Tea at Wimpy's

On one December day, a man and a woman walked into a Wimpy’s restaurant in London. (I don’t think they had much choice back then. I don’t think McDonald’s was in vogue back then. (Though I might say, the “beef burger with a sliced, grilled sausage on top,” is one of the Wimpy’s signature dishes. If you can find one, do try it,). Knowing the man, if he had a choice, he might have gone for KFC, his personal favourite. But this story has little to do with fast-food dining. In fact, the two quietly had a cup of tea. He would have had two sugars. The lady would have declined. They probably shared a joke or two as the rest of the world around them remained oblivious to the importance of the day. You see, this couple had just gotten married, that very afternoon.

My parents.

This story has become part of the folklore of the family. It is still a bit head scratching to be fair. Two people, both from the Philippines, but different islands, leave to see the world. They strike out separately, seeking their fortune. They go half way across the planet, end up in the UK and then meet.
I don’t think meeting each other was part of their plans. I believe the priest who officiated their weeding even asked them if they were sure about getting married.

Twice. During the ceremony.

Sometimes, I wonder about the story of my parent’s wedding. They always seem to have a chuckle whenever they tell the tale. The Wimpy’s is a fact because no one admits to dining there. (Except for one who shall remain anonymous).
What is also a fact is that they both knew, even then that they hadn’t figured it all out. They still haven’t figured it all out. They didn't have a big wedding, but they have been having an interesting marriage. It’s not been perfect, but they are OK with that.

They are still working on it.

So, to my mother who taught me grace and my father who taught me patience, a very happy anniversary, Mama and Papa.

I love you both.

(Belated, I know. I’ve been having trouble with the writing!)

That must have been a very good cup of tea. I hope I meet someone to share tea at Wimpy’s too.

And that's why dad gets the big piece of chicken.

So one day, I'm crazy enough to agree to babysit my nephew M. I must have been drunk or just not thinking straight at the time. Now I love my nephew, but at the time the prospect of watching him scared the heck out of me.

Have me face a charging mob? Been there.
Get pummelled in a basketball game by guys twice my size? Done that.
Be responsible for the little boy (cutest there is, but still)?

Can I face the charging mob again?

Taking full advantage of the Orange Wednesdays (a weekly two for one movie ticket promo), my brother and sis-in-law asked me to watch my nephew for the evening. I couldn't hold it against them. It had been months since they had seen the inside of cinema an after watching the wee man 24/7, they deserved a break.

Scared out of my pants, i still agreed as I had a trump card.
Pa was in town on holiday!

We get to their house, my nephew all fed, bathed and dressed up. A quick hug and last minute instructions and they were out the door,literally  leaving me holding the baby.

Now my nephew takes one look at me, looks at the closed door and realised that he was stuck with me.
What does he do?

Now I could tell you how I gleefully bounced him in my arms, pulled a dozen funny faces and sang completely off key to entertain him, with great success. Except the last part would be a lie. He just kept on bawling loudly, tears streaming down his cheeks.

At this point, I am desperate and pretty much freaking out, when a voice from the couch rang out.

"M, look over there." 

I half-turn to the couch and see Pa, pointing  casually into space. As one, both M and I follow his pointing finger. I raise my eyebrows as I can't see anything in particular. So I keep looking back and forth, all this time M is staring intently in the same direction.

And then it dawned on me. I spent several minutes trying to calm my nephew down, pulling out every trick I had and failed.

Pa used one sentence and one wise index finger.

We spent the rest of the evening watching Disney movies until we all fell asleep on the couch.

So the lesson learned?

There is so much that I yet to know. Especially about being a dad.

So  this is my salute to the fathers.

To the professional dad, Pa who will always end up teaching me something new. Thanks Pa!

To the novice dad, my brother whom I one day bug endlessly if and when its my turn. I apologise in advance!

To the new dad, my best friend Paul. Congratulations on becoming a dad! ( you are a brave man than I!)

And to all the dads, raise a glass, pat yourselves on the back and look please with yourselves.

Happy Father's Day!

