Living apart but zooming together

Screenshot by Gigi Lolarga The year 2020 taught me how to be at home in a Zoom room. So when the primary movers and shakers behind the Lolarga Virtual Reunion announced that we would attempt to lasso all the surviving first generation, second, third and fourth gens in one room, I was more than game. Spinning in my mind was the Burt Bacharach song from the '70s, "Living Together, Growing Together," from Lost Horizon as I asked, nagged, cajoled my siblings and my immediate family members in Baguio and Los Angeles to please show up. We were requested to come in our festive best. Rolly picked the color red for our outfits. Kimi and my grandchild Kai turned up in matching Mickey Mouse PJs. I was assigned to give a message to the Lolarga-Romero-Valdellon clan spread all over North America and Hawaii, and it was one of remembrance of the woman who started it all and kept the family together. Welcome to the first Lolarga reunion on Zoom. Let us honor our grand matriarch, Telesfora Cariño Lolarga. She was Mamang to our parents, Auntie Purang to nephews and nieces, Lola Purang to the rest of us. We owe this formerly annual tradition of gathering the clan to her. The parties were first held in her home in Sampaloc, Manila. Then the venue moved to the home of her son, Uncle Esting, on Malumanay Street, Teachers’ Village. Auntie Linda and Uncle Esting hosted reunions with aplomb. Tandang-tanda ko pa! They danced the singkil complete with umbrella and clacking bamboo poles. For a child like me, nothing that the Bayanihan Dance Troupe did could equal the spectacle that I watched up close. To Lola reunions are important. They enable us to see the latest family additions. Above all, they are occasions for thanksgiving. We the grandchildren and even the great grandkids believe so, too Especially during this pandemic, we long to see one another’s face on the small screen as an assurance that we have survived. Not just survived but prevailed over whatever our circumstances are in, whatever region of the world. Thankful we are, Lola, for the great example that you set. Thankful again for this opportunity to make another set of memories, to have a load of fun. Merry Christmas, everyone!

The soulful lass from Bataan

Alma Cruz Miclat with a copy of Soul Searchers and Dreamers, Volume 2 Below was my introduction to the author of Soul Searchers and Dreamers, Volume 2, at last night's Zoom book launch-cum-birthday celebration. Even before she retired from her day job as a business executive, Alma Cruz Miclat has been dallying with words. I first encountered her words, not Mario's, not Maningning’s, the other writers in the family, in the anthology The Writers’ Wives edited by Narita Gonzales. I noted that she was a diary keeper during their long, 15-year exile in China. But Mario, as she wrote it, “did not want me to record anecdotes in my small diary. He was afraid that if found by others, the diary would be misconstrued as notes of a spy, or a class enemy, or a counter-revolutionary.” Nonetheless, Alma’s essay in that year 2000 collection stood out in my head, especially when she waxed lyrical in describing “the first snow in our life. Snow was not only a most beautiful sight in winter. Its whiteness covered the coal-blacked smokestacks, the dusty red bricks, the withered leafless trees, the pavements sullied by frozen spit.” I came away impressed with the writer’s command of language and her sharp memory. Since then I have followed her writings in Inquirer and other anthologies the latest of which is To Be in History: Dark Days of Authoritarianism edited by Melba Maggay. I found out that she was the daughter, one of eight children, of an ex-USAFFE medical attendant who became a fisherman after the war and a mother who helped sell fish in the market. Alma wrote in an understatement, “It was not an easy life.” But she came from a generation that valued education as the key to getting out of hardship. She went to the University of the Philippines where she became an activist and met the love of her life, Mario, whom she married in an underground ceremony where they exchanged bullets instead of wedding rings. O, sino-sino sa atin ang may ganyang bragging rights? Maraming pinagdaanan sina Alma at Mario. Kasama na ang pag-aaruga ni Alma sa kanyang asawa hanggang bumalik ang kalusugan nito upang mabuo ang pangalawang nobela kasunod sa Secrets of the 18 Mansions. Tumungtong ngayong araw na ito si Alma sa edad setenta. Mukhang napapanahon na para siya rin ay lumikha ng mahabang istorya. Kaya mo, Alma. Ang tingin ko sa mga maikling ulat mo sa Soul Searchers and Dreamers ay marikit na mga practice pieces para sa mas malaking obrang susunod. Am I scaring you off on such a happy occasion as tonight? No intention to do that. But my dreams for you, dearest Alma, are as vast as the Great Wall of China that you once traversed. May your 70s be the start of something big! NOTE: The book can be ordered through maningningfoundation@gmail.com or 09189057311. Payment for the book can be coursed through BPI Savings Account No. 0326-0448-45; or GCash: Banaue M. 0999-5042898. Delivery charge will be on the buyer.

