it’s bizarre how we'd sometimes feel to have lost something we had never actually owned, i thought while i was carefully examining the colourful masks in a souvenir shop, feeling lost and suspended in the middle of the wandering crowd of tourists along a narrow Venetian alley.
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it hurts! and it was painful not because i was abandoned for someone else... it's heart-breaking because for a few years, love seemed to have had me visually impaired only to realise, after all, that everything about my past relationship was a masquerade!
clearly, grieving was supposedly inessential; ridiculous as it might seem, i lamented over losing someone that wasn’t even mine. that moment i wondered if me sobbing, in its real sense, was a sign of a weakness or a strength; then i'd find solace in the thought that it’s the coward, not me, who'd suffer more. they’d say that enduring an interminable misery might, in the end, imperative should one choose to remain a coward— the one who’d bravely keep on hiding behind a stern face just to get applauded before the critical eyes of the society.
so mysterious these masks, when one's wearing one; how colourful and lovely to look at from the outside but it's horribly uncomfortable from the inside, i thought as i moved on to check out the next shop— determined to face and embrace the promise of a renewed life after this unknown period of my voluntary exile.
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typed on a mobile phone, 02 November 2018; one sleepless night while in one of the rooms of Hotel Ca’ Del Campo, Venezia, Italia.
The colour of the blood oozing from the bullet wounds of thousands of young soldiers, most of them in their late teens and early twenties, must have been similar to the colour of this rosebud I photographed at the park this morning.
I salute those boys and girls for their bravery in facing definite uncertainties as they sailed off to fulfil their first mission which, for most of them, sadly ended up as their final duty for their country. I commend them for having the courage to leave not only their loved ones and their beautiful land, but also the promise of the bright future they could have had— had they opted to stay at home.
SO I ASKED myself. Where was I when I was on my late teens and early twenties? What was I doing?"
I recalled I was studying to become a vet in a school not far from my hometown. And yes, I had just completed that four consecutive years of the, then, compulsory military education and training for Filipino students... yet I would not have been able to display the necessary gallantry had there been a call for me to be on the line of duty for national defence. The coward in me could have just boldly or, better yet, easily convinced myself to rather stay and never ever dare to confront any bullet that could potentially shatter the dreams I had for my future.
BUT LOOK AT those young ANZAC heroes who, after getting off from the boat at dawn, selflessly weathered the torrential rain of bullets from the offending Ottoman armies, withstood the unutterable pain of wounds or burns, and down to the last drop, spilt their life-giving blood on the slopes— flooding the shores of that cove in Turkey more than a century ago.
For me, it is not just enough to only remember them. We should be truly grateful for having this fair degree of peacefulness and freedom we currently enjoy in this world. It may be admirable to emulate their heroism as we face any war in our modern era. Aren't we luckier, somehow, to have received the command to stay and face this battle against the virus in the comfort of our own home?
These days, nightfall comes early and temperature (in 'C) would drop down to single digits overnight. Having tired eyes from staring at computer screens the whole day, I put my vintage table lamps out soon after supper last night, just in time when Mr. Snoffles was coming in from his evening hunt. I 'hit the hay' and as I was settling comfortably under the quilt, this tabby cat hopped on top of my bed and tunnelled his way under my blanket.
I FELT SATISFIED after a full night sleep. I got up at six, gave Snoffles his morning 'bread', put my cool-weather gears on and walked down the sleepy streets to get some flat white from my newly discovered coffee bar. I love their brew— the smoothness of the coffee flavour, the sweetness of the perfectly heated fresh milk in it... those natural tastes that were gradually released as the barista meticulously worked on his machine. So like a thirsty camel who has found its oasis, I've been coming here since Saturday to grab a drink!
Earlier, while I was across the counter watching the young barista preparing my order, I asked him about the secrets in making good coffee, "...is it the barista, the coffee beans or the machine?
"A bit of each," he casually replied and handed my take-away flat white to me.
As I walked down the sycamore-lined street, intermittently sipping some hot beverage from a holed cardboard cup clasped in my hand, I remembered my younger days back in the barrio when my late father would ask me to make a cup of instant coffee for him. Yes, I was once a barista and I had a customer who genuinely loved coffee. He'd tell me that I make delicious coffees; but, honestly, I would only follow his suggested techniques... I'd only use briskly boiling water to re-hydrate a teaspoonful of freeze-dried coffee, then I'd add a rounded spoonful of powdered milk to it, stir and hand my brew to him.
I started drinking coffee and got addicted to caffeine only later in life, so, back then, I hadn't had the slightest idea how a great coffee should taste like. Like the barista this morning, I didn't get to taste those doses of caffeine I handed to my only 'customer', I just trusted myself, believing that I made it right. Consistency and love; I guess these were the important ingredients I added to my own brew back then.
