What the Black Box Brought

My mom and I were in the mall about three weeks ago buying take-out food when she told me she had something to show me because I supposedly "know a lot about gadgets."

My eyes immediately lit up. "Really?" In my mind I was thinking of iPod speakers or, better yet, a 3D TV. Just think, endless hours of "Avatar."

"Yes," she said, half-dragging me through a row of pastel-colored silicon mitts. "I'm thinking of getting a mini oven." Not an oven toaster or a microwave oven. A real oven.

Play the "oven timer ting."

I immediately gave her my best blank, puppy-dog, Miss Emma Pillsbury stare. An oven was in no way going to fall within the category of "gadget." It belonged to a totally different classification. And, besides, I've never really denied that my cooking skills are Flinstone-primitive although I have tried my best to at least come up with something edible during Christmas dinner. So I really was the wrong person to ask about anything related to the kitchen.

With a lot of text-help from Anissa, one of the best baking experts I know, we finally selected a small, very cute electric oven which also came with a rotisserie. My love-hate relationship with that little black box began on the night we brought it home and stripped it of the bubble wrap and the stryrofoam padding. It sat on the marble counter beside the rice cooker, practically begging to be used by anyone in the house who wanted to be Betty Crocker in a nice pink apron. It didn't help that my parents both half-prodded, half-coerced me to "make something."

My first joint project with Mom was Shepherd's Pie, thanks to a winning recipe we got from Manang Beluna. The ingredients and other utensils were ready, all laid out before us. Our first batch of testers, the ones who would be subjected to either the agony or satisfaction of consuming the meat pie, were also staving off hunger - my dad and my grandparents. Manang Beluna guided us all the way, promptly replying to my texts for what I felt were the silliest of questions. Soon after, when the ground beef was now sitting prettily under the weight of creamy mashed potatoes, mom and I felt like real cooking experts. I took out the first batch after the potatoes had browned rather nicely, wrapped the pan in aluminum foil and drove to the hospital with my nice, warm package sitting in the front seat. Sure enough, the Shepherd's Pie was met with rousing applause in my grandfather's hospital room although I promised myself I'd add mushrooms next time. But the positive response further stimulated my enthusiasm to make something else in my little black gem of a mini oven.

Mom's first solo project was a success as well. Two days later, she made her own version of tuna casserole using the Shepherd's Pie recipe as a model. Instead of using ground beef, she used a can of tuna and added other bits and pieces to the mixture. Instead of mashed potato, she smothered the casserole with mozzarella cheese which I found to be a winner. I wish she nixed the green peas and added more corn kernels and tuna. But we disagreed on the presence of - believe it or not - hotdog bits on the casserole. I was telling her how odd, misplaced and even sacrilegious it was for fish casserole to have any semblance of meat in it. It simply didn't taste right! She looked at me from across the table with her "I'm-your-mother-so-you-can't-do-anything-about-hotdogs-in-the-tuna-casserole" look and spooned more of the food into her plate.

My first solo project with the oven was interesting. I dug up a very old, very basic beginner's recipe of chocolate cake using mayonnaise (thus ditching the entire folding of eggs and shortening process). It was pretty easy to do and was rather straightforward. When I finally pushed the baking pan into the oven with the batter inside, set the temperature and timer and watched as my little brown baby began to rise like a circus tent, I almost felt like an expert. The feeling poofed into nothingness when I realized that the cake was indeed rising but only the center part of it did so that what I had was a dirt-colored plateau. Uh-oh. My dad walked out when I was putting chocolate-butter cream icing on the..um…cake and asked me if he could have some. I feigned confidence and said "Sure." When I started slicing the cake, the top was well-done but the bottom started collapsing into tiny cake bits which made my dad ask if I was serving him chocolate sand. It did taste pretty funny and needed more sugar so I pushed whatever remained into the refrigerator, my disappointment now pooling around my feet and trailing me like jellyfish. I texted my two baking gurus Anissa and Ate Jocy, asking for tips and they said maybe there was a bit of a problem with the temperature. By dinner, I decided to give the cake another more objective try to see where I needed to improve. Surprise, surprise! I really wonder why the recipe author did not put in "Refrigeration required" because it sure did miracles for my now solid but moist cake. Sure I need to improve on the sweetness and the icing but it was all right for a first try.