Family and friends at Alma Cruz Miclat's Zoom event hosted by Dr. Orestes P. Monzon (third from left, top panel)

Rewarding myself

When I work hard, I play harder. Playing includes writing and mailing letters, scribbling in my diary and reading or looking at art. Last week my daughter brought up a package I ordered from Nina L. Yuson consisting of her book Nina's Travel Sketches: Europe, a set of her postcards and another set of her heart-shaped, hand-sewn thingamajigs. The last will be trimmings for our 2020 Christmas tree, and yes, we're going all out in trimming the tree as an exercise in joy during an especially harrowing year. My husband Rolly and I take very good care in turning the pages of Nina's book. We find her drawings and watercolors delicate and fragile, even the way the book is constructed with a ring binder. But oh! We gasp at her skill in rendering, from a dog's, person's and bird's eye views, the places in the European continent that we working stiffs can only aspire to visit one day. Those spots remain an unreachable goal, never to be achieved in this lifetime given the swath of the COVID19 virus and our combined budgets. Even the artist, the founder of the Early Learning Center and the Museo Pambata on Roxas Blvd., has her own wish. She wrote in her foreword, "Although this is my fifth collection of sketches to be published, it is still my fervent wish that one day some of them will be chosen to adorn the menu covers of an airline, perhaps, our flag carrier, and what more I could see them on the side of an aircraft!" So what are you #reading this weekend? I'm reading, I'm looking and I'm unusually content.

I shall eat pie every single day (or until it runs out)

My family members are fans and followers of Sweets and Greens in Baguio. We relish its home deliveries of lemon pound cake that gives the taste of sweet and sour a new definition. Baguio-ites, hear this. They have a new product: Rhubarb Strawberry Pie. It is billed in their FB page as "juicy, sourly sweet, tangy and tart all wrapped up in a flaky, buttery crust." It's all that and more. It brings back memories of earlier times in my youth when the family gathered around the table for pie with a half gallon of vanilla ice cream waiting to turn it into a la mode. I distinctly recall the apple pie of Goodies N' Sweets at the old Greenhills Shopping Center that was the centerpiece of special gatherings. It came with a caramel sauce that was drizzled over the warm pie. Yesterday's pie arrived at exactly 11:32 a.m., right before we went down for lunch in the dining room. The family had been waiting for it since Friday. There was a miscommunication between the pie seller and me. I failed to check the order delivery date (Nov. 27, it said), expecting the pie on Nov. 20. You can't imagine the groan of disappointment from my family, especially from Rolly Fernandez, when I announced that our order had been moved back. I pleaded with seller to please move it by a few days forward. My plea was accommodated. We declined the custard that was supposed to be paired with the pie, saying we'd have ice cream on top of it. And that we did with matching rolling of eyes till the whites showed. Yeah, I know, a bit exaggerated in comparing the eating to an orgasmic experience. But it was. Photos by Kimi Fernandez

Missing Manny

I will leave his surname unsaid in deference to the family's wishes for privacy. But since one of his bosses in the publishing world, Maria Karina Africa Bolasco, has paid her respects to him in this forum, I will follow with my long-delayed tribute of sorts to he who was both colleague and friend, my candy buddy who'd hand me a cube of cloyingly delicious caramel after a blah lunch. Manny became Manni, then switched back to Manny and finally M.G. in the book credits. I was happy and honored to do quick edits for him and Gilda Cordero Fernando, the perfect pair to ever grace the Philippine book universe. For he was that rare creative director--he read the raw manuscripts, gave his insightful inputs (no wonder GCF gave him co-author status in the Bench-sponsored landmark tome Pinoy Pop Culture). In what seemed to have been his last design job (correct me if I'm mistaken, Katya Guerrero), the volume on the life and art of Constancio Bernardo, Manny just had the old man's abstract work wrap both front and back covers, no text whatsoever. That spoke volumes. I will miss opportunities to again be handmaiden to geniuses. For you were one, Manny, and somewhere, sometime I will again play the long-playing vinyl you gave me of Sarah Vaughan singing Michel Legrand compositions. Adieu!

Benjie and Carina

Oil on canvas by Benjie Mallari

"Palm Sunday," oil on canvas by Mario Parial Upon waking yesterday morning, I reached for my phone instinctively, half dreading what the day's news feed would bring me. The month of October has been a period of reaping of good souls. First, there was Mario Baluyot, my husband's best friend and our compadre. Next was graphic designer Manny, one of the country's best and whose passing I could not mourn openly in this space as a gesture of respect to the family's wishes. Next came Vic Tirol followed quickly by Benjie Mallari. And yesterday, the painter Mario Parial's wife and muse, Carina. It doesn't help that the heavens are sending gusts of wind and pelting us with rain. Husband Rolly Fernandez and Benjie last saw each other at our home two months ago. He arrived after breakfast lugging a painting from his last show. No, Rolly wasn't out to purchase it. He and Benjie had a tradition of swapping art works. I overheard them laughing and exchanging stories over mugs of coffee in the veranda while I attended to house chores. The friends parted before lunch. As Rolly escorted Benjie to his vehicle, the latter's last words were, "P're, eighty thousand 'yan!" When my husband relayed this to me, I laughed inside. It was typical Benjie statement laced not with arrogance but with lightness and humor. We were glad that he had come up in the art world. Our encounters with Carina were always linked with Mario. We first made our Parial purchase at the old Heritage Art Center on Lantana Street, Cubao. I chose the Palm Sunday scene, drawn to the innocence of the children's faces and the almost naif-like style of the artist. When Rolly gained Mario's acquaintance and friendship, we would make trips to their Marikina home. Collector hubby would climb all the way to Mario's attic and rummage through old works, including a 1965 print. The artist appreciated that Rolly liked his prints and bought scores of them, later exhibited at Hiraya Gallery. In fact. before Carina passed on, she had planned on following up the book on Mario's paintings with a second one on his prints. What we liked about the works, especially where females figures were concerned, were the women had the shape and features of Carina's cameo-like face. She was truly his inspiration, and she returned his devotion in kind. I used to see her at the Fine Arts faculty room at the University of the Philippines Diliman handing out invitations to Mario's show. She had a personal word with each of the invitees. She was that gracious. On this day colored a bleak gray, my family and I send you off with wishes of happy rainbow trails, Benjie and Carina!

