Let us eat cake

Terrorized by the thought of all the work that needs to get done before Friday, I turn to avoiding it all by checking out what's going on in the great big world. I hear from a friend that okra, one of my favorite vegies, is a great vegie. Has lots of fiber, absorbs bad cholesterol and helps good bacteria (or pro-biotics) in our intestinal tract. I will have to eat more okra, steamed with a bit of calamansi and a splash of patis with a small cup of brown rice. Or in a good pinakbet! Those ilocanos know a good thing.

Then I linked up through Mr. Ed Levine's blog to a list of ice cream sandwiches (calling Ian! Read up the bit about the hazelnut ice cream cookie sandwich!), and saw the link to New York Magazine's best ice cream sandwiches, followed by an article reviewing the new Max Brenner in New York (another case of Manila beating the big apple; we did have Beard Papa before they did), and finally, a list of great dessert lounges in the city. Something to share with a couple of friends who are thinking of a concept for our fair-ish city.

This gave me rhyme and reason to sign up for regular articles from NYMag, mostly for the travel and editorials and restaurant reviews. I care not a whit for the shopping, real estate, and other stuff.

I headed back to my list of blogs and came across a link from one site that led me to this post (first posted on craigslist/new york):

"Wedding Cake

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Date: 2005-03-23, 11:12PM EST


So, first of all, congratulations to my good friends who got married last weekend. Congratulations, “mazel tov,” good luck. It was great and I hope you guys are happy forever. That said, I couldn’t help but look around at your wedding and think, “Wow. I don’t want any of this.” But don’t think that your wedding specifically turned me off to weddings. No, we are all now in our late twenties and wedding invitations appear in the mail with almost the same frequency that delivery guys slip take-out menus under my door. And now, having attended and been in a few weddings, I can’t help but think “I don’t want any of it.” I don’t want a country club or a church. I don’t want a hotel ballroom or a big white tent. I don’t want a priest or a rabbi. I don’t want 200 people there who I don’t even know. I don’t want numbered tables. I don’t want to put all of my random “single” friends at one table in the corner of the room, making them feel even more alienated than they already are at a stereotypically “coupled” event. I don’t want bridesmaid drama. I don’t want all of my bridesmaids wearing the same ugly color and the same ugly dress and hating their shoes so much that they curse me behind my back. I don’t think I even want bridesmaids. I don’t want anyone to sign a guestbook where they have to come up with some spontaneous wisdom about love and happiness. I don’t want cute little party favors with the bride’s and groom’s names scripted in gold, proclaiming “our special day.” I don’t want people to figure out their seating arrangements by picking up their party favors, which are also wrapped in pink chiffon. I don’t want a big white dress. I don’t want to have to ask friends and cousins whom I see maybe once a year if their 5-year-old son/daughter whom I don’t even really like can be my ring bearer/flower girl. I don’t want guys in blue shirts and khaki pants measuring each others’ dicks with the phrase, “So, what do you do?” I don’t want bored out of their mind cater waiters and bartenders, who hate weddings in a way that even I will never understand. I don’t want “cocktail hour” and passed hors d’oeuvres and most people only caring about getting buzzed before the open bar ends. I don't want to mail out then sort through 300 invitations to find out who wants steak and who wants salmon. I don’t want to be registered at Crate&Barrel. I don’t want my friends finding that all the cheaper items on my registry are gone and that, like, five of them have to go in on a set of overpriced knives. I don’t think I want a registry at all. I don’t want to have to kiss all of my mother’s friends on the cheek, or, even worse, all of my future mother-in-law’s friends. I don’t want a color “scheme.” I don’t want a creepy DJ or a weird band that does a cover of YMCA. And I don’t want the place turning the lights up at 10:30 telling us it’s time to leave. But I do want cake.
65200855"

Last night, I attended the wake of the mother of my friend J. Years ago, J opened her house to a few of us who wanted a place to meet each Sunday for chinese painting. We spent a few hours each week striving to reach oriental perfection, I continue to strive, yet fear I will never gain perfection. But it's all in the process of getting there I suppose. Anyway, at the wake, I looked around and the inevitable thought popped into my head: am I prepared to die? Do I have the wherewithal to pay for a decent funeral? Do I have my will set up? Who gets my benches? I'm just about to get a cat, what will happen to her? Will anyone attend the memorial service? What music do I want played?

So here's my ode to Funeral Cake.

Dear Mrs. J, sorry to hear you had to go. You bought us the real brushes for our painting class all the way in some dinky Shanghai shop. And you were always generous with the glasses of juice and corn chips. I hope you find the sanctuary from life ever after whereever you are now. Your family is sad to see you go, and they have brought us here to celebrate your life. All these people, all these kids, all these flowers. And it makes me think how I don't want any of it. I am not ready to die just yet, as my will isn't prepared and the living room is a mess. But when I go, I want a cremation, and then the ashes are going straight out to sea. No memorial, no flowers, no mass cards. Any money left over from my savings, I want my friends to spend on the best meal possible, enjoy a fantastic dinner, sing their favorite songs, and go on living. And have cake. Ice cream cake. The best of both worlds.

Oopa!

The world is shrinking. Migration flows have brought cultures together in a way unforeseen a few centuries back. What would the great colonizers of yore think if they could see the way things are now? Would they have been able to imagine the blending we encounter on a daily basis? Would the cities of today seem like Babel of biblical times? Or more like Sodom and Gomorrah?

One great change is having access in this semi-backwater of Asia to a variety of cuisine. All of our overseas contract workers not only go forth to save our economy on a daily basis, but they marry, have kids, bring their spouses and mixed breed offspring back, not to mention lots and lots of balikbayan boxes. While we haven't seen too many interesting Nigerian or Ethiopian restaurants open up (and we still haven't set up a really amazing Moroccan or Afghan restaurant), there are more italian restaurants and greek restaurants, most of them byproducts of the OFW economic development.

In other better, greater blogs, there have been reviews of other greek restaurants like Mati and Minos (or is it Mynos?). I've had good meals at both, usually eating lamb, yogurt, and seeking dolmades that don't taste like they've been pickled in brine. A couple of months ago I saw a sign that heralded a new mall based Greek restaurant, Cyma in the Shangri-la Plaza. Till today I haven't had a chance to try it. As I was eating solo, I had a limited taste of the menu and will reserve my opinion till I can go with other diners as more mouths means more dishes to try out.

One gimmick that Cyma has going for it, (and what Manila based restaurant doesn't need a gimmick?) is flambed cheese. In greek cuisine, this may be a sheep cheese or feta, doused in some ouzo, allowed to burn blue and bright and then sprinkled with lemon and parsley. Cyma has the pyrokinetics and the waiters are required to say Oopa! when they light the dish up. The two occasions I heard them go through this made me wonder if they knew what they were getting themselves into. For it was noticeable to me at least, that the waiters sounded either frightened for their lives (maybe they've singed more than a few eyebrows by now) or they were worried someone was going to ask them what Oopa meant. And they wouldn't be able to say anything. Is this going to be a trend? Will Gumbo's shouting waiters and Cyma's charred ones be the new wave in customer service?

Uncontrolled chaos theory

Part of the job includes visiting schools all over the metro. Most of the schools that allow us to visit are usually private, catholic, and single sex. I won't go into any debate over my choice between co-ed or single sex, but the last 6 years of doing the job means I've seen some interesting set-ups. Dealing with students of a certain age also means getting used to a really high decibel level. As in, How the heck do they stand all this noise? level. I remember going to one of the better all girls' schools in Ortigas last year and feeling overwhelmed by the noise in their canteen. It was like a bunch of howling harpies attacking their prey, and being really pissed over the carnage. Noise over noise; not something I want to go through again.

Today, I had to pop in to set up a booth at one of the new international schools. Seems to me that there are a lot of pretenders to the throne of "international school" these days, not that it's a bad thing. I am an IS Manila alum, and I would (if I could afford it) send all my nieces and nephews there. The kind of people you meet and deal with and grow up with at an IS will develop great character. Or not. But most of the time, the people I grew up with turned out to be wonderful people and the other fellow IS students around the world all seem to be great examples of how forcing nationalities who would normally want to kill each other together in a learning environment fosters understanding and dialogue. Not to mention teaching one another what the difference between samosas and kimchi is at a young age. I wouldn't be the foodie I am now if I hadn't been to IS. Ah, all the bake sales of my youth...

Anyway, so there I was at this new international school, and I was interested to see their new digs. The directions given seemed pretty straightforward and I sort of knew where it was, but what they failed to mention was that by taking the overpass on C5, I'd end up missing the main entrance and would have to detour back to Ortigas Avenue and take the underpass; a detour of 20 minutes tacked on to the travel time. So, I was not in the best of moods by the time I dragged myself out of the cab with boxes of materials. Then I walked in. And wished to all that is holy that I could leave the boxes and walk out. It made me think of the one of the levels of Purgatory, care of the imagination of Dante Alighieri himself. Noise, people walking in and out, children running down pretty steep stairs, the tile bouncing the sound off the walls, and even the receptionist seemed pretty frazelled at 9 a.m. I managed to explain to her that I had to set up a booth, and asked to call the contact at the guidance office. After some time (too much), said contact made it to the reception area and walked me to the corridor where the booths were to be set up for display. Being next to the dining hall, I dodged sticky bits of paper (ketchup? mustard?) and hoped no one slips on a daily basis. I managed to pass out some materials for the next hour and a half, without making much of a dent in the noise. On Thursday I have to be back to talk to some of the students I passed out materials to. Am better prepared to deal with traffic, and will bring earplugs.

Short

Thumb: recovered. Meds worked like a charm
Dive: ok, but wasn't mentally in the mood. Too much going on up in the headspace to enjoy the zen of the ocean
Food: too much chicken. Grilled mostly
Weather: rain, rain, go away. I mean it!!!!
Cat outlook: going with the calico, have to back away from getting two.
Emotional outlook: September is going to be a bitch of a month. Breathe.

Thumbs up

The prehensile thumb allows human beings to attempt fine motor skills, and evolved from our forerunner Homo Habilis. It consists of three bones, and its movement is controlled by 8 muscles (4 in the hand, 4 in the forearm).

