Islandhopper Lives It Up

Last Breath

2011-01-16T22:47:00.002+08:00

Thank you to the readers of this blog. Even though I have not been the most diligent blogger, I have always enjoyed writing to share my thoughts with other people.

Blogging, for me, to a great extent, is self-indulgent. I love to write, especially when it's not required or paid writing. I love the idea of documenting a slice of my life, so that at some point in the future, I can look back and smile at the recollection, relive the details I have captured in print. The audience becomes totally irrelevant, because I write to write. I write to an audience of one -- me.

On the other hand, I also enjoy the idea that somehow I can help find others find a good restaurant and a great book, thus sharing with them the joy, extending the experience. I love the comments. I love the feedback. I love the idea that I have made somebody laugh, or try out a new dish, or run to the nearest bookstore.

Anyway, I will continue to blog, because erratic blogger as I am, I will die a little bit if I stop blogging. I just won't be blogging in this URL any more.

Those who are following me here for the foodie and travel bits, please head on over to http://islandhopperchronicles.blogspot.com. Don't forget to "follow" me. I have several restaurant reviews in the pipeline, plus some highlights of last year's stay at Plantation Bay.

Those who are interested in books and those who want to follow the adventures of our book club, join me at http://gegeflipspages.blogspot.com.

It will be great if you would continue to read both blogs.

This particular blog will disappear after all the clean-up work is done.

See you!

Sabroso's at Libreria: A Most Unusual Meal at a Bookstore

2011-01-15T23:35:00.015+08:00

I've had my share of lechon. And now that my husband is frequently in Cebu, lechon has become common dining table fare.

So, maybe, I'm a little bit jaded now.

But I was in for a surprise treat with my first try of Sabroso Lechon.

One day before 2010 ended, we got invited to a lunch at the best bookstore in the planet, Libreria.

Libreria is a quaint, little bookstore tucked into a corner of the metro's most happening art spot, Cubao X. Outside, it looks a little bit like Hugh Grant's bookstore in Notting Hill. Inside is a scrumptious melange of white brick and teal walls, floor planks salvaged from a bowling alley, shelves and shelves of books, kitsch (the good kind), and the heady scent of brewed coffee. It's small in area but big on personality. It's a place one goes to not just to buy and browse affordable books in great condition; it's also a place for friends to chill, to discuss books, to party.

And this little party last December was called by Libreria's lovely owner, Triccie Cantero. I didn't know if she was thanking us for our patronage or bribing us to come over when she whispered that lechon (roasted pig) would be on the menu. She neither had to bribe nor thank us because we go to her bookstore just because we love it there. But still, lechon! Who says no to a lechon invitation? So, even if my husband and I were off to an anniversary vacation, we had to stop over.

My husband, artisan, surgeon, demi-god of lechon carving, showed off his skills and left not one splatter on the books. He didn't even break into a sweat. And he finished carving in pretty good time too. He was in his element. And I was in mine, surrounded by books, good food, and my bookish friends.

Sabroso Lechon, as the packaging says, is incredibly flavorful. I have yet to find food that is better than sex, but this comes dangerously close. This is lechon that comes from the Cebu tradition of pig roasting, but deviates a little to make it unique. For one, it comes with a thick garlic sarsa, which might raise the eyebrows of Cebu-lechon-purists. And to my palate, there's a distinct flavor, something that resembles sinigang and something I cannot guess. I wanted to take a sampling of the stuffing to have our resident science geek Mike analyze. Maybe I have to try it again to find better words to describe its interesting flavor. For now, all I can manage is that it's lovely, lovely lechon.

Lechon and books -- a most unusual combination, a fusion of heaven for the senses and hell for the cholesterol conscious. At least now, I can argue that my vice (books) is so much healthier than my husband's (booze and baboy).

Lechon without rice is like, well, lechon without rice. Good enough, but a little sad. So, Triccie made sure the experience was complete by supplying seafood paella lovingly prepared by her mom. Cholesterol + carbohydrates; now, what else is missing?

Ah yes! Sugar. Fellow book club friends Blooey and Czar took care of that with a box of Krispy Kreme and the famous ADB chocolate crinkles, respectively.

Then, finally, the appetizer arrived. Like we need it. Our friend Mike (yes, the science geek slash sports watch endorser) contributed the ridiculously delicious hummus made by his mom. All of us now want to be adopted by an Iranian family.

And finally, a cupful of Libreria's house blend. The bookstore gives out free brewed coffee. Didn't I tell you this is the best bookstore in the planet?

Unfortunately, my husband and I could not stay longer for the reincarnation of the lechon in paksiw (cooked in vinegar and garlic) form. Pampanga beckoned.

We can always have some more of the lechon by visiting their shop at 1237 E. Rodriguez Ave., Corner Tomas Morato, Quezon City. And according to my Manila by Day book (Thanks, Peter and Rhett.), they serve meals there too. According to the same book, a full lechon costs PhP3k.

For delivery, you can dial +632-725-0711, or +632-515-8253, or +632-515-8259.

Thanks, Triccie! Thanks, Libreria, for this splendid lunch like no other.

Anniversary Weekend at Abe's Farm

2011-01-15T21:29:00.031+08:00

My husband and I recently reached the 15th year mark as Mr. and Mrs. Yeay, us! So we celebrated by having an out-of-town weekend in the middle of the week. I love it when we do that, because that means we get to have two weekends in one week! Always fun.

We headed for Abe's Farm in Pampanga, a restaurant cum bed and breakfast place we've heard so much about.

As is the norm, the Mrs. slept through most of trip as the Mr. channeled Kimi Raikkonen and tried to beat some imaginary world record. Our Trooper zipped through NLEX, creating a psychedelic, impressionistic, moving painting of the rice fields, swamps, and trees surrounding the highway. I knew this even as I slept with my mouth wide open. I know it's true love because my husband still loves me even after watching me, the world's ugliest sleeper, sleep. Ooops. A.D.D. alert. I won't apologize anymore for digressing because I always digress anyway. What I'm trying to say is, don't ask me how to get there. When I travel, it's like entering a time machine. I just close my eyes and then I'm there.

Just check out their homepage http://abesfarm.com.ph/ for directions.