Perhaps one day, I, too will join ranks.

(But not yet!)

Ink on Pages (or "how I love the smell of books in the morning... and other times as well") Part 1.

Remember Buffy the Vampire Slayer TV series? It made a star of Sarah Michelle Geller, propelled Joss Whedon to fame and pretty much defined a generation of young adult TV entertainment?

This has nothing to do with that.

Season One, Episode 8, “I Robot, You Jane, ” Giles, (Buffy’s watcher. Again, not important at this junction, just stay with me on this. ) gets grilled over his attachment to books.

He replies:
“Books smell musty and… and rich. The knowledge gained from computers has no texture… it there and then it’s gone. If it’s to last, then the getting of knowledge should be tangible. It should be, uh… smelly .”

For as long as I can remember, I have been surrounded by books. Growing up, the bookshelves of our home lined with a complete set of Encyclopaedia Britannica. My Mother’s handbag would always have room for a battered, dog-eared paged paperback novel, perhaps a Sidney Sheldon or a Judith Michael. A quick glance in the glove compartment or car seat pocket and you would find a book stuffed there by my dad. My brother would painstakingly spend hours on end making catalogue cards for our meagre library and sorting them respectively. (Of course I never put them back in order.) As for myself, I never went anywhere without several books on hand. Even if we went around the corner to shop.

As a family, we have always been reading. Growing up in England, my brother and I were only aloowed a limited number of hours watching Tv during the week. Reading on the other hand was allowed all the way till bed time. Of course, we were not beneath sneaking a flashlight to bed to read another chapter.
This trend continued even after we moved to the Philippines. Whether it was the cramped apartment in the city, the creaky bamboo and concrete bungalow in farm or the current homestead of the family, the Apura library has followed and continued to grow.

Even in our darkest days and lowest points, we have had our books and kept on reading. When the flooding waters would enter our homes, we would scramble to take them to higher ground. When the typhoons would ravage the landscape, shatter our windows and rip off our rooftops, we would grab our blankets and cover our collections the best we could. We mourned at the loss of any book as the loss of an old friend.

I have read the books on our shelves several times over. I’ve read by candlelight when the power has gone out. I personally bought enough books to fill several crates. (On that note, they did fill several crates. Thanks Pa.)

And yes, I have moved on to e-readers, mostly out of necessity. But I still prefer the weighty feel and smell of a good book. It takes me back to when I began reading. Today, my Shakespeare is next to my Pratcett, my Cromwell snuggled next to my Gaiman (I never put them back properly.) And did I mention my comic book collection?

I guess that is a story for another time.

P.S.
This is for my brother who would read to me as a kid,

Ma, who would haul several books for me on her trips home,

And lastly for Pa, on his Birthday, who would carry me to be countless times to bed long after I had fallen asleep reading.

And at times, even when I faked being asleep.

A little late night of cooking...

It was a humid Wednesday evening. I had been home for hours and had probably finished with my homework by then. I must have been in my freshman year of high school. It was close to 9 in the evening when I heard the rumbling of the very distinct engine of our jeepney. Distinct as it was difficult to not hear the loud growl of a V8 engine (it had been meant for our old truck) running in a PUJ (public utility jeepney, for non-Filipinos, this would be the most common means of public transport. Pa was a driver.). That meant that Pa was on his way home from driving the local route.

Pa came through the door, the scent of sweat and motor oil following him. I greeted him at the door with a smile… and an unmistakable sound of a grumbling stomach.

Pa looked to the table and realised I hadn’t eaten dinner yet.

“So you haven’t cooked anything?”

The annoyance and exasperation was evident in my father’s voice

I stood there meekly and embarrassingly in front of him and then replied in the most matter of fact manner.

“I don’t know how to cook.”

Pa stood there, mouth wide open.

He shook his head and marched straight for the kitchen.

Nope, we weren't having sandwiches. (No Bread.)

We weren't going to be ordering pizza or any delivered food. (We lived on the farm. We didn't have a telephone. The mobile phone was not mainstream. )

No Instant noodles. ( I had probably eaten the last batch several nights previous)

No, that night was the beginning of my real introduction into cooking.