Yesterday, it began with a tenderness in the joint, then spread to a sore feeling all throughout the finger, and ended with pain whenever I moved the digit. Thinking it was a sprain, I've attempted to immobilize it, but was not as successful as I hoped. Each time I needed to type or pick up items or merely tug at something, I could feel a twinge in the hand and sometimes through the forearm (which taught me that those 4 muscles in the forearm are definitely attached to my thumb). A doctor friend of mine has told me to take painkillers and have it x-rayed today. It may need to be splintered for a few days to a few weeks.

I've had to be extra careful holding anything in my left hand, and even putting on clothes (struggled with the bra snap and buttons) is ridiculously painful. And being overly imaginative, I have begun to imagine what it would be like if it needs to be amputated. Of course, it's more likely to be wrapped up for a few weeks, and then will need regular exercise to get it back to normal speed.

A few hours later from writing the above: I've come back from the doctor and blood tests and xrays. The doctor says it is not a sprain and that it's some infection. He's asked me about insect bites, but I can't remember any recent nibble. I've spent P3000 for medication that is supposed to stop it and turn my thumb back to normal, one hopes. So far, the pain is less than it was, but the swelling is still noticeable.

Want you raw

While meditating on milk names (see entry below), I began recounting another list that came up way way back. I was a crisis line counselor, answering crazed Los Angelenos calls for help, usually the midnight to 6 am shift until I learned that the love of my life was doing the Saturday afternoon shift. No, I didn't stalk him, but he was my mentor and suggested we do the shift together; he was easy on the eyes, and had the sexiest voice.

One Christmas, the hotline threw a party for the volunteers and one of the new recruits said to my mentor "I think you're so sexy, I want to have raw sex with you." No, she wasn't drunk. Since Mentor and I were mentally in sync he turned to me and said "Raw?" whereupon (being a sarcastic bitch) I responded with a nod and said "Not braised, baked, toasted, or sauteed." We proceeded to laugh in front of her.

Got Milk?

I was listening to a tidbit on the radio this morning and heard that there is a group of male strippers going under the group name "Milk Boys" with each guy using names like Nido and Milo. Not knowing the other names, I started thinking of possible aliases for the other boytoys: Alpine, Carnation, Harvey's Fresh, Magnolia, Nestle, 2%, evap, condensada, non-fat, Vitasoy (for the lactose intolerant).

I am lactose intolerant, and that means the inability to process the enzyme - lactase - in my digestive tract. Ok, not the complete inability, but it does mean that beyond an average of 250 ml of milk, or any dairy product, I get pretty gassy (or worse). What to do when one loves milk? Ice cream? Pizza, even? There are lactaid pills and other means of avoiding embarrassing moments. But a lot of times, it means downing my milk after I get home, or being extra careful eating those dairy products. Or knowing where the bathroom is and positioning oneself close by.

Another enzyme I, and about half of all Asians, lack is the low-Km aldehyde dehydrogenase (ALDH2) isoenzyme, which causes the flushing (or the tomato face syndrome) when drinking wine, beer, or alcoholic beverages in general. Less than a glass and I know my face is taking on a flush that isn't the fault of the sun. By the end of a night of wine and cheese, I'm usually red, feeling like my heart beat should be visible to all and sundry, and not quite energetic. If I don't nurse the drinks properly, one glass of wine followed by 2 glasses of water, I'll start feeling the throbbing temple headache, which usually lasts long enough to destroy any desire to continue eating, drinking or smiling. So, in my 30+ years, I haven't gotten stonking drunk. I can maintain my memory of all the times I've drunk more than my share of the grape and variants, but none of them ever end with passing out, tossing my cookies, or being a total idiot. Sigh. Can't even be an angry or depressed drunk.

Supermarket Sunday

Saturdays are usually the day I hit the markets for groceries, however I opted to do some shopping yesterday instead. Having heard so much of the new spice story from Joey of 80 Breakfasts, I popped in and found a lovely nook full of the aromatic splendor of spices. After perusing the shelves I decided on a gift of brown sugar encrusted cinnamon sticks, a jar of dried peppers, and a whole vanilla bean, to be given to a special food friend.

Entering the side of Market! Market! I was looking for the pastel kiosk. Those lovely yema filled buns from Cagayan de Oro is one good reason to take yourself out of your typical route and go to Market!2, as it's cheaper than flying to CDO. However, I couldn't find it! Horrors. So ended up buying three bags of honey crisp banana chips, and was tempted with some mildly spicy dilis, which I eventually walked away from.

The center of the mall was taken over by some concert, and the noise gave me an immediate headache. I understand encouraging public assembly in a friendly fashion, but we're surrounded by noise pollution on a daily basis. This was aggravated assault!

However, my plans weren't fulfilled yet, so I went down to the basement of the Metro Department Store to peruse the shelves of the the supermarket. When I lived overseas, I picked up the habit of going to supermarkets and grocery stores to de-stress. You look through the stacks, learn about the eating habits of people and pick up some interesting finds. And for half an hour or so, whatever's bugging you and any stress you feel goes away. Retail therapy but sometimes more for a brainstorm than to assuage a need.

As it's not a conveniently located supermarket, I don't get to go to the Metro market that often, but find it to be very convenient if I have certain things I can't find in the other supermarkets (a good selection of jalapeno peppers and salad dressings just to name a few!). Yesterday I found myself debating over whether to get the 14 oz bag of dried blueberries or a smaller 3 oz bag. I opted for the bigger bag as it was better savings and I can always have more berries in my oatmeal and salads. I also picked up my favorite Thai dried durian chips. They are buttery and have none of the strong durian smell.

As I was strolling towards the register, a bag to my left caught my eye, then made me stop and spend a few minutes to be absolutely sure I was seeing what I was seeing. Green Tea it said, but it was a bag of Lay's Potato chips. Then I realized it was a line of "international flavored" chips: French Chicken, Italian Red Meat, Swiss Cheese, Hokkaido Chilled Crab, Lemon and the aforementioned Green Tea. I tried to take a phone cam shot but it wasn't going to come out right. So I just bought a small bag to taste. Later that evening I popped a chip in and pronounced it - mislabeled! It may have an aroma of green tea, but the flavor was more like nori than tea. They should just say Seaweed or Nori flavored chips.

For penance, it was soup and vegetables, no dessert that evening.

Larkin

Philip Larkin - This Be The Verse

They fuck you up, your mum and dad.
They may not mean to, but they do.
They fill you with the faults they had
And add some extra, just for you.

But they were fucked up in their turn
By fools in old-style hats and coats,
Who half the time were soppy-stern
And half at one another's throats.

Man hands on misery to man.
It deepens like a coastal shelf.
Get out as early as you can,
And don't have any kids yourself.


(Thanks to Liam for sending this to me. Thanks to Mr. Larkin for saying it.)

Test thyself

Thanks to Robyn (Girl who ate everything) she directed her faithful readers to the Ed Levine's rorschach test (as my attempts to put hyperlinks fail constantly, I'm not going to even try. Just go to Robyns page, or Ed Levine's). Here are my results:

1) Haggen Dazs or Ben & Jerry's? Haagen Dazs. Classic flavors, not too many add ons to distract you. My favorite or one of my favorite comfort foods is a pint of HD vanilla ice cream.
2) Skippy or Jif? I usually get Skippy, it’s available in the supermarkets in Manila.
3) Bagel or Bialy? Bagels
4) Whipped or Regular Cream Cheese? Regular. Whipped tastes too light.
5) Relish or Sauerkraut on your hot dogs? Sauerkraut if I have to have anything on the hotdog. I’d just put mustard.
6) Milk or Dark Chocolate? DARK!!!!
7) Salted or Sweet Butter? Sweet, although for cooking, I only use unsalted.
8) Pastrami or Corned Beef on a Deli Sandwich? Pastrami and a load of it, not a sliver as you'd find in some so called delis here (you know who you are!)
9) French Fries or Onion Rings? Fries
10) Espresso, Regular Coffee or Latte? Latte (got to get my calcium)
11) Crispy or Pliant Bacon? Crispy (why would anyone want limp bacon?)
12) White or Dark Meat (on either chicken or turkey)? Dark

No analysis necessary.

Stuff I pick up online

The start of the day begins with email (three addresses to check), checking what has been sent to me for updating, attending to parents, students, and whoever else. Along the way, I find information online and here are some things that I just thought I'd share:

From article titled: Femme Mentale, San Francisco Chronicle (August 6, 2006)
Research shows that the female brain naturally releases oxytocin after a 20-second hug. The embrace bonds the huggers and triggers the brain's trust circuits. So Brizendine advises, don't let a guy hug you unless you plan to trust him.

"And if you do," she said, "make sure it lasts 20 seconds."

(what about hugging a stuffed toy? how would you trust something inanimate?)

On the Chronicle of Higher Education I learned that the Gates Foundation is upping it's grant for Gates Millenium Scholarship by another $58 million for graduate studies in Public Health. About time too, the initial $1 billion dollars allocated for undergrad and grad studies had specific areas linked to the scientific program areas for the graduate fields (no restrictions for the undergraduate sector). But as the Gates Foundation is heavily invested in public health concerns around the world, it seemed odd that they'd miss out on this sector. Someone finally woke up.

Unfortunately for the students graduating from their MBAs this year, they had better get their job offers firmed up asap as the H1B 20,000 exemption for graduate students has been reached for 2007. That means they will have to apply for the 2008 cap and that will also probably max out soon. That bit of news was taken from the US Dept of State's website.

Naming

I will soon be expanding my family. Mika is back at my parent's place, she's too old to bring over. But being without companionship is one of the empty points of living alone. And I have always been fond of four legged critters, feline or canine. Given my work schedule and abilities to train said animals, I prefer to stick to the feline. Not having my own furball to call my own of late has made it harder to find solace.

Thinking long and hard about it, it's clear that I'll be adopting from the PAWS shelter in Quezon City. I've volunteered there before and I've helped out some. And as no one has dropped off their cats for my care since I was 13, I figure it's time to help out two cats who may not have a home yet. It won't happen till after the end of August as I have to buy equipment like feeding bowls, make sure there aren't any danger spots for two boisterous animals, and double check that I can afford to have them. Food costs, vet bills, and I do want some cute toys for them to play with.

I'll be looking for a calico and a black cat. As much as I love Siamese and Abbysinians, there's no way I can afford a pure breed. Long haired cats are sweet too, but I can only handle the shedding of a short haired housecat.

