Jairus

My brother, Jaja, deboned a bangus in a most interesting manner. I do not want to tell you how he did it because his esophagus still hurts.

I come from a clan that constantly wears the smell of the flavored smoke of a thousand unconfessed slaughters. When rain poured hard and waiting for it to drizzle was impossible, an afternoon visit in Lola Tering’s Bonifacio house would usually extend to an exciting and freezing sleep-over. Waking up, rays of sunlight seemed dispersed and heavy with smoke as I looked outside through the old house’s wooden panels. The heavy and concentrated smoke would soon summon my dizziness with the strength of an orchestra of aroma that traces back to my Lola’s kitchen.

Ascribing to the Statistical Central Limit Theorem, I assert that almost every palate in our humble town of Kabacan had already been treated to a scrumptious meal in La Samariña. La Samariña has been known in our town to be the name not only recognized by the famished but also by the bloated. People from our town would refer to it as a restaurant. Actually, it barely compares to what is legitimately called a restaurant since its ambiance is not something that Erap would order or pay for; however, to call it a turo-turo would awaken Lola’s wrath that is unfurtively Waray.

It runs in the family. I believe in Genetics so I gather my mother’s siblings, all eight of them, inherited a portion of Lola’s unforgiving taste buds. I wish to further my belief in Genetics by hoping that the imperial line of taste buds reaches my generation. Fortunately, it sure did; but I did not get it. My brother, Jaja, might have lacked the talents I abundantly enjoy that the heavens, in sheer pity, adorned him with a talent he can only now claim his own: cooking. Now, take a pause and embrace the fact that I am also capable of sourgraping. Just kidding.

I had been cooking for my housemates in the past few weeks. School work was still light so I delightedly took the responsibility of preparing dinner for them. Realizing that I have many talents but cooking (here I go again, haha!), I always made sure that my phone never ran out of load so I could text Jaja for recipes to which he gladly replied. My housemates are a group of men well raised by their parents, and their parents are successful in teaching them table manners. Every time we sat down for dinner, they had the decency of not suddenly dialing 8-MCDO for delivery but instead regaled me with the kindest words of compliment. But most of the time, I did not believe them. The dishes I prepared were the same dishes Jaja would prepare for me every time I come home during breaks, and the disparity between the tastes was enough to wage a biological warfare between North and South Korea.

Jaja never learned to debone a bangus. In fact, he never learned to eat one. It was a summer break in 2004 when he enthusiastically prepared his own version of rellenong bangus upon learning that I was arriving. Growing up with him, I remember the days when he would keep aside a serving of our viand for a family member who was expected to come late. Also, when our parents were out, he was the one attending to our gastronomic needs. So on that fateful day of my arrival, I was glad to devour everything that my brother prepared for a brother he missed so dearly. But in my revelry, Jaja swiftly headed to the sink and tried to expel the thing that just clung hard enough to his juvenile tonsils, or throat whatever. When the tension subsided, I huddled back to my sit and finished off what was left of my brother’s rellenong bangus.

Julia Child was my dream acquaintance. After her sad death, I settled down for Wolfgang Puck. In the unfortunate event that Puck dies before I meet him, I will have to aim for Emeril Lagasse, or Nobu! When they all die before I get the chance of blurting out to them "yes, chef" in their own kitchen, then, I will have to finally go for Rachel Ray. And the list goes on. Since the day it dawned on me that I was never born with hands for cooking, I started to recant the idea that I will never learn how to do it. I will have to acquire it. So do not be surprised when ten years from now, after earning my MBA from Wharton, and after five more years after becoming a respectable executive, you will see me wearing a toque in Paris. It will be in a culinary school across Notre Dame. It will be snowing outside the Institute when you will bump into me. I will immediately recognize that you’re Pinoy because you will utter aray in a way that is crunchier than my fried churros. In disbelief, you will recognize my face and I twill try to brave the cold trying to remember your name. I will soon invite you to my flat located adjacent to the Louis Vuitton shop. We will have dinner of medium rare steak partnered with a 1976 Napa Valley Cabernet Sauvignon.

But I shall have to learn how to debone a bangus first. Then I will have Jaja taste it in all confidence that it’s entirely free from pointed, ichthyic skeletons.

And I have to learn that cooking is not to impress, but to serve good food with the earnest motive to share an experience, an adventure, a fantasy and a story just like this. Chow!

Juancho

Everything happened along with the despicable but somewhat natural, rushing, rural wind. Elena was the barrio sweetheart whose charm and boyish grin put her in the center of countless conversations among the local men. She was too charming the dirty pink piglets in her family’s backyard behaved like English gentlemen every time she fed and bathed them. Men from known and unknown places groomed and fattened legions of carabaos, cows, horses, goats and even domesticated monkeys to ask her hand for marriage. But she only loved Juancho. Juancho only noticed her after all his dearly loved chickens died of a lethal strain of avian flue, and they eventually got married. On the day of the wedding, they had every representative of the animal kingdom butchered but none from the line of the flying chickens.


What I have just written was a bastardized retelling of what I have read in grade 5. I painstakingly finished the novel so I could as well brag that I was able to finally read a novel, cover-to-cover. I felt elevated to an exclusive brood of literati students who intellectually bullied classmates who could only read cliché proverbs plastered on classroom walls. That novel I was referring to was entitled something like this: Kailan Iibig si Juancho?


I started reading late, and I innocently read the unglamorous ones. I only got to read english novels when as a high school freshman, I noticed a pretty but anorexic classmate named Dianne write and speak impressive english. I later learned that she had a collection of english novels. What my pretty but anorexic classmate lacked in protein she compensated for with her generosity by lending me her books; the first one I read I can hardly remember the title, but there were cute, yellow ducks on the cover. I soon ventured into Sheldon’s fast-paced storytelling of men and women who slept with other men and women, killed other men and women, found their way to the top toppling other men and women, and a woman who shared multiple identities with other women! Wheww! When I got to UP, a genius roommate named Ralph who was taking up English Studies displayed horror over my immature reading list. He introduced me to Albert Camus, Garcia Marquez, Kazuo Ishiguro, John Steinbeck etc. Ralph’s erudition on the subject of Literature was evidently displayed in his own writings. Our other roommate Hathem, who majored in Creative Writing, never missed in transporting me into his own stories. His prose was so powerful the entire dormitory room seemed to fold like a carton box.


I was a writer of the school paper back in high school. I even competed and fortunately won in some of the competitions. However, I refrained from writing in college. I thought writing was only for those who can catapult readers to Antarctica in a commanding trajectory of words and letters. I stopped. Soon realizing that it’s not yet too late to write again, I ventured into poetry. But my poems were so dull and at dearth of imagery and full of pitiful wordplay. I write them on tissue papers but I thought they were to set off where tissue papers are usually headed.


Last week, my roommate Pido wrote his first blog entry. Ralph, who still happens to hop in our room every so often, gave Pido a remark so impelling I started contemplating on this entry: “Continue writing Pido, you’re doing yourself a favor!”

I’m doing myself now a favor.

My FIRST!

This is my first blog entry.