Dear Santa

Dear Santa,

I know that I'm (possibly) too old to be writing you and asking for stuff. But just in case there's no age limit on wishful thinking, I thought, "What the heck, let's drop the big guy a line just in case he's wondering what I want..." So on that note, here are a few things I'd really like you to give me this Christmas.

In no particular order:

1. The total annihilation of all Sitti musical recordings on the face of the earth and for her supposed musical "talent" to mysteriously disappear to forestall any future "musical" forays. 

I had to visit my dentist last week -- it was horrible enough being in that dentist's chair, hearing the metallic whirring sound of the drill and anticipating the pain.  But for my dentist to compound the suffering ten fold by playing his Shitty...este..Sitti CD collection is just plain inhumane. And possibly, this is what the framers of the Constitution had inmind when they drafted the prohibition on "cruel and unusual punishment".

To make matters worse, as I recover from my horrendous dentist's visit this fine Saturday morning. My next door neighbor apparently purchased the same CD and is playing it at top volume -- causing untold pain to me and also, to the other neighbor's rottweiler who's either howling in pain or trying to sing along.

2.  For a pair of indestructible, waterproof, baby proof glasses which incidentally, will magically appear in my hands when I snap my fingers.

For some reason, my baby thinks that real toys are for sissies. Hence, no amount of bribery with toys will excite her interest.  We've tried everything from those atrociously expensive lamaze and fisher price toys to the cheap plastic Barbies from the bangketa in Divisoria (...or at least until I had a panic attack over the lead content...hmmm...) to no success.  As a matter of fact, the cheap plastic Barbie was that clear winner.  Tabitha played with her long enough to snap her head off  throw it at her sister who just looked on in disgust.

Instead, Tabitha likes to play with non-toys. Like her dad's car keys, the tv remote (of which she's broken four already), and oh, you know.. electrical outlets and forks.

Her ultimate favorite though, are my glasses. Which now sit on my nose at a weird angle, are held together by duct tape on one side and are corroding (possibly due to all the baby spit.)

3. For someone to explain to me why Coco Martin is on the same Bench billboard as Kris Aquino and Bimby.  Or even better, for someone to explain why anyone would name their child "Bimby" -- did she not realize that it is too close in sound to the adjective "Bimbo" ? )

I mean, really. Richard Gomez (and family) I get, Ruffa  and Richard Gutierrez, check; Vilma Santos, Lucky and Edu Manzano (in a weird, screwed up way -- and what was Ralph Recto thinking allowing this?) I also kinda get -- BUT Coco Martin, Bimby and Bimbo..este..Kris...really boggles the mind. And upsets me each time I drive past Guadalupe bridge.

(Or maybe I should start working again and start using my brain cells, which obviously, are turning into mush...)


4.  World peace.

...because that would be a good thing. And also because I've always secretly wanted to be a beauty pageant contestant just so I can say "World Peace" with a wide, shit-eating grin on my face wearing a swimsuit in heels and it would be perfectly normal...


5. For a huge ass shopping mall where everything is 70% off --- somewhere in Quezon province.

...this way, there would no traffic in and around Alabang Town Center and I could actually drive the 7 kilometer distance from house without (a) almost hitting another car, person, motorcycle carrying a family of three plus their dog;  (b) taking the Lord's name in vain with all my swearing and gesticulating at insane drivers and (c) be ale to buy the hypothetical panty (or some such essential) without having to line up for three hours and almost get into a fight with some crazy, rich, fat, fashion victim from BF Homes who suddenly decides she wants the exact same pair I was already holding when she tried to grab it out of my hands.


6.  An Ipad.

Or rather, another Ipad.
Because my 6 year old seems to think the current one belongs to her. 
And so I can't check work or my email.

(And damn it!!! I REALLLY need to defend my lawn from those pesky zombies!!!)


7.  For all my undone Christmas shopping to be magically done (and looking like Jazel Calvo wrapped them).

Marthe Stewart will now disown me. But I haven't done all my shopping and the ones I did get, I wimped out and put them into those pre-made gift bags from the Bazaar. Sorry, no ribbons this year. ..and you can forget about the berries, bells, etc.

Normally I like to shop...I just don't like to shop when I don't get to buy anything for myself. There I said it. I'm a selfish bitch.

Now shoot me.

