The last time I saw Romy...

...Was towards Christmas of 2017 in the lovely home of Dr. Melendre Araos in Antipolo. I brought my annual and traditional food offering of Cunanan Bakery ensaymada. Midway, while I was having my traditional sips of Melen's molo soup, photojournalist Romeo Gacad arrived bearing a tray of red eggs. He was home for the holidays. I was surprised, nay, shocked at how he had drastically lost weight. His skin and bones clung to his already lanky frame.

Then he told us about his battle with cancer, how at one point he was losing so much blood and needed to be evacuated (from Myanmar? I forget that detail now) by helicopter to Thailand so a more advanced medical team could attend to him. I remembered the Romy who was at his prime, looking out for news at another annual event--the lantern parade ushering the Christmas holidays at UP Diliman. I was a returning freshman working on my second degree in fine arts. My younger classmates and I were building a gigantic papier mache replica of a kapre, that cigar-smoking creature of Philippine mythology. I hailed Romy and proudly showed the still unfinished handiwork of the freshman class. Himself a UP fine arts alumnus, he gingerly stepped around our work, then asked my classmates and me to gather around the kapre while he took some pictures. My more agile classmates climbed the kapre's bamboo frame just so we didn't have a firing squad type of picture. I was too shy to ask Romy for a soft copy of the picture. That would have been for the books because that year (2005), our class won for best lantern in the university-wide competition. So Celina S. Cristóbal, here is my contribution to your virtual scrapbook of Romy memories. Photo courtesy of Melen Araos. Romy is the guy second from right.

Karlo Marko's superb longga

Rolly and I are in a good mood today what with the hefty breakfast we had of sunny side up eggs, fried rice cooked in the fat rendered by the country style bacon made by That Mountain High, meat smokers led by our godson Karlo Marko Altomonte. The slices of bacon did not shrink as I cooked them without oil on the Teflon pan. In the past, we bought commercial bacon, and this would shrink so fast, you had to cook a whole pack to feed a demanding family that wanted their bacon crisp and dry. Last night, we tried Karlo's smoked longganisa. It said on its label: "pork sausage flavored with garlic, vinegar and spices, smoked with a blend of aromatic wood chips." The sausage links lived up to expectation after they were cooked in a half cup of water. As soon as the water evaporated, the links were allowed to cook in the small amount of fat they rendered. No shrinkage either. The sausages were still as long as my hand and not the size of my pinky. We made a mental note to order another batch of meats when Karlo gets his smoker roaring again. Baguio residents have all the luck. He only charges 25 pesos for delivery anywhere in the city. Look out for the bohemian on a motorbike. Patronize local business!

Fruitcake lovers

Rolly and I survived the wind and rain lashes of Typhoon Maring. I thought I’d reward him with something he loved—a whole fruitcake in a round, tin can and redolent with the strong scent of rum. He had worked hard sweeping the garage area free of fallen twigs and leaves. Serendipitously, I discovered a bakeshop in FB offering fruitcakes in different sizes. I ordered for delivery tomorrow, but the one taking my order said Divine Indulgence Cake Boutique could deliver immediately. Rolly paced the room until we heard the delivery guy motor up our gate. We shall indulge tonight!

My heart's desires

A delivery guy on motorcycle honked his horn, and Rolly and I looked out the window to check if the package was meant for us or the next-door neighbor. It was for us, specifically me. When he brought up the LBC page, he announced that it was from Joseph Uy and predicted that among the contents is a fountain pen. I tried to raise my EQ a bit by delaying the opening of the thing and concentrated on the final touches on the first draft of a chapter going into a book. But I couldn't bear the wait any longer, and I ripped off the packaging, including the gift wrapper with musical notes as print. Came the unboxing of the smallest gift--a Faber-Castell pen--that brought to mind all the music artists and friends whom Joseph "pen-abled" from sopranos Camille Lopez Molina and Myramae T. Meneses to pianists Gema Gonzales and Gabriel Allan Ferros Paguirigan. Our world became richer with the gliding of our pens on paper. Speaking of paper, the second box revealed a small journal with the brand Chocolatier and the bookmark that read: "Life with chocolate. Comfort life with joy and peace." The last was a Rhodia notepad made of ivory high grade vellum paper, just perfect for my handwritten letters and for doodles along the margins. Thank you, Joseph, from Baguio to your home on the border of Pasig and Cainta. I'm not joking when I say that you sometimes are like God--you give my heart's desires.

