Let us continue to praise the halo-halo

The mood darkened a little this morning upon my learning that the great phenomenal woman and poet that was Maya Angelou had departed yesterday--"flung up to heaven," as President Obama wrote in a statement on her passing.

Later, I perked up at the prospect of a reunion lunch (actually an excuse to enjoy halo-halo) with Chit Roces Santos, her Vergel, her tall-for-her-age grand-daughter Mona, who's missing a couple of front teeth, and the master of guffaws (he should patent them), Pablo Tariman.

Summer spells Milky Way halo-halo. My glass before it was emptied in, oh, 10 minutes.

Pablo and I like to listen to VOS expound on what's happening in the political arena, the lapses of media in reporting on what's truly going on (Pablo observes that there hasn't been a Woodward-Bernstein type of investigative reporting as far as the Napoles and other issues are concerned).

After we tucked in a healthy fish and veggie lunch, we proceeded to attack our glasses of summer's ice-cold jewels, the halo-halo. Chit though tried to fool herself into believing that going rice-less and ordering mais con hielo meant lower calories. Mona had a strawberry shake and wore a white moustache briefly that I wasn't able to capture on my camera.

Chit and I agree with our idol, Gilda Cordero Fernando, who wrote recently in her Sunday Inquirer column: "The queen of the coolers is, of course, the halo-halo. Whoever said it originated from the Japanese mongo con hielo must be deluded. Only a Filipino could have dreamed up a jeepney or a halo-halo."

Our smiles (especially Mona's and mine) read: "Orange you glad you traveled more than a mile for your halo-halo?" Not in orange are Vergel, Chit and Pablo.

Look for the sign.