(And THEN you'll really not get a present this year....for various reasons including (a) I'd be dead and can;t get you one and (b) You'll be in jail with RJ Revilla and the Ampatuans and it won't really feel Christmas-sy in there.


8. For you not to give Tempest any more toys.

Because I'm the one who has to put them away, who accidentally steps on them in the dark at night and who gets injured when the Littlest Petshop pet punctures the sole of my foot, I'm the one who has to calm her down when they "run away" (i.e. get lost) and then have to call the gift-giver to find out where "Santa" bought it so I can rush down there to buy a replacement.

Besides, cash is good Santa! It never hurts to be liquid in these times of financial turmoil and the unfortunate European market...


(I'm already teaching Bobbi to say "Special Deposit Account")


9.  Or better yet Santa, maybe some Christmas Spirt?

I think my cynicism is showing.

10. Bust most of all Santa the one thing I REALLY, REALLY do want. I know you can't give me.

I miss my dad.

And I wish he were here.

Christmas is awfully hard this year with no one else in the house who appreciates Fruitcake like I do. With papa gone, who will share the fruitcake with me over a cup of (non-decaf) coffee? 

We used to joke that there are only 10 actual fruitcakes circulating in the Philippines. They just get passed around because everyone just changes the card and gives them away again when they get them...except in our house. Because Papa and I have never met a fruitcake we didn't like.  So Dad, what am I going to do now? By my count, there are still 7 out of the 10 fruitcakes still running around out there and you're not here to help me eradicate them.


And there's no one to fix the lights outside so that the house looks like something from National Lampoon's Christmas vacation.

Besides, who's going to remind us TWO entire hours before the mass on the 24th that we need to get ready for mass? We probably will be late then.

Who's going to check that Santa didn't give Tempest a rock (no lumps of coal in Manila so a rock will do) in her stocking when she's been naughty... and who'll surreptitiously exchange it for candy when Tempest actually gets a rock because he can't stand to see her crying over the rock?

For the first time in my life, I don't feel like a little kid on Christmas.
But For papa, I'll try.

Because there ARE little kids here and he'd feel bad if Santa skipped our house this year.

So Merry Christmas Papa, and just so you know, I'm saving you some of that fruitcake.
And you know they say fruitcake keeps forever....

The Pie That Ate The Galaxy

The Pie That Ate The Galaxy

(Or “Quiche Malunggay ala Miscen”)

It seemed so simple.  “Easiest Pie Crust Recipe” it said. Only 10 minutes prep time! “Even my five year old can use this recipe!” the blurb assured me.

And fool I am. I believed it.

And this is why on what would have been a nice, balmy Monday afternoon, I found my myself peering anxiously into a hot oven, invoking the kitchen spirits to look favorably upon my latest experiment which is currently turning into a weird greenish –brownish color oddly reminiscent of combat fatigues – which are well and good if you’re fighting the Abu Sayaff but which is not so good when looking at food you are cooking. 

Earlier, the pressure mounted when no less than all three of the adult members of my family anxiously asking if they should start ordering take–out as dinner was fast approaching and the amorphous blob of dough on the kitchen counter in no way, shape or form even remotely resemble the fourth cousin twice removed of the picture on the pie crust recipe I had swiped off of the internet. (Note to self : try not to rely on google too much when feeding family.) 

Or rather, Ron and my sister suggested the take-out.  My mom just quietly went to the freezer and took out a packet of pork chops which she handed to the (relieved-that-she-would-have-normal-food) maid.   

(Gee, thanks for the vote of confidence Mom!  And you too Yaya, you traitor!)

And then there was my beloved daughter, who took one look at the baking dish and promptly announced she wanted bacon and rice for dinner.

(I feel sooooo loved and affirmed. Don’t you?)

First of all, there was nothing “EASY” about this pie crust.  Except maybe how easy it is to get wrong. 

Secondly, the 10 minutes prep time probably applied to people who (a) knew what they were doing in the first place, (b)  actually know how to measure “1/3 cup of shortening per 1 ¼ cup of flour” (c)  actually OWNED a “sifter” and (d) knew how to use aforementioned “Sifter”. Since none of the above applied to me, that was the longest ten minutes of my life. It actually took more like two hours. Or at least ten days.  Or it seemed like it at the time – especially when I was chanting “Please set…please set…please set…” at the oven.