I've printed out the adoption forms and will check the shelter soon for two possibilities. Will have them sleep on a new blanket so that they won't seem too scared when they get over to their new home. I'll be sure they're neutered, have their shots and are willing to live together.

But what about names? I've thought of possibilities and the ones that come to mind are Mati and Gabriel; today I hit on Kiwi for one of them. Maybe call one after my favorite football player ('varro). Just like any new baby, sometimes the names will only come to me when I have the cat.

War and Peace addendum

I was in Fully Booked yesterday and by chance saw the new Anthony Briggs translation of War and Peace. Soft bound Penguin edition. With my discount card, I got it for P225.00. A steal and yes, I will do a side by side reading with my Edmonds copy!

Nom de plume

A few years ago, one of my favorite articles about Filipinos was written by a resident Brit who wrote about Filipino names. He noted all the different variations of names given to children (all starting with the same letter, baby-ish names, bell names - ding dong, ding ding, ting, etc, and the pun-nish names). I enjoy sharing that essay with new travellers to Manila, since so many of my colleagues don't quite know how to deal with a Ma. Carmen Luisita Charmaine Pe Lopez. They don't know what the Ma. stands for, or whether the first name is Carmen or Carmen Luisita. Plus they get emails from people with email domain names like "kissmelittleangel@yahoo.com" or "nukethecatfor20secs@hotmail.com" and it just scares the beejezus out of them.

Nicknames are so much a part of our culture, I don't know when the idea began. Was it a spanish or american cultural habit that was passed on to us? All I know is we all had one, sometimes several. One of my childhood friends who has her own blog recently posted that a comment I had made (or I assume it to be my comment) made some people suspicious that she had a spammer since I was using her old nickname, one we used when we were kids. No one in the US knows her by that name. Even when I call her up and ask for her, her husband thinks I'm some kind of telemarketer! Luckily she recognizes that it's me, and hasn't told me NOT to use that nickname of hers.

I used to bristle when family members would use my nickname in front of strangers and non-family folk. It was, for me, a very personal and private name, only to be used by family and childhood friends. Even now, I'd feel a bit of an affront if someone simply copied my parents and called me by my nickname if I hadn't given them approval to use it. Likewise, family members using my regular name sounds odd. My sister in the US does that and it seems weird to hear her use my name.

When I turned 14, I shortened my first name, using a derivative that was easier to pronounce. The worst part of having a Spanish sounding name while living in an English speaking world was during college when the fellow calling us up for our graduation march had to ask how to pronounce the name. I had to write it up phonetically "Me lah gros - short "o", he still mangled it.

And then the middle name, one given to me by my father, that never felt right. It sits on my birth certificate, my passport, but never spoken. The few times it has to be shared, it seems to stare at me unwanted and forgotten. It doesn't even have any meaning. It's a feminized diminutive form of another name. And so it just seems like a throw away name.

The last new name I received was in China, when my dad taught me what my chinese name was, but which I assume to be a "sounds like" form of my nickname. He gave me some song and dance about how he chose it from great chinese leaders names and all such stuff. But I still got strange looks from my teachers since it's the least feminine name they'd ever heard of in China. Sigh. That's what I get for asking my dad to give me my chinese name. I hadn't learned from when he gave me my middle name.

I'm just thankful I wasn't nicknamed Ding Dong.

Bookflirting

One of those blogs that linked to another blog taught me this morning that reading a book on the London Metro can be one way of meeting someone. HOWEVER, keep in mind the ff:

- guys still look at the girls' looks before checking out the book
- the more "macho" the writer, the more chances of getting picked up
- Dan Brown, Da Vinci Code, and any chickflit is a definite turn off, except for those who think that discriminating against someone who reads said author and books is a turn off. Better yet, just chuck it out the window and show that you have cojones
- girls like guys who show their feminine side in their lit choices, but still prefer men who are cute and can read
- it's debatable whether or not to read War and Peace in a subway/train ride. Some say it's a good sign, the others say it's just for show.

Not to toot my own horn, but I have read W&P, three times (never on a metro/subway/train. I read Vikram Seth's A Suitable Boy over a month of riding the trains in China and got carpal tunnel and upper back pain lifting that monster around; delightful and would read it again, but not while travelling. Okay, back to today's segue). Once, in a seemingly weird bit of family urban legends, it is said that I read it when I was a kid, because I was watching the tv mini-series and wanted to know who the heck the characters were. I don't remember reading the book then, I doubt I remember reading anything when I was a kid, but my dad remembers me trailing the book around the house and rambling on about Natasha and Pierre.

Second time, 8th grade. We had a gorgon for an english lit teacher, Ms. Geronimo. She gave herself a brand new set of tires for christmas one year; she was also fond of sending the entire class to wait outside as punishment if we got out of hand. But I do have fond memories of her and that english class. We all had to read 10 books in the year, and make massive book reports on them. Since I had already planned to do W&P for one of my books, I had to plan it out and do shorter, easier stuff the rest of the year. And it took me awhile to get through the entire volume this time (shorter attention span perhaps? After all MTV had just begun invading our tellies). But I remember reading through the scenes of war and thinking, damn this is bloody good. And I still didn't like war fiction. Got an A on the report. Heck for effort, I deserved an A+.

The third reading took place not too long ago. I had returned from HK, needed distraction, found an online bookgroup reading big fat classics and saw they had scheduled W&P for a three month run. Nice, easy reading, with lots of input from people all over. I must admit I enjoyed the chit chat more than reading the book again, but it was enjoyable to go over Tolstoy one more time. He writes clear, brilliant passages. It's a humanistic book. Really. Sometimes you want to just grab the characters by the shoulders and shake them out of their stupid actions, especially if you're like me who would like to physically shake someone to see if their head rolls back and forth like a doll. But I found that I enjoy the scenes describing the battles more than the discussions of the farm equity, serfdom, and "peaceful" set ups. I still don't like war fiction or non-fiction, or perhaps I tell myself I don't but am truly bloodthirsty.

There's a new edition and translation of W&P out, and I noted it on Torn and Frayed's blog. My copy of the new translation hasn't arrived yet, but I saw it was available at Powerbooks. My fantasy is to do a side by side comparison of the translations, just to see which one I like the best. Fantasy as it may take me forever to do so, and there's so much to do that a comparative reading analysis seems to be the ultimate in leisure these days. Wallowing in words.

Fog and fennel fairy dust

Goat cheese is tart, crumbly, spreadable, perfect on a green salad, toasted on a steak, smothered in honey, envelopes a walnut with ease, a favorite companion to white wine, and one of my favorite kinds of cheese.

My sister, Carol, gave me my first taste of goat cheese. I was in college, and one holiday, I drove up to San Francisco to spend a couple of days with her. She bought some walnut bread, goat cheese and wine to share with friends in Berkeley. Thinking back, they were such bohemians, working in blue collar or entry level corporate work by day, then at night they'd tour the musical halls to play classic or jazz pieces for a pittance. They slept on hard (rock hard) beds, bookcases filled to the brim with philosophical tomes. And ate left wing, liberal food like goat cheese and free range eggs. With plonk no less. Although it was probably $2 plonk given their economic status at the time. For a 20-21 year old like me, it was sheer heaven. Entry into a more sophisticated lifestyle, with intense discussions about the meaning of life. Yada yada yada. But what has remained through the years hasn't been the intense loyalty to esoteric germanic philosophers (how do you spell Kierkegaard? or Schopenhauer? aiyayay), or crazed monotone fusion music. It's been my love for the chevre.

My first initiation to the cheese was smashing the white pillows of french goat cheese into a garlic rubbed salad bowl, blended into the olive oil and lemon drizzled salad, frisee and arugula when we had a bit more money to spend. Otherwise it was your plain romaine, made luxe with its accoutrements.

I learned how to incorporate the white crumbles into omelettes, mixed into tarts, eaten with a simple nut and honey, or when I get really lazy, tostado (toasted) in the oven over bread. Ok, I admit, most of the time, it's usually the latter.

Last night, I joined fellow cheese disciples and ate a whole lot of cheese. Imagine my joy at finding a whole set of different goat cheeses including what I believe to be the ultimate in American goat cheeses: Humboldt Fog. A lovely thick cut of cheese, halved by ash, and with a light ash rind. It's a creamier chevre, and the ash doesn't leave any bad after taste. Truly a magnificent piece of cheesemaking. The other cheese I discovered last night was called Purple Haze, a goat cheese (quite young and tart) dusted with fennel and lavendar. The fennel clouded the normally acid flavors of the cheese, perfuming the palate with a nutty afterglow.

What bliss to pair both the fog and fennel chevres with the lovely Fume Blanc we had from Robert Mondavi's Private Stock, 2004. Life is good.

Duck, shark, what have you

With all the rain, and another typhoon on the way, someone told me we were all turning into ducks. Waddle waddle. Not quite my choice of semi-amphibious mutation. Were we given the choice of an animal to change into during the rainy season, I'd go for the sharks, just like my favorite underwater photo that I use for my IM avatar.

Of all the sharks I've had the honor of seeing in real life, my favorite remains the thresher shark, with it's elegant tail and undulating silver figure. An elegant master of its domain. Sinuous.

During the last Tubbataha trip, we had a very close encounter with a large toothy shark, which our dive instructor initially thought to be a bull shark. But the other DI said no bull sharks live out this far in the Pacific, so after some debate, we agreed it was a sizeable silver tip. It took some interest in our meanderings along the wall, but it decided that we weren't it's type of prey. However, it was definitely more curious than the poor grey tip reef sharks that kept swimming away when we came close. They must feel put upon by all the divers bothering them in their repose. Very stressful for them.

From watergirl to Sharkgirl!

Get up and go back

A recent acquaintance sent me an email: "I really didn't like the last minute planning and the poor scheduling of my job, including 2 last minute travels. That was not a part of what I was told before coming here. So now I've gone back to (insert country of residence here)."

The person in question was recently sent here to work, and then upped and left within 5 weeks. I'm sure there was more to it than the sentence above, but it seems that the action was taken without much preamble. Leaves a few questions in my mind, the first being, would I ever do that? Just turn around and walk away from a job? And if I were being posted overseas, pack my bags and fly home?