My (almost) perfect adobo

My lansag buto adobo, all chicken drumsticks

Chili garlic sauce I never could get the dish right. Maybe because I don't measure the amount of soy sauce and vinegar I put in. Yesterday I thawed the chicken drumsticks from the freezer, then put in equal amounts soy and cane vinegar, minced garlic and chopped black pepper. For good measure, I added a dash of Worcestershire sauce. Still I refrained from using a measuring cup or spoon for them. I left the drumsticks to bathe in that marinade for 45 minutes before firing up the stove. I let the whole thing in the pot simmer slowly for another 45 minutes while I read the chapter on adobo in that sumptuous, must-have-on-your-kitchen-shelf book Memories of Philippine Kitchen by Amy Besa and Romeo Dorotan. (We got our signed copy from them when we visited and lunched at their New York restaurant in the late 2000s.) I waited for the sauce to render, but since the man of the house Rolly was famished from a day's work in the garden and the house, I set out to serve the adobo with steaming rice. Midway while setting the table, I forgot to boil two eggs as extenders. I've always felt boiled eggs and adobo go well together, not potatoes and adobo. I brought out the chili garlic sauce with a punch made for us by photographer friend Ev Espiritu, and lunch was ready. Or "reydi" as Rolly would say it. Others would pair their adobo with some mango chutney, but Ev's sauce gave the whole thing its needed kick. I hope you all have a good Tuesday with good food to energize your creative endeavors!

Vaxxed and vexed

Except for some drowsiness as side effect, the first jab we had of Sinovac went smoothly. We spent a total of less than an hour at the SM Baguio parking lot for the procedure. There were just a few people in the area. It was a totally different scenario yesterday. We were advised by the Baguio LGU to report at 12 noon and to be prompt. We were there at 12:01, the delay caused by the crowd at the entrance-exit doors. The area where the seniors were assigned to was crowded--monobloc chairs were barely one foot apart. I wondered why there were young-looking adults beside us. One turned out to be on dialysis. The Trip to Jerusalem arrangement took past an hour before I got my turn to have my oxygen and other vital signs checked. I was half fuming inside because of the lengthy wait so my blood pressure shot up to 160/89. Later, it turned out our area was reserved for extreme seniors, those with walking canes and wheelchairs, but sturdy seniors were mixed with our group. The strong ones were led to another area of the lot. A mix-up in communication, but it caused irritation and delays again. From where I sat, I saw that there was only one person administering the injection, and he was alternating between those having their first jabs and those having their second. I looked at Rolly Fernandez and tried to read his eyes. He wore double masks under a face shield so he seemed hard to fathom. Later, he told me that if he had been shooed away from his seat, he would've told the security guard that he was my caregiver, and I needed his physical presence and support in case I might lose my footing and stumble. Sweet! In fairness, as they would say, the volunteers, registered nurses and doctors were all pleasant and even-tempered in the face of irritated seniors. We finally had our lunch at half past two. And boyoboy were we ravenous! I tore through my grilled chicken and gulped down spoonfuls of chicken macaroni salad. When we got home, we climbed the stairs to our bedroom and without undressing lay down to rest. Too much in a day. As Rolly said of the big crowd (almost the size of what you'd see at a college convocation assembly or commencement rites in pre-COVID times), "Queues are signs of inefficiency."

Every day is Tatay's day

With our grandchild Kai. Tatay is how everybody in our household calls him. If they could speak human language, our two dogs would call him that, too. He is our bank and banker, teacher, gardener, cleaner, librarian, curator of objets d'art, occasional cook, marketing and grocery man, dishwasher, dog walker, disc jockey, crying post, steady rock, etc. No wonder he can get irascible sometimes when books are not in their proper spot on the shelf or when our beds are still unmade when the sun is already high. On Sundays, he is our champorado guy, mixing the tablea chocolate with malagkit until the dish reaches the proper consistency. Then he follows this up by frying dilis or tuyo. He calls us down for breakfast. I am joyful and grateful to have a husband and father like Rolly Fernandez in our home. Happy Tatay's Day from your girls Babeth, Kimi, Ida and Kai

A foodie couple

We finally met up with our endocrinologist who interpreted the results of our blood chem. Rolly Fernandez received summa cum laude honors for managing his blood sugar well unlike me who was just given a passing grade. The doctor remarked, " It's obvious that you eat the same food. Both your uric acid is elevated." We blamed it on the rich fabada we dined on the night before. But the doctor said it wasn't beans that were rich in purine. It was the assorted meats--ham, sausages, bacon--that went into the Spanish style pork and beans. To pat ourselves on the back for our good results, we decided to try the unlimited merienda offered by Mario's on Upper Session Road. We started with Misua with Meatballs and Spinach and made our way around the plate for the Tinapa and Togue Rolls, Puto and Dinuguan, Sotanghon Guisado, Cheese Pimiento Sandwich, Banana Cue and Buko Pandan Salad. We cleaned up our plates and readied ourselves for a second serving of the same without the sandwich which we found too sweet. The merienda costs P299 a person without our senior discount. A good deal!