And last but not least, the lady either cloned Julia Child five years ago or his outright lying.  If a doctor, two lawyers and teacher cannot get this recipe to work right – the only five year old I know who could have possibly gotten it right would have been Doogie Howser, MD (and he’s fictional).

Further to my previous blog – did I mention that I am still on the quest for a full repertoire of malunggay recipes?

Seeing as how the Meatballs From Mars (ahem) were a success – I decided to push my luck and try a more advanced dish.  Five hours later --- Something tells me that I should have tried for an omelette instead.

I’d like to share the Pie That Ate the Galaxy (or at least, my whole afternoon) recipe with you, but there’s a strange burning odor emanating from the kitchen and I have an awful feeling it’s my quiche….

The Malunggay Chronicles : Monster Meatballs from Mars

 

“Monster Meatballs from Mars

- Ang Pagbabalik"

YOU WILL NEED:

1 large onion chopped – preferably by someone else since they are not only smelly, but will also make you cry. Which description – come to think of it – could also be used to describe certain boys I have known.

5 cloves of garlic minced – see description above. The allusion to boys also applies here.

1 cup of bread crumbs - get a couple of slices from that stash mouldering in your refrigerator and whizz them in the blender. Trust me, this is better than the store bought variety, which as my mother informs me, was probably made from nasty, leftover, stale bread that the supermarket couldn’t sell. (Just use your own nasty, leftover stale bread. It’s more personal that way.) 

½ kilogram of ground pork – because we are not, nor will we ever be, vegans. Period.

½ kilogram of ground beef – because...well...what’s wrong with meat? What did it ever do to you? And well, they're well...meatballs.

1 egg beaten - I’d make egg jokes here but I AM still aiming for a PG-13 rating so I will restrain myself and will just make cheesy comments instead...which brings me to.....

1 cup grated cheese - whatever cheese you have is fine, as long as it’s REAL cheese, not those nasty things from the cardboard box pretending to be quick melting “cheese”.  If they spell “cheese” with “z”s instead of “s”s, you’re probably using the wrong kind.

For my version, I grated the leftover queso de bola from Christmas. It was, by this time, as hard as a rock, but quite yummy. And yaya can thank me for the new definition in her arm muscles from the grating.

1 cup Malunggay Leaves - pureed. ..Because after all, this IS called The Malunggay Chronicles and the leaves HAD to show up somewhere. And by the way, you’ll also need....

¼ cup of olive oil - in the blender with the malunggay unless you want try pureeing them dry --- in which case you’ll need to lock up your babies, cats or other housemates with sensitive hearing in a soundproof room to avoid hysterical crying and all around mayhem caused by the loud, grinding noise the blender will make.

Basil, Oregano and Parsley – nice to have the fresh stuff but the dried McCormick kind will do, unless you’re real chef (in which case—WHY THE HELL WOULD YOU EVEN BE CONSIDERING USING THIS RECIPE???!!@##$!@) or a purist (in which case – please refer to the previous comment and stop reading my freaking blog!@$!!)

Salt and Pepper to Taste - whatever that means.(I just always wanted the opportunity to someday use that phrase)

Some Cornstarch - please don’t ask me to measure because I’m pretty sure we don’t own measuring cups.

WHAT TO DO NEXT:

Upon arriving with the malunggay (in my case, this would be after climbing over the fence separating our garage from the neighbor’s yard), wash and pat the leaves dry. 

Seriously.  

Wash them VERY well. (Remember, you live in Manila and I don’t even want to know how much dust and germs are on the leaves – just a tip, if the washing water is still brown, you’re probably not done with the washing. Meanwhile, make Maynilad happy keep the faucet running.) 

Puree leaves in blender. Preferably with ½ cup of olive oil. Olive oil optional of course...provided that you have put on earplugs and placed baby in soundproof room (see note in ingredients section).

Puree 3 slices of Tasty Bread or whatever stale bread-like stuff you have in the fridge - as long as it’s not furry or walking on its own, it should be fine.

In a really big bowl, mix the onions, garlic, pork, beef, spices and beaten egg.

Mash ingredients around. It’s easier to just use your hands for this – the mixture gets quite thick sticky and I bent one of my mom’s Solingen spoons the last time (needless to say, she was not pleased) I used a utensil.

