a bird.

No, Tita Beng. Is it a VERB or a noun?

(I laugh out loud and think, what good is it to have an editor aunt to teach you when she can't hear you?)

Here's another Q word. Q-tips, or in the Philippines, cottonbuds.

friendly fat detectors

I run into him every now and then. At the hallway, near the employee's entrance, in the bookstore. And just by the way he looks at me, I can sense how I'm tipping the [weighing] scale.

More than a few times already, he has verbalized his disappointment. Just this week, while I was walking towards a palette in our bookstore, he emerges from the door of the Sales department. For one split second our eyes lock. And then I get the look. He's not smiling. There goes my cue to confirm my worst fears:

"Why you looking at me like that, Kuya Jo? I'm getting fat?"

This fortysomething father of three doesn't even pause for a second to feign politeness. He answers, complete with a playful nod, "Yes, Beng. You better..." and then wags his index finger at me, as if warning me that the world is about to end.

I let out a laugh, not a bit hurt. Alarmed, maybe, but not hurt.

There are officemates who act as my fat detectors. They tell me if I'm getting fat or I'm getting thin, if I look fresh or harassed. But not one of them has actually pulled me to a corner and has given me a detailed lecture on the virtues of effective weight management. All most of them do is engage in light-hearted banters with me. No offense is ever taken. While Americans talk about the weather, we Filipinos talk about weight. Funny how we greet another whom we haven't seen in a while: "Uy, parang tumaba/pumayat ka ah!" Say that to a British and you'll be committing a faux pas that will make even your dog blush.

We Filipinos can take it. Just today I overheard a conversation between an old man and a middle-aged woman, former officemates: "Uy, parang tumaba ka nang konti ah," he comments to her. "Naku, Kuya, di lang konti. Madami!" she answers with a smile on her face. Score 1 for total honesty.

As for me, when I get an in-my-face-weight-reading I think: What do I need a weighing scale for? I can get free head-to-toe evaluation just by walking around the four floors of our office. Amusing, really. I love my officemates.

I'm never trading any of my friendly fat detectors for the high-priced talking weighing scales peddled in stores. For with the latter, I couldn't talk back and argue my case. With the former, I can smile my way to thinness.

alive

"Doesn't anything throw you off? Do you ever get mad at something or someone? Are you living in a perpetually happy place where rainbows dot the landscape and everywhere you turn there's a pot of gold waiting to be discovered? "

"Yes," I wish I could say yes.

Life.is.hard. And sometimes this truth slams in your face when you least expect the reminder, that Earth is not Disneyland. Your tear ducts get an unplanned workout. You get dehydrated by crying. You think yourself to death wondering what went wrong--where you made that misstep, how you can retrace your way back to the safe life.

Yet pain reminds us that we are still alive. For instance, when I bump my leg on the edge of a table, my muscles throb, my skin bruises. I'm suddenly aware of this particular part of my body. My brain reprimands me to be more careful and watch where I'm going. No corpse experiences the sensation of pain, for good reason.

Alive--I am alive now as ever before. My heart is tender, my soul is fragile. The tears come easily, and it's like there's a switch that instantly flips to on at the first sign of fear or distress, and opens the dam of tears. Yet more than any time in my life, I can say that this is a good time. Anytime I am confronted by my weakness and neediness should be celebrated. Because it's starting to get clearer and clearer to me--I can't survive life, in all its unpredictability, with all its complexities, on my own. I can't ask God to take a leave while I manage His post for a while. I need Him.

Like fish needs water.

slice of heaven

“I haven’t told Nang yet but that’s what I want for my birthday.”

That, incidentally, refers to the ubiquitous cake that has become a staple fare in any middle-class Filipino celebration. And the hopeful wisher for the cake is Rae, another older sister, also based in the US, a nurse, and a mother of two.

I talked to her just recently. Most of our conversation revolved around her two kids, the eldest of which, Ethan, can say in his cute way, “I love chicharon.” Rae told me this US-born toddler has very pinoy tastebuds. He eats whatever his dad eats. Boy Bawang, beef jerky—only time will tell what else. Did I tell you he’s just about to turn three?