I can understand not agreeing with the job description, or feeling conflicted with the way things are being handled. But I would probably negotiate the terms first and find a way to come to some amicable solution. Perhaps I'm just a peaceable kind of gal. Try not to rock the boat till it's absolutely certain things aren't going to work. Then I'd leave. After a 15 day notice. Tidy my things, make sure my fish tank was ready for the move.

In my first post back in Manila, I worked with Ann, she was a consultant for our program and had been living in Manila so long she knew the jeepney routes better than most Pinoys. I believe her husband was also working for a USAID project, so they had been settled for sometime, but with the knowledge that one day they'd have to leave. Ann kept a couple of guppies in her fishtank, and over the two years I worked with her they stayed healthy and happy. She told me it was the combination of the fresh aquatic plants and the snails (yes, live snails) that would clean the tank walls. No need for an oxygen filtration system. All organic.

When Ann's husband's contract was over, she, too, followed suit. But what to do with the fish and the tank? As I was the only one who seemed to have any interest in taking care of the thing, she passed it on to me. 6 years later, the guppies are long gone, as are 8 other fish who lived and died in that tank. The longest lasting fish was a male orange fish (I assume it was male as was told to me by the fish store), who, living on his own, was accused by my work mates and friends of being seriously deprived of female companionship. Rather they accused me of depriving him of a life. Well, it seemed to give him longevity. He lasted 4 years swimming solo.

My fishtank is currently occupied by the plants and the snails, sans fish. I've been meaning to replace my orange fish, but as he had kept me company, silent though he was, I feel it might be traitorous to plop a new fish in so soon. At least a year's mourning would be proper form in memory of fish.

Cold quiche, rainy Sunday

The title says it all. Not wanting to go out and find a restaurant, I've resorted to munching on a cold slice of vegetarian quiche (quiche a les legumes I think it was sold as), followed by a small bag of the last of the free Holy Kettle Corn popcorn. The weather report outside is a medium grey sky, rain and more rain, puddles galore.

Yesterday, after a morning workshop at the office, I met up with J and J, who couldn't decide where they wanted to have lunch. We ended up at Grappa's in Greenbelt 3, our feet wet from dashing through the flooded Legaspi-De La Rosa corner, soothing our dampened souls with cold beer, smoked salmon and a vegetarian pizza. J bemoaned the problems at work, the other J regaled us with his recent trip around Oceania and tempted us with an offer of a free hotel room in Guam and Palau at the end of August (dearly tempted but I do have a dive trip coming up around that time).

We wandered through Avant to look at cameras, cellphones and other appliances, before heading to Powerbooks to listen to David Sedaris, writer of Naked, Me Talk Pretty, and other collections of essays. I prefer his book Dressing Your Family in Corduroy (as I don't have the books in front of me, I am probably not writing the titles out, may edit eventually, but not just yet). I listened in to his reading and chat for 10 minutes but had to drag myself away to meet T/L for a movie. The bit I caught was a delight and the folks over at Bruno's Barbershop should get Mr. Sedaris to do an ad for them.

After the movie, J was still waiting to get his book signed, he was number 270 out of 350+ fans. I rejoined him and we had some coffee and extremely stiff cinnamon rolls while we waited it out. As photographs were not allowed, I only managed to catch J leaning into the signing table while David Sedaris signed the books on my camera/cellphone. Naturally, J didn't like the photo, saying it was a photo of an ass, clad in black. Such gratitude! However, he was quite pleased as he had been able to chat with the author who even gave him his address in Paris, plus offered the information that he'd be in Vancouver in October (Vancouver being J's second home). I had to bring J back to earth by reminding him that David Sedaris' partner, Hugh, was also in the audience, and is amazingly cute. Mental bitch slap of sorts.

This makes the second celeb book signing that I've attended, Neil Gaiman being the first, and have not had one book signed.

Winnings, et al

7 months down, 5 more to go and 2006 has been a year of small winnings. I've won free tickets to movies, a chance to go to HK (didn't win the big prize, but I was close), and now, free popcorn. A comment on another blog led to free bags of popcorn. What a sweet deal, and now I'm a happy popcorn muncher. I made a bet against a friend, won a pint of ice cream. Won gift certificates to see the World Cup.

As kids, my siblings and I filled out reams of contest stubs from the supermarket, never won a thing. As a young adult, I'd be filled with visions of what I'd do with the millions won from a lottery jackpot after placing a $1 bet on the line. Winnings: zero.

My luck usually held in cases of riding crazy cabs around China and the rest of S. East Asia, the worst accident was getting grazed near Landmark recently. However, I've had a couple of bad fender benders when I used to drive in the US. And in both cases, my car was parked and I'd come back to find a dent in the trunk, so I never even got to find out who was the malefactor involved (such jerks, they never even left a note to apologize).

If, as the philosophers say, there is always balance in life, should I dream and hope that a billion dollars will fall on my lap? What would be taken from me in that case? A life of a loved one? Deterioration of health? WW3?

Waterfalls

Glenda has swept the air clean, Manila post typhoon can be a great place to be, air quality a bit better than normal, cooler, less sulfurous.

The last couple of days haven't been easy on the ears though, the sound of the rain outside my bedroom window reminded me of the sound of waterfalls, taking the boat on a Niagara Falls trip and getting as close to the rush as possible. The intensity of the water, the wave after wave of pounding against the trees and rooftops.

According to the weather report, the typhoon hit Batanes yesterday, signal number 3. What must it be like, to sit inside a stone house, watching the wind howl through the landscape, surrounded by the theatre of falling rain, and hoping the house stays firm. Cold, a bit musty inside the house, the smell of smoke from a fire inside the house. And at night, dark, but the monster continues to batter and beat the earth to bits outside.

Argentina regrets he's unable to lunch today

Saturday, July 22, La Grotta, Makati. Countries represented: Thailand, Russia, the United States (by default), S. Africa, Portugal, and the Philippines. We had expected Argentina to join us, but he was in Iligan.

8 people, 6 countries. Not bad for a simple lunch, organized on the spot. Cam and I had thought of having lunch, then I invited a couple of people, she invited a couple of people and when we gathered, there we were, the world. Sitting in a little bistro off the main business center of Makati. A new guy from Argentina who had been invited to the lunch had to fly to Iligan for a business trip and couldn't make it. We'd have had 5 of the 7 continents represented if he had.

As I was the only one of the group who had had lunch there previously, I felt a bit of responsibility for their gustatory welfare and enjoyment. While most of the dishes were ok, the service that day was below par and we had to suffer through so many reports from the kitchen that this dish was unavailable, or that dish was no longer available. Golly. I did reprimand our server, the brother to the cook. We had made reservations, we got there early, we even ordered early on, yet our food was the last to arrive among the other guests and the irritation of having to re-order. Luckily no one was of the temperament that requires extensive mollifying. However, it was a severe disappointment, the only damper to our appetites.

I'm sure La Grotta has it's good days, and I had a good meal there on an earlier occasion. But it is always such a hit or miss proposition, eating out in this city. And when you have guests, and guests from all over, it would be nice to just enjoy a meal without resorting to bitching or worrying about quality and service.

Of course, in the Cole Porter song I'm taking advantage of, the main character ends up in a far sorrier position. It's all relative.

Chocolate shell

Was it a mere 12 months or so ago that I heard about Polly's? It was either on the list of 10 best desserts that Lori of Dessert First mentioned it. Or it may have been at my friend D's place in Magallanes, as he'd pick up a box at the gas station nearby. Whichever the source, the cake, a rich, moist, fudge chocolate cake has become our office's cake of choice for birthdays and on days like today (sky alert: grey to front of us, grey to the right and left of us. Horrid.).

Days like today start off badly, late wake up, rushing to work through snailpace traffic, groggily going through the emails, shocked to find one has an appointment back on the other side of town in less than 45 minutes, and having to miss breakfast and any form of nutritional intake for at least another 4 hours. Throbbing headache or at least the sense of one just under the surface of your temple keeps you from feeling a smidgen of positivism. A good sleep is all it needs to get you back on your feet.

Chocolate cake, sunshine in a small brown box. That's all it took to make one very bleak day into something worth smiling about. Polly's, now available in your neighborhood Shell gas station.

Archangels

4 a.m., my phone beeps, I press on the button thinking it's my alarm. It's a message. From some unknown number, with lots of numbers that tell me it's not a Philippine cell phone. I have the phone screen about an inch from my nose (still haven't found my glasses so I'm as blind as a bat), and try to read the message: Per chi non lo avesse saputo altrimenti: alle 15:23 e nato gabriele. Molti baci simona

Eh? What? I find my glasses, turn on the light and read it again. And again, until it finally dawns on me, Simona! She's given birth! And her new son is named Gabriele. How joyous for her and Gigi. Plus her first son Matteo is now a big brother. Sweet and happy news.

Another light erupts in my central cortex (apologies to the brain doctors who are cringing at the misnomer), Matteo and Gabriele. Matthew and Gabriel. Golly. That does bring me back. 7th and 8th grade to be exact. The Mayor brothers, longest lashes on the face of the earth, the first Argentines I had met. Made me want to call Patty in Minneapolis right there. But I didn't.

So to Simona and Gigi, their two new angels, warm Manila greetings to you all. Sante.

I never thought you'd be into this sort of thing

First impressions are very important, they set a standard for what people think of you. If the relationship continues, the first impression is layered over by more information, sensations, experiences together. The deeper a relationship goes, the more you know of someone, and are less likely to feel surprised at something they do. Or it could come as a complete shock when they do something that goes against the grain of what you think their personality is.

In the last month, friends who have known me for a couple of years or so have commented (with increasing irritation on my part) that they wouldn't have taken me for a football fan, or a sports fan of any kind. Amusedly they say in one form or another "I never knew you were into soccer/football/World Cup" . While I've laughed it off, it makes me think of what else would someone say "I didn't know you were into this" if they knew about me. And likewise, what would make me ask that question to someone I know now.

Double withdrawal needs extreme distraction

Cole Porter's song "I get a kick out of you" is playing in my mind, primarily the line "I get no kick from cocaine" - that line sometimes gets edited out by the conservative factions. I don't get a kick from any drug, and it's no time to toss my hat into the drug lifestyle. When I'm sick, I try to see if water therapy will do instead of taking meds. But the option of taking narcotics leaves me cold. Life's too full of surreal moments and pure pleasure to color it with anything else.