I woke up as we neared Magalang, Pampanga. I always love the approach to a town. It's a predictable, comforting pattern. You first go through the suburbs, where progress is constantly changing the landscape, old homes and rice fields giving way to the sprouting of gated subdivisions. Then you pass through the busy bayan (town center) with it Jollibees, and post-war market buildings, and all sorts of enterprise and merchandise. Then as you go deeper into the more parochial parts of town, things quiet down and the roads get a little rougher, the sights greener, the structures fewer and farther in between. And you can even roll down your car windows to breathe in that unusual smell -- they call it fresh air.

I never fail to appreciate it when we pass a tunnel of trees that almost completely shade the road, branches interlocking overhead as if embracing me in a warm welcome.

We followed the signs. Then, finally we saw the farm's gate, where a man ushered us into a large, shaded parking lot loosely paved with river stones.

Abe's Farm is owned and operated by the LJC Group. Whenever I think LJC, I think: squid tactics. binukadkad na pla-pla. Claude's Dream. Abe's chocolate eh. These menu items have been in the Metro's culinary scene for ages that they've become comfort food for me, and I dare guess for others too. These are also the dishes that told me that going to Abe's Farm in Magalang, Pampanga would be worth the trip. Because if all else suck, at least, the food won't disappoint.

But we discovered that's at Abe's Farm, it's more than just the food, there are many other reasons to visit.

The calm. Within the walls, you feel you're far, far away from civilization. You're surrounded by dense foliage, muffling the sounds of the outside world, covering you, making you feel like you're one with nature, even though, I admit, I'm not the one with nature kind of girl. There's no rush. Paths meander; it's never about getting from point A to point B in no time. People seem to walk around and talk in whispers, as if reverential of the country quiet.

The charm. The brochure described the place with the phrase tropical art deco. It's that. Plus architecture and decor that fuse our rich Filipino heritage and Asian aesthetics. The architecture of the main house and the varied cottages do not disrupt nature one bit as they are low rise, unassuming, and finished in indigenous materials. Divans, solihiya lounge chairs, and four poster day beds decked in cotton canvas slip covers and batik pillows are scattered in various places inviting you to sit and read, or slumber, or just sigh and soak in the sounds and scents of provincial life. The air is of unpretentious luxury.

The romance. We arrived just before sunset, settled into our rustic cottage, and by the time we left it to go the spa, the dim of dusk and the sprinkling of outdoor lights have turned the place into a romantic garden of brick lanes and cozy tryst spots.

In the rooms, there are no hi-fi, no wi-fi, no TV. Just a bed. And a tub for two. This absence of high tech pleasantly forces you to go high touch instead. To converse. Or to read in bed together, something I find strangely romantic. And to just share silent space, as old married couples find comfort in doing.

The luxury. Okay, I admit it. Even though I love my creature comforts and backpacking does not make me a happy camper, I'm quite easy to please. Just put a muslin netting over my bed, and I'm easily impressed. I know it's just for effect, because the air-conditioning and glass walls and doors keep the mosquitoes away. But it just adds a touch of opulence, comfort, sexiness to an otherwise rustic ambiance.

The spa is housed in a cottage similar to ours. My full body massage was glorious. And painful. Just the way I like it. When the therapist asked if the pressure was fine, I requested for her to make it harder. She obliged. She kneaded my holiday-weary body so hard, I almost wanted to shout, Uncle. The next day I was black and blue. And if I weren't already married, I might have proposed marriage to my therapist, so I can have a lifetime of spa bliss.

Then dinner. Ah, back to food.

Rice with dilis and tausi. Squid tactics. Inihaw na tadyang. Pako (fern) salad. Chicharon bulaklak. I thought we ordered too much. Yet, at the end of the meal, all that was left was the rice, which we asked them to serve with our breakfast the next day. The tadyang was a bit too crispy for me. I want it crispy on the outside, but tender, juicy, beefy inside. This one was crispy all throughout. Other than that, everything was perfect.

We washed all that with merlot, and we brought an order of leche flan to our room.

Because this is in the province, where the townsfolk turn the lights off early, service ends at 8PM.

So off to our cottage.

Insert 60s style hazy fade outs and sound effects to indicate a long time lapse because the censors cut the good parts in the bedroom.

We woke up excited to cap our weekend. LJC style breakfast awaited. We pre-ordered the night before.

We first built up an appetite walking around the grounds; checking out the Ifugao huts and the swimming pool; and admiring the orchid collection.

Moving around the main house, I wished we could stay longer to laze, to just lie on daybed and read.

We broke our fast with tapsilog for me and tocilog for him. Darn! I forgot to order chocolate eh. But the coffee was a delicious picker upper anyway. We wolfed down our breakfast because we were excited to visit the museum.

The museum is a relocated, reconstructed house, and is a great example of adaptive reuse as a means of preserving traditional architecture and decor. It also makes Abe's Farm more than just a bed and breakfast place as it gives it a story, history, charm, and romance.

In size, it's not much, which means it's not overwhelming and you can tour the place in minutes.

But because I am fond of minutiae, the museum was a wonderland of details that clue you in on Abe, his family, his art, his lifestyle. This museum is certainly another good reason to make the trip to Magalang.

We eventually tore ourselves away from Abe's farm to meet a friend who manages a business at the Clark Economic Zone.

Aside: I was amazed to discover that U.S.-based companies that restore old cars actually find it cheaper to ship the vehicle and parts to the Philippines, where local workers have been trained to do restoration work, and then ship back the finished goods to the U.S. Whew! Long sentence.

Lunch. I've been hearing about Zapata's (now Iguana's), the Mexican restaurant known for its margaritas. And I was glad to learn that the buzz was not all hype. That was mighty good Mexican food and an awesome margarita.

We managed to coerce our friend, one bottle of beer at a time, to extend her one-hour lunch break, but we eventually had to bring her back to work with her promising to grill some steaks for us pretty soon.

Because our car was coded that day, we had to stall -- first by passing for some Paning's butong pakwan (watermelon seeds), and then having an early dinner at Marquee Mall, an Ayala Mall in Angeles.

Aling Lucing's sisig, Susie's pansit luglug, Susie's tibok tibok (similar to maja blanca, but uses carabao's milk) -- our mini Pampanga food tour, all consumed at the food court beside the supermarket.