Oh, and wash hands first.

Add the breadcrumbs and grated cheese. Mash again. Pretend it’s your worst enemy’s ugly mug you’re mashing about and that you’re actually doing the world a favor since the mashing could only improve their looks. In my case, followers of my blog know whose faces I’m thinking of. But in their case, there’s really no hope for improvement so any mashing is futile. Good for my triceps though.

Add pureed malunggay mixture. DO NOT BE ALARMED WHEN THE MIXTURE TURNS A HORRIBLE, ICKY SHADE OF GREEN.

Prevent all family members or other intended consumers of the finished product from seeing the mixture. Otherwise, they will refuse to eat this and all your efforts will have been in vain.

Add beaten egg and continue mashing. Now, the mixture will not only be green and icky – it will be green, icky AND slimy.

Salt and pepper to taste – whatever that means. I would skip the tasting part. Just wing it. There’s raw egg in there and salmonella is a possibility. Maybe a tablespoon of salt and a tablespoon of pepper. (You can always add salt when you’re eating it. And if anyone complains, tell them to cook their own damned dinner.)

Using one heaping spoonful at a time, form into balls roughly the size of those rubber balls you used to play jackstones with.

Roll in cornstarch and line them up in neat rows in a baking pan sprinkled with corn starch – they just look nicer this way.  (The neat rows part is optional. I’ve just been hanging out with my friend Jazel - who’s OC that way - too much.)

Let ‘em chill (in the refrigerator.) -- because shouldn't we all just?

Fry. 

Meatballs should turn brown – if still green, they’re not done yet. And by the way, taking them out every 2 seconds will NOT help them cook faster. 

Once done, the Monster Meatballs from Mars can be placed on top of spaghetti with pomodoro sauce.  (Or for us peasants, the “Italian Style” Del Monte tomato sauce heated up in a pan will do....anyone with chef-ish delusions of culinary ability or purist tendencies are requested to hold their peace and keep their comments to themselves. No one forced you to read this, right??) 

Serve.

Convince 5 year old daughter (and husband) that the meatballs do NOT have vegetables in them – they are just from Mars.  You'll probably have better luck convincing the husband. If not, there's always an annulment -- which, just so you know, I happen to specialize in as well and which coincidentally, is probably why my husband (claims) to love my cooking.

P.S. I’m pretty sure this will work with spinach too. Or other random vegetables.  

P.P.S. This is a real recipe and is quite edible. We had it for dinner tonight – and these are real pictures. Really.

 

 

 

The Chronicles of Malunggay Part I

Or "How Turning into Cow Helped Me Discover my Hidden Kitchen Goddess"

Tabitha, is a callous, voracious, heartless little parasite.  She is demanding, loud and impatient.  In full throttle, her cries of outrage can be heard two locks down the street and have been known to set-off the car alarm on our neighbor's fancy porsche.   She has the temper of John MacEnroe on speed and when crying, has the endurance of Lance Armstrong on the Tour de France (we actually timed her once and she didn't stop crying -- loudly -- for 48 minutes straight). 

Do NOT be fooled by the engaging grin.  Do NOT allow yourself to be hypnotized by her twinkly eyes.  Do NOT make eye contact at all lest you be unwittingly drawn into an "Awwwww...." moment.

Tabitha is the annihilator. 

She's also six months old and happens to be the world's most adorable baby -- or so I  like to think (...and many people agree with me on this, like ROn, and my parents, and Jazel Calvo - who would know because she's smart and a lawyer;  and my sister and my best friend Rutchie who would also know because she's a pediatrician and therefore, has seen gazillions of babies.)

After Tempest abdicated her throne and has gone on to greater things (i.e. single-handedly bossing around her kindergarten class as opposed to just bossing around her parents and family), did I also mention that Tabitha is the new dictator of our household? 

Yes folks. She rules her father and myself with an iron mitten -- embroidered with pink bunnies no less.   

And she's perfect!

An angel.

As long as you feed her when she's hungry.

Or else...

And did I mention I'm breastfeeding?  

(Insert sounds of my unenlightened  male readers -- there are like, two of them probably, -- gagging with disgust and frantically clicking the mouse to navigate away from this page here).

So what do being chased by an irate little dog (who thinks it's a rottweiler but actually looks like a small, dirty, furry rat); our next door neighbor and spaghetti have to do with this blog?  