Drawing blood

Rolly and I fasted for eight to nine hours last night in preparation for our bi-annual blood works (ideally, it should be quarterly, but with the pandemic still on an uncontrolled scale, we minimize our leaving the house). I told the medical technologist attending to us that it is hard to find a presenting vein on either of my arms. After three tries, she asked if I didn't mind if she drew blood from the back of my left hand which I closed into a fist. I nodded my permission and did not flinch when the needle went in.

Strawberry soda on the foreground

Tinapang bangus with egg and red rice

Spicy bangus with fried egg on a separate platito

Interiors of Cafe By The Ruins In my mind was where Rolly and I would eat a hearty breakfast after our procedure. I ticked off eateries that were open at past 7 a.m. He was determined we would eat at Cafe By The Ruins on Chuntug Street. We were the first customers. Somehow recognizing us, the waiter waved us in and didn't oblige us anymore to fill out the contact tracing forms. We grieved over the removal of the beef tapa from the menu. I think the meat comes all the way from Mt. Data. Or did I imagine that? Next best choice was the bangus--he chose the tinapang bangus with sunny side up egg while I had the spicy bangus with a well-done fried egg. Siempre, may strawberry soda rin for me, a lover of strawberries. Midway through our meal, dine-in guests, a group of tourists, we supposed, strode in in their holiday shorts and casual get-up. They numbered 12 in all, and I fretted on my seat about social distancing. But this protocol was observed. While I sipped my coffee, he slipped out of the cafe and went to the public market nearby to buy our food supply: his favorite calf's liver for steak and hasa-hasa for paksiw. When we were on our way home, Rolly and I compared our bangus. I said mine wasn't spicy enough. It would have required me biting into the red and green chilies to taste the sting. He said his bangus lacked a smoky favor, but he cleaned up his plate, leaving only the skin of the fish. A good day to celebrate the nation's wobbly independence!

Postcards from the edge

I'm not much of a traveler. Blame it on my heavy butt and weak knee joints. During the rare times I joined family on a trip abroad (the last was to California for my daughter's wedding in November 2019), what I looked forward to was buying postcards and dropping them in the many mailboxes that still dot the streets of America. These photos, taken by my sister Gigi Lolarga in Solvang, captured me at work on a short stack of postcards in a restaurant where we stopped for breakfast en route to San Francisco. In the second picture, I'm outside the bakery that sold a lot of Danish pastries. I bought a big, fat bear's claw to tide me over during the long bus trip. I believe that we should help keep the postal offices all over the world alive. Sure, FB Messenger, a Zoom meeting or email (the last is even getting passe) may be faster and more efficient (no paper trail). There are some things that are better expressed in a letter or postcard than an FB comment. So here's to my FB friends who're also my pen pals: Arlene Esperida, Aida CF Santos, Joji Ravina-Lourence, Alma Cruz Miclat, Olive Tripon, Men Sta Ana, Isabela Varga, Precious Leano, Machiko Susi, Junic D Lolarga.

Signed, sealed, delivered I'm yours

We started ordering books online and purchasing them after the lockdown last year. Rolly's and my initial orders were from Shopee, but when the five or so books arrived, we felt dismayed when we saw they suffered from water and soil damage. I immediately wrote to the publisher to air our complaint. Promptly, they sent replacements in good condition.