Mario, we still have much to talk about

Mario at Carmel by the Sea I must confess I am unable to find the words to express my grief. Since yesterday, my family and I have kept abreast of developments after we received word that our friend Mario M. Baluyot suffered a massive heart attack. During our meals, Rolly and I talked of him as though he were with us at the table, praising him for his generosity, his wanderlust (the two top things my daughters Kimi and Ida remember about him), with the unuttered wish that maybe, just maybe, God would still give his big heart a fighting chance. Today another friend based abroad, Wilson Guysayko Bailon, broke the news that Mario is gone. With tears unshed and with a shot of adrenaline that kept me lucid in the early hours of the morning, I emailed Mario's son BJ to convey our condolences in what I hoped to be not too trite and cliche-ish words. Mario was Kimi's baptismal godfather. Before those ties, he and Rolly were already tight buddies in the journalistic circle although they worked for different newspapers, Mario at Manila Bulletin, Rolly at Daily Express. They were Upsilon fraternity brods and that sort of bond is hard to sneeze at. Later, Mario moved to Agence France Presse where he formed a union of two with Monica S. Feria, if memory serves, and which was ground for his termination. When Mario moved to California, we kept in touch by snail mail and later, by email. He sent me and the children books by parcel which kept our hours full in a Baguio house that then had no television. When Rolly and I traveled to the US in 2008, Mario volunteered to be our "taxi driver" all over Los Angeles and all the way to San Francisco via the ultra-scenic Pacific Coast Highway. We ran out of gas mid-way, but Mario was unfazed. A Mexican handyman gave us free gas and we pulled away with a wave and a "Gracias!" At each stop he and Rolly would fight over who'd pay the restaurant tab. Usually, Mario won. He also brought us to the Hearst Castle, to Oprah Winfrey's favorite restaurant in Santa Barbara, to Canterbury Records in Pasadena where we spent an afternoon picking through classical and jazz CDs, to Norton Simon Museum for my encounters with Auguste Rodin, to Carmel by the Sea where I was able to snap a picture of him among the flowers. Most of all, he brought us home to our best selves--the selves we enjoyed when the company was good, when the food was savory to our tongues, when the music soothed, when the conversation was deep and uninterrupted and provided glimpses to our souls. Truly, as your frat's hymn goes, when we meet each other in the sun, there will be much to tell.

Mario and Rolly at the centennial of their fraternity

Sunrise, sunset

Jared wearing anti-glare glasses that make him look mature

Kai online with Satchi as saling aso

Max as Binibining Palitaw

They were the little boy and little girls I carried. And now they are testing the video and audio of their respective home computers as they attend the orientation week of their schools. Except for Machiko Susi, a.k.a. Max, who's still on an extended summer from the University of the Philippines Integrated School. Which is why she's holding up a plate of palitaw that she had prepared under the supervision of her Wowa Pinky Lolarga Susi and yaya Sherilyn.

My family is agreed that Jared Susi (first photo) looks like an ultra-young executive as he meets his classmates onscreen. Kai has a photo bomber in Satchi, the golden retriever, who's peeking through the window, curious about the girl's activity.

As I write this, I hear Kai and classmates saying "Hello" and "Hi" to one another at their post-recess resumption of classes. Kai is a wee shy about speaking up so she just types her remarks.

Earlier today, she kicked me awake at 7:30 a.m. for not rising earlier to help her prepare for breakfast and home school. I was just coming out of a dream where I saw photographers Ev Espiritu and Wig Tysmans in a bus headed for interior Cordillera. As I tried to sort out the dream's message, Rolly took over the morning supervisory duties--seeing to Kai's full breakfast and getting her ready for online class.

I hear the teacher asking "Are you ready now?" And the pupils answering, "We are ready!" I think there's something to this home schooling thingy--grandparents like me being passive/active listeners and ready to assist these young souls whom we are privileged to shepherd.

Paella bella

My tiredness from preparing and cooking today's lunch has dissipated after my grandchild Kai rated the paella I served a 9.5. Even the other picky eater, Rolly, was so pleased that he asked me to duplicate the dish on his 70th birthday early next month.

Daughter Kimi, who took the picture below, said I should issue a disclaimer saying that I was not responsible for the uneven cutting of the hard-boiled eggs. Kai was. Maybe that's why the dish's rating is point five short of perfect.