Now you have to understand, I was a selfish brat growing up.

I hated cooking.

I hated helping in the cooking.

I hated it so much that I would make the extra effort to guarantee I got kicked out of the kitchen. ( My family would testify to this).

My dad is so good at it, I would find the most creative ways to avoid pitching in.

Mind you, I didn't mind eating (as evident in both past and present pictures!) but I was especially picky as a child. (I'll probably have to return to this discussion at a later date, as I digress.)

I guess I got too used to it.

In any case, that was the first night my dad properly took me to task with cooking.

The dish?

Beef steak, with pan-fried potatoes and onion rings.

I think I still remember the basics.

The Beef steak.

Lean cuts of beef steak, cut thinly. Each cut would be the size of my palm. (And I had big hands. Still do)

The marinade:

Dark Soy Sauce. (Silver Swan, the most common brand)

Rock Salt (From a sack. Fresh from the ancestral salt farm.)

Ground black pepper corns

Calamansi (native Filipino citrus fruit for those uninitiated. A small lime.)

Vinegar.(Cane vinegar, with that post cane wine flavour)

Potatoes:

Peeled, washed and sliced in even rounds.

Onions:

Peeled, sliced in rings.

Garlic:

Crushed, sliced.

Now, we didn't do things with measurements and all that jazz. This was on the fly cooking,  especially that late at night. Pa taught me to work quickly and trust my own judgement in taste. The meat was cut to even sizes. The marinade was mixed together, liquids in equal amounts every thing else depending in taste. Steak was then left to soak.

"Heat up the wok," Pa said.

The family wok was a beast of a cooking pan. Every family should have one. It had a history of flavours  burnt right into it, every dish ever cooked had left part of itself. As well as inches of our burned skin as this was a heavy cast iron cooking utensil, handle included.

A generous amount of oil was left to heat.

"Watch the smoke," Pa pointed to the heating oil.

There was a point to learning how to read the flames from the stove, knowing when the pan was hot enough without having to look too much. Patience, even when hurrying.

"Brown the potatoes,"

Potatoes would always take longer to cook, so part cooking them was a smart idea. This is where careful preparation paid off. The more even you slice the potato rounds, the more likely they will cook at evenly and at the same time. Once, they had slightly browned, remove from flame, drain and put to the side.

"Fry the crushed garlic."

Now almost every other Filipino I learnt to cook would start with the frying of crushed garlic. There was just something about the scent of garlic hitting hot oil that makes me hungry immediately.

"Add the meat."

I remember beaming as I watched the meat  begin to cook.

" Add the potatoes."

I was wondering why we only half cooked the potatoes. I was still looking at them as individual dishes and not as part of a whole.

" Add the onions."

I guess the onions would cooks so easily, you didn't want to over cook them and end up with burned mush. The layers of meat, potatoes and onions seemed so inviting. I was ready to shove them all on a plate and dig in...

"Slow down the flame." Huh, weren't we done yet? I thought.

" Add part of the marinade to the mix." Weren't we done with that? I queried.

"Now get a cup of hot water." I wasn't thirsty. Maybe Pa was.

" ...and a teaspoon of corn starch(corn flour)." Eh? Now I was getting confused.

"Mix them corn starch with hot water." This didn't sound like a drink I fancied.

"Now add to the cooking."

Oh.

OH! So adding the corn starch mixture to the already cooking meat, potatoes and onions would make a thicker sauce to compliment the dish!

I quickly began to set the table for the very late dinner that we would be having. My father's irritation had now  begun to settle into bemusement. I was beginning to lick my lips anticipation.

" So did you cook the rice?" Pa asked warily.

Crap.

We finally did get around to having dinner at some point.

I definitely ended up with doing the dishes.

But from that day onwards, I stopped fearing the kitchen. I began to practise bit by bit from breakfast dishes to small dinner sets. Pa finally got used to the idea that I could survive in the kitchen to a degree. Even if it took a couple of sessions of undercooked rice to get there.