The second solo project was certainly worthy of an encore. It was a few days before my dad's birthday and he had long forgotten about the chocolate cake incident. I volunteered to make dinner for both my family and my grandparents - a do or die situation which meant I had to make dinner early so that we could rush out for Lapaz batchoy just in case. I had downloaded a very interesting recipe of Chicken Alexandra from the WMN website and another interesting salmon stew with apples concoction by Norma Chikiamco from the Inquirer. I added more milk, cream and corn than the recipe for the chicken required and I carefully piped in the mashed potato topping. I have to say, without any pomp or pride, that it came out very, very well. It was smooth, creamy and absolutely perfect that my parents loved it. My Lola is still keeping some of it in her ref back home for reheating. As for the soup, I needed some help and Mom pitched in, adding two cups of apple juice just to bring out the taste. In the end, everyone forgot about the batchoy.

My dad turned 57 two days ago and because I received my paycheck only today, I once again volunteered to make dinner. After all, in my rulebook, birthday gifts come either in cash, in kind or in effort. This time, I decided to give the oven a rest. I made use of another Norma Chikiamco recipe for pineapple chicken, something I had tried in Manila last year and absolutely loved that I brought home one bottle of kecap manis. The verdict: the birthday boy was more than satisfied and he lamented on his now widening bottom

Last night, I got reunited with the oven after we received yummy fresh oysters. I decided to toss the oysters in the oven but not after trying to copy how this small but famous restaurant called Allan's in Oton, Iloilo makes baked oysters. There was no recipe in my hand so everything just came off my tastebuds. Sauteed garlic in butter and poured them on the oysters. Sprinkled the oysters with powdered milk then pushed them into the oven. Dinner was crazy good and my fingers are getting fatter.

Oh the joy of starting to fit into my own kind of apron! Make mine purple with nice yellow Saturn prints.

Some things off the top of my head as I end this food blabber:

1. Practicing really makes me comfortable. I still need help in the kitchen and I like to get a second opinion when I test taste what I'm cooking but the more I pitter-patter about with the pots and ladle, the more I'm feeling right at home.

2. My oven mitts are mismatched on purpose. I love it when things don't make sense once in a while.

3. It's good to have someone with you when you're cooking. One of my favorite companions is my 5-year old dog Balrog. She's my fierce dark angel and I love her sense of protectiveness when I'm using her perceived enemy: the mixer. Once I turn the mixer on and it starts bumping the edges of the bowl, she starts pawing, growling and barking at who knows what. She stops when I turn the mixer off, perfectly on cue. It's hilarious.

4. I don't think everyone follows any recipe to the letter. Along the way, everybody makes changes, whether major or minor.

5. It's really great to cook for my family, even if they sometimes pretend the food tastes better than it actually does. Now that does put my supposed kitchen success, pun intended, under fire now, doesn't it?

In My World

Note: Entry written on November 29, 2009, a week after the gruesome massacre of fifty-seven people in the town of Ampatuan in Maguindanao. Most of the victims were part of a caravan en route for the COMELEC office in Shariff Aguak in order to file the certificate of candidacy of Esmael Mangudadatu, a challenger of incumbent mayor of Datu Unsay, Mayor Andal Ampatuan, Jr. The convoy was composed of Mangudadatu's wife and sisters and also included supporters, lawyers and journalists. Even motorists who were mistaken to be part of the said convoy were killed. Their bodies were strewn about a hilly area in Ampatuan, Maguindanao. In the crime scene, a backhoe which belonged to the Maguindanao provincial government and which was supposedly used to dig a mass grave for the victims stood prominently in the hilly area.

Fast-forward to April 2010. Acting Department of Justice Secretary dismisses the charges against Maguindanao Governor Zaldy Ampatuan and Vice Governor Akmad Ampatuan, brother and uncle of Mayor Andal Ampatuan, Jr., less than six months after the carnage.

November 29, 2009

If I were asked to describe everything that transpired within this week in just one word, it would definitely be "disturbing." So disturbing to the point that I cannot even come up with a word which could aptly describe the horror, the sadness, the anger that seeps right into my psyche. Even before the primetime news went into broadcast, my classmate Terry's Facebook shoutout already spelled out initially what had happened. All he said was that two lawyers were among those killed in election-related violence in Maguindanao. The strongest emotion I was able to muster then was sadness and sympathy for their bereaved families.