Two weeks ago, I decided to up the ante by trying out the online store of Fully Booked where I found a single hardbound copy left of Anthony Bourdain's World Travel (on top of the bestseller list in Singapore, but that's Sg for you), Aimee Nezhukumatathil (give me a few weeks to learn how to pronounce and say her last name correctly) and her World of Wonders: In Praise of Fireflies, Whale Sharks, and Other Astonishments and Patrick deWitt's French Exit. I opened an account with the store, provided my basic details, particularly shipping address. I took a long, hot shower, addressing God and asking Him to affirm my decision to put my hard-earned pension money in new books. I told friend Gou de Jesus of my bathroom conversation with the Almighty, and she laughed and said it's not as if I was buying lipstick and makeup. And even if it was, it was still my money. Anyway, after five days of anticipation, an LBC delivery man handed the package. So excited was I to rip open the plastic bag that I suffered a paper cut as I was turning the pages of a new book. Shallow lang naman. Hmm, I think I have a conflicted relationship with money. But yesterday, after a hearty comida china, I whispered to Rolly, "Aren't we going to drop by Mt Cloud Bookshop?" He had offhandedly mentioned the previous day that he wanted to look at what's up on their Filipiniana shelves. So off we went, getting our temperatures checked at the shop entrance and filling up the forms for contact tracing. The price to pay in order to browse inside a physical space.

I always like looking at the secondhand hardcovers near the entrance. I suspect most of those books come from the library of filmmaker-art buff Perez Butch like the Bruce Chatwin title I happened upon. Chatwin is one of the best, if not the best, travel writers in the world. Gou will attest to that. I was drawn to the cover of Loot and Other Stories by Nobel laureate for literature Nadine Gordimer. It was a painting by Georgia O'Keeffe. It's not that I can afford to spend all day in the book alcove of our home like a lady of leisure. I have official writing, editing and transcribing duties to do, not to mention researching historical images for a picture book. Then there's the laundry and the cooking chores that are the bane in the life of every full-time homemaker. But these books balance those other things off. They give me something pleasant to turn to when the quotidian is close to suffocating me.

A throwback

On the eve of her 91st birthday, I remember this woman who teased me at a Greenbelt shop years ago. She picked up a lamb--cordero--and said, "Babeth, why don't you buy this for me?" Greenbelt being Greenbelt, the price was beyond my budget so I did the next best thing. Capture the moment in a picture. Wherever you are, Gilda Cordero Fernando, frolicking with angels and cherubs and streaking among the stars and comets, I want you to know that you will be my forever Gemini icon of a writer, the one who communicates well in a language laced with wit and lightness, even if the subject is as serious as death. I have told you that before. I don't mind saying it again.

A gypsy in my soul

There were a lot of copious tears shed when GourmetGypsy Art Cafe's main outlet on A. Roces Ave., Quezon City closed its doors last year, a sad offshoot of the business slowdown due to the COVID-19 pandemic. The school and branch on Maginhawa street, UP Village remained open, however, becoming the hub of meals on the go for the frontliners. It was a matter of time before chef Waya Araos-Wijangco thought of something where her restaurant furniture and equipment would logically go. When she said aloud that she was planning a Gypsy branch in our adopted city of Baguio, where her husband Ernie works, I started salivating, recollecting past meals enjoyed at her Kiss the Cook, Kiss the Cook Gourmet, Gourmet Gypsy Art Cafe--salted egg pork belly, Ama's (sculptor Jerry Araos') mechado, the bowl of bibimpap that I had when I met up with Sibyl Jade Peña and Patty Yambao plus the surviving members of the groovy Samahang Demokatiko ng Kabataan one December noon, the dinner concerts Pablo Tariman, Joseph Uy and Al Andres Andres organized that promoted classical music. So yesterday my family and I decided on a food trip to mark a milestone in my daughter Kimi and grandchild Kai's lives. It was easy to spot Gypsy Baguio by Chef Waya. It was near the foot of Quezon Hill, with a steep driveway that takes you up a white house. Waya was staffing the kitchen herself, and Ernie was there to receive us in a private room with a high ceiling where we could practice safety protocols. The old staff from the Roces ave. branch were also there to welcome us and take our orders. High on our list was Ama's Mechado (the secret is in the cut of meat, the batok or neck of the cow and hours of slow simmering in fresh tomatoes). Kimi's favorite (the squid ink pasta), what later turned out as Kai's favored aglio y olio pasta with cholesterol-rich salted egg pork belly, the seafood laksa soup that Joseph swears by, etc. etc. I almost forgot to add how refreshing the strawberry lemonade was--fruits we have in abundance in the highlands. For takeout we had two loaves of chocolate babka, consumed by the ravenous family on the same day. There is a smidgen of leftover in the fridge to remind us of our gustatory adventure. My other daughter Ida, who couldn't be with us, instructed us to take lots of pictures. She commented on our family pic: how come Nanay and Tatay look so sad even behind our masks? We weren't sad. We were satiated beyond satisfaction and were aching for our afternoon siesta. Burp! All photos by my grandchild Kai Mykonos