I owe the cooking knowledge for this particular paella to Des Bautista's wife Auring. Weeks ago she demonstrated how it was done and even gave me the Paellero seasoning (it's a brand) and saffron threads for the day when I would find the courage to inaugurate our paellera with this well-loved dish. The paellera had idly sat behind our oft-used pots and pans for years waiting for this day.

What went into this one-pot dish? Onions and garlic sauteed in olive oil, Chinese chorizo, bite-size pieces of chicken breast, green peas, green bell pepper and jasmine rice. I made sure there was also burnt rice (tutong) for Rolly to dig into.

Next time, if budget allows, we add prawns, mussels and squids for the truly decadent paella of his dreams. Rolly's message to Ernesto V Enrique: "Sayang hindi tayo magkapitbahay. Otherwise, you get half of this."

Nostalgia for Vinzons Hall's beef stew

Every time we have some kind of meat stew, Rolly waxes nostalgic over the one he used to eat as a student at the University of the Philippines Diliman. For the beef stew, he went to Vinzons Hall. When he had saved more from his allowance, he went to the Tea Room of the College of Home Economics where a viand would cost five pesos, a fortune then in the late 60s.

I am five years younger than him, and I always brought baon for lunch at the university so I don't have his kind of memories. It has been hit or miss whenever I cook stew. Like today, I studied again a video of Simpol's Chef Mike Tatung Sarthou cooking a simplified menudo, then read a bit of Nora V. Daza's biography and collection of recipes A Culinary Life by Mickey Fenix.

Mrs. Daza and Sarthou both encouraged the use of available ingredients. Instead of potatoes, I used chayote freshly plucked by my grandchild Kai from the village vine. I had carrots, canned green peas and garbanzos plus half a packet of raisins at hand to add to the pot. Problem was the meat--tough beef shanks that I tried to soften by rubbing them in garlic salt and letting them stand for an hour.

Sarthou also used hot dogs. I sliced the remaining Hungarian sausage I found in the fridge. All the slices of sausage went to Kai's plate because she didn't want to deal with the beef shanks even if I cut them into two-inch squares.

Rolly still wished aloud for the tender cuts of meat that he tasted in his youth. It was a cue for our daughter Kimi to look for a different cut next time she goes to Monterey Meats.

Kai and camera

Satchi, Kai's playmate, at rest

Grandmother caught dollying herself up even if she's just working from home

Selfie with Satchi's snout

Kai, the nine-year old in our house, has found an old Canon digicam to keep her busy. She snapped away but was careful to compose her shots of Satchi and me. She would immediately delete anything that didn't meet her standards.

I asked my husband Rolly where she learned all these things because I didn't go out of my way to teach her anything about how to use a point and shoot camera. He claimed that it was all his doing.

Kai perked up on hearing we were discussing her doings again. "No!" she said. It was her Tita Maria Klaridelle A Reyes who taught her how to work a real camera, not the toy dangling by her wrist.

Thanks, Kla, the fruits of Kai's apprenticeship are evident in these pictures. Why, I've even requested her to take photos of the books that I've lined up for reviewing.

A pot of mechado, a bottle of beer and thee

Indulge this Aling Kusinera for awhile. Mechado is special to me and my siblings. We associate it with our mother, the great cook Gliceria D. Lolarga, who lived (almost) to feed and care for us to a healthy adulthood. Her mechado wasn't special Sunday fare--it was served on a regular day with us fighting over the sauce and the meat.

That is, until I tasted the mechado of sculptor Jerry Araos that used the fat-marbled batok of the cow. The dish is served at Gourmet Gypsy Cafe, 28 Maginhawa St., Up Village, Qc, immortalized in the menu by his daughter Waya.

For today's lunch, I brought down a couple of beef shanks from the freezer last night to thaw out overnight in the chiller. After breakfast, I rubbed garlic salt on the meat, a tip I picked up from Chef Mike Tatung of the FB program Simpol. The salt helped speed up the tenderizing of the meat.

With Kai as my kitchen helper, we prepared the carrots, potatoes, garlic and onions while I nagged Rolly to look for a slender bottle of black olives to add further flavor to the dish. We had run out of bell peppers.

Pot of mechado simmering on the stove

Using my daughter Kimi's cast-iron pot, I sauteed what Chef Tatung called the aromatics together with overripe cherry tomatoes. The meat was fall-off-the-bones tender after almost 45 minutes of simmering in its marinade, water and tomato paste.

When it was time to serve my take on Mommy's mechado, Rolly said that all it lacked was a dash of red wine to enrich the sauce.
He rated our ulam for lunch and for tonight's dinner a "7.0." I didn't ask for Kai's opinion anymore. It was enough that she was part of the preparatory stage.

Another day in the life in the kitchen.

The Book Lovers Day I missed

I was so taken up cooking yesterday's adobo that I forgot to add my bit about the observation of International Book Lovers Day, normally landing on the ninth of August of every year.

My husband Rolly and I share a computer so when he's busy reading and working online, I take it as my cue to read. When it's my turn to use the PC, he brings out his current reading fare--Adrian E. Cristobal's The Tragedy of the Revolution. He likes reading history, non-fiction generally.

Which suits me well because when I want a current and complicated political issue explained, he gives the historical context of why Filipinos behave the way they/we do, with lessons from the past unlearned or ignored.