However, drugs aren't the only things in life that push our emotional or psychological buttons. And getting over anything, even the most frivolous of addictions, takes one through a period of withdrawal, that low after the high, the feeling of incapacity and imbalance. Wanting to reconnect to the rush but there's nothing there to latch on to. If there's anything that emphasizes the solitude of life, that we are born into this world alone and will die alone, it's the understanding of withdrawal that has come upon me at this time.

The World Cup is a frivolous pursuit, it won't cause lasting peace for mankind, nor will I figure out the answer to life's question (it won't even advance the right question for us to answer). But it is a wonderful way to enjoy one month every four years, to bond with other fellow fans, discuss the minutiae of the player's, the games, even the referees who have to go into psychotherapy to overcome guilt of sending off players. And as it's only a short few weeks, I immediately jump into the fray and then find myself agonizing through the motions afterwards. When I was 12 and 16, I mooned about for months after the finals. Ran through all the newspapers for articles on the Argentina players, and cut up anything news worthy. Typical teenage infatuation. These days, I have work to get me through the next few weeks.

Getting over an affair is another withdrawal moment. I found myself twitchy for two weeks, waiting for news about him, wondering why I was still looking for emails or YM contact when I had dismissed him. It took a mutual friend's anger over his irresponsibility (on an issue that had nothing to do with the relationship) to settle my nerves. Seeing him in an unflattering light was a good way to douse some of the smoldering embers. I felt sorry for him, but also found myself annoyed that he was being a jerk to his friends.

If I had the money to waste, I'd distract myself with travel. I'd fly to Melbourne and Sydney, then Auckland and Christchurch, before a couple days in Bali. I'd buy books, cheese, shoes, and a new digital camera; days in a spa, taking in the landscapes and cityscapes. It would be at least a month of distraction, spent without a care in the world.

But as I'm a regular joe schmoe, I'll have to distract myself with the what I have on hand - school, work, house upkeep, garden upkeep, and not bothering friends with my moping. Return to the mundane.

Staying awake for blue and white

Tonight is the final game of the World Cup 2006. Germany has had a successful run as a team and as a host. After 4 weeks, 32 teams, over 100 goals, penalties, yellow and red cards (did portugal get the most number of both?), it's down to Italy vs France. Both teams normally wear blue, but that would only confuse us, the viewers, not to mention the teams. So France will wear white, as decided by the gods of FIFA, and the azzuris will wear blue. I'm sure there's a reason they've been wearing blue for all this time, but given the Italian flag colors, it doesn't make as much sense as it seems.

I'm typing this at a internet cafe, and have plans to watch the game with a few valiant friends who aren't football crazy but who agreed to watch with me. We have a room at Red Box in Greenbelt and even got a gift certificate to watch the games. Not a freebie of a room, but it will be less expensive in the long run. Afterwards, I plan to hit a nice hotel buffet breakfast, then head home to sleep it all off. Perfectly timed, I have Monday off, and won't have to try to look half-awake throughout the day.

If either team wins, I'll be happy for them. The Italians are facing so much back home with the match fixing debacle that winning the cup would help them deal with the mess. The French team would also enjoy the end of the run of Zidane, a fitting finish to a fantastic player. Both countries would probably enjoy the momentary relief from their internal troubles if their teams win.

But....



go azzuris.

Avocado mush

As a child, the only avocados we would eat were liberally whipped up with milk and sugar, at times frozen for that pseudo-ice cream feel, but mostly eaten straight up, no fuss dessert. I wasn't that keen on it though. Avocados have a unusual sweet and savory mouth feel. A meaty fruit, full of fat, but good fats, especially if you want to lubricate your joints. I could have cared less about my joints as a 10 year old. Thus avocados never joined the top of my favorite fruits.

Over time, I was introduced to the savory aspect of avocados, mostly guacamole or as a sliced ingredient in a salad. Again, they never found a spot in my heart. It took a trip to San Antonio, Texas, to change how I viewed guacamole. Watching the handmade preparation and sheer love given to the dish, all the while told about how the ingredients meld to make a delicious puree for more than a mere tortilla chip. And it was delicious. And I learned to love the avocado.

Nowadays, avocados are all over the markets, some markets offering better fruits than others. I especially like to find the just ripened avocados at Salcedo market on Saturday. They aren't rock hard or look like they'd be best used as ballast for a ship. They're firm, not mushy, but a gentle press against the skin shows they're ready to eat.

Cutting them open, the meat is a clean green color, and without any blotches. It's creamy and ready for my fork. I don't use a blender or any special mashing instruments, just a fork. Before hand, I've crushed some garlic, chopped some jalapeno peppers, minced the cilantro and onions, and juiced some lime (plus grated the zest of a lemon). Some rock salt and black pepper, and I'm ready to blend it all together. It makes for a lovely mix, and I'm spooning it over my salad or eating it straight with freshly cut carrots or radish chips. I like my guacamole spicy, and that will sometimes mean no one else can or will eat it. Heehee, more for me!

Moving things around

Space, the final frontier. Or in my case, the chance to create a den, full of books, where I can look out on a tree lined street and contemplate the movement of the clouds overhead.

The second bedroom will be free by the end of the month and I'll have a new room to move things into. And that includes a few banigs, my futon mattress which will serve as a sofa/bed, of course my books. I can also bring over more of my books from my parents' place as I now have more space!!!!

I will lose some of the free art that A had put up, but over time I will find something for that. I'll put in some plants upstairs. Maybe a tea set.

And perhaps, a cat! Feline companionship again.

Futbol dreams at an end for another four years

Penalty kicks are the bane of my Argentine soul. As soon as the Germany vs Argentina game went into a penalty shootout, I knew the dreams of this World Cup were over. S. Africa here we come. And that doees mean another crazy schedule trying to catch the games, as S. Africa is along the same time zone as Germany and most of Europe.

I'm of two minds whether to spend the time to watch the games this week. My team is out, and all I can hope for is that Germany doesn't make it. Any team but Germany is my motto now. Out of the four, I'd prefer Portugal, they haven't won a WC trophy, and this is as close as they've come in decades. The resurrected French team is up and about now that they've kicked Brazil from the semi's, and it would be a nice farewell to Zizou to bring it back across the border. And those beautiful boys in Italy would look nice on the winner's platform (they haven't played well this year, so I highly doubt their chances, but they've been lucky so far, and luck can play a big part in a championship). So any team but Germany please!

Out of breathe

Sky outside: gunmetal grey

Inside, I'm trying to catch my breathe. Feeling like I have to suck it in, all the way down to my belly to get a real breathe. Stress points on my neck and shoulders are bad signs of things to come.

New YM version 8, downloaded it and set it up. Lost some people on my friends list, so I re-added them, but now am not sure the others are able to reach me. Feels like the new version won't let the older versions "talk" to it. Annoying. May downgrade tomorrow.

Coffee with J. Cocktails with the Canucks. Post-cocktail drinks with D. Sleep... ? Just breathe.

Futbol part 2

Solar Sports has some kind of monopoly on the World Cup here, or perhaps there are other avenues for watching the games, but for the regular schmoes like me, I'm forced to either do one of the ff:
1. Watch delayed telecast (as in two days delayed telecast)
2. Go to some bar/hotel bar
3. Spend a lot of money to get the all access pass
4. Change cable access to Dream cable
5. Learn Japanese as one of the Japanese cable channels play the games live (if you have the right cable connections...)

I've been checking the FIFA website regularly. At least three times in the morning for updates on the games that take place at 11 p.m. and 3 a.m. Manila time. Then another couple of times just to look at pictures of cute players, hahaha. No, to read the stories/article of course. FIFA, the girls version of Playboy!

Last Friday, however, I gave up. After looking at all the possible options above and letting stress make my life decisions, I talked to a friend about how we'd watch the upcoming Round 16 games, especially the back to back Germany vs Sweden and Argentina vs Mexico games. This was especially important as the winners of both games would face each other on June 30 for the quarterfinals. My friend, Melissa, is a Germany fan, and I'm for Argentina. We discussed options galore, before I threw in the towel and called up the Mandarin to ask about room rates.

Saturday afternoon, fast forward just a bit. I've checked in, and have a lovely room with a firm king size bed and cushy pillows plus fruit welcome basket. I don't spend much time in the afternoon there, but I get back around 11 p.m. in time to prepare for the first game. A friend joins me, not Melissa, but we enjoy the remainder of the game between the outplayed Swedes and the properly supported Germans. I know my friends in Munich are going crazy, kudos to Steffi and Jan. But after I'm on my own, I settle in for my 3 a.m. vigil. There they are, my boys in blue and white, going against Mexico in green. The first ten minutes see me in throes of agony, when Mexico attacks first and get a goal within 6 minutes! Horrors! Finally, Argentina pulls together and manages to equalize. Big relief and I can feel my pulse settle down a bit. My stomach remains in knots and the rest of the game is no relief either. Argentina seems to play like they're in a quidditch game, the ball is zinging here and there without any sense of direction. While they maintain possession of the ball more so than Mexico, they can't seem to get their act together till the end of the 2nd half.

Extra Time: after watching the players getting stretched before they start up for the next 30 minutes of extra time, I'm not sure whether I can take anymore of the heartpounding stressful game. I need to sleep. But I can't. If I turn off the tv, I know I wouldn't be able to stay awake not knowing whether either team had taken the lead or it had gone to penalty shootouts (please, holy of holies, not that!). So I kept vigil and sure enough, Senor Rodriguez put in a BEAUUUUTIFUL goal off his left foot in the middle of the first 15 minutes. Pure elegance, pure beauty, pure football. The next 20 minutes didn't give either team much of a chance to score, but I was happy. Until I realize, next Friday I'll be all up in knots watching my boys up against those Germans. The last time they faced each other Argentina lost, in the semifinals of France 1998. And Germany has all those supporters, I can't watch, it's like a horror film. But I will be there, snuggled against the king size bedspread and comforted by lots of pillows. Mandarin here I come.