I almost don't know how to end this post, in the same way, that it was hard to end that weekend in the middle of the weekend. So, because the 15th year is merely a milestone in a what I hope to be a long, long marriage, I will not just say The End. Instead, I end with To be continued...

Abe's Farm, Pampanga Office
Phone: + (045) 865-1930
Mobile: +(0915) 595-5501

Cards and Such

2010-11-12T10:23:00.007+08:00

I hate it when I get nice gift tags because it takes so much effort and forced detachment to write on them and give them away. So it took me a while to give this gift tag away.

My BFF Mariced created this, and it's special to me because she knows I love dragonflies. Loving dragonflies is one of many things we have in common.

We're also both papyvores! We squeal in delight and freak out when we get inside paper stores.

I finally decided to use the dragonfly card yesterday, and I made sure I used it as the tag for a gift for another BFF, Cindy. But not without taking a pic and immortalizing it here.

If you're a papyvore like I am, you will love MPress Letterpress products. They're just not pretty to look at. They're also very tactile, because the old fashioned printing method gives it texture.

When I was a in LA, a few years back, I got the chance to try out the letterpress machine. Letterpress printing is such a sensual process -- heavy metal touching bare skin; the scent of old type ink; visual stimulation in choosing the types; repetitive, rhythmic motions. I could see how that could be addictive. And why my friend, (Grammy Award Nominee) Mariced, better known as Maria, is in love with the process.

Learn more about letterpress printing by visiting MPress's new blog. Fascinating for paper geeks. I love the first post -- the story of her gorgeous 2009 calendar. I'm never going to throw mine away.

And here is where you order.

I Ate Lechon Five Times and Lived to Tell the Story of Bale Dutung

2010-10-18T13:42:00.010+08:00

n.b.: I wrote this piece several months ago. Then, somebody asked me to submit it a travel magazine, requesting me not to post it on my blog before publication. Now, I'm finally allowed to post it on my blog.

My Bale Dutung story started a few years ago when I first heard about it from a friend. Like rumors of a magic island, the stories told of a rustic, art-filled, awesome place in Angeles, Pampanga, a place where one dines on culinary wonders whipped up by food columnist, artist,and chef Claude Tayag, a place where only a few can enter. One can’t just go alone; a party of at least ten is required. You also need to reserve way in advance. Because the owners do this only once or twice a month. If at all. If they’re not busy traipsing around the country or the world, sampling gourmet delicacies and exotic street grub. And you need to break the bank and bring enough cash, about P1,800 per person. More if you’re buying pasalubongs and copies of their books.

I knew I had to try this place. But organizing a trip seemed like a complicated, expensive production number.

Through the years, I’ve read articles and blog posts about Bale Dutung, seen pictures, heard more stories; and my desire to visit grew. Then I read Claude Tayag’s book, Food Tour, a delectable compilation of stories of food, culture, travel, and art. And I knew I wanted to meet Claude Tayag, who has made a career of doing the things I love to do. And I really had to visit this place. Watching Claude serve Tony Bourdain an extremely telegenic rendition of kare-kare, I resolved to make this pipedream happen.

And as proof that dreams still happen, we finally had our Bale Dutung experience. After a flurry of email and text exchanges with our hostess, Mary Anne Tayag, a group of 14 friends and family members trooped to Angeles on a drizzly Sunday morning.

We entered a gated subdivision that did nothing to prepare us for the surprise of entering a place that seemed more likely to be found by the foot of a mountain, by the edge of a rainforest, or somewhere remote and slightly magical. A big pond surrounded by outdoor art pieces greeted us. We walked around taking it all in, and then a lovely lady appeared, serving us a welcome drink spiked with muscovado ice.

The lovely lady was Mary Anne Tayag, who has elevated party hosting to an art form. She tried to memorize all our names and almost succeeded. What she did succeed in doing is making our Bale Dutung experience one of the best dining stories of our lives.

Before the pigfest ensued, the chef came out of the kitchen dressed in a crisp white shirt and batik pants. He explained that Bale Dutung means House of Wood. Claude regaled us with the story of the house – the story of how he built it from scratch and from scrap.

He explained the long, painstaking process of gathering recycled materials from old churches and structures damaged by the Pinatubo eruption and subsequent lahar catastrophe.

He talked about his collections of antique kitchen implements and how they opened their home cum gallery cum dining wonderland to people who appreciate good food and good art.

He then left us to do his magic in the kitchen, and Mary Anne took the helm in the dining room. Also dressed in casual ethnic chic, she was the epitome of the stylish, gracious host that I want to be when I grow up.

The appetizers were not even on the menu we agreed on. Just some of the many pleasant surprises in store for us that day; my favorite surprise was the refreshing face towels dipped in baby cologne and frozen overnight; such a thoughtful detail for guests who've traveled far to get there.

The meal began with crackers served with a trio of dips: Taba ng Talangka, Balo Balo, and Pesto. We attacked this first dish so voraciously the servers had to wrestle the dip bowls away from us to ensure we didn’t stuff ourselves prematurely.

Because as we were soon to discover, the degustation that was about to follow was going to stretch our stomachs to the limits.The next course was another off-the-menu surprise. A sotanghon dish that belied the accusation that carbs are heavy. Barely there vinaigrette dressing made this a light, refreshing starter. More starters were served. The Ensaladang Pako was the first dish that was part of the official menu. Mary Anne told us that the now-fashionable pako(fiddlehead fern) was actually ordinary fare, growing profusely in every home garden, usually served to the household help.

The Inasal na Manok was served with a tiny scoop of Claude 9 Talangka Rice. This was followed by the Piniritong Lumpiang Ubod, its flavor made interesting by the mustasa leaf wrappers and the Claude 9 Oriental Sauce. Another surprise dish, the talangka topped sushi ended the round of starters. We felt pretty satisfied by then. Our appetites were whet for the feast. But we had no idea that so much more food was in store.

We chose the menu that included Lechon served in 5 different ways. The first way was the more traditional serving of the lechon skin. It was a little embarrassing how our carnivorous family assaulted the golden red skin. Crispy perfection as it should be. It was served with an unbelievably good liver sauce that would have been a tad too sweet if not for the generous amount of garlic slices.

