I start this blog weighing 39.7 kgs. in a 5’0” tall, or rather short frame. A perfectly healthy, nubile Filipina working 8 hrs a day, 5 days a week.
Just like any other middle-class corporate monkey, I ponder about life, existence, and how long will my lunch money last before the next payday.
I do not come from a culinary clan. If there ever was a generation old recipe in my family, it would be in a big baul (chest) where they keep letters and old pictures. Of some uncle’s love child. Far down the pile. Way down the bottom where it’ll never see the light of day. Ever.
To compensate, I scour the net to look for the perfect dish that will ultimately reveal my hidden prowess in cooking, hoping by the hand of God to be miraculously gifted with culinary abilities in my mid-20s. No luck. I’m on experiment number 151 and still counting.
So I don’t know a trifle about cooking. And If cooking skills were a weapon I’d probably be disarmed by an 11 year old by now. Spelling and pronouncing hors d’oeuvres is as far as my French skills go, and with an experience in food critiquing limited to comparing today’s ulam to yesterday’s leftover Adobo, I am nevertheless undaunted.
So why am I starting this blog?
Plain and simple. I looove food. I love it with a passion that I think of it while working, bathing, shi—ok nevermind, in the middle of a droning lecture, a mass (I’m sorry father, yes you’re right in your homily), an argument. I imagine myself saying, ‘oh yeah, well I’d rather eat soup number 5 for a week if that will give you enough balls to admit your mistake.’
Food has been an essential part of my life that the idea of trying out a new resto can set me off at a pretty good mood after a bad day. It fills me with so much excitement that it has become a measurement of the little successes I experience in life. It’s a reward when I’ve done good; a consolation on an awfully mediocre day.
Since this is already a mouthful, I end this post with a big toast, lest I make everybody punch drunk before getting a taste of the entrée.