A sheltie gives birth to a miniature bull

Mr. Sandman gave me a real weird one this morning. I have weird dreams, in full color, with smells, tastes, the works. I sometimes think my mind must be exhausted coming up with the scenarios after a full nights sleep. While I haven't had any of the dreams analyzed, I've never written any of them down for one thing, I figured that today's blog and perhaps future ones, will be dedicated to this early morning, pre-alarm wake up call dream.
People in the dream: my friend Alen and a stewardess on a plane. I think we were on one of our road trips around the country, where he gets lost and doesn't ask questions where we're going and I get exasperated. But this time, he also had a dog, or a farm for dogs (which, being Alen, is unlikely in any form of reality). They were called shelties, those cute mini-collies, but they didn't look anything like shelties. More siberian husky meets golden retriever. One dog in particular was a sweetheart and spent most of the dream staying by my side. But she wasn't feeling well, and we were worried about her.
Then the dream shifted and I had to say goodbye to the "sheltie" eventually finding myself in a pier or an airport. I was loaded with luggage and about to board a flight. Alen then joins me (so we must be heading somewhere) saying in one of his "I have a secret" coy moods that he has something to give me. Then he hands over a small toy like creature. It's a miniature bull. About the size of one's palm and full formed. It's more like a stuffed toy, but it's breathing, and feels very much alive. Alen says that the dog wasn't sick, it just gave birth. And I don't blink an eye thinking it's so strange that a dog would give birth to a live mini-bull (horns and all). I cuddle it against my neck, and it's like holding a new puppy. Sweet and helpless. The plane begins to board and I'm handicapped by all the bags and the puppy/bull. So I put him/it into one of my duffel bags with enough airspace so I don't suffocate him. I suspect the airline won't want an animal on board, small as he is.
As I walk into the plane, I'm searching for the ticket/boarding passes. All I find are older tickets and boarding passes from other airlines, but they all connect to this flight. I see a ticket for Nagoya to Manila. I give the stewardess a flight that says Star Connector, a red eye that would have taken me from Anchorage to Narita. She tells me it's the wrong flight (in a chinese accented voice), but after going through all the other tickets, I tell her it must be the flight as the other flights are too old or not going in the direction I want. I can sense she's about to give in when...
I wake up.

PS: should I tell Alen that it's not right to give a new born bull puppy to someone? The poor thing probably needed to suckle at his momma's breast for a bit before being given away.

Lady plantkiller

I moved into my new townhouse last October and spent the first few months settling in. Bought some furniture, houseware, garbage cans, water, and other necessary accoutrements. As I was sharing the house with a friend, I left it to him to decorate, as it's his forte. However, we did have a minor disagreement over plants. I was for it, he wasn't. Partly due to his strange belief that plants equate to dirt, and he's anti-dirt, he didn't want a real, living, carbon dioxide reducing, oxygen emitting plant inside the house. Well, I've lived in enough places to know I needed some greenstuff, and so I plunked down a tidy sum to have a jeepney load of plants brought over one Saturday. I probably spent too much, and yes, I chose a vendor who is all the way in Makati, adding to the delivery charge. But the advantage there was seeing the plants before I got them, and having a nice relationship with the vendor before I had them brought over.

My first plant purchases included bamboos, herbs, spider plants, a nice feathery plant called rattlesnake (something about the leaves), a couple of large palms/palmeras, and some medium sized houseplants good for indoor spaces. Placing them inside the house, as well as in my pocket garden for the larger bamboos, I felt immediate relief. The house was starting to look like a real place, a living space. Yes, there was dirt, and of course watering, but the impact made a difference. Even my anti-dirt housemate changed his mind about what a plant can do to a space.

However, I am not one of the greener thumbed citizens of the world. Probably the biggest surprise of my life is how long I've managed to keep my plant in the office alive, given how little I give it in terms of water and other nutritional benefits. Among the plants I bought for the house, within the first month, the two basil plants were dead, and I was a bit concerned about the spider plants and a couple of the houseplants. I suspected it had to do with the humidity inside, but I also knew I needed to bring them outdoors to get some air. So I've spent a bit of time learning more about the plants, and moving them about the house. I also made the biggest mistake, overwatering them. My large palmera in the dining room is now officially kaput, and the diagnosis was overwatering. The leaves started turning brown in April and no matter how much pruning I did, it would continue along this route. The once proud fronds were limp, lifeless. And wilted.

Yesterday, I got some replacements. I've given up on my palmera, but bought a new ficus like plant, which I'm keeping outside for now to acclimatize. Eventually I'll bring it inside, although what I may need to invest in is some form of wheeled platform to avoid backpain when loading the pots up and down the stairs. I can mourn the 5 plants that have died since January, but at least the majority have survived my care so far. A relative success given my black thumbs. And my virtual thanks to my plant lady doctor, Delia, for making housecalls. I don't know what I'd do without people like her.

Uneven

I had it all planned out, a weekend of things to do, with enough downtime to get myself through the days. Saturday was market day and class, then Sunday I had time with friends and a party. However, best laid plans etc etc. What ended up happening was totally uneven, with all my social activities dumped on Saturday. From buying food at the market, seeing acquaintances there, having class in the afternoon, then going out for coffee with E, with the last minute realization that the party I had assumed to be on Sunday was really on Saturday night, I got home way after 2 in the morning and buzzed. Sunday was the perfect rest day, and I took advantage of getting up late and doing very little.

Finally had a taste of the chocolate mochi that Lori wrote about. My favorite is the dark chocolate, the slight bitterness melting into the sticky rice flour jacket dusted with dark chocolate powder. A definite tasty morsel.

I made guacomole over the weekend, and while the batch was a bit salty, it went well with the blue corn tortillas bought in a health food store. One after effect was the tingly sensation on my left hand from touching the green peppers I used in the guacamole. Got to use gloves when playing with spice.

Moleskines, printer blues, and public reading

18, count em, 18 journals, most of them unused, as in empty, or if they are scribbled in, maybe no more than a page or two have been used. If there's a vice related to this, call it journalama. But mayhaps I've found a cure, for one notebook has been easy to tote, easy to use, and has had over half of its pages filled, and that's my handy moleskine. After perusing the web, I find that a number of folks here in Manila are also mole lovers, and yet, we can't find them here. None of the bookstores sell them. Fully Booked, here's a niche market for you guys to consider! Or Different Bookstore! Yoohoo!

The lemon of a printer has conked out again. I need to print 1000 copies of a flyer asap and the day I am ready, the printer won't print. The Fuji tech guy sent over by Fuji Xerox doesn't know what to do, and he's annoying me with his inadequacies. Call me the client from hell, but the last thing I want is to be asked by the tech guy whether I have some cable or driver of which I know nothing about. They send over different people all the time, and just when we think they've figured it out, it goes conkers again and some other tech guy gets to annoy us once more. So not worth the money we've spent on it.

I'm heading to Instituto Cervantes tomorrow for the reading of Noli in Spanish. Have an early slot so I will have time on my hands to do ... nothing. What a wonderful way to begin a weekend.

Futbol!!!

One of my deepest, darkest desires is to eat lots of dark chocolate, swim in vats of it a la Willy Wonka's factory....

Sorry, actually, the deepest desire is really to go to the finals of the World Cup. Any, I don't care where it is going to be, but if I win the lotto, then I'm going to spend a gazillion dollars to get me a nice shady seat in the next one.

I've been a World Cup fan since 1982, and I've been a loyal fan of one team, Argentina, since 1982. They had won the 1978 games, but in 82 lost, only to get back on top in 86, when Diego Maradona was at the peak of his form. Since then, I've been a lurking fan, hidden in the outskirts of Asia, then the US, then back to Asia. And it's a beauty sleep killer, I tell you, trying to catch games being shown at 3 a.m. or whatever horrible time they do the broadcast.

But as it's only once in a four year cycle, and there's the advantage of seeing 32 of the best teams in the world, competing mano a mano or pied a pied to make it to the final game, I willingly give up my time, my sleep, my sanity to break out into my WC fan zone. There aren't many of us in the Philippines, and here's another thing I dislike about the situation I find myself in, trying to find a decent bar that shows the games, where I'm not jostled by rowdy, drinking DOMs. Give me my games in peace I say, but the cost is a tad too much. I asked, I did, but I blanched when I heard how much. So I'll suffer a beer, some ciggie smoke to watch my boys in blue stripes.

After Argentina, as chances are they may not get to the finals, I root for the ff in order: Italy, Brazil, France and Spain. The latter have yet to show what their cojones are made of, and I sometimes think I should switch allegiance to Portugal. Maybe this year I will toss Spain out for the Czech republic, who trounced the US today in decisive fashion, and who played good futbol. But still they'd have to get past my first three teams. Brazil's in good form this year, so they've got a chance to repeat, but I sure hope they don't. It'll turn into a monopoly if Brazil keeps winning.

I'm not a Germany and England fan. Beckham's cute and Ballack's a good captain, but neither of the teams makes me want to break out in shivers. They always seem like dogmatic, didactic, dull teams that manage to get through to the next round, but without any magic.

Given my support for any underdogs, I'd love to see a David-Goliath finals, take Trinidad and Tobago (who kept Poland at bay) and pit them against Italy (who have in the past f--ked up easy games), and see the world go crazy. That would be a game to see in person. Lotto, win a gazillion bucks, go to World Cup!

Tastes of Montreal

I’m slowly coming back to life, jetlag is not as overbearing, and I am sleeping through the night now. At work I’ve managed to get a grip on the emails waiting for an answer, and have completed some tasks that were waiting for me to get back.

Rifling through the papers I brought back, I realize I can’t find the menu from the last group dinner we had in Montreal. It was a lovely tasting menu from Europea, recommended by our hotel’s concierge. While the conversation tended to lean heavily on work matters, and some of our dinner companions were not welcome, the food was lovely and how I wish I could find the menu to rekindle some of the taste memories.

One aspect of fine dining that I never fail to appreciate is how much more you receive in terms of service and food than you initially need. You order a steak, but you also receive the amuse-bouche, and the palate cleanser and the petit-fours before you’re ready to return to the cold, harsh world. The service is attentive, and, within reason, accommodating. There is that sense of being coddled and protected, no matter how cold and wet it is outside.

Although the menu may be lost, I can pull out of my mental magic hat some of the more impressive moments of the meal: the foie gras that was pure velvet and cream on my tongue, not to mention warming to the blood; the goat cheese crumble, tart and nubbly, accompanied by that earthy walnut bread; the filet mignon of J’s, which was perfectly rare, and as tender to the cut of her fork as it was to the knife; the deer steak of T, an amazing learning experience of what game can be to someone who loves Bambi. And what is a tasting menu without the array of desserts: a cheesecake that wasn’t a cheesecake, the hint of lemon cutting the cloying richness, and an interesting sorbet full of layers and textures of fruit and ice.