When the pig has been stripped of its epidermis, the rest of the gorgeous carcass was carted off for the next porky installments.

Second way: Fried Lechon Flakes na Binalot sa Tortilla. Basil leaves and kimchi make this a more sophisticated, zestier variation of the pritchon. By this time, we were feeling the tightening of our jeans, and we were surprised that we were just about to have soup. The sinigang featured the lechon’s third incarnation.

It was a tough decision to make, but I eventually decided that way 4 was my favorite. Inihaw na Tadyang na Lechon served with Ensaladang Talong – it sounds as good as it tasted. It’s very hard to find words to describe the dishes and the experience because at about this time, our brains could no longer focus on the verbal as every vital organ was focused on properly digesting this amazing, and not yet finished, meal. The wine, which they allowed us to bring in with no corkage fee, had nothing to do with the dazed out, intoxicated feeling. We were drunk on food. And the beauty of our surroundings. And the entertaining stories.

And that little pig still had one more number for us. I swear to you – I am one with an almost finite appetite, teased by my friends for having an esophagus that reached up to my knees. But I met the feast that could forever ruin my reputation as a gourmand. I was so full I just let the fifth way, the Inasadong Pata ng Lechon, glide through my tongue just so I can taste the flavor.

We were so stuffed we were relieved when they called a break from the eating. This time, we would feast our eyes and our souls as we toured Bale Dutung. This place provides more than just eye candy. Art, antiques, a dash of kitsch, and even more stories made us forget about food for a moment. I am amazed at Claude and Mary Anne’s graciousness for opening their homes to us, entertaining us, and giving us so much more than what was promised and expected.

The tour burnt enough calories to clear some space for dessert, old-fashioned coffee, and pandan tea. A medley of macapuno, ube, yema, and carabao’s milk, Paradiso was truly paradise for the taste buds. And Mary Anne capped the meal with another surprise dish, the Tibok Tibok, a pudding made of carabao’s milk.

Yes, I ate lechon in 5 ways. And I survived to tell you this story and to tell you that Bale Dutung should be in every foodie’s bucket list.

More photos here: ttp://islandhopper.multiply.com/photos/album/38

She Wakes Up from Her Slumber

2010-01-19T00:58:00.002+08:00

I've been away. Suffered severe bout of blog sickness. (sick of blogging)

Been book blogging though. Check this out. http://gegeflipspages.blogspot.com/

Islandhopper Dines at Bob's

2009-10-18T12:06:00.007+08:00

Tritan Plaza
Paseo de Magallanes, Makati City

The Bait: Namets-inspired sampling of Bacolod food
The Line: "Since 1965. Serving the Negrenses with Good Food For Over 40 years. "
The Hook: Comfort Food
The Sinker: Birthing blues with service not up to the first flux of wannabe-the-first-to-try diners.
The Catch: P350 per person; exclusive of dessert

In our marriage's restaurant choosing power play, he usually says, "same old, same all-time favorite." And she says, "anything we've never tried before."

This weekend's date night brought about a happy compromise.

Bacolod's Pride, Bob's, has been in Manila for just a few weeks. But it's been satisfying the Negrense diners since 1965. It satisfies my husband's craving for the familiar; the dishes vaguely reminds us of Dayrit's comfort food. Spanking new and already attracting a wait-in-line clientele, it sates my hunger for the novel.

If you're looking for newfangled cuisine, Bob's is not the place for you. The food is no-frills, no-surprises, just-eat-it-and-enjoy, yummy in my tummy, comfy for my soul food.

This old married couple ordered the prosaic and predictable. Buffalo Wings (5 pcs for P250) with blue cheese dip. Good, but not outstanding given the metro's choices of hot wings. Bob's Chorizo Sandwich (P105) was a bit of a disappointment -- delicious chorizo filling, but too much bread for not a whole lot of meat. They need to double up the chorizo serving and give it some visual interest. It is arguably the most boring looking sandwich on the face of the earth. The Big Boy Cheeseburger (P170) compensates. It doesn't blow your taste buds away, but it pleasantly satisfies with it simple, beefy goodness.

The major disappointment was the absence of desserts. The mention of Bacolod food conjures visions of napoleones and other sweet treats. The cafe counter fridge offers only a blah display of chocolate cakes and brazos de mercedes.

The main pic above is their place mat, which shows a copy of their menu circa 1965. Nostalgic. But shows the stark contrast of today's prices, thousands of percentage over. A bit depressing.

The service was a bit sucky; repeated follow-ups necessary before food and drinks are served. But that's also because the place was packed. We're going to give it another chance though. The steak and eggs breakfast insists on being tried.

Islandhopper Dines at Purple Feet

2009-10-11T13:24:00.018+08:00

Wine Depot, 217 Nicanor Garcia St. (formerly Reposo St.), Bel-Air,
Makati City, 8973220, 897816

The Bait: Dining in the middle of wine heaven
The Line: "Our Wine List is Our Wine Shop"
The Hook: Green tea pannacotta
The Sinker: I'm nitpicking here, but if you pick a copy of their biz card, you see their unimaginative logo, a literal translation of "purple feet," which at best reminds you of your neighborhood spa and at worse, reminds you of er, purple feet.
The Catch: P1k-2k per person; exclusive of wine

How can this semi-alcoholic, 100%-gluttonic [my word] couple refuse an invitation to dine in a wine shop on the week that Wine Depot was having a restaurant promo around the metro?

With no signs outside, Purple Feet gives you the experience of entering a speakeasy, sans the burly bouncer and the secret password. It feels like you're in on a secret, but it's the food that is the contraband, not the alcohol. Walking in, one might take several minutes to get to the dining area with all the eye candy -- glistening, glowing bottles of wine calling out your name, tempting you to shop. But we had friends waiting for us, so we had to resist all impulse to walk the aisles.

We were pretty hungry too; this made our decision to go for the set menu easy and obvious. Check out that picture of the blackboard. Four courses, each one accompanied by a glass of wine. At P888. It's a really good deal; unfortunately tonight (October 11) is the last night for it.

The Blue Cheese Seafood Chowder is hearty, creamy, flavorful -- three adjectives tops on my gustatory vocabulary. Dig deep into the tiny soup cup to find spoonfuls of shrimp and calamari. I would have wanted more, But more dishes were to follow. The Villawolf Gewutz...gewirtz...gewurtz...uhm white wine that comes with it is sweet; tastes like champagne without the fizz. A good start.