My reading preference veers towards fiction and creative non-fiction or the essay. I am currently reading Yiyun Li's novel The Vagrants set in post-Mao Zedong China. I keep remembering the expatriate lives that Alma Cruz Miclat and Mario Ignacio Miclat led there as they carried out their patriotic duty to our own unfinished Revolution.

The book is a Christmas present from Delfin Tolentino, and he has been checking up on me if I've opened it. One of the fulfilling pleasures of my life is talking book talk with this retired professor.

I must confess I read slowly and in snatches. My eyes tire easily which is my cue to look after my grandchild and watch her at play.

The second photo shows my pile of books left unread or half-read--all Filipiniana that I acquired either at Mt Cloud Bookshop or at the Philippine International Readers and Writers Festival last year.

Another festival is going online this weekend, the First All-Filipino Online Bookfair Aug. 16-18. But at the rate I'm reading my pile of books at turtle's pace, I'll resist the temptation to peek at the latest titles available.

Sunday lunch

It has become a Sunday habit to just order our food and have it delivered. But not on this foggy and rainy day when the motorcycle rider might have a hard time looking for our house and navigating the zigzag road to our village.

After our champorado at dilis breakfast, prepared by Rolly, I checked the freezer to see what was going on there. There were pork ribs and chicken breast. Adobo! I thought. Merely thinking about this comfort dish already makes me salivate. But oftentimes, I get the cooking wrong due to too much soy.

So I researched in Chef Tatung's Simpol FB page for a simple procedure. I followed him to the letter and was careful about the amount of soy sauce I poured onto the sizzling meat. Also I wasn't used to cooking the mixture with water, but since the chef specified this liquid, I followed him.

I let the rest of the ingredients boil for half an hour. Meanwhile, Rolly and Kai were agitating for food since it was way past noon. He asked that yesterday's Dipasupil de recado longganisa be re-fried while she helped herself to another bowl of champorado.

The adobo was ready by 1:15 p.m., and I was the only one to partake of my cooking. Rolly and Kai said they'd have it for dinner.

And isn't that the beauty of an adobo? It keeps well and tastes better hours and days after it's cooked.

Dreaming of when it's over

Kai and Satchi

"What will this bleak time be called when it's all over?" ~ Tweet from Pamela Colloff

I'm afraid my grandchild Kai has recently developed some kind of insomnia. Every night it takes her later and later to fall asleep, and it's usually after midnight. No, she doesn't take an afternoon siesta. I'm beginning to worry that she's suffering from some anxiety that makes nodding off difficult for her.

She's active the whole day--playing with the dog Satchi, feeding her, giving her vitamin, chatting on FB Messenger with her cousin Machiko Susi in Antipolo, playing pretend with her miniature figurines and dolls, an hour of Netflix cartoons. You'd think that's already a full day for a child.

Yesterday she carefully wrote on two postcards and told her pen pals about how bored she was. And I quote: " Extreeeeeemely bored! Satchi is bored too waiting for me to go outside and play. Sometimes I am able to see a very pretty butterfly. Oh! And to go to parties!"

My Chocolate Kiss memories are made of these

Kai enjoying her Devil's Foodcake at Chocolate Kiss, UP Diliman

Oh boyoboyoboy! I lived for these cakes whenever I visited my old stomping grounds, the UP Diliman campus, right, Geraldine? Hoping The Chocolate Kiss Cafe will have a second reincarnation, maybe operate from the owners' house the way Estrel's Caramel Cakes does. Permanently closing it down sounds so final.

It was my late professor, Nieves Epistola, who introduced me to the campus cafe at the Bahay ng Alumni when I was scheduled to interview her on the occasion of her 75th birthday jubilee and 50th year of teaching for Daily Globe and Ang Pahayagang Malaya. She had a favorite table for two where she led and sat me and where we chatted over lunch, coffee and dessert for over an hour. The waiters knew her and took care of her every need.

My family of cake lovers, particularly daughter Ida and grandchild Kai, learned to love the cakes, too. Kai was partial to the Devil's Food Cake and has a picture somewhere with a moustache of white icing above her upper lip somewhere in her mother Kimi's phone camera. It would've illustrated my point well.

When I was a returning Fine Arts major in Diliman, the Kiss was where I'd hie off to meet up with Margarita Holmes and husband Jeremy or art prof Yasmin Almonte for friendly lunches. If I had enough allowance saved, I'd treat myself to breakfast there--coffee, daing na bangus with fried garlic rice, fried egg with the yolk well done and cake so early in the day.

During one of his fellowships with his Upsilonian brods, Rolly celebrated his birthday with a breakfast with Des Bautista, Guido Canero, Jo Salazar, Wawell Osorio. After we were done with our daing, Des, a Baguio restaurateur, called the waiter and asked him to collect the skin of the bangus left on our plates and to have them deep fried by the cook. The staff accommodated his request, and we enjoyed Des's version of bangus chicharon.

Reluctantly, I kiss the cafe goodbye!

Some like it sour

This pandemic has been kind to some small businesses, particularly the ones involving food delivery.