Signage of Gypsy Baguio by Chef Waya along Pilar Hidalgo Lim Road, Quezon Hill

The white house

Chickpea hummus with pita bread

Squid ink pasta with cubes of ripe mango

Selfie by Kai

Family portrait at the entrance of Gypsy Baguio by Chef Waya

Feliz cumpleaños, Amadis

Amadis Ma. Guerrero Photo courtesy of Philippine Daily Inquirer Lifestyle He has always struck me as modest and self-effacing. This is borne out in an article that Inquirer's Eric S. Caruncho wrote about Amadis Ma. Guerrero, arts and books and travel writer. Amadis was quoted as saying, "I’m not a critic, I’m a feature writer. My approach is reportorial rather than critical." I could very well say the same thing for myself. Which is why he and I get along famously, the kind of relationship where we can even trade gentle insults. The late Prof. Nieves B. Epistola bestowed the highest compliment on him, addressing him in French as Le Cheri Guerrier. He likes to say in jest that he is the lovable warrior to Jose Ma. Sison's alter ego, Amado Guerrero. My compadre is also known for his deep loyalty to kin and friends, especially to his aunt Carmen Guerrero Nakpil. Even at the height of the anti-Marcos dictatorship movement when Mrs. Nakpil was still identified with the administration, Amadis warned my office colleagues in a tight voice to back off from her. If memory serves, his words went: "Who's saying something against my Tita Chitang? Let me just pull his hair out of his head!" I am amazed at his stamina in writing reportage and the occasional fiction. He is also in demand as a writer of art books, the latest among them Philippine Social Realists and SYM, Galicano and PASPI. He takes down notes longhand or sometimes tapes the interview. Then he does his drafts on his portable typewriter and has someone encode and email the piece for him afterwards. He's old-fashioned that way. He's the only person I know who still buys typewriter ribbons. Needless to say, he's not in social media although there are occasional sightings of him in Facebook when he's singing with Jerry Dadap's Andres Bonifacio Choir. Whenever I am sick and in despair, his message to me is unwavering and unchanging: "Keep on singing, soprano!" On his 80th birthday, I greet him: "Long may your voice ring, El Tenor!"

Sweet banana

"Writers are like those good thieves. They take something that is real…and by a trick of magic they transform it into something totally fresh." ~ Isabel Allende I live with some kind of sinusitis that gets going in the morning, especially after I've eaten breakfast. I am assured that my poor sense of smell isn't a COVID-like symptom. But I need to do something about it because this morning, as I was preparing lunch, I didn't notice that the pot where my husband Rolly Fernandez was cooking plaintain bananas in sugar syrup, minatamis na saging, was about to dry. There was steam all over the kitchen. I was so focused on dicing the carrots and slicing the cloves of garlic that were supposed to go into my own pot of chicken with pineapples. My back was turned to the stove. Plus my ears were listening to the CD album of cellist Yo-Yo Ma. I even had a fleeting thought about how peaceful these all felt--the meditative gestures of dicing and slicing. Rolly rushed down the stairs holding the walis tingting and dustpan containing Satchi's poop, shouting that the house was almost on fire. I rose abruptly from my seat and quickly turned off the knob of the gas stove. He got rid of Satchi's leavings first before returning to scold me. We opened the pot and looked inside. The sugar had caramelized to a dark brown around each of the banana slice. I'm a girl who looks at the jug as half full so I told my partner, "We have banana cue for dessert!" Still much shaking of Rolly's head.

More Mario memories

Indulge me, please, as this is the way I manage my grief over the loss of writer-patriot Mario Ignacio Miclat. I met him and his family a few years after they returned to the country following 15 years of political exile in China. I was assigned to write about him for The Sunday Times Magazine, supplement of the then Gokongwei-owned The Manila Times. I don't have a copy anymore of my article, but I do recall the magazine cover of that issue--two photographs of Chinese landscape and architecture taken by Mario himself. I vaguely remember the article's title as "Bayan-bayanan sa Beijing." What struck me upon visiting their first home, a condo unit at BLISS Pag-asa in Quezon City, was how orderly and clean it was. Fast forward to the time they moved to another condo on Quezon Ave., QC. I entered the hallway and just perfunctorily left my walking cane on a corner. Then Mario showed up and in a strict and annoyed tone wondered aloud what the cane was doing on its spot. I realized that he was like my husband Rolly Fernandez in seeing to it there's a place for everything and everything's in its place. When the Miclats make a trip to Baguio in December during Alma Cruz Miclat's birth month, instead of us treating them to a meal, they play gracious hosts to us. In the inner group are Mario's fellow UP academics Del Tolentino and Ben Tapang and their family friend Mitos Benitez. Over Japanese dinner at Hamada at the Baguio Country Club, we used to watch Raj's antics. Talk would last until the restaurant's closing time. In this photo Mario is shown with his Unyon ng mga Manunulat sa Pilipinas award for his lifetime's literary output and with his family and Church Cafe confreres. From left are Mario, Alma, Raj in the arms of mother Banaue Miclat-Janssen, Fe and Pastor Sunil Stephens, Roger and Fe Mangahas and myself. Happy times--so many to look back on to lessen the sting of his departure.