The Atlantic Smoked Trout in Macadamia Dressing doesn't look impressive, but actually tastes good. To my untrained wine palate, the Tulloch Verdelho was just okay, but that's because I'm not really big on white wine.

For entrees, my hubbalicious chose the chicken, and I had the fish -- one of the few occasions when he was right, and I was wrong. The saving grace of my Lemon Poached Garfish with Saffrom and Olives were the fresh, raw herbs topping it, and that dollop of Indonesian catsup on the side. Other than those, the fish was the opposite of spectacular. More white wine, please.

Our host, who opted for the ala-carte menu had Duck Breast, which she made me try. It's very good -- oriental-flavored, slightly sweet, crispy skin. For that price (900+) though, you might be better off getting your duck fix in chinese tea houses, says my host. Of course, aesthetically, the warehouse, secret restaurant ambience of Purple Feet is hard to beat.

The dessert totally made up for the entree. The Green Tea Pannacotta was sublime. And the Dr. Loosen Reisling was almost ignored, if not for the fact that I'm cheap and I don't want wine to go to waste. The Vittoria Coffee is very good; dense, bitter, and strong. Great ending to a good, well-paced meal.

I would love to come back on a non-promo night. The dishes on the other blackboard look like must-tries -- that Portabello Mushroom with Foie Gras and Stilton Cheese is now officially part of my bucket list.

But what's more interesting is the option to pick out "raw ingredients" like beef, scallops, duck from the board, and then collaborate with the chef to whip up dishes to your liking. That and the green tea pannacotta are worth a return trip. I'll have red wine with my dinner next time though.

(Forgive me for the lousy pictures taken by my lousy phone cam.)

Wear Joaquin

2009-08-29T23:29:00.012+08:00

You like fashion? You also like literature? Here's something that brings those two elements together.

Freeway honors Philippine National Artists by designing clothing collections that showcase the artists' works. The first set features Nick Joaquin. It's a scrumptious, artistic collection of t-shirts, blouses, jackets, and dresses.

I love the way the text takes as much space as the imagery. And if you're ever stuck in an elevator/waiting room/queue without a book, you can read your shirt.

Freeway does not seem to have a website, but google led me to this site that shows off the collection: http://fashion-flick.blogspot.com/2009/08/freeway-loves-art-nick-joaquin.html

Gorgeous, huh? I know you want a piece of that.

It's a bummer though that I wasn't able to buy anything. I'm way off the size chart of Philippine apparel, so I was ready to go for a bag. But there's no bag; just a tiny kikay pouch. And really, my closet will vomit the kikay pouch if I attempt to add another to the 2 million I already have. I need something I can use, sling on my shoulder, and show off so people will say, "Wow, that's Nick Joaquin." And I will beam and carry a silly grin while thinking of myself as some kind of cool, nationalistic, literate dudette with socially-relevant fashion tastes.

Oh well, maybe I will come back to their stores one of these days to try on a men's shirt.

But for you, my lithe friends, I encourage you to check this out and get yourself a limited edition. Wear Joaquin. If you have 2 navels, now is the time to show them off. Let's support Freeway as they support our artists.

Up next for the holidays is a collection paying homage to Ang Kiukok. I can't even begin to articulate how excited I am about that collection as well, and it will break my materialistic, pa-cultured heart to leave empty handed, because here finally is my chance of having a bit of Ang Kiukok without having to pawn my husband.

Freeway people, make sure you include a tote or messenger bag for the Ang Kiukok set, okay?

Submerged

2009-08-27T00:23:00.020+08:00

Often, I find myself submerged in a thick plot, lost in the pages of a good book, deeply ensconced in an armchair and swept up in other worlds, embroiled in other people's stories. But this post is not about that. This post is about submerging the book.

Yes, dipping a book in water. Uhm, yes, liquid water.

I hear gasps and the gnashing of teeth.

Warning: The pictures that follow might cause shortness of breath, activation of tear ducts, and the rapid increase/decrease of blood pressure among my obsessive-compulsive, plastic-wrapping, book-loving friends.

Be assured, however, that no books were harmed in the filming of this blog.This is my totally waterproof book. Melcher Media's The Soothing Soak is a collection of poems, essays, and short stories by Pablo Neruda, AS Byatt, Diane Ackerman among others. It is meant to be read in the bathtub. But since we don't have a tub, this book is my spa book.

I've been wanting to have a book like this. Ever since I discovered the existence of waterproof books, I've been entering steam bath and sauna rooms with a profound sense of emptiness and longing, knowing that if I had such a book, I would read in joyous peace instead of boring myself in contrived zen.

One time back in the days when I didn't have this book, I tried going to the sauna with a regular book, the type with porous paper pages. I panicked when I saw the pages crinkling into little waves. In this mega-humid country of ours, water damaged books have the potential to attract molds and destroy your whole book collection. (There's that gasping and gnashing sound again.)

Gimongous thanks to my Chicago based sister-in-law, Ate Pat, I finally have this.

One weekend, I baptized (uhm, literally?) the book at The Spa in Jupiter. I tucked the book into my little pink spa bag and brought it with me to the wet floor.

I read poetry at the steam room.I felt a bit self conscious because there were 2 other girls in the room. And maybe they were thinking I was silly bringing a book in there. Or maybe they were envious. Because they had nothing to read. While I was unabashedly reading in the steam room, instead of watching my navel or doing nothing but grappling with my body issues and trying to cover up my cellulite. I was happy.

Then I moved into the Turkish pools. I love Turkish pools with the contrast hot and cold baths, except this time the hot part was not that hot, and the cold was not that cold. Normally, I would be a wee bit upset about such technical flaws, but this time I had my waterproof book, and I was a happy camper. I read a couple of short stories. I can hardly remember the content as I was just so thrilled at the experience of being able to do two favorite things at once -- reading and spa-ing. I enjoyed myself so much, I had to force myself to stop reading, pull myself out of the pool, and get on with my spa-ing.

Two drawbacks -- one is that you need to allocate more time before your massage. The other one is that even if it is waterproof, the pages do get wet and stay wet. So I had to wipe every page before I stored the book back into my spa bag. Spritzed it with Lysol. It's waterproof. I don't know if it's mold proof.