Pa would always say that better a small table overflowing with food, than a large table that was empty. I'm still  learning to cook to this day, reading the odd recipe and modifying it. The family pretty much says I have a tendency to spare the salt, but other than that, I do fine.

Before my parents went off to go to the Philippines this year, I insisted on cooking a roast lamb dinner for them. My dad loves lamb and I really wanted to cook something nice. Also, Pa had only liked one dish I made, mashed potatoes. So getting the thumbs up that night was gratifying.

Pa is still the best cook in our family, bar none.

We will gladly be pulled in to help prepare a meal and also not complain when he chases us out of the kitchen. It is impossible to go on a proper diet when he cooks, but we don't really complain too much.

So this piece is for Pa.

I'll be cooking this dish just for you even if you are halfway across the planet.

I'll be keeping your share warm.... just until I decide to have it for myself.

Happy Birthday Pa! Love from across the seas!

Previously on puppet without strings...

So... What did I miss?

Ok, fine, I took a break for a several weeks. I needed to take a break from the writing gig. It seems strange that I would take a break from something that I declared was relaxing not too long ago. In truth, between work and the events of the past month or so,writing was the furthest thing from my mind. Sure I was still doing my free writing and pet projects, but those were always more spur of the moment, rely on inspiration endeavours.

I always promised myself that I would not force the writing, otherwise I end up finding the whole project more of a burden than a joy.

Still, the past Christmas season has been a very rewarding one. Yes, it was spent halfway across the planet form a majority of my friends. Yes, it was very cold here (Actually, I exaggerate, it was actually mild at times. But compared to the beach weather in Boracay... Arctic by comparison).

And yet, I would be lying if I were to say that I did not enjoy this Christmas season. This year marked a great turning point in our family in many ways. I guess in many ways the past several years have been leading to this time. We all knew that Ma was nearing her retirement and that she wanted nothing more than to finally be able to spend her days with Pa. You have to understand, my parent have been married for over thirty years, but have spent perhaps only a third of that time in one place together.

Over the years one or the other had but their dreams and careers on hold for us their children or for their spouse. Ma often jokes that she has spent more years here in the UK than in the Philippines. Actually, that is a fact.

There would be evenings when I would be sitting in my room reading and over hear their late night conversations and smile. Not bad for a couple that got married, had tea at Wimpy (a local burger restaurant) and not see each other for several months. Sure it wasn't the most romantic venue for a wedding reception, but thirty years on it sounds like a dream most people would love to have.

Perhaps I should have prepared myself better. I guess my brother had it planned out better. He after all, managed to get married and snag three receptions out of his wedding, albeit in three different countries. The pride and joy in our parents faces on that wedding day to see their eldest son married was incredible. Adding Sis to the mix has actually rounded out the dynamic, though it has prompted my mother to nudge me ever more so towards settling down.

Seriously?

But for the past years, we have all chipped in to prepare for this time. The house back home in Iloilo has been  made comfortable. Items have been packed up and shipped off. and soon we found ourselves counting down the days to this time. Yes, we have had our downs as well. The loss of the restaurant to the floods years back was a huge blow to us all. We did have quite good hopes for that one. Still, Pa came out of that one unharmed. After all, we were not the only ones to suffer in those days.

The evening that Ma finally clocked out for the last time from the hospital, really became the point of no return. She had finally put her mind set to retire. Pa had put his mind set into taking care of her. And we, the children were preparing ourselves for seeing them off into their happy retirement.

We did insist on Pa cooking the festive meals. Not that we were lazy or anything, but in this family we knew who was the best cook and if we were going to have to celebrate, he was the person for the occasion. I did however convince them to let me cook one roast dinner before they left. I cooked lamb, which I knew was Pa's favourite. getting his thumbs up was worth the hassle, given that prior to that he had only ever like one dish I cooked. Mashed potatoes.

Before we knew it the day was here. Ma and Pa would be flying off to take a well deserved break. Ok sure, they will be back in several months to visit perhaps, but the dynamic would be different. Before, I lived with my parents.