Going back to the sis, I don’t get to talk to her much but when I do, we almost always erupt into laughter. Here’s a partial transcript of our exchange:

“Bili mo ako ng lucky me pancit canton, yung maliit.”

“Magkano ba diyan yun?”

“Mga 3 for 1 dollar.”

“Okay na yun. Isipin mo dadalhin ko pa diyan.”

“Ah alam ko na. Ang gusto ko talaga Goldilocks cake eh. Gusto ko pagdating kina Nang, yun ang kakainin ko.”

“Ha? Meron bang Goldilocks sa New Jersey?”

“Wala. Eh baka pwede niyang orderin.”

“Sinabi mo na ba sa kanya na yun ang gusto mo?”

“Hindi pa.”

“Ano bang flavor gusto mo, try kong aralin gawin.”

“Ayoko! Siyempre iba ang lasa nun. Iba ang ingredients diyan kaysa dito.”

“Eh di magdadala ako ng ingredients diyan. Sige na, sabihin mo. Titikman ko dito, aaralin kong gawin.”

“Ah basta gusto ko Goldilocks cake. Gusto ko yung nasa BOX ng Goldilocks.”

“Magdadala ako ng box!”

Nobody won in our verbal tug-of-war but the phone company who was made richer by the many seconds we wasted on the long distance call just laughing.

In the end I wasn’t able to convince my dear sister that I was serious about baking her a cake because she doesn’t want any other cake. Maybe it’s the taste of the familiar she is craving for. The taste of home. Of her days as a nursing student at Makati med. Of her medrep days for Wyeth. Even if by some miracle I could bake a cake that tastes just as good as Goldilocks, or even better, it still wouldn’t be enough. Because nowhere could I buy an ingredient packaged in a box labelled memories.

I promised to go to Goldilocks and ask how long the shelf life for their cakes is. She said she could settle for a half-roll of chocolate and mocha. I’m not sure yet how I could protect them from getting crushed in my luggage. But then again, there’s no way the boxes of rolls will be checked in.

Next time I'll eat a Goldilocks cake, I think I'll have a better appreciation for it. Because somewhere across the globe, a Pinay needs no diamong ring, no fancy car, no expensive clothes to make her happy. Just a slice of an all-too familiar cake will do.

Postscript: I found a Goldilocks website that serves online orders in the US. There's a 99% chance my sister is getting her birthday wish. Now I think it's a good thing she doesn't check out this blog often. Or else, I'll spoil it for her. The surprise, not the cake. ;)

cold spaghetti on a cluttered desk

What do you get when you eat cold spaghetti on top of a cluttered desk?

A break.

This mid-afternoon snack is punctuating an otherwise frantic and mentally challenging day. The noodles said goodbye to firmness, the meat sauce coagulated already, thanks to its stay inside the ref (said spaghetti was supposed to be my lunch yesterday). With a forkful of the stale pasta, I think of another meal I could have, maybe in a faraway beach somewhere. There, my newly-cooked pasta is served with a tall glass of juice, the kind with a decorative but completely useless tiny umbrella on top. I could be holding a book, with earphones plugged in my ear playing my favorite songs.

But I'm not there. Instead, the music I hear comes blaring from a generic speaker that came with my office pc, but it's music nonetheless. Michael W. Smith is singing for me, "This is my daily bread...And I'm desperate for You...."

Cold spaghetti on a cluttered desk. That's all I have now. Yes, things could be better but I'm not complaining. Because when I start thinking of what I don't have, I might miss out on enjoying what's in front of me—what I can feel, see, hear, touch, taste.

And I thank God. Because even the capacity to enjoy things, imperfect as these might seem, also comes from Him. The garden is not always abloom with beautiful flowers. Life does not always follow the script you have in mind. Sometimes you get the flu that renders you humorless and lethargic.