For the past two weeks, we've had different kinds of bread delivered to our door by the Baguio-based baker from Sweets and Greens. My daughter Kimi discovered the outfit through a Facebook ad and decided to try it out after being enticed by photos of its products.

It was love at first bite when Kai sliced and tasted the glazed lemon pound cake. She can easily finish half of it spread over a few hours between meals.

There's a variation of that bread, this time with herbs baked into it. It is just as good and lemony (sour, not sweet).

Sweets and Greens delivers to Baguio residents every Tuesday and Friday. This is not an ad. It is a full endorsement. Let's support our local bakers.

As for Rolly, he would like it better if the pound cake was heavily infused and aged with rum.

The art of improv

Yesterday was market day for Kimi as we were running low on supplies. Before she left, she brought down from the freezer a piece of chicken breast. I was to make chicken curry out of that one piece. And it wasn't even fat.

Midway as Kai and I prepared the ingredients, she quartering the potatoes, cutting the carrots and slicing the green and red bell peppers while I took care of the aromatics (garlic, onions, ginger and green chilies), I remembered my mother Gliceria D. Lolarga. When she was alive, she'd prepare a side dish of hard-boiled eggs to go with the curry.

It was the first time my husband Rolly heard of such. He surmised that it must be because Mom had to feed eight children so she needed extenders the way one put potatoes in an adobo dish.

I cut the chicken into several bite-size pieces. Kai timed the boiling of the eggs. I usually allow the eggs to boil for eight minutes to ensure the yolk isn't runny.

My grandchild was in a good mood--her mother and guardian was out, after all, and she could watch TV while having her lunch. Fishing for compliments, I asked her what the grade of our ulam was. From the living room she shouted: "Ten!"

I think the eggs did the magic.

With a lot of assist

Today's meal, Sweet and Sour Meatballs, I owe to Chef Mike Tatung of the FB page Simpol and the YouTube video of Panlasang Pinoy with a lot of gut feel and assist. My little kitchen assistant is Kai who can chop and quarter carrots with aplomb and can now slice bell peppers and remove the seeds with ease. She also peels and pounds the cloves of garlic.

Taking the cue from Tats Ernesto V Enrique who advised that I shouldn't cook when I'm tired as the tendency was to end up with a salty dish, I just placed a pinch of salt in the ground beef round but lots of black pepper and liquid seasoning. In went the whole carrot I grated, minced onions and leeks. I formed balls out of the meat, then my daughter Kimi Fernandez placed them in her air fryer but not without first drizzling them in olive oil so they didn't dry out.

The sauce came with sauteed garlic and onions. I threw in the carrots, which Kai chopped into tiny quarters (I still have to teach her to make florettes out of them), and the bell peppers. In went a little soy, a little vinegar, water with flour dissolved in it, two teaspoons of brown sugar and finally, the pineapple chunks with a little of the juice in the can they came in.

Kai gave the dish a rating of 4.5 over 10 which is still not passing. But the adults ate con gusto, and we planned on repeating the making of the sauce, this time to pour over fried lapu-lapu.

Rolly's role in all this? He efficiently washed the dishes.

Photo by Kimi

Some things I miss

On this throwback Thursday, I look back to the year 2015 when my family and I took eating out for granted. I also took for granted that the natural curls on my grandchild's head would stay there for good, but we enjoyed them for less than a year. The minute she had a haircut, the curls refused to grow back.

That was also the year I wore my "Mrs. E sunglasses" all over the place until one day at the UP Infirmary in Diliman, while I was distracted, I placed the pair down a side table and forgot about it.

Wearing Mrs. E (as in Epistola) sunglasses with curly-haired Kai behind me

Al fresco dining at Chaya Baguio

Matcha ice cream with red mongo

Baguio used to be known as a restaurant hub until COVID-19 put a stop to our frequent dining out. Although we're glad to learn that CHAYA Baguio remains open for take-out and delivery, my daughter Kimi, the expert on the subject, says Japanese food isn't quite as good as when you eat it in situ with all the elegant ceramic ware. The food doesn't travel well, and we live outside city limits.

What I terribly miss is the free after-meal matcha ice cream that Chaya serves in a mini bowl with a sliver of red mongo beans. Don't even say the word "sukiyaki" or else I will weep copious tears.

Postal mail resumes

All collages by Ogot Sumulong

A hint of normality returned to my life when my daughter Kimi brought up to Baguio from our house in Pasig some letters addressed to me. They all came from one source: Ogot Sumulong of Chicago, Illinois.

Ever since we reconnected a few years ago, he and I have been exchanging postcards and letters apart from emailed messages. Although he's in FB as Agu Sumulong, for some reason we can't be friends here. Besides, I'm too analog to want FB communication with him.

Ogot is highly skilled in making collages from anything, including a Twinings herbal tea label, a picture of Martin Luther, among others. I don't know if his use of the Andy Warhol picture of actress Elizabeth Taylor is a play on my name. What matters is he allows himself to be playful in his retirement years and during this pandemic.

He confessed in his letter dated April 22 this year that he had "really nothing to share." I beg to disagree, dear O. You don't know how your mailed collages have given my spirit a huge boost.

Will reply to you soon as I go around the ruling that disallows senior citizens from leaving the house.