This time around, they would be coming over to stay with me.

As I waved them off, I couldn't help but shed a tear, wishing if I hadn't screwed up several years back, perhaps this day could have happened sooner.

Maybe there would have been less concerns.

Maybe I could hold my head a little higher.

But as my brother did mention, Pa did give me a hug before he left and say, " You'll be alright. " It was pretty much the same thing he got back in the day. So I suppose that does mean I have my parent's vote of confidence.


It's been four days now.

The house is strangely quiet and I have yet to master the silence. I find myself putting on the radio and the tv, just to have some noise.

It will get easier. There is a lot of work to be done. I may be the king of this castle, but it still needs to kept.

Still, I'll take the silence knowing that it means Ma and Pa are enjoying their time together.

I hope I will be able to make the proud.

Now... where's the vacuum cleaner?

Writing in invisible ink.(Part 2)

When I restarted this blog, I pretty much did it with much prodding from a particular lady friend. I didn't put much hope in it, truth be told. I had tried previously and those attempts proved unsuccessful and short-lived. While I have not kept up as regular as I had hoped, I've kept at it longer than I thought or even hoped. Previous tries had faltered, mostly because I lost interest or kept leaving things off.

Actually, that would be a lie. I just really didn't have the heart to write.

To be honest, I never grew up wanting to be a writer. It just wasn't my thing, growing up I was always more of a reader. From a young age, my parent pressed upon my bother and I the importance of reading. Actually, out whole family are avid readers. Ma is a thriller and romance reader. Dad is a non-fiction and DIY devotee. My brother is more off the beaten track sort. And myself?

I grew up with Enid Blyton, Roald Dahl and Hans Christian Anderson. I suppose that's a strange mix of authors. Blyton's "The Adventures of the Wishing Chair" was the first book I read repeatedly. It was a collection of tales  of two kids who find a magical chair that grew wings. The chair would the take them off to strange lands and  meet magical people. I guess the idea of travelling to strange new places was exciting to a young boy growing up in Greenwich, England. Funny enough, when I finally left for the Philippines, reading the book was my only connection to England. The familiar humour, the odd English eccentricities and the fact they always had tea time, made it so comforting.

As I entered, primary/elementary school, The Hardy Boys detective series was my drug of choice. Frank and Joe Hardy would enthral me with their adventures. It seems almost corny now. That fact is I could probably breakdown their plots and the flow of each story. It's actually predictable! The brother's stumble on to a case. Frank uses his nerdy detective savvy. Joe would pull off some athletic feat. Chet Morton (their best Friend) would bumble about. And Chief Collig would pretty much overlook their meddling in police business.

But I didn't care.

I must have read every book in the Elementary Library, even the encyclopaedia! All of that, just for kicks. While other kids would be running around the playground, I would sneak off to read. I think I must have gotten into trouble, dozens of times for reading a book during class.

I guess, it started then. I would scribble down small stories about me and my friends at school. We would be super heroes, flying around the world, dressed in ridiculous costumes. We would be complete Japanese Anime rip-offs, fighting in our mecha. Later, we would clamber around in our armour, fighting every dragon we meet.

Small tales, that I would scribble down in my awful handwriting. I wish I kept those stories. They could have been the great stories I would be telling my future grand children. Shame that they are lost to time and memory.

Plus I could have sold them for the Kindle.

The beds we choose to lay in...

Waitin', watchin' the clock, it's four o'clock, it's got to stop
Tell him, take no more, she practices her speech
As he opens the door, she rolls over...
Pretends to sleep as he looks her over

She lies and says she's in love with him, can't find a better man...
She dreams in color, she dreams in red, can't find a better man...
Can't find a better man
Can't find a better man
Ohh...