The 6PM news however brought vividness and drama which Terry's Facebook shoutout obviously could not properly illustrate. Corpses, bodies of what used to be living, breathing, vibrant people, littered a grassy hillside. The pictures were monochromatic and some were pixellated, sheer giveaways that the images were too violent to be shown in their original state for national TV. Torsos were exposed and still fingers had become new landing posts for flies. Some of the bodies were mutilated whereas some of the faces were mangled beyond recognition, even for their closest friends and kin to identify. One dead woman had her blouse hiked up to her chest to expose a swollen belly as if to testify that a fetus had started the earlier hours of a set of 24, initially enjoying the warmth in his mother's womb then all of a sudden losing grasp of air, food and life. The bodies scattered in the hillside were covered with mere banana leaves, an attempt to give the dead the least bit of respect and courtesy.

Everything else passed before me like a blur. I was angry, raging, furious and at the same time seriously disturbed and unhinged. Come election time, stories about intimidation and some form of election-related violence start to pile up like a stack of papers but nothing has been as bloody, as violent, as brutal, as hair-raising as the massacre in Maguindanao. One of my best friends who now lives in Finland reacted to my earlier shoutout about not getting the Maguindanao events out of my head. She said a couple of her Polish friends were excited at the prospect of visiting the Philippines after she had practically bragged her head about her country of origin. If I were in her place, I would say the same thing. I do hail from a beautiful country and my people also have their share of traits which should earn them a spotlight in the global stage. When the news broke out in Finland, her friends started having second thoughts and decided to forego a visit, the bloody mess in Maguindanao having done its job effectively of stripping away at the Philippines' international reputation, further destroying whatever good image we had left in the international eye. And it all came nipping at the heels of Efren Penaflorida's CNN triumph.

The Philippines' international reputation was the least of my worries. After all, if matters ain't harmonized within in the homefront, no amount of PR could fix the mess and the stench would certainly reek beyond our borders. I was more concerned with the answer to the question "Why?"

Why would anyone want to kill more than 50 unarmmed people? Why would anybody want to violate these women, these wives, these sisters, these mothers before dealing them a cruel blow of death? Why murder journalists and people's lawyers who were merely doing their jobs, noble professions that they were? Why should their untimely execution be as horrible and unforgettable as this?

Why? Has our system of morality declined to a point so low that human life is given this scant a value? Some sinister mind hatched this plan and saw through its execution like an invisible hand. Those who saw it done, whatever their reasons for doing so were, did carry out the orders in a manner so sadistic, the hillside still cries for those who perished and laments for the lives that could have been. To be riddled with bullets, to have corpses mutilated, to tear faces to pieces, to hurl bodies and vehicles into mass graves and pound them into a mound twisted flesh and metal...I could go on and on and anybody would certainly agree with me that this is indeed no way to die, no matter how horrible one lives his life on this planet. Looking at the Maguindanao massacre, a person's life has become something like loose change thrown around casually when no longer needed. Cambodia no longer earns the distinction of being called the land of the "Killing Fields." The Philippines just had to share the grisly honor. And that is, in my world, enraging and disturbing.

Why? Have our priorities been altered so radically that political positions are afforded with such high a regard that it has become the end-all and be-all for the country's so-called public servants, that one is willing to lose his sense of right and wrong in exchange for a political position? Souls have been sold and lives have been lost all in the grand name of politics. To stand at the helm of power and to have everything within your fingertips is maybe perhaps indeed a cause worthy of death. However  I certainly hope that I never would come within a thousand meter radius of understanding such a twisted concept of what is worth shooting fifty lives to a bloody, mangled end. It is not only lives which have been lost in this deadly exercise. It is the also the real value, the real meaning underlying the word "politics." Common good, conciliation, the people...they have all floated down the River Styx toward a land that time has forgotten. And that is, in my world, infuriating and disarming.

Why? Has justice become a fable, a dream, an illusion that we can yak about it all the time like parrots and yet never fully taste its sweetness? Has it become a myth, something that ranks among the halls of Valhalla, something we can gawk at with mouths hanging agape like brainless fools, something we strive so hard to reach yet we can never ever quite attain no matter how hard we try? Has justice become so elusive to the point that spirited Diana herself could never touch even its heels with her golden arrows? Is it a dying man, grasping at the fading light, groping in the darkness for any warm hand it could wrap its fingers on? The blind-folded lady still stands proud like royalty as she holds aloft the scales which have now come to be regarded as one big joke, her formerly gleaming sword slowly yielding to the slow decay of truth and morality in this country. It is not too difficult to imagine the same lady on her knees, cowering, hands tied with what formerly was her blindfold. Such a sad sight but in the light of the Maguindanao massacre, it sure is a reality. And that, in my world, is harrowing and heart wrenching.