The taste of cold spaghetti might not be enough to fill a hungry stomach but the assurance of God’s love, with His mercies fresh every morning, is more than enough to fill a hungry soul. With that remembrance from Above, even the stale and day-old pasta can taste like the most delicious meal in the world.

Try lang

Two years na. Two years na akong nagbablog. Para sa entry na ito, naisipan kong magsulat naman sa Tagalog. Baka naman sabihin niyo na sa Inglisera ako sa tutuong buhay. Pero mapapansin ninyo siguro na hindi straight Tagalog ang gagamitin ko. Kasi tayo namang mga Pilipino, di naman talaga tayo ganun magsalita. Maliban na lang kung ang apelyido mo ay Balagtas at may dahon ka sa buhok.

Sa kauna-unahang post ko, inamin kong di ako marunong magbisikleta at lumangoy. Eto ang update: Di pa rin ako marunong. Ewan ko ba, ang dapat ko yatang matutunan ay paano ba tumapang para di na ako matakot magasgasan ng braso sa pagbibisikleta o di matakot na malunod sa paglangoy. Pero sabagay, kailangan ko ba talagang matutunan yung dalawang iyon? Wala naman akong bike at wala naman kaming swimming pool sa bahay. Sabi nga ni Gary V, di bale na lang. At least marunong na akong mag-blog.

Malapit nang mag araw ng mga puso. Bakit ganon? Kung may araw ng mga puso, di ba unfair yun sa baga, atay, at bituka? Importante din naman sila. Sige, try mong ipantanggal kahit isa sa kanila at tingnan natin kung magbirthday ka pa. Di lang nga cute ang shapes nila para ipandecorate sa mga cards at ipanghulma sa mga chocolates. Kahit yata crush ko ang magbigay sa akin ng card na korteng baga, baka di ko ikatuwa. Malamang ang dedication nun, “You’re the reason I breathe.” On the second thought, kung gusto ko pala siya, okay lang iyon.

Nakita ko pala si Michael V two weeks ago sa Podium. I really like his humor. Naka-tshirt at maong lang siya. Simpleng-simple lang ang dating niya kaya halos di ko siya mapansin nang magkasalubong kami. For one second naisip kong magpapicture kasama niya kaso naisip ko, “Beng, nasa Podium ka. Isipin mo na lang artista ka din na nagma-malling.” So ayun, napigilan ko ang sarili ko at ginawa na lang ay magtext sa ilang kaibigan tungkol sa celebrity apparition na nakita ko.

Hanggang dito na lang muna ang Tagalog post ko. Nagkuwento lang po ako, mga kaibigan. I’m not sure if it’ll stay posted here for long. Malamang after ilang days, makornihan ako sa sarili ko at tanggalin ito. But it wouldn’t hurt to try to do this once naman, di ba? Besides, I’m taking my own advice about giving in to some of my impulses or I won’t be able to do it, ever. In this case, writing in our native language. Because for all I know, the desire to do something this unusual will be gone before... I even finish writing this post. There. I’ve just proven myself right. But hey, I enjoyed doing this post somehow. Just like eating cotton candy. No nutritional value but all fun.

fish tale

I was ready today. But no, of all the days when I am finally deciding on it, my desire for it was dashed by seven words from the other person on the line when I dialed 8-7000:

"Ay, sorry Ma'am, wala na po yun." (Sorry Ma'am, we don't have it anymore.)

"Ha? Ngayon pa na gusto ko na siya." (What? Now that I decided I wanted it.)

To say I was disappointed is an understatement.

I am talking about Jollibee's crispy bangus belly with rice. Almost every time I eat at the fastfood, or we order at the office, this meal comes to mind. I've always wondered how it tasted and now, of all days, when I am finally ready,

No more. Nada. Zilch.

My fault, really, because I took it for granted. Who would have thought that the great smiling Bee would take it off its list? I should have thought more and remembered the short but stellar reign of another meal, The Honey Beef Rice (which I enjoyed so much before it was it was taken off the menu. From the grapevine I heard that some people developed allergies to it.)