(Better Man by Eddie Vedder [Pearl Jam])

When Eddie Vedder first wrote this song, he was in high school. He actually performed it with one of his earlier bands. Strangely enough, this song was initially rejected when Pearl Jam  were planning on recording the “Vs” album. He wasn’t even comfortable with releasing this as part of the “Vitalogy” album. The song lyrics are full of sadness, sarcasm and an air of resignation. It also helps that there is a fantastic tune to go along with it.  To those unfamiliar with it, the song recounts the conflict face by a woman who is in an abusive relationship. Tired of the abuse, she plans to confront her partner and finally makes a stand for herself. But when the moment comes, she backs down, pretends to be asleep and decides to let the status quo remain. To add to this, she decides to stick to the relationship, saying that she can’t find anyone better.

When I first heard this song, I never really listened to the lyrics. I just dug the tune. But as time passed, I really began to listen to the song and realised just how dark the song really was. The subject matter is just so desperate and dire, which makes the ending resignation all the sadder. It makes me always wonder why people sing it so gleefully when it is performed live. I know it is a fantastic sounding song, but the dark nature of the song always makes me feel uncomfortable.


This song made me think very carefully about every relationship I had and chose to be in. It scared me that anyone could use love as tool, even manipulate a loved one in such a manner. Such abuse is not limited by creed, gender, religion or nationality. It can exist in relationships familial, romantic and even platonic.

This is not a happy song. It’s a song of sad resignation to being trapped an abusive relationship and ultimately choosing to remain in it. Why? Because they can't find anyone better. In this case, there isn't a better man. Now that is a terrible reason to stay. A love most... "meh."

Abusive relationships are something I have never been able to understand. The idea of someone trapping someone else into a relationship my pure manipulation and at times violence, has repulsed and scared the living daylights out of me. I must admit, I used to have very simple ideas regarding the nature of abusive relationships.I used to believe that it was merely a violent tendency that drove the relationship of the abuser and the abused. To which I used to scratch my head at why anyone would let anyone themselves be hurt so much. In my naivete, I even thought the victims as cowardly. After all, anyone that subjects themselves to such only ends up that way if they allow it to be.

In an effort to understand, I took to reading up on the subject and was even more disturbed by what I learned about the subject. There is a whole cycle that can emerge between the abuser and the abused. There is the grace period, where everything is fine, pleasant, even good. Then there are the small outburst of anger, and threats of violence. This can simmer until there is ultimately a burst of abuse. Now I often thought abuse was purely in violent action, physical pain. But abuse can be manipulative, psychological. There is the chess game of denial, even restricting the victim, leaving them completely dependent on the abuser. Then this is where it gets hazy. The abuser can then switch it around either by begging forgiveness for their actions.

" I can change, "
" It was a one time mistake"
 " It won't happen again."

And that is if you are lucky. Other times the abuser will switch it around an put the blame on the victim. Everything is therefore, the fault of the victim. They caused this to happen, by their own actions or inaction, they are the person responsible. Which fills the victim with guilt, ultimately wishing to make amends. Creating the period of grace. After all, they have made their bed. Time they lay in it, right?

And the cycle begins again.

There are many critics of this model, saying it is too simplistic and they may be right. It may never apply to all cases, but it does hold many truths.

The sadder fact is to see it unfold before your very eyes. You see the abuser and you see the victim. You see it happening before you. You realise what is going on, but you can't do anything. It's your word against theirs. And when the victim refuses to admit they are are a victim, either out of fear, ignorance or denial, you have no case.

Sometimes, even if you try, you become the bad guy.

What then?

Eddie Vedder famously dedicated one particular performance of this song to, what he said was "the b**t**d who married his mother." I guess he did not  like his step-father very much. While the nature of that particular relationship is subject to speculation, the intensity of the song is undeniable.

I sometimes find myself listening to this song quietly in my room. I have seen people trapped in these relationships before. It has been my regret that I have never been able to help anyone, successfully. And it breaks my heart living with that fact. I don't ever want to be the person that Vedder wrote about. I don't want to be the person trapped and more so, I never ever want to be the person who hurts another person that way.  

We all deserve to be happy, truly happy.

I pray I can be a better man.

And someday, be found.

(P.S. Thanks to Wikipedia. I had remember reading about the song's history before, but it had been a while.)