Aaah. I can't wait until my next spa visit and my next soothing soak.

What's On Your Desk Wednesday

2009-08-26T15:59:00.008+08:00

A few Wednesdays ago, Blooey tagged me to participate in a blog meme that would shame me, my neat freak husband, and the mother who tried to teach me urbanity.

We're supposed to take pictures of our desk, and we're not supposed to tidy them up first to make them photo-pretty. Gasp!

This is for Sassy Brit's blog meme, What's On Your Desk Wednesday. The details and the instructions are all here.

I tried to ignore Blooey's tag. But what do you know -- it's Wednesday, and I'm too lazy to draft a book review or write a blog entry that makes sense. And I'm taking the easy but more embarrassing way out. So here, in all it's glorious chaos, is a picture of my desk. Click on the image for a closer, more embarrassing look. Hopefully, the dust bunnies don't show.
The rules say I shouldn't tidy up. I have to confess I tried to make it look a little presentable, but to no avail. It's a hopeless mess. It's the end of the term and there are tons of papers to be checked. It's also book sale season and well, you know how it is with book addicts who live in tiny laces -- a book shelving nightmare, the floor disappearing. Geez, what am I talking about? My desk looks like this the whole year round, so I'll shut up with the excuses.

But like they say, if a cluttered desk is a sign of a cluttered mind, then what does it mean if you have an empty desk?

Ooo, I almost forgot. I should tag 5 bloggers. So here are my victims:

Happy Wednesday, everyone! May the rest of the week be even better than the start.

The Grandmothers by Doris Lessing

2009-08-24T09:43:00.011+08:00

My interest in fiction has always been that of a reader. I've never dared to analyze the art and science of fiction. In my brief, limited, and safe writing career, I've focused on the known -- on the formulaic and not-too-demanding field of business writing.

But Doris Lessing has opened a dangerous, little porthole to wander in and wonder about that thing called fiction writing. Don't be alarmed. I linger far from the possibility of birthing a novel from the depths of my bowels; no, please, no. It's just that Lessing has made me wonder how one can write so tautly with no tinge of superfluity. How one can conjure images and flesh out ideas with language so well thought of. So intelligent. But raw with base human emotions. Who writes like that?

Lessing does. And I can only bite my lip in envy.

The Grandmothers is the carrier story in a collection of 4 short novels. That's probably the thing going against the book; the novels are too short. Each of them can be developed into full blown books that can eventually be developed into full blown major motion pictures. But that is the beauty of this book -- it gives you just enough to chew on, without overexplaining. The short story quality of it that leaves you a little bit unsatisfied reassures you that this book will not become all that popular and you're one of those lucky enough to be in on the secret.

The Grandmothers is an almost incestuous, but certainly scandalous, story of two women. Two golden, beautiful women who fall in love with their golden, beautiful selves. When their lives turn out to be less than the perfection they worked so hard to make it to be, they shut out the world, look within the pocket-sized, controllable world covered by their golden halo, and love only those who belong to that perfect circle -- each other's son. Golden, beautiful boys who fall in love with their older female mirrors too.

Lessing writes in a way that casts no judgment. The reader is left to make her own. To be mesmerized by such a fantastic premise, or to say ewww and be morally offended -- your choice. I felt a little bit of both. The story does not end well for the grandmothers and their sons. Which is probably well and good.

The second story, Victoria and the Staveneys, struck me as somewhat ordinary. But I suspect it is a limitation of my ability to understand the nuances more than a limitation of Lessing's storytelling. Somewhere in there are messages on race, tolerance, hypocrisy, poverty, privilege, socialism, communism, and all sorts if isms. They escape me at the moment. Okay, maybe a very long moment.

I am torn between the first and the third as my favorite of the collection. The Reason for It, classified by reviews as science fiction, is an all too real account of civilization. It is a story about the conflicts between new and old, between progress and tradition. The story is told from the perspective of the old and traditional who whines about a dying culture. And so if one were to take the side of the storyteller, one would ache at how the world has regressed instead of progressed. How art suffers and knowledge is mocked as the newfangled becomes the new standard of what is good, beautiful, and right. And culture disintegrates and society is transformed into a sad, shallow shadow (alliteration unintended) of its former glory.

This is probably the most preachy of the stories. It talks about the emptiness of beauty when it is unmatched, unsubstantiated by a fine nature and a good mind.

It is also the most thought provoking. I have visions of throwing this to my book club friends who would act like frenzied alligators at feeding time as they apply every nosebleed inducing framework to analyze this. Shhh, I won't tell them about it.

The collection ends with A Love Child. A bit predictable. On the side of sappy. And the most likely to be made into a movie starred by Ben Affleck. Which is not to say it is shallow because it is loaded with meaning and still beautifully written.

It's been months since I finished the book. And I'm now over the fiction-writing itch. But I'm not over Doris Lessing yet.

Contraband

2009-08-09T14:05:00.007+08:00

I am Gege. And okay, I admit it now, I am addicted to books. And book buying. And my husband does not like it. But confessions are necessary. And therapeutic. So, I'm showing here the view from under my desk where the recent loot is in temporary confinement until my husband goes out to play golf. When I, away from his prying eyes and judging heart, can put them into their rightful alphabetical places.

Shhh, don't tell my husband.

Somebody Loves Me

2009-08-05T09:50:00.005+08:00

Somebody from the US loves me and knows the stuff I love. Thank you. I'm going to enjoy all these goodies.

Bale Dutung -- House of good food, gracious entertaining, and art

2009-07-28T20:48:00.006+08:00

July 26, 2009 -- We used Eric's arrival from Sydney as the perfect excuse to troop to Angeles, Pampanga for this 5-way lechon feast we've been hearing, reading, dreaming, salivating about.

We knew about Claude Tayag -- artist, columnist, and chef. Whipping up an amazing lunch, a degustacion that had food gluttons raising their little white towels in surrender, Chef Tayag certainly didn't disappoint.

But the surprise was Mary Ann, Claude's wife. Stylish, gracious, and entertaining, she elevates party hosting to an art.