Everything.

Since it has been a constant struggle to satisfy Miss Tabitha's seemingly insatiable appetite, I have been on a six month quest to discover the holy grail of...well...milk.  Luckily for me, my mother, my OB GYN and Tabitha's pediatrician all agree that  Malunggay will do the trick and that ingesting enough of it will make me a veritable fountain of milk. 

The discovery that I wouldn't actually have to EAT (shudder,shudder) this vegetable threw me over the moon -- they apparently come in capsule fomr now!!  Great.  I'd just need to pop a few pills every now and then, and voila! Gallons of milk.  Fat baby.  Skinny Miscen.

Unfortunately, this did not work out the way I had envisioned.  Apparently ingesting enough capsules to make Pepe Smith proud (if they were drugs) was not enough.

I had to actually EAT the malunggay (shudder shudder shudder).

Which is why on a lovely Tuesday morning (i.e. today), bright and early (i.e. before the stupid dog next door wakes up and notices I'm in their yard) I was helping myself to the neighbor's malunggay leaves.   

To assuage the outrage of my readers (and because you need to know that I am NOT a criminal), the "yard" in question is actually a shared space that neither our neighbor or we own.  The village actually owns it.  My neighbor just decided it was a good place to recreate Tarzan's home jungle and plant twenty gazillion plants in there. 

Everyone knows that mosquitoes just love plants.  Ergo, the fact that by having all those plants around, my neighbor exposes me to dengue fever on a daily basis -- leads me to conclude that I am, at the very least, entitled to help myself to the malunggay. 

(Also, said neighbors are still asleep at this time and hopefully will not notice that half the foliage of their tree is missing).

But then there's the stupid dog.  He has other ideas. And by the way, the delusional (thinks he's a rottweiler remember?) mongrel doesn't even belong to the same neighbor who planted the malunggay tree!

Luckily, I managed to escape with my booty -- a big bilao of malunggay leaves before mop-with-feet (a.k.a. "The Dog") caught up with me. 

 (Note to self : Next time, send yaya for the malunggay leaves.  Or carry big stick --- hmmm...but would need to have free hands for bilao and also, for climbing tree. Hmmm... dilemma.)

Malunggay in hand, and dignity intact (not having fallen out of tree in my pajamas with cats on them or gotten attacked or injured by the mangy rat-dog I fondly refer to as "He-who-must-be-spayed"). 

Upon my arrival, I was met by Ron the Skeptic, whose utter lack of faith in my culinary abilities is insulting considering that:

a) I have NEVER actually poisoned him by accident (...and believe me 
    if I wanted to actually poison anyone, I could do it and make it look like 
    an "accident");

b) It's HIS spawn of a child (aka the cutest baby since Tempest grew up)
    that I'm doing all this hard work for; 

c) The malunggay mixture I concocted (while admittedly strange looking) was
    NOT all THAT bad; and

d) He NEEDS to get over malunggay/orange juice smoothie I made because
   that was ages and ages ago and I'm sure he's had worse stuff to eat
   or drink since then.

So in the face of such (UNDESERVED) skepticism I channeled my inner Nigella Lawson (did I mention that as a fringe benefit of breastfeeding, your ahem "assets" assume Nigella-like proportions).

Et voila ----  "Monster Meatballs From Mars"

(Recipe tomorrow. I promise.  I would type it now but the dictator is awake and the neighbor won't be pleased if his stupid car alarm goes off again.) 

 

Coping

The telephone rang and I jumped up from my seat -- only to sit back down again two seconds later, after realizing that no, it's not him and no, he'll never call again.   

You see, my dad used to call us at about this time of night on Mondays and Thursdays, like clockwork.  I would usually talk to him for a few seconds and pass the call on to my mom or Tempest (who were the two main reasons why he called anyway) and we would talk about the most nonsensical things -- something funny Tempest had said that day (or more recently, something the baby did that was cute)  or  whatever mundane thing I did that day. 

The night he died, he made the same call to me -- and looking back, I wish I had told him something more meaningful than that Tempest obviously had inherited my lack of dancing skills, that I had taken mom and Tempest to Pancake house for merienda and that my bathroom was leaking again and could he look at it on Friday? I wish I had said "I love you" and "You are the very best dad"  or that I missed him when he went home to the province or that one of my best memories from childhood was holding onto his pinky finger as walked because my little hand was too small to hold onto his, and feeling that as long as I could hold on to my papa I would be safe from the monsters in the dark, from the thunderstorms, from getting lost in the big, big world.