Aurora's Mananita

Auring Bautista sauteeing the meats and tomatoes

The paella is a staple fare when Rolly, my husband of 36 years, and I have a meal out. We are partial to the paella de marisco of Mario's Baguio and Alba’s Estancia, Capitol Commons.

Ever since I learned how to make Arroz a la Valenciana during the lockdown, I thought I could confidently make my own paella for family consumption. But from whom can I learn how it's properly done? There was no doubt about who should it be--birthday girl Aurora "Auring" Bautista. We've feasted on her table many times in our Baguio lives and her paella always hit the spot.

We arrived at the Bautista family home on Happy Glen Loop past 11 a.m. yesterday and the electric paellera was already steaming with olive oil and Auring cooking the pork and chicken cutlets to a nice brown. In between she annotated how her paella was learned firsthand from Maria Pedrosa, wife of Upsilonian Lito. The recipe has Catalan origins.

I noticed two whole unpeeled garlic bulbs were tucked on a side and remained there while the other ingredients (quartered tomatoes, onions, red bell peppers, eggplants) were mixed in. Then it was time to put in the uncooked jasmine rice (eight cups) followed by nine cups of water, the threads of saffron and a whole pack of seasoning labelled El Unico Paellero (available in better stores and delis like Mother Earth).

Waiting for the paella to boil

"How do you know when it is done?" went my ignorant query.
Auring patiently replied, "Cook it like you're cooking rice." And if you want that delicious burnt rice (tutong), let the rice simmer for a few minutes longer after it's done.

Meanwhile, my grandchild, the curious observer, inhaled the aromas wafting from the paellera and declared she was hungry. Later, she had two servings of the dish.

There's something else I learned from the making of the aioli sauce that we put on top of the paella. For the garlic to achieve a mushy quality so that it blends smoothly with the mayonnaise, mustard and sugar, pound the cloves with a tablespoon of salt. This adds to the sweet-salty flavor.

Garlic and salt being pounded to a fine mush

Portion of the cooked paella

As added viand to the already rich paella, there were fat prawns cooked hilabos style.

Need we say more?

All throughout, Auring smiled as if the effort in passing on her culinary knowledge was as easy as pie. It really was.

Still on the back roads of my mind

I revisited my blog, brooksidebaby.blogspot.com, to search for old pictures of the late Mercy Fabros that her daughter May-i requested. I sent her links to blog entries where her Nanay was mentioned or quoted.

I am posting these three pictures of Mercy. The first two show us attending Viva Voce's "Complicated the Concert" in 2014 at the former Lopez Museum and Library on Textite Road, Pasig. The building that housed said museum and library is no more. It will assume another form in Rockwell Makati, but when that will open, I am not privy to that info. It just adds to the grief over lost people and lost stomping grounds in one's life.

Viva Voce's Camille Lopez Molina and Myramae T. Meneses bookend me and Mercy Fabros.

Color-coordinated! From left: Joseph Uy, Mher U. Nival, Mercedes Fabros, Ivan Niccolo Nery and me

In that concert, Mercy and I heard Raymond Yadao sing Julian Celis Bautista's kundiman "Parang Maghapon Lamang." We felt the hair on our arms rise. In the blog, I wrote that the Levi Celerio lyrics told of youth wasted: "Even if it feels like the length of a life, whether it ends at age 27 or at age 88, is long in earth-time, in the eyes of Eternity, it is only the equivalent of an afternoon."

Ang buhay ko’y maghapon lang pala

Tila isang saglit sa akin ang ngumingiting umaga!

May awit ang ibong tanda ng pag-asa!

Pagsapit ng hapon, ay!, kay lungkot sa puso kong nagdurusa!

Kung katotohanan ay ganyan,

Bakit sinayang ko yaong unang sigla ng aking buhay!

Di na magbabalik kahit na kaylan man

O! ang buhay pala ay parang maghapon lamang!

The third photo shows Mercy cradling my grandchild Kai. My daughter Kimi Fernandez had just "graduated" from Lamaze class with a successful childbirth, Dr. Melendre Araos as her attending OB-GYN.

My gratitude to Mercy and Melen is as boundless as the mysterious love that binds sisters together.

Pocketful of mercies

Like many of the members of my generation, she was my Lamaze teacher as I got ready to birth my firstborn child Kimi Fernandez. When I was pregnant with my second two years later, Mercy Fabros gave me pointers to remember the breathing and relaxation exercises we had studied before that saw me through a quick labor and delivery.

She was also my breastfeeding coach along with members of the Gabay at Kalinga ng mga Ina (fellow Paulinians Meran Daza Umali, Connie Estrada Calimon). Such was her commitment to the Our Bodies Ourselves movement that I was so infected with wanting to give my daughters nothing but breast milk in their early years. I practiced tandem nursing. I weaned each child from the breast at age three. It got to the point that Gilda Cordero Fernando asked me, "What else are you doing when you're not busy being a cow?" Mercy was in that phase of my life quietly supportive.