It is quite easy to simmer in the cauldron that is anger and feel the steam rush out of all my possible foramina. But what should take less effort, what should easily come as a snap is second-nature to one's fingers is remembering. Throughout history, Filipinos have exhibited what seems to be short-term memory. We find it very easy - or convenient, as the case may be - to let certain milestones, certain experiences drift with the wind. This is akin to the expression "ningas cogon," in reference to the fury with which fire consumes cogon grass and then, almost immediately, dies out to nothing but white smoke and ashes. Maybe, to be extremely positive or altruistic about it, we innately are very forgiving as a nation, choosing to move on to the next square in chess board. But the purging seems to be absolute as what flows down the river of forgetfulness also includes the lessons which should have been learned, those which should have been carried with us as we take the next step forward towards tomorrow. That, in my world, is not how things should be.

In my world, death is not an eraser. It is a hallmark, a beacon, an obelisk etched to every corner with all the names of those who are to be remembered because their lives were either stories to be told for generations or tales awaiting a just ending, a lighthouse which will shine even in the darkest night on Earth. In my world, the horizon will be dotted by such reminders of the work that needs to be done - not out of sheer rage or seething revenge but because it is what is right, it is what is just.

In my world, the fifty people whose lives were deemed lost still inhabit the hilly slopes of Maguindanao, crooked fingers not only pointing at those who carry the scythe but also to those who have chosen to bury them via the backhoes of forgetfulness. In my world, they are not dead.

One Quiet Afternoon

I arrived in Iloilo a little over two weeks ago and yet this is my very first lazy afternoon at home - with no appointments to rush to, nothing important to do, no life-altering event to mull over. It's just me sitting by a couch my mom had strategically placed beside my window. My mother remodeled my room less than a year ago. It's the very same room I occupied as a child when we first moved into our house about 24 years ago. I walked in one day in October, hours after arriving from Manila to twin emotions - first, the utter elation of seeing my mini-library of books piled on extra wooden shelves she had installed on the wall and second, to the complete horror that she had repainted a significant part of the room avocado green and the remaining three-quarters a pale pink.

But the one thing I do love about the room is the newly added couch which she had positioned strategically beside my window. I had always wanted a couch by the window on this side of the room because I had always thought it would be one of the perfect places to read, write, play guitar, think or just be plain quiet. I don't know how she knew that I wanted it that way because I never told her. Case of mother's instinct, I suppose. Sometimes, when my sister's beagle Mai wanders into the room, she occupies one end of the couch while I sit on the other end and we both live a rather peaceful co-existence for about fifteen seconds until she realizes my bed is way more comfy and makes a sky-high leap for it.

The two weeks since I've been home have been nothing but sheer madness. Yesterday, Doi asked me if I was back in Iloilo and I told her I was in town but I was practically living in my grandfather's hospital room. The routine was pretty much very easy to memorize - up by 7 (or 8 if I like the pillows a little too much), in the hospital about an hour later, lunch with the grandparents, while the afternoon away in the company of IV tubes, sphygmomanometers, pulse oxymeters, nurses and tubs of hospital pancit canton, dinner, drive home then slumber party time. It doesn't help much that the traffic here is snarling insane, something I am totally unused to in this side of the country. What used to take about ten to fifteen minutes travel from my house to almost any point within the city has now shot up to half an hour or even more. Blame it on the construction of (only) the second flyover in the city and on a dozen or so road improvements, drainage repair and any other activity which involves noisy drilling and slight ground trembling in random parts of Iloilo. Interesting how all these so-called infrastructure developments always make their presence felt come election season.

Lately, my gwamps has been doing very well, loads and heaps better than the state he was in when he arrived in the hospital on the night of Holy Thursday. The past two weeks were akin to being in a theme park - a carousel for the first couple of days, followed by a walk through the haunted mansion, then a sudden shift to the gyro drop...just one monster rollercoaster all through out. Now we're sort of in one of those floating swan rides and hopefully heading straight for the exit right after. I have a feeling a lot of people are thinking I should be used to such a set-up by now. Believe me, I too thought the run-down has become all too familiar but I was quite surprised at the revelation that I had grown too comfortably close to the routine for comfort that I was always expecting to see the light a the end of the tunnel all the time. Maybe this time that light has somehow showed up again but what then will I do when everything remains pitch dark and I forget my Coleman flashlight in my desk drawer with the colorful, springy keychain still lopped around it like a boa constrictor?