Of course, the most pleasant surprise is Bale Dutung itself. You enter an unassuming suburban village to get there. Then once you cross the Tayag's gate you step into a rustic restaurant slash house slash gallery slash nature wonderland. A house filled with art, antiques, and creative ideas that salute Philippine food and culture.

And the food -- I honestly have never been that stuffed in my whole life. Slooooow food at its finest -- almost 5 hours. And well worth the time and the trip. (Of course, I'm not with the party that got caught in the flash flood and the 5-hour traffic jam on the way back, so I can say that.)

Resto review to follow. In the meantime, enjoy the photos at: http://islandhopper.multiply.com/photos/album/38

A Dr. Seuss Sunday

2009-07-22T23:25:00.005+08:00

Yippee. Yoohoo. ‘twas a Sunday!
A fine, fun Sunday, I may say
A fine day to catch up on sleep
And to read something not too deep

So I looked through my shelf
For a book I could choose
Then I thought to myself
How about Dr. Seuss?

Dr. Seuss. Dr. Seuss. He’s cool. He’s fun
And Flippers say for July he’s the one
I know, I know, some will be shocked
That I read a book about (gasp) a cat
For cats are creatures that make me say yuck
I will never like them, no matter what

This particular cat
Knows how to have fun
He brings out of the box
Thing two and thing one

This cat makes a huge mess
And gives the kids so much stress
It gives the fish a huge fright
When it lets the Things fly kites

This particular cat
Has a machine that sweeps things
Oooh, I want something like that
A gadget so amazing

But the amazing thing is this
Dr. Seuss wrote this charming piece
With the same two hundred twenty words; that’s all.
So this poem can be read by kids, big and small.

When I was done with the story
Of this cat that’s naughty and feisty
I guess I had to admit
This cat is not all that yucky As my Sunday went on
So did my Dr. Seussathon
Book two was Green Eggs and Ham
About a creature named Sam-I-Am

Though the poem sounds rather silly
And funny with a bit of whimsy
It has a lesson to preach
About living a life more rich

Get out of your comfort zone
Is the message of the book
Venture into the unknown
Try things, taste stuff, take a look

Dr. Seuss says for us to grow
Don’t say no to what you don’t know
Don’t knock it until you’ve tried it
Don’t give yourself silly limits Then it was time for book number three
This time, ‘twas something rather scary
What Was I Scared Of? was the next tome
This is now my fave Dr. Seuss poem

It tells us not to be afraid
Of things and folks that are unusual
We’re all just differently made
And that’s what makes us special

We need not fear
Of the strange and queer
Don’t be afraid too
Of things that are new

Then I took a break
From all the poetry
To read Theodore Seuss Geisel’s
Short biography

I learned he’s American
With traces of German
He majored in English
To be a teacher was his wish

Then he fell in love with Helen
Who became his travel companion
And it was in 1957
When Cat in the Hat became a sensation

I was also to discover
That Dr. Seuss won a Pulitzer
For giving his life to educating
And making reading entertaining

My Sunday was drawing to a close
But before I rest and finally doze
There was another book to read
The last of Dr. Seuss indeed You’re Only Old Once
Is a book for obsolete children
This was one of the last books
From Dr. Seuss’s fabulous pen

This is a bit depressing
As Dr. Seuss tells of the stressing
Hospital visits, doctor hopping
Waiting room waiting, medicine popping

Yet it’s still full of humor
And you wish Dr. Seuss could have lived more
To write more about cats and whatnots
Green eggs and other silly plots

So that’s my Dr. Seuss bookfest
What a great way to de-stress
I felt truly truly blessed
Dr. Seuss, you are the best!

PS: After composing this, I have new found respect for Dr. Seuss. This was hard. I had to use an online rhyming dictionary to get this done. And after trying to work out a semblance of a meter, I just gave up at the end.

To Poof or Not to Poof: That is the Question of the Day

2009-06-17T11:42:00.005+08:00

Had a real nice dinner with a girlfriend last night. And we know that when two or more women gather, the discussion inevitably leads to the topic of men. And this is the question that we deliberated on last night. I am interested to know what others think. Please comment. Share your passionate views.

The question is: Do real men use the poof to clean themselves in the bath or shower?

I will share my views after hearing from you.

DO HARD THINGS by Alex & Brett Harris

2009-06-15T01:21:00.010+08:00

Do Hard Things, for me, is a hard read.

You see, I don’t like doing hard things. Yea, who does? But I think my aversion to doing hard things is above the average. I’ve spent my life running away from hard-to-do things. Sometimes some people do not believe me when I say I’m lazy because they see me involved in so many things. And when I’m really passionate about something, I work hard and work excellently. But I’m very selective about the things I do, focusing on things I love, I enjoy, I naturally excel in, I care about, or at least things that would bring me instant gratification. And even with those things, I always manage the degree of difficulty.

So when I read the blurbs inside the book – a lot of things about a lot of hard things – I literally put it down and eyed it as if it was the mother source of the H1N1 virus. I just didn’t want to hear/read any of it. I didn’t want to be challenged, to be goaded to do hard things, things that will make me sweat, get my hands dirty. I don’t want to do anything that would make me look stupid, incompetent. No, thanks. I like my life just the way it is. Cushy, fun, easy.

So the first hard thing I had to do was to pick up the book again and force myself to read it. The next hard thing I now have to do is to write about it. That is hard because writing about it forces me to reflect on what I have just read.

One of the things that make this a hard read is that it is really targeted towards teenagers. So, I’m reading this 25 years too late. And whatever message it has for me is a reminder of the things I should have done and shouldn’t have done many years ago. It made me a bit sad that at my age, the hard things are even so much harder to do.

So, if you are in your teens or just about to hit those years, go read this to avoid the regrets. First off, you’re going to learn that this teenage concept is a fairly new one. Ages ago, people were really just divided into two groups – children and adults. Back then, people started taking on adult roles and responsibilities when they were about 15. Child labor laws, though generally positive in intent, somehow extended the childhood stage, and so a new demographic was born. Now, the teen years are supposed to be some kind of vacation just before one gets into real life – adulthood. And vacation may seem like a euphemism for the lost, crazy, angst-filled, dysfunctional years.