The thing is, I always thought there would be years of phone calls, thousands more of our funny conversations, years more of sharing stories about my daughters.  I had counted on hundreds of days more of hanging out with him at the mall on lazy summer afternoons eating too much ice cream at Dairy Queen. I had counted on him being here with us for decades of Christmas dinners and birthday lunches and those 

"Hey anak, let's just go get Japanese food just cause I feel like it" jaunts. And I guess that's why it hurts so much -- because I feel so cheated. 

Today had been a "good" day -- and by that I mean, I hadn't given in to crying since early this morning -- until the telephone rang. 

Had you asked me three weeks and five days ago how I thought grief would be I would have said that it was like being trapped under a thick, hot, heavy blanket and where you are enveloped in pain that is so dense and black that it suffocates you, that you want to scream and rant and rave because part of you thinks that if you do, maybe you'll find a way out of the nightmare.  

But I know now that it's not. 

One some days, you will wake happy -- because you had been dreaming you were still together.  And then you wake up and upon realizing that the loss is the reality, you wish you could just remain asleep.

On other days, you will wake up crying and realize that you had dreamt of that moment when the world shifted and your life changed forever because of your loss.  And then you fear sleep. And fear that for the rest of your life, you will relive that moment.

On a "bad" day, a sound, a word, a memory will have you running to his closet, to cry into his clothes because somehow, they still carry a whiff of his cologne.  And the old shirts that mom kept threatening to throw out and which he loved, still hung there as if waiting for him to take them out and wear them to church.

But somehow, you WILL find some reserve of strength that will allow you to get up each morning, to eat some food, talk, work, function.  Sometimes, you'll even find yourself smiling or laughing.  There will be brief moments of normalcy.  And then the painful part -- realizing that despite your grief, notwithstanding your pain, the sun will still rise and set, you have children that will still need you.

And that the world will go on - a world without him in it.  

For my part,  that world and I as well, will be forever changed.  The sky will be just a little less blue, the sun a little less bright and the flowers he loved, a little less beautiful.

But then, what would be the alternative? A friend told me - You are only so sad because you loved him so much.  You grieve so much because you had a wonderful father.  Would you rather not be this sad? Would you rather not suffer this much because you didn't have a wonderful father who loved you will all his heart? Would you rather that you felt nothing or even felt relieved that he was gone?

And as usual, this particular friend was right. 

I have always placed great stock in the aphorism that it is far better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all -- I just never thought that one day, it would make me think of my father.

To My Beloved

Dear Tempest,

You asked me a question today, a very worried look on your face. You wanted to know, since Abu is in heaven, how Abu would know you when you see him again.  “Mommy, how will Abu know it’s me when I get big?” you asked.  And then you asked me why I was crying and with panic in your voice, promised not to ask me anymore.  

Dearest one, mommy cried because her heart was full. It was not because you did anything to make me sad or because you shouldn’t ask.  When your love is too big to fit in your heart, it pushes the tears out of your eyes.

I cried because Abu loved you, loved all of us, so much that he would have hated to see you crying because of him.  I cried because at five years old, you are much too young to deal with the enormity of death and loss.

My mom’s father died long before I was even born and we were never close to papa’s father, so I never really had a grandfather of my own.   Perhaps your Abu was not like other grandfathers; perhaps he was one of a kind, extra-ordinary in his love for you and for our family.  But then again, perhaps he was typical of all other grandfathers and our memories of him are tinted by the rose-coloured lenses of the love we had for him such that we thought him to be much more than he was.  Either way, I can assure you of one thing – that next to Mommy Te, you were the love of his life, his beloved one. 

I have wanted to write about your Abu for days, I am afraid that if I don’t put down on paper what I remember of him, the memories will slip away as swiftly and unexpectedly as he himself slipped away from us. 