Here's another true-to-life lesson underscoring the importance of holding on to life's opportunities tenaciously. Of not eternally stacking your desires and wishes—especially those you have control over—in the invisible yet real before-I-die-I-will-do-this pile.

Life is too short for us to be in a perpetual party of regret. Mark my words: The next time I see something I want, I will grasp it with both hands and not let go. The moment I hear the first strains of the music, I will dance.

If a big fish can make Jonah realize something profound, then why not a fried fish belly have a similar moving effect on me? :) Carpe diem.

Breaking News (as of Feb.9,2007): A very reliable source told me that this dish will soon make a momentary comeback. Clearly, the heavens decided to give me another chance. Now, let's just wait till the Philippines is in a holy mood to celebrate with me.

nanny duty

Yesterday I clocked out of work on the dot. A more pressing matter was waiting for me at home. Two words: Nanny duty.

But before I boarded the south-bound bus, I swung by 7-11 to buy microwaveable popcorn, the only food specifically requested by one of my wards. Last night was "movie" night and I needed the popcorn to complete the moviehouse effect.

Pong, 6, and Robyn, 4, excitedly greeted me the moment I stepped into the room. By instinct, Pong collects the DVDs for last night’s showing: Chicken Little, Mr Bean, and Justice League.

If you haven't tried watching TV or a movie with kids, you should try it sometime. The entertainment value is upped not by what's on screen but by the reaction of the little creatures beside you who will infect you with their excitement. Pong saw something that made him laugh hard and insisted that I see it. He rewinds the part where a monster-enemy of Justice League spits fire. I didn’t quite get what was amusing about it but I laughed anyway.

Approaching the second hour of my duty, I asked permission from them if I could close my eyes for a while (the three of us were cramped in their parents' bed). Just when I was starting to doze off, Robyn signaled to his brother to tickle me, and thus the source of their delight was transferred from the laptop screen to their helpless half-asleep aunt startled by tiny fingers on her back. The next time I tried to steal a nap, a feather duster was brushed over my neck seconds after I closed my eyes.

I wave the white flag in surrender. No nanny can sleep with two precocious boys on her watch. Boys, in general, are probably harder to entertain than girls. For the next hour or so, they wrestled and I refereed. They played Chuzzle and Zuma and I coached. They worked on their coloring books and I gushed.

Last night I hit the bed with a sense of satisfaction for a job well done. No, not for the nine hours I logged in at work editing books. More for the three-and-a-half hours I spent keeping my two nephews entertained. I might not have been paid a single cent but I won’t hesitate on saying it’s one of the best jobs in the world.

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")
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

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.

the curse of being an Eve

I start this post with no idea how it's going to end. My only motivation for blogging tonight is the thought that visited me this afternoon while enduring mild stomach cramps.

Salty. I need to eat something salty. Oh, the curse of being an Eve!

Do men ever get stabbed by out-of-nowhere desire for something salty, spicy or sweet? Do they ever get especially touchy and irritable some days of the month for no particular reason at all--with life being presumably normal? Did Adam ever tell Eve, "Oh honey, I'm depressed. Cain and Abel are fighting, and the stress is showing on my skin. I'm going to go out for a while and have a haircut. Maybe it'll make me feel better"?

Shopping--another estrogen-propelled instinct. We women have a shopping chip embedded in our pituitary gland that the scientists have long ignored or dismissed only as a potentially hazardous quirk. In fact, it was activated the moment the first female strolled in the lush garden named Eden. She might have whispered to herself after one lunch, "All Adam ever gives me is this fruit to eat. Maybe I should go and inspect the trees and see what other fruit varieties look and taste good (the shopping instinct kicks in for the first time)." Enter the serpent, the smooth-talking salesman with a tongue of poison who lured Eve into thinking she was getting a good deal with another fruit. Eve, as we all know, got a rotten fruit and a rotten deal.