Having spent his life in a secluded village— in a hut humbly standing in the middle of the ricefield, I wonder if my late dad, before at least facing his life’s untimely expiration, ever had the opportunity to taste and enjoy barista-made coffees during his regular visit the city to see his siblings... to enjoy this relatively sophisticated kind of brew that have become my favourite these days. If he did have, then I’m sure, like the fluffy McDonald's pancake we, together, once had in Ilustre St., Davao, he would have been raving about this flat white.
I CLOSE MY EYES... and using my tongue, roll a heaping tablespoon of short, curved, hallow pasta generously smothered in mayonnaise, hint of pickles, bits of pineapple, nata de coco, sultanas, tiny cubed cheddar and strands of boiled chicken breast in my mouth. I completely ignore the starch and sugar contained in this dish as I start chewing it, alfresco, like having an amnesia— forgetting everything about that low-carb diet I’ve been following, after savouring this sort of a plat du jour from my own kitchen.
Sitting on this outdoor timber bench, I then sip some flat white, feel the, thankfully, cool January morning breeze as I watch my pet cat Snoffles sniffing and stalking around the garden on this quiet and bright new year’s day. The potted succulent sitting on the matching timber table in front of me simply appear to be ignoring the cuts and scratches on its leaves as it raises its younger blades positively upward as if welcoming 2020 with much hope and delight!
I do look forward to the new year, praying for both mental and physical health as well as complete healing from the wounds of 2019, in short hoping for a happy and healthy days ahead but this macaroni-chicken salad I’m having for breakfast instantly take me back to how our family would celebrate the New Year in my childhood days.
HAVING SOME CHILLED MACARONI salad for breakfast would be a typical first day of the new year for me and my younger brother (I have a sister who’s seven years younger than me, could be the reason why she’s not present on this particular memory). Unlike me who’s born in August— budget wise, the most challenging month for a rice farmer in Mlang, Cotabato, I’d think as a child that he was much luckier than I was. He was born on a New Year’s Eve so he hadn’t had a birthday without a celebration, well, at least for me that was a ‘celebration’.
I’d say that New Year’s Eve was more exciting for us than Christmas Eve, especially at dusk, set off by a faint audible sound of a motorcycle gradually becoming louder, heralding the arrival of our (now deceased) father from the town centre. As children, my brother and I didn’t really care how and where would the resources come from, what was important for us was that our father had brought us a banquet for his birthday celebration! There’s this roasted pig head along with its pleasant, distinct smoky aroma, the fluffy chiffon cake, the sliced white bread that would come with peanut butter contained in disposable cups covered with foil, and a box of sparklers which we would eagerly light at Media Noche.
Unlike most of the Filipino families, we seldom have a traditional collection of thirteen ‘round’ fruits at home. If we’d have some, like calamansi or guava from our orchard, we’d arrange them in a tray and proudly place it on our modest, rickety dining table; sometimes, it’s not even a dozen. Sadly incomplete! Perhaps my mother was not a believer of such fortune these fruits would bring to the family who gathers these or most likely, we just couldn’t afford to buy that much variety of fruits on New Years Eve. So what I could recall was a mom who couldn’t be bothered collecting colourful fruits but someone who’d try to put together the ‘cheapest’ ingredients so we could have our favourite macaroni salad as we welcome the new year.
I’d usually avoid using the word ‘cheap’, would prefer using ‘affordable’ instead, as the word cheap doesn’t only mean inexpensive but also inferior quality. Something that is substandard.
But this time, ‘cheapest’ would be the most suited word to describe the ingredients our salad was made of as I could remember those curved, hollow, dried pasta packed in transparent plastic bags that didn’t cook and taste as great as Royal® Elbow Macaroni. What our family could afford was something inferior than del Monte’s® macaroni, even cheaper than Fiesta® macaroni. It was a macaroni without a brand, boiled and cooked as gracefully as we could under the canopy of banana leaves in our backyard using our big, old kaldero.
There were New Year’s Eve when we wouldn’t have enough cream and mayonnaise, obviously due to lack of finances even if my parents would choose not to purchase the first class Lady’s Choice®. But as long as there were red and green kaong, some bits of pineapples, unbranded raisins, a small box of Eden® cheese—patiently cubed, and heaps of condensed milk, it was still called macaroni salad, wasn’t it?
BACK TO THIS FIRST MORNING of 2020, while enjoying my macaroni, alfresco, I start thinking. Which is better: a not so great macaroni salad prepared and shared with my family or a perfectly creamy macaroni cooked al dente yet eaten quietly and alone on a new year’s day?