But how do you even begin to write about the person who brought you into the world? The one who in turns, made you laugh, cry, terrified you, and comforted you, the person who moulded you into what you are?   How could I find enough words to write about my handsome father, the one who taught me to reap a map, to ride a two-wheeled bicycle, how to fix a flat tire, how to pack a suitcase in that special way he has, the one who encouraged me and believed in me even when I didn’t believe in myself?  The father who showed me the world and gave me his love of travel, the one I shared adventures with, the one who always got my jokes and always listened to me?  

How could I even begin to explain how it was not his famous temper that kept me in line growing up, but rather, the desire to hear him say “Ang galing galing naman ng anak ko.”   or “Ang bait naman ng anak ko.”   Because while he never said the words “I love you” or “I’m proud of you” to me (although with you, the words came easier to him) he showed me every day of my life, and even now that he has gone.  

On some level, I must have known he was proud of me and never doubted that he loved me.  But ironically, it was not until he left us that I learned how much.

Today I cried as I opened his passport case, the leather worn and beat up from the thirty three years it had been travelling with him.  Inside, he had a picture of my mom, faded now under the discoloured plastic liner, the sides rumpled as if from being handled so much.  And in the inside pocket, copies of every single graduation picture ever taken of me and Beng and I wondered how many random people, strangers I’ll never meet or know, he had shown these pictures to.  

And in his papers, together with his important documents, was a clipping of a poem I had forgotten I had written, published in a newspaper years and years ago.  The newsprint is yellowish now and the paper is brittle.    The poetry is bad.   That newspaper has long been out of circulation.   And yet my papa kept it with his most important papers, as if it were worth as much as the house he had built for his wife, or the money he had saved for her to live on when he was gone. 

During the wake, I realized there must have been many such random people he had spoken to about me.  Each time a perfect stranger came up to me and asked me if I was the “lawyer daughter” or the “doctor daughter”, each time someone I had never met before asked if I enjoyed my new job or whether I still handled cases for channel two or if I still did work on TV, I realized that my papa must have talked about me and Beng all the time.  I realized that he was so proud of us that he would regale friends and strangers alike with stories of his beautiful wife, his two brilliant daughters and his beloved granddaughters.    

Especially you.  

When you grow up, I’m not sure you’ll remember much of your Abu. But I hope with my help, you won’t forget how much he adored you from the moment he first saw you.  I will tell you stories of your Abu and how he taught me how to love you.  And I hope that when it is my turn to die, you will remember that all the good in me, everything right I have ever done, each time I was a good mother to you, it was because he taught me to be.

I will tell you how you were the first thing he would want to see in the morning – that no matter how early he left the house, he would peek into the room just for a glimpse of you.   

I will tell you how after his open heart surgery, he never complained of the pain although it must have been immense, he never said a word about the discomfort although we could clearly see him suffering.  And through that entire ordeal, the single thing he complained about was that he was not allowed to hold you or put you on his lap.   

I will tell you how in the latter part of his life he hated to drive and hated the traffic and yet, without even asking, he would volunteer to drive you or any of us, anywhere.  How he would wake up when it was still dark, or stay up late, or brave the rains or the floods just so that your Ninang and I wouldn’t have to drive for ourselves.   And that no matter how late, and no matter how much traffic he had to brave, he would rush home from Bulacan on Tuesday nights just so he could catch you before your bedtime, and how he would be so happy to spend even a few minutes with you.

I will you how Mommy Te used to scold him for taking the bus or the MRT instead of the car and how being afraid of pickpockets, he would only bring a few hundred pesos with him.  And yet, he would spend the last peso in his wallet to bring you home some small toy that you would get tired of in a few hours, rather than buy himself merienda.

I will tell of that day on the MRT when he saw an old lady taking care of two children, one of them sick and deformed, and the other, a little girl who reminded him of you.  How he loved you so much that because of the little girl who looked like you, he gave the Lola all of the little money he had brought with him so she could take the little girls to Jollibee and how he had only enough money left to pay his bus fare. 

I will tell you how my handsome papa, who captained jumbo jets, who travelled the world, who met beautiful women and who dined in Paris and drank champagne, was never happier in his life than when we would all squeeze into his car and travel ten minutes down the street to Jollibee to eat chicken joy – you, me, Bobbi, Ninang Beng and his beloved Mommy Te – we were his world.

And I will remind you of his promises that “Everything I have belongs to you.” and that “Abu will never be mad at Tempest, never.” 