The dog who would be a reader

I just went through my digicam to check what's stored and found these pictures taken by my grandchild Kai. They're of Satchi and her master Rolly Fernandez lounging in the library where she loves to scoot over once released from the balcony that she has for her home. She loves Rolly's bed, rolls all over it before lying on her belly. She even likes to look at the books. When she wags her long, bushy tail, she knocks over Rolly's assorted knickknacks, including a framed bulletin of Bandilang Pula, a publication of the seven-day Diliman Commune, or our kids' snapshots. Once, and only once, did Satchi gnaw the spine of my book, Object Lessons: The Paris Review Presents the Art of the Short Story. What a scolding she received, but I doubt if she understood any word said. Something must have sunk in because there has been no repetition of the incident. She has maintained her respectful distance from the books. However, she still sniffs at them, her eyes glancing longingly over the titles. Somebody said Satchi must've been a reader in a former life. If she was, then she has found the right home.

Better than a box from Tiffany & Co.

For a week now, I've kept my ears peeled to the sound of a motorcycle or a truck. There were book deliveries due, and they have kept my level of excitement high during this ho-hum pandemic. Every time a delivery guy stopped between our house and the neighbor's, I'd yell from the second-floor window, "Is it ours?" Yesterday and today the packages arrived, and again Rolly was there to receive them. The first book I cracked open was Maria Virginia Yap Morales' Ascending the Fourth Mountain: A Personal Account of the Marcos Years. The author sought to carry out feminist Indai Sajor's exhortation: "Write about the patriarchy within." Indai was referring to the Communist Party of the Philippines. Morales' book is her attempt to say, "Yes, I will do that." The second book in the well-packed Ateneo Press bundle was the posthumously published Biyaheng Pinoy: A Mindanao Travelogue by Edilberto Alegre. In his "By Way of a Preface to These Travels," the author wrote, "After eleven months in the US, I had to face the truth: I was not where I wanted to be; I was not doing what I wanted to do. And there was nowhere else to go. I faced up. I packed my rucksack again. It was time to discover new worlds." Promising reads, indeed. The last two books were tucked into a medium-size balikbayan box full of goodies from my son-in-law Jordan and my daughter Ida. She almost returned the Julia Child collection of aphorisms to Amazon, thinking the book too small to be worth the price. The first page my eyes landed on had these words in all caps: "I HATE HEALTH FOOD." This after eating a breakfast of fried egg with Trader Joe's 21 Salute Seasoning, three pan de sal and two pieces of Goldilock's classic puto. I felt more reverential opening Joan Didion's latest collection of old essays. She wrote about Hemingway, "The peculiarity of being a writer is that the entire enterprise involves the mortal humiliation of seeing one's own words in print." I'm about to press "Post," and witness another round of "mortal humiliation."

Antidote to cooking fatigue

It hits me, too--laziness/tiredness after weeks of planning and executing family meals. When that happens, I visit the FB pages of food outlets (those who do delivery or pick-up) in Baguio. This home cook has scrolled through Chef Mike Tatung's videos and Simpol cookbook, and I just couldn't do it anymore. Those outlets provide relief for someone who's no Julia Child, no Julie Powell (the role Amy Adams played brilliantly in Julie and Julia). What hit me was a craving for pie, particularly rhubarb-strawberry pie. But our baker Sweets and Greens informed us it's not the season for rhubarb--try again in July and August. Cherry pie? No dice. Blueberry? They promised to check the Baguio Public Market. Forward to happy ending: blueberries were found, and Rolly Fernandez received the pie when the delivery woman knocked on the door yesterday. Here's the "desecrated" pie, and the berries remind me of precious caviar. Life's good.