On the more casual side, I did get to try three Montreal food groups: smoked meat, poutine, and bagels. I originally didn't appreciate the artisinal texture of the latter, as it is not the same as a New York bagel. But once I got to Sacramento and started sharing them, then a new way of looking at them emerged. The bagels remind me of the german pretzels I had in Munich last year, with a homey texture, a chewiness, and one friend commented that they taste different. So I'm not joining the New York vs Montreal bagel debate, if there is any, but I will enjoy them both.

Poutine was as I expected, gloppy. Fries smothered in gravy (listed as barbecue sauce) and cheese curds. Can there be anything less appetizing to hear than the word "curd"? Fresh cheese bits would be preferable. Poutine won't be on my must-try-again food groups, but it was a definite must-try at least once while in Montreal.

And finally, smoked meat. The phrase first made me think of a tough, slice of jerky, smoked over hickory chips and dried to a dark mass, good for long rides on a horse, following cattle. Don't know why that was what it evoked, but that's what I thought I'd be eating. Then I saw the real thing, and tasted it. It's pastrami! I thought, but softer, and definitely flavorful. The meat is marinated in herbs and spices, then cooked, either steamed or perhaps parboiled, before smoking it. It's tender, and lean cuts taste quite healthy (unless you're eating it with poutine). Good with a spicy mustard and dill pickles.

Katie's last day

Roseville, California. 86 degrees Fahrenheit. Sun blinding. Pool glittering.

I prefer an early morning swim in this weather. Nothing beyond 9 a.m., otherwise I'd need a sunblock of 100 spf.

This morning was reserved to watch Katie Couric's last day on the Today show. After over a month of tributes, the show took us through one more run through of KC's 15 years as the co-anchor of the premier morning show. My favorite moment was watching Tony Bennett sing The Way You Look Tonight and The Best is Yet to Come. I wonder if KC's cheeks hurt after having to smile the whole time, 3 hours of keeping a grin on your face must be painful. And can someone tell me what is eating Willard Scott? No wonder they pulled the plug on him. He was close to rude, especially to Al Roker.

The health issue is over, the sunlight is giving me back my strength, and not having to stress over anything is an added bonus. I was quite worried on Monday, not knowing if it was a simple illness or something worse. A test helped relieve me from one concern, but others must be pursued when I get home. A full health check.

There will be some weeks before I reconnect with someone at home. Time to see if new developments take us on a different path.

Wet, cold, bonjour from Montreal

It's cold, the streets are wet, my sandals are not doing my toes much good, and the sundresses I am wearing are sheer torture in this weather. Lucky I had brought some shawls, a few cardi's, and a quilted jacket. For the lower extremities, I have tights. But the whole wet and cold late spring wear is still not enough to stop this tropical girl from chilling out in a bad way. 10 degrees Celcius, with a wind chill factor of another minus 5, so it's cold. At times unbearably so.

Montreal has an underground maze, connecting all the hotels, including the one I'm staying in. But as it takes twice as long to get to the conference center or any of the major hotels where some of the sessions are taking place, it doesn't look like a favorable option when I need to get to work. Get soaked outside or be late inside? Quite a choice. Looks like taxis for me this week.

One of the best parts of attending this annual event is seeing friends I only get to meet once a year. JC is my roommate, so we are set for more bonding over chocolate and general gossip. Two of my favorite male buddies are here as well, both haven't changed that much, still as immature as the get go.

So far, we've had cocktails at a bistro made famous by Brando (Le Soubice), a creperie in the middle of the Vieux Montreal (probably too touristy for most, but it was a safe haven in the middle of a bad rain storm), and a Viet-Thai deli not too far from Place D'Armes. The only bagel I've had has been disappointing but will continue to hope for the best. And I have heard great things about the markets so I plan to try the Jean Talon and the Atwater (unsure of the actual name of this one but it's on the map) soon to buy cheese and other Quebec products.

Met up with R on Friday night. Probably not a good idea as nothing has panned out since we last saw each other. Looks like R doesn't want to communicate but I have left messages so it can't be said that I didn't try. C'est la vie indeed.

Friday looks the only day that I can visit the city a bit. I hope Julie gets time off to sit and chat. It's been years, and I think she has a baby. Will keep my fingers crossed that Carl and Weiya are around.

Brrr, must take a long hot shower and sleeeeep.

On the road again

Dear Diary,
I'm leaving on a jet plane, june 5 I'll be back again, oh blog, i love to gooooo....

Yes, am off to not-so-sunny Montreal tomorrow. Not yet packed, not quite organized, and anxious about avoiding certain people who I can't but really wish I could. Work! Pain in le derriere. Gotta practice my french!

Reminder to self: look for digital camera! get battery for said camera! delete pictures on memory disk!

Warm regards,
Moi

Subs

Last Sunday, Mother's Day to some, a day to waste for others, a bunch of thirtysomethings got together to be friends. We knew we had but a few hours of fleeting pleasure to be together and we didn't want to do anything serious. Frivolity was on the menu.

It's been sometime since we had had a Sunday lunch, our previous weekly binge fests had transformed into a once a month or impromptu text fest. That day, after fighting the winds of Caloy, we had the slightly damp look coming in from the rain. M, G, A and I were hanging out in bedroom, dillydallying over where to have lunch. We played a rerun of some oldy but goody tv classic, and spent more time procrastinating over what we wanted to eat. One hour later, we dragged ourselves back out into the greying light, and drove to Little Tokyo near Makati Cinema Square.

We had originally agreed to go to Kikofuji, where I had had a good lunch last Holy Week with J and J. But we probably should have called ahead, as Kikofuji was packed! Gills overflowing. The parking situation was our yellow light that we probably should have found someplace else. But we tried, and even had the support of a friend doing lunch there (thanks J!). To no avail though, so we had to go back out into the haze and find another outlet for our growing craving for Japanese food. Location wise, we were not at a loss for choice. If we had been on the cheap, there was Shinjuku or the grocery cafe around the corner. And next door were several similarly placed Japanese pleasure domes. So we went down the row and ended up in one of the other places, Seisoku (however, don't quote me, I must review the photos to get the name right). It was very empty, but unlike other empty restaurants, there wasn't a sense of despair and insecurity about its lack of custom. We also saw that they had a specialty - hand pulled noodles. I'm a sucker for artisinal hoohah.

With D joining us, we had enough stomachs to eat a cow. And the cow's four stomach's although I'm not that keen on internal organs. We ordered a range of dishes: grilled salmon, two kinds of noodle soup (using their touted hand pulled noodles), tonkatsu, a massive onigiri that reminded us of a cannon ball, agedashi tofu, mixed tempura, a boatful of sushi and sashimi, and lots of tea. We had a pleasant and relatively helpful waitress who did her best with our constant questions, and made sure we never ran out of anything. Kudos to Len. Food quality was a 7.5 to 8, and service was a high 8. Plus having the place to ourselves was a plus factor. We could enjoy the moment without dealing with other people's noise. If I had any gripes it would be that the serving of edamame left me wanting more. But it was enough to raise our expectations and not dampen our tastebuds. We didn't try any of the bathrooms so the review is incomplete. And in retrospect, while I didn't eat the tonkatsu, I was pleased to see that the pork fillet wasn't beaten thin as a sheet of paper and heavily coated with batter. There was a substantial piece of meat, thick enough and juicy enough. For the celebratory spectacle of the day, definitely the sparkler that came with the monster onigiri took the cake.

And after eating our fill, we all had dessert on our minds. Off we went to Razon's on Jupiter for sweet, custardy goodness. It was also gill-packed, but this time we stuck it out and got a table after 10 minutes of waiting. Much salacious talk ensued, perhaps all that food got our tongues wagging.

3 hours later, we were happy, fat, and ready to face our mothers.

Facing the end of something that was never real

How do you say goodbye? How do you end an affair? What words do you string together to make it easier for both parties involved? Does one put it baldly? Bluntly? Be cruel and cutting? Look down one's nose (hopefully with the right kind of curved beak suited for looking down on. A flat nose is just not apropos.) with a raised eyebrow? Point a finger at the door and say "begone"?

Then what do you do when the person you plan to cut dead writes you something that makes your knees feel like jelly? A simple sentence that stops you from ending it all, making you rethink whether it is time to cut it short. And then they tell you that your presence in their life is the only thing that makes them happy?

Taken with a modicum of salt, the idea of being a source of happiness is not enough to end the finality of the former decision. But it does delay the stay of execution. Maybe one more bite....

Losing my cockles

It was a beautiful morning, the sun slowly coming out of it's dark womb, the shadows of the mango tree hedging back, and the coolness gives way to a hint of warmth. I get up without incident, head downstairs to water the plants and enjoy the quiet of the morning.
By 6 I'm out of the door, fully prepared for the rest of the day. I get to the gym before the half hour, happy to avoid all the traffic and mess that will be building up in a bit. But that's where it hits me, it should have been so clear from the start that something was amiss. The tote bag was rather lite, but I didn't think anything of it until I was walking through the doors of the gym. I had forgotten my shoes at home! And I was wearing a skirt today. Gosh dang it and all the toned down swear words I could think of, it didn't quite look professional to be wearing trainers the entire day, plus it wasn't even my puma yoga shoes, but my ratty grey sneakers.
The only comfort I get from this is that the color of my trainers doesn't clash with my red and grey outfit. And as a friend told me this morning, I seem to be working it.

Another cloudy afternoon.. yesterday there was a bit of a rainstorm, and it looks to be the same. What a weird summer.

I had a semi-decent weekend, had to work so it wasn't quite as pleasant as all that. Plus my ego was damaged from a comment that someone texted to me. If it was from someone who mattered to me it would have been easier to take the criticism and it would have forced me to truly look at change. As it came from a relative stranger the major hurt comes from having someone make a judgement call before meeting me. Or maybe I had given the person too much of a leash to use against me. In any case, the hurt stayed on through the weekend. By Tuesday, a comforting comment by someone I shared the confidence with helped the healing process along and I was on my way to feeling normal again.