The consequences of the first sin aside, my point here is why we women like shopping. We are inclined to do it in the same way, say, men are inclined to eat voraciously(or replace italicized word with another male-specific activity that might fit). I realized I have this shopping chip real bad just recently. While strolling with another Eve in Glorieta one night, I suggested we head to Breadtalk. She asks, "Are you buying?" "No," I answer. "I just want to see the breads." Seriously.

Window-shopping for breads? Uhm, yes, but they're nice-looking breads! And they smell good and I like cooking and...I'm full. I don't want to buy any. I just want to look at the breads (You can stop shaking your head in disbelief now. Just imagine I'm window-shopping for shoes).

Before this deteriorates into becoming a completely useless post, let me tell you what's difficult about being an Eve, biblically speaking:

"To the woman he [God] said, 'I will greatly increase your pains in childbearing; with pain you will give birth to your children. Your desire will be for your husband and he will rule over you. (Genesis 3:16)'"

Most women generally find their value in relationships than in their achievements. A woman feels most fulfilled when she's beside her man, or while caring for her kids, or while nurturing any other human being, for that matter. And this is what's hard about being an Eve: When she sometimes feels a longing for Adam and she doesn't know where he is.

Five-word advice for tomorrows

I pity the angels. Tonight, their immaculate-white clothes will be covered with soot. What with all the fireworks dotting the night sky, there's bound to be some dust that will pierce through the clouds and make their way to heaven. I should tell them,

"Sorry for the dirtied clothes. It's New Year, you know, and the Philippines. Well, here one can't drive past one kilometer without seeing at least ten enterprising persons eager to make a few bucks selling cheap pyrotechnics. Do you have extra angel clothes tucked somewhere? By the way, how are your ears?"

Right this moment, three hours before it's officially another year, I could already hear the non-stop noise. A part of me wonders why some people would do a trial-run of their fireworks. Just to make sure they weren't duped by the smooth-talking man at the corner who promised they'll be burning their money for a visually-spectacular cause? I try to drown the noise with two buds in my ears playing Freestyle's music: "But baby, before I let you go, I want to say..."

-------------------

New Year's Resolutions? No, I ain't got any. I probably made a list or two sometime ago but what do you know? Even before the second month of the year rolled by, I couldn't find my list. Or maybe even forgot that the list even existed at all. No, I'm not pinning it to lack of discipline. More like to my poor memory. Here's me doing a self-talk: Oh, I made a list? What kind? About what I'd like to change about myself? You're kidding! There can't be anything I want to change about myself. Oh there's one. I think I'm too humble but shouldn't I be proud of it?

Seriously now, the turning of the year is more like a metaphor. Like a rainbow is a visible representation of the promise of hope. New Year. Fresh start. Beginnings. All the warm, fuzzy words you can put together that can make you sleep and wake up with a smile plastered on your face. New Year. Like a new notebook waiting for you to scribble words on them. I like the look and feel and smell of new notebooks. And new years too. The idea of a new year, at least.

Yes, I like December thirty-ones and January ones. But there's a day I always look forward to more passionately. It's the day named tomorrow. This day doesn't have to be sandwiched between years. It could be any day. Any day that could make you believe you're up for another shot at the ball. Another day that could find you mumbling, "Lord, I'm sorry about yesterday. I messed up bigtime. But thank You for today. Thanks for waking me up and thinking I deserve another chance."

Tomorrow, which incidentally happens to be the first day of a fresh year, I'm giving myself an advice that will hopefully last me the next 365 tomorrows. My self-advice--simple. Five words. "Worry less, trust God more." No scholar needs to dissect it; only a humble heart needs to believe it. And believe it with abandon, as if life is hinged on these five words. Interestingly, this advice capsuled in five words aren't really my own. A Carpenter from Nazareth two thousand years ago went up the mountainside and urged His disciples,

So I tell you, don't worry about everyday life--whether you have enough food, drink, and clothes. Doesn't life consist of more than food and clothing? Look at the birds. They don't need to plant or harvest or put food in barns because your heavenly Father feeds them. And you are far more valuable to him that they are. Can all your worries add a single moment to your life? Of course not....So don't worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will bring its own worries. Today's trouble is enough for today. (Matthew 6:25-27,34, NLT)

Two-and-half-hours from now, I'll be needing a new calendar. But I'll be needing more than a piece of paper to help me navigate through the 24 hours in a day. Tomorrow, like today and my thousands of yesterdays, I'll be needing the Lord who can make me worry less. Oh, if I could only learn how to trust God more.