As she was when it was Kimi's turn to carry her child Kai to full term. After an uneventful birth, Mercy and I referred to Kai by the possessive OUR apo. It was at this point nine years ago when we became closer. She was a regular paying supporter of Pablo Tariman's intimate concert series at the former Kiss the Cook Gourmet on Maginhawa Street and later at Balay Kalinaw, UP Diliman. At the end of each event, she'd inquire, again in that concerned way of hers, if the concert organizer broke even. Most times, he didn't, but he'd reassure her, "Life is beautiful."

She became part of what I called the opera barkada, a group of retired and semi-retired friends that enjoyed the classics, mostly performed at the Ayala Museum lobby. Usually coming from the Diliman campus, she took the MRT to SM Makati, then walked towards the museum. Or she'd take the Point to Point bus to and fro. Such was her enviable stamina--this woman who was part of a walking group also around the UP Oval.

At the end of the Mario Lanza recital produced by Joseph Uy and Al Andres Andres at Ayala Museum. Seated is soprano Stephanie Anne Gastrock Aguilar. Standing from left: the two Jennys, Jenny Juan and Jenny Llaguno, Marne Kilates, Babeth, Nympha Sano, Mercedes Fabros, Grace Banez, Melendre Araos and Gabriel Allan Ferros Paguirigan. At the back is tenor Mher U. Nival.

At the closing rites of Dame Nelly Miricioiu-Kirk 2015 masterclass at the Ayala Museum. From left: Mercedes Fabros, Jenny Juan, Nelly and Babeth trying the open back position earlier demonstrated by the diva.

Fortieth day following the death of sculptor Jerry Araos at the Garden of Two Dragons in Antipolo City. Seated: Babeth, Bani Lansang and Princess Nemenzo. Standing are Stef Sano, Steve B. Salonga, Victor Corpus, Pablo Tariman and Mercedes Fabros.

That rare occasion when Mercy Fabros wore eye shadow as a nod to the costume party/ball that marked the vernissage of Gilda Cordero Fernando's 2014 show "Same Difference: Ganon pa din ang diperensya" at Silverlens Galleries. From left: Anna Leah Sarabia, Mercedes Fabros, Babeth and Rolly Fernandez

Mercedes Fabros (right) could be counted on to turn up at friends' milestones, in this case Sinag De Leon's and Babeth's joint art exhibit in November 2018 at Gourmet Gypsy Art Cafe. From left: Anna Leah Sarabia, Sheila Nicolas, Bobbie Malay, Virginia Moreno, Melendre Araos, Fe Mangahas, Barbara Mae Dacanay, Jenny Juan, Sinag and Mercy.

Post-intimate concert at Balay Kalinaw. Mercedes Fabros lent her presence again. From left are Lorna Kalaw Tiro, Anna Leah Sarabia, Neni Sta Romana Cruz, Ivi Avellana Cosio, Maria Karina Africa Bolasco and Sheila Coronel. I am seated with Mercy's eldest grandchild Alon.

From March 9 to 11 of 2015, we sat together at an Ayala Museum function room as Romanian-British diva Nelly Miricioiu-Kirk conducted a masterclass for Filipino singers. Mercy explained, over lunch at Dulcinea's to which she treated me, why she was present for consecutive days after seeing Dame Nelly already perform at the Meralco Theater, "This is my birthday gift to myself." We both believed Nelly was not just an excellent vocal coach but a practical life coach for people like us.

Furthermore, we witnessed with our eyes and ears the big difference the singers made once they went through the hands of Nelly.

Mercy's death is still weighing a ton on me, a mere mortal who can't be brave in the face of loss. The tears I cried earlier have stopped, but the mourning hasn't. The months April and May have been personally cruel as one friend after another was stricken and called home. Home to where "mercies are new every morning."

Let's play 'Pretend'

Give my apo Kai a cloth diaper or a newly washed bimpo, and she can cast all her other toys away. When she learned to tinker with her mother's cellphone, she has been applying all sorts of funny faces on whoever held it. Her grumpa was no sacred exemption. I like how she rendered Rolly Fernandez into a Charlie Chaplin of sorts, herself she depicted as Catgirl. In real life, she dressed up Satchi as Superdog.

Rolly Chaplin

Kai Catgirl

Satchi Superdog

In the beginning of the lockdown, I imagined I was part of the story and cast of The Diary of Anne Frank. There I was, hiding away in an alcove with my red leatherette-bound Mercury Drugstore diary which I would sneak out when everyone else was asleep or busy and where I would write entries to help make mere survival bearable. But the Frank family's enemy was a palpable one--the German Nazis. This one that we have is invisible and just as deadly.

Well, this was my way of coping in the early weeks of the lockdown--to pretend, maybe a way of denial of the harshness of COVID-19. I've taken refuge in the patched up videos of choirs and orchestras and vocal soloists.

I've also begun counting the riches still available to us.

Jamie Tworkowskie named them for us:

Conversations will not be cancelled.
Relationships will not be cancelled.
Love will not be cancelled.
Songs will not be cancelled.
Reading will not be cancelled.
Self-care will not be cancelled.
Hope will not be cancelled.
May we lean into the good stuff that remains.

Despite my family's distance in Baguio, they can still manage to smile for the phone camera and clown around. Only Satchi has, what I imagine to be, a thought bubble that reads, "Bah! These humans!"