Your Abu was not a rich man but he left behind a rich family – because of him we have millions of memories, we have hearts overflowing with love, a home he built to shelter us, and the remembrance that once upon a time, there was a very good man, the most loving husband, the proudest father, the most doting grandfather who loved us all with his whole heart.

So my dearest one do not worry that when you meet again, Abu will not know you.  Abu taught me to trust in God and so I do.

And so I trust that if I get to heaven, Abu will be waiting for me and he will know me, and he will still be my papa.  Because a heaven without my papa or one where he doesn’t know me, would not be heaven at all.

The Epilogue

Five and a half years ago, I published a post entitled "A gumamela by any other name…" ( see http://defendingyourlife.blog.friendster.com/2005/08/a-gumamela-by-any-other-name/) speculating on possible names for my as yet, unborn child. Determined not to saddle her with an unpronounceable, difficult to spell or too common name, my husband and I had numerous conversations regarding name choice.

A major issue was whether or not we should risk naming her "Tempest" and have a child with a stormy disposition -- as if any child of mine could possibly NOT have a stormy disposition. As it turns out, a rose (or in this case, a gumamela -- since we're in the Philippines) DOES smell as sweet by any other name.

In my case, my daughter is in fact, a force of nature. Her personality is so strong she rules our house with an iron fist, has been known to make grown men cry (ok, ok, it was Ron) and to my horror, she once tried to tried strangle a boy in the middle of a school performance. According to her, it was (a) in self defense because he hit her first, (b) she DID give him a warning not to do it again before actually trying to cause bodily harm and (c) what else could she do when he was trying to mess up her hair?

And for the record, I really, really resent that when told of the strangling story, EVERYONE says "Oh she's exactly like you!!!"


WHAT IS UP WITH THAT?!!!!


First of all, I have never strangled or even hit or slapped anyone. I may have wanted to on occasion (and certainly, some people deserve it) but I've never actually gone and did it! I mean really...much as I'd like to smack certain people, I DO have SOME self-control!


Secondly, I never made anyone cry in school.


Ok, fine. I did.


But it wasn't until the first grade when I "accidentally" stomped on and broke Ernesto Sy's box of 64 new crayola crayons (he was being mean and refusing to share). Therefore,Tempest began her career making boys cry a whole TWO YEARS before me.


And lastly, I do NOT rule anyone with an iron fist. I am NOT bossy. Just ask Ron. Really. Speaking of Ron...he should be here by now with that iced tea I asked for ten minutes ago...


So anyway, I just had my second baby. (And probably my last, considering that whatever reserves of pain tolerance I may have had ran out with the last bottle of morphine they put in my IV drip two months ago...)

Ron : Oh she's so cute!
Miscen : I know! Don't I make good babies?
Ron : We should have a boy next...
Miscen : Excuse me, but the next time someone has a C-Section in this house, it
won't be me. And since no one has invented a medical procedure for
male pregnancy yet, it looks like a "NO" on that boy baby idea...

Going back to the (rambling) topic at hand, I tried to convince Ron to name our new baby Temperance. Hopefully, the Gumamela Principle will work in reverse and I'll have a temperately mannered, calm and peaceful baby (which I deserve after the previous Tempestuous one).


I figured that apart from the benefits of a calm, subdued name, my baby would also not have the same name as anyone else in her school.


(Apparently, "Bella", "Jacob" and "Edward" have been the most popular baby names in the last few years --- and I'm so NOT naming my daughter Bella, the catholic church may not approve of you naming your child after one of the undead and unless your son actually LOOKS as good as Taylor Lautner, I'd steer clear of the name Jacob altogether.)


Unfortunately, we got vetoed on the "Temperance" idea -- and since it was my mother that enforced the veto, we had to ahem..."re-think" our name choices.

After much discussion, we named her "Tabitha Therese".

"Tabitha" -- because I had a favorite doll named Tabitha (who got lost in Schipol Airport when I was 5) and "Therese" after my mom -- because we're all scared of her (ha ha ha).


Luckily for Bobbi (a.k.a. Tabitha and so nicknamed after my father complained that no one ever gets named after him and he had to get into the act somehow...) it turns out that "Tabitha" is a Hebrew name which means graceful gazelle. Suh-weeet.


In the end however, Tempest the stormy one solved the dilemma and controversy regarding the new baby's first name, second name and nickname.


Tempest just calls her "Two".