Perhaps I could... Tomorrow. And then all I'd have to think about are the todays.

cakes and closets

Last night, at Mexicali's, I had a cute Goldilocks' chocolate mousse courtesy of my DG--savvy group of women whom I meet at least twice in a month to learn and have fun with (two of them are in the US right now, enjoying their first White Christmas). They surprised me with a 5-day early birthday celebration.

Before giving me their words of encouragement, we shared what about our lives this coming year would we like to change. If our lives were a closet, what would we discard? Are there any paradigm shifts we'd like to make? While one spoke of trying to rid herself of flab (which is hardly noticeable I'm suspecting it might be imaginary), another spoke of taking more risks and developing herself in other areas of interest. She is, after all, more than a number cruncher. She is a music lover who will finally buy guitar and teach herself how to play it (Go for it, girl!).

No more guilt in saying No. This is what I had to say. If you knew me, you'd know that if you asked me to cross over a high wire, I won't say No. I'd say, "Give me time, I'll learn it." But from now on, I don't have to worry myself to death about pleasing every one. I have this dress patterned after paranoia and I'm taking it out of my rack. Another piece of clothing I don't want to wear anymore is the pants of pragmatism. Between trusting God and doing something to solve my problems, the former doesn't always win. I can get pretty impatient waiting for God to work and answer my prayer that sometimes I'd rather find the answer myself. And I thought I had the gift of faith.

I'll be updating my wardrobe. Next year, I'd wear more pinks than blues, more reds than blacks. I just hope those colors fit me. *wink*

Sleepless in December

Even in my dreams, I was giftwrapping. No wonder I woke up tired, with wrists hurting. (Or at least, that’s my hypothesis. But then again, maybe a more telling reason could be that I barely had four hours of sleep before rushing to work today after burning the past-midnight oil with scissors and tape in my hands).

But no whining here, I promise. This giftwrapping gal is too sluggish to snarl and too weak to whine (but bitten by the alliterating bug bigtime!).

With the same passion as Albert Einstein’s while he was working on his Theory of Relativity, I am driven by my superb mathematical skills (or so, I wish)—divide the number of gifts by the number of remaining workdays, factor in the attire for the day and the size of bag needed (laptop bag or shoulder bag? Handbag?). My goal this morning: Bring as many boxes as I could carry to the office without looking like an undernourished female Santa. (Not much of a challenge, really, as no reindeer-drawn carriage was waiting for me outside our gate.)

And so I made it to the office, in one piece, with all my giftwrapped boxes all accounted for. My reward for my indefatigable spirit came in the form of a wide smile of a treasured author who dropped by unexpectedly. When I saw her, I suddenly forgot how sleepy I was and remembered to snatch the gift with her name under my table.

There should be a study made on how much sleep people get on the average per month—with December probably getting the lowest average. What with the countless parties to attend, reunions to enjoy and, of course, the giftwrapping duties to fulfill. “Sleepless in December” sounds like a good title for a documentary on it, don’t you think?

No, Virginia, there’s no Santa Claus who stays awake at night delivering gifts. But yes, Virginia, there are people out there who stays awake at night wrapping them.

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.

five o'clock calls over the moon and stars

Most women are cheap.

And I mean that in a positive way. Let me clarify: Most women could be made happy by the simplest of gestures done with the sincerest of intents. While the most passionate lovers promise to pluck the moon and stars to lay at their woman’s feet, many women wouldn’t be impressed if all talk is what they did.