I am a puddle

Heat, this heat. Killing me. Brain cells dying. gah

I thought Puerto Princessa heat was just heat further south, therefore understandable. But the heat in Manila is just as bad, if not worse for being a few meters north and because I was on board a boat for a week and there was a breeze and I was not as hot as this foreffing'ssake.

Back to so-called civilization, hah. But I'm just suffering and feel the need to be bitter. Bitter about being back where the diving is at least 2 to 3 hours away by car, bitter that I missed out on seeing the hammerheads near the Malayan wreck and I'll need another year or two to go back to see those durn hammerheads. Post-dive blues. Woe is me.

On the upside a good friend is now married. Hope she married the right guy though. He should learn to smile.

And Friday, sweet Friday is not that far away.

Why does Citibank Visa think I need a credit increase? Aren't they making enough money off of me? Do they really need to tempt me with more debt? Yoiks.

A note before I go

Puerto Princessa, April 22, 2006. Weather - sunny, hot, too hot to stay outside.
We've arrived, waiting for the ship to cast off later tonight. A briefing at 6 will establish rules, regs, blah blah.
Am in room B4, Oceanic Explorer. I don't like the room much, prefer the rooms on the other side of the ship. This room is tiny, smells of gasoline (bought baking soda to absorb the smells), and I saw a roach. Bought Raid to kill roaches.
Doing email and blogging, too hot to go outside. May stop by Chowking for a halohalo before returning to the ship. Looking forward to the dives, although can't be certain that I can do all 19 dives. Will aim for a minimum of 4 dives a day though.
Received a heartfelt and passionate plea from S to meet in June. We'll see.
Won't have email for the next 5 days. Thank goodness. No cell coverage either. Must rely on my own resources and sleep. This will be a restful trip.

Will the second time be as charming?

I look at diving as one of my primary hobbies. I don't have too many vices, don't spend too much money on clothes and looking pretty. Diving is not cheap, and much of my savings gets siphoned off by paying for a trip or two. The equipment is an investment. I bought my suit, fins and other gear at the beginning and take care of them. I haven't had to replace any of them, although my short suit is languishing in the bathroom. I should sell it and use the money to pay for a trip!

One of the top ten dive sites in the country is Tubbataha. Better writers and photographers than I have written about the site/s, which is actually a set of dive sites located in the middle of the Sulu Sea. Among local and other international divers, Tubbataha is an ecological paradise, hard to reach, only dive-able for 4 months of the year. It has the blessings of many international environmental organizations, and part of the sustainable development there is covered by the WWF (not the wrestling silly-heads, but the group with the panda logo). Personally, my favorite part of the dives there is the presence of sharks and turtles.

The first Tubbataha trip I went on was in 2004. We had a small group of divers, many of them I met on the boat. We had a good divemaster who had amazing underwater vision, and could distinguish the smallest creatures and sight the big fish hundred of meters away. Our dives were punctuated by excitement over whale sharks, mantas, and lots of sharks and turtles. Each dive was unique, and it was a trip I will treasure for as long as my memory stays sharp. I can still visualize my first brush with the whale sharks, the first coming so close I could distinguish the pattern of her dappled coat and her soft eyes. The feeding manta that played by the boat for over half an hour, somersaulting till we grew dizzy watching it play. The school of barracudas parting like the Red Sea for the Israelites, closing back into their formation when we had passed. So many wonderful memories of that trip.

Tomorrow, I leave for another Tubbataha trip. Some of the fellow divers who were there in 2004 will be back. But most of the group are new to me. It will be a bigger group too. Less space to move around. I'll have a roommate this time. Won't be so easy to make a mess.

But whether this trip proves to be as memorable as 2004, I'm just happy to be going out of town. I need time away from the problems at the office, some new complications in my life, and family. I want to be where the most important part of the day is how many sharks were visible and preventing decompression sickness.

And should things go screwy, I am glad that a few of my important resolutions in life worked out this year. Good luck to me.

Holy popcorn batman!

I'm addicted, I admit it. They have made something I really like and would be happy to eat everyday. It would probably kill me if I did eat it everyday though. Holy Kettle Corn. Sweet but not caramel laden. Salty but not like eating a salt lick. Popped to perfection. Few, if any, of those annoying unpopped kernels that you get if you buy cinema popcorn.
I blame Carole, my friend who brought over three bags of the stuff to our group party in February. It was her contribution, but we had so much food that it was left unopened. She told me that it would stay fresh for a few more days. So in the post-party ennui, I opened a bag, and my stomach was hooked.
It doesn't help that there are outlets so near my office. I can go to the left of the building and there's a stand. To the right, there's another.
I buy the P60 bag, and eat it all in nearly a sitting. Sometimes two sittings. Then I lose my appetite for anything else. Would it be different if I were walking around and eating it?
It's supposedly healthy. But nothing that good can be a healthy snack. There's got to be a catch. Probably the only way it is a healthy option is if you eat three kernels.

Returning to old favorites with new faces

How many meals can you inhale over a weekend before it feels like any more calories would lead to a trip to the hospital emergency room? Not that eating is a bad thing, and some of my favorite bloggers fulfill my fantasy of a non-stop feast with some of their posts. But this last weekend does raise the bar on how much I ingested, and it was good food speaking to me, not some lowlife fast-food quest.

J, who's a restauranteur (although very low key and a somewhat reluctant one), started off the weekend by inviting me over for some of the cheese he swiped at a meeting. He said that it would be a simple meal, but I knew that his definition of simple and mine are polar opposites. He didn't disappoint. We had smyrna figs, walnuts, semolina cracked bread, olives and a good red wine to go with our cheese. Then he brought out the big guns, a chocolate fondue, made with 70% dark chocolate, along with a platter of fruit. Another friend followed bearing a trip of gelato samplers. We ate and ate, heading home happy at heart around 2 in the morning. I suspect my hangover wasn't too noticeable at the presentation I organized the next morning, but I could be wrong.

Saturday night, I had organized on behalf of a visiting friend of a friend, a dinner at Galileo Enoteca. After having had the pleasure of dining several times with friends including the famous Marketman lunch last November, GE has become a good place to drag visitors. It's so hidden and part of the fun is looking for it (although by now, I could get there blindfolded). Then they start to say how nice it is, and how they'd never figure it was there. Squeezing 10 when we originally reserved for 8 was also interesting. As usual, the reservation people there do seem to have a problem keeping details straight. I've had lost reservations, and last Saturday wasn't any different. They only had us down for 4, not 8 as I had requested. Conversation never slowed, must have been a good night for everyone, eating all the cheese and meat, pasta, and devouring every speck and lick of the dessert.

Sunday we had a day trip to Sonya's garden in Tagaytay, so I saved myself for a hearty and healthy lunch there, before spending a lazy afternoon being massaged. The evening found us on the balcony of Antonio's fully satisfied with the marvelous food, wine and ambience. It made us think of how to incorporate the place into a party next year. Ideas, ideas. Of course, when we were back at Sonya's, we may have amended the idea by considering having the event there instead, sharing a cottage with 20 of our favorite people.

T and L had not visited the other Antonio's franchise, so we stopped for drinks at Breakfast at Antonio to show the view to the visitors. A bit too much sugar detracted from the overall enjoyment of the view, the sun, the shakes. Was it ironic then that we should go off in search of the Ilog Maria Bee Farm, to buy honey and all the lovely products they make from honey and bee pollen? This was the third time we had planned to visit, so it was truly charmed. No one else was there and a moment of panic set in when we saw the Mondays closed sign. However, the store was very much open and we bought a good lot of things to try including the beeswax wood balm that I've been meaning to get. The idea of waxing my new sampaloc cutting blocks is making me feel very happy right now.

The last stop before returning to Manila was to try Manos Taverna, newly reviewed by Marketman and a few other bloggers. With few other customers out on the town on a Monday afternoon, we had to try as many of the dishes and found our favorites in the tsaziki and moussaka. The baklava was not as deadly as we had expected, but flavorful and nuanced with the clove and sprinkling of calamansi. It was perfect with my muddy and dark coffee.

We really couldn't eat anymore when we got back to Manila. We sat for hours talking, playing with the cats and just sliding towards laziness. What a lovely Monday!

Roach motels

Word of warning: if you hate cockroaches like I do, this post may be offensive to the eyes. Avert now!

I stayed overnight at a local condotel in Makati. I won't go into reasons for why I needed to stay there when I have a perfectly decent apartment. However, the day before I had been canvassing the condotel offerings in Makati and found that the Prince Plaza 2 was the cheapest of the lot, and they had a room available. I also know of the Prince Plaza through it's co-ownership by the ASB group which runs the BSA Suites and Asian Mansion. I can't say that all the ASB group hotels follow the same hygiene protocol, so this "review" only affects the Prince Plaza.

The rooms are sizeable, with enough room for three people to bunk, a small kitchenette and a refrigerator. Compared to the Somerset suites, the Prince Plaza is definitely downscale. The ceiling is starting to peel, the beddings look clean, but worn, and the bathroom could have used a new lick of caulking.

However, what truly grossed me out was the invasion of roaches. If you'd ever seen the movie "Joe's Apartment" you might get a sense of the number I saw of the tiny creepy crawlies I spied with my little eye when I turned on the bathroom light. Eeek. Double Eeek. I called Housekeeping and told them to bring the biggest can of Baygon. They fobbed me off. But as I didn't have time to look for another place to stay (and my visa had been charged already), I headed off to my appointment. Later that night, I had to use the bathroom. Holding my bladder in, I peeked into the bathroom, and saw a tiny speck moving around the toilet bowl. No, can't do this. But I need to pee!!!! Let's say it was roaches - 0, me - unimaginable carnage of bodies. But I really really had to pee.

I could have lasted the night had I not seen a few more of the specks out on the "dining table" whereupon sat some cups and saucers for a possible coffee break. Eck, no thanks, the specks were wandering higgledy-piggledy over the said tableware. Waiting in a corner for the sun to come out (ie not getting a wink of sleep) I left in time to get to the gym for a long hot shower (not before I shook all my things as vigorously as I could imagine, ready to stomp on any moving objects that landed on the floor).

If you got to this point and aren't feeling that sense of ants in your pants (or on your arm and back), then please, avoid PP2. Not unless you have fantasies of battling roach hordes.

Instead for the same price, book yourself a room at the new Hyatt in Manila. Probably not roach infested yet and, look, nice bay views!