In short, I've barely been home. The house has been transformed into nothing more than a hotel/changing area and to have this quiet, lazy, leisurely afternoon all to myself is certainly as precious to me as the Shy Violet rag doll I've had since I was four. No, actually scratch out "quiet" in the description. The four dogs have been barking at each other just outside my window, their fangs out and vocal chords exercised to the max. Turns out the beagle is back to terrorizing the three others who are older and more laid back, howling at their noses just close enough to give them temporary deafness yet far enough to escape a nip. Add to the interesting array of canine sounds is the occasional noise pollution thanks to campaign jingles which are played on speakers mounted on mini-trucks and prowl around the city. So far I've heard versions of "Jai Ho" and Willie Revillame's "Igiling-giling" among others and the roving music boxes make their pass every half an hour or so in our relatively quiet neighborhood.

It's a good afternoon, not too hot and the canopy of clouds gives the sun a bashful appearance. I'm not exactly sure what time it is as my wall clock is off to the repair shop. It's a pretty old thing, about 14 years old in a plastic blue casing. I miss the ticking sound the second hand makes, a faint mini-version of a whoosh that travels short distances. I can't throw the clock away because it is the only one of its kind. I dolled it up myself back in high school and tried to make it quirky-cute, gluing an old family photo underneath the clock's hands then sticking colorful buttons and paper clips all over it, along with a 10 centavo coin and the old version of the 25 centavo coin (the one with the butterfly), just so I will never forget how both metal pieces looked like. Besides, I like old things, much like the thingamajigs taking their own special spot in every nook and cranny in my private space in this house. They make me feel like I'm somehow in control of time and memory, two of life's best gifts which could someday turn into any person's biggest betrayer, depending on how one looks at it.

I took time off from reading Alice Sebold's "The Lovely Bones" just a while ago. It's the third book I've picked up ever since I got home and I'm well on the way of fulfilling a promise I made to myself to catch up on non-law related material for reading despite all the hospital duties. Maybe tonight I might go back to reading that after I finish writing this...this...random nonsense. It is quite a page-turner and is beautifully written, much like the other two titles I finished earlier in the month. If not, maybe get a head-start on all the movies and TV series Anissa gave me before I left. Honestly they all look so interesting, I don't know where to start. Again, it's mostly old stuff, period material or movies made (or based on events that occurred) way before I wsd even a thought...and definitely lots of Austen. Add that to the other flicks that have had their share of abusive rewatching in the hospital: "Little Women," "The Last of the Mohicans (and the sigh-inducing Eric Schweig two decades ago)", "Willow," "The Truth About Cats and Dogs (Janeane Garofalo's unrivalled wit and humor)", "Rainbow Brite and the Star Stealer," and "Reality Bites (and defining irony)."

It's finally quiet, perhaps because Mai has finally decided to leave the older dogs alone. I could hear Mrs. Chu, our next-door neighbor, playing her piano. It's a series of soft tinkles, a sound that almost resembles the wonky-tonky mini pianos that kids usually get for Christmas and sound like xylophones. Mrs. Chu is a great with the ivory keys, I swear. I took lessons from her for about six years until high school came in. I'd walk into her house in my PJs and she'd give me chocolate after some lessons. Now, I listen more intently as she strikes the notes with the precision of a samurai wielder. No matter how hard I listen, I can't seem to make out the piece she's playing. The sky is turning into watercolor before my eyes, bluish with a highlight of orange. It's nothing short of breathtaking and it's all just from my window. I am not quite sure how it looks like outside so I take a step out as I am sure it would turn out grander.

When I come back minutes later, Shy Violet still sits in a hunch beside my old Simba stuffed toy. I take my seat once more on the couch with my fluffy pillow propped on my back. She stares at me through her rubber, painted glasses and I return the stare through my own specs. She certainly has done nothing in all the months and yearss I've been away, in all the hours I've never been home but wait for me. And though she will never know it, I'm certainly more than glad to be in her and Simba's company on this quiet, lazy afternoon.