In a birthday tribute we gave a friend recently, a letter addressed to him was read aloud. It was from his wife who wasn’t in the celebration because she needed to be home early to care for their baby. In it, she extolled his virtues as a father and a husband. While listening to her public affirmation of him, my respect meter for the guy, Miler, shot up. Earlier in the day, I texted him and said he was the person with the coolest head I know and that his gentleness was a gift—to us, that is. Midway through the letter-reading, this one fact melted the heart of every female in the room: His wife said that since one day in May 2001, when they were still getting to know each other, he would call her when the clock strikes five pm. More than five years, a marriage contract, and a baby later, he still does it. Calling Rachelle at the office every five o’clock in the afternoon. Every day. Without fail. How could one guy do it when most guys would fizzle out soon after they hear the girl say “yes”?

It actually takes so little to make us happy.

A few years ago, a guy friend dropped by my office and gave me a bag of pan de sal. I never thought the most underrated piece from the baker’s oven could make my heart swell. Why? Because days (or was it weeks before?), I casually mentioned to him that I read a newspaper feature that talked about this delicious bread in Laguna. I probably asked him if he tried it. The next time I saw him, his smile came with a brown paperbag with the round bread inside. He remembered. The bag of pan de sal, carried all the way from Laguna, was still warm. The thought and care inside each piece made it warm. Yes, for me, it's the thought that counts.

This post is for men. If you’re attached—with a wife or a girlfriend—take the time to show her you’ve been thinking about her. You don’t really need to wipe out your bank account and buy her diamonds to make her the happiest woman in the world.

Diamonds may be forever. But a lifetime guarantee of 5 o’clock calls—the security and warmth of connection through shared conversation—can outvalue those precious gems and outshine the moon and the stars anytime. Or maybe, it's just me.

Workaholic Woes

More than one person has accused me that I’m a workaholic. And I say, “Guilty as charged.”

I’ve spent countless extra-work hours in the office—after 5:30, a couple of hours before midnight, on weekends, and I’m ashamed to admit, a few times past midnight on weekdays. There was even an instance when I, with several of my officemates, was working on a catalogue. We worked non-stop till around 5am the next day (kept awake and functional by laughter, food and the threat of a baby doll that looked like the monster doll Chuckie). While three members of the work-vigil team went home to rest and take the morning off, I with two other girls managed to sleep for three hours in the conference room and then report for another day of work at 8am after a joltingly cold shower. Crazy is what others would call that kind of set-up. I call it unusual and once-in-a-lifetime. You know, how Halley’s comet would blaze through the sky once every seven decades.

Last Friday, I almost went home with a stack of pages to edit during the weekend. Afraid that I would soon be cramming to make it to my deadline, I initially thought that the best way to avoid the impending rush-rush scenario is to sacrifice a part of my rest time to breathe a little easier the week after.

Then I decided. No. I will break the cycle, and change my attitude.

My life does not have to be dictated by the to-do list on my desk. It might be a big boost to the ego to feel indispensable and important, but I don’t need to feel that kind of importance when I’m at home—resting, playing with my nephews, cleaning my room, or when I’m at church—teaching kids in my Sunday School class. For two days in a week, I can be simply me, with no business card to flash, and no need to prove anything about myself and flaunt skills I have, or think I have.

And so, before clocking out of work to welcome the weekend, I do something else instead. I map out my upcoming week and pencil in goals—finish X number of pages in a day— which I vow to accomplish, come hell or high water (or in Manila’s case, come Meralco brown-out or Milenyo). Feeling my week-long plan realistic enough, I make a mental note to be doubly diligent with my work and be extra-cunning about how I use my time. With my self-imposed load out of my backpack, I go home a little lighter—in more ways than one.

Tomorrow’s a Monday. I promise to do my best to deliver work that is pleasing to God and guard against being swallowed alive by my desk.

“Yes, I am a workaholic.” But that will soon be, “I was a workaholic.”

Will that change even be possible?

Of course. I'll be working on it.