How many times have you heard people warn parents about this phase? The phase when the teenagers’ search for identity is usually accompanied by wild, inexcusable but expected behavior and social experimentation. Adults sigh and say, well, what do you expect -- they're teenagers. And they’re supposed to be allowed to waste these 7 or so years drinking, doping, and coupling, basically indulging in spring break type bacchanalia. After all, they have the rest of their lives to get serious. But in the meantime, real life and real responsibilities can wait. One can just hope they pass those wasted years unscathed.

It is this problem of low expectations that Alex and Brett Harris address. They want us to rethink what we think about the teen years. They want today’s young people to rebel against low expectations and reclaim the teen years as the launching pad of their lives. They want teenagers to fight against mediocrity and to do far more than is expected of them. To do the hard things – the ones that take them away from their comfort zones, the ones that won’t give them instant gratification but far reaching and much better rewards.

It’s a message that people need to hear – whether they’re in that target reader age of 13 to 19, or whether they’re parents, teachers, and other youth-influencers. It’s a hard message for the teenagers. It’s a hard message even for the adults because they have to start raising their expectations of the youth. And for some (like me), they too have to learn to do the hard things. It’s a hard message but one worth listening to.

Alex and Brett Harris write well in a contemporary, easy manner as you would expect. I’m glad they didn’t use hip teenage jargon that could have made them sound like they’re trying too hard to sound like the teenagers that they are. A lot of well written, high-impact statements here. My highlighter pen vomited lines and lines on the book, underlining catchy phrases and calls to action that even this old fogey can learn from. I can already see the industry this book will spawn – devotionals, journals, calendars. Rubber bracelets?

The authors are very liberal with examples to inspire and practical tips to apply. Though this is obviously a book written by Christians for Christian readers, the message can be relevant to those of other faiths.

Its audience has its limits though. Even though, they give examples of the experiences of Philippine based youth, the context is most relevant to American or first world youth, those with options. It’s hard to imagine how this message might apply to youth struggling with extreme poverty, youth who have hard things thrust upon them, those who don’t even have the luxury of a real childhood. They do hard things because they have no other choice. As such, you wonder about their chances of redemption. Or maybe I expect too much. Maybe that topic is altogether for another book.

Limited audience notwithstanding, this book is a must read. I wish more young people would read this and be inspired, be alerted to a call to do great things, to excel, to achieve more than what is expected of them, to make a real, lasting difference in the world. But first they have to do hard things. And first, they have to read this hard-to-read but worthwhile book.

Flippers are Foodies too

2009-06-04T11:56:00.004+08:00

temporarily posting this here as I ask permission from the image owner, Lord Jit, here: http://www.flickr.com/photos/jityanga/339554347/

FLUmmoxed

2009-06-04T09:30:00.006+08:00

It was a bit surreal. To be standing alone in the school corridor because everyone has left.

One foreign student confirmed to have AH1N1. The school will be closed for 10 days. Some might think that's a bit much. But it's standard procedure they say. According to WHO. Just the same, it was pretty hard to believe that school was being shut down.

They're not revealing identities. But I suppose they're rounding up the possible contact points. And those who might have been exposed are probably in quarantine now.

Only rumors to go by. So far, I've heard the pronoun "she." And which college "she" is from. Not our college. Whew.

I'm in school 2 days a week. I interact with only a few people from the department, and my students are enrolled in major subjects. I don't go around much. The chances that her virus has somehow got to me is almost nil.

Unless she went to the library and used the desk a few minutes before I used it. Or had a kiwi strawberry shake like I did and sneezed on the straw holder, from which I picked up my straw. Or we walked together from the parking lot, and she exhaled a bit much. Insert suspense horror movie sound effects here.

Who knows where she's been? I certainly don't want to panic. But the mind is actively imagining scenarios. The erstwhile invisible air suddenly acquires a psychedelic haze and neon green dust enlarge and fly around like spring fluff landing on every throbbing surface. Every epidemic panic movie gets replayed in my head.

The second the rumors were confirmed by a memo in black in white, I started feeling psychosomatically hot and slightly diarrheic.

But really, I'm okay. Maybe I should just enjoy the extended vacation. Though a 10-day quarantine of just reading would be nice.

Ugh. I dread the repercussions of making up for lost time. Makeup classes are a pain. And my 2 sections are not on the same page anymore. Bummer.

I pray that "she" gets better and that will not be as traumatized as I imagine she'd be. It's not a cool way to get famous. I pray that no one else is infected. I pray that this scare blows over. Paranoia is not a pretty emotion.

Life in the time of the AH1N1.

The panic reminds me a bit of Saramago's Blindness. Surreal.

Inanity and the Absurdity of Posterity

2009-05-30T11:34:00.002+08:00

A record of sorts. Beating my personal bests.

No. of hours in pajamas - 25 (maybe barring the times I've been in my sickbed)
No. of kilometers traveled in pajamas - app. 394

Bontoc. I put on my pajamas at roughly 10PM. The next morning, we were traveling to Baguio to spend the night there en route to Manila. I decided I would shower in Baguio. The Baguio Country Club shower, a gazillion stars better than the one at Bontoc, beckoned. I went coffee-shopping in Bontoc and had lunch at Cafe by the Ruins in my snowflake riddled jammies. And then some people, without asking my pajamas, decided to go straight back to Manila. The country club lodging was canceled. And so my pajamas and I arrived home past 10 in the evening. My pajamas practically walked itself to the hamper.

And that, my dear friends, is another installment of utterly useless facts about me.

There is no bottom to the well of inanities I can think of.

Stuff I Like: Oishi Cheese Sponge Crunch

2009-05-23T09:02:00.003+08:00

You may be surprised to know that I'm not all that fond of junk food. Except for clover chips, which is comfort food that brings me back to childhood when my dad would bring a pack home for me knowing it was my favorite.

I'm not even a snacker. No, I developed this lush fleshiness through the willful consumption of the real goodness of dead animals combined with the carbo-laden staple of the masses. Real meals for real women and voracious manual laborers. With extra rice.

I discovered this evil snack through this blog -- lafang nation's. Intrigued, I bought a pack each of the cheese and the chocolate for a long trip. I tried the cheese flavor first. I did not expect that my first bite would make my tongue feel what being in love feels like.

Well, it's just crud, really. There is no one main ingredient except for some starch combination, the elements of which may not necessarily come from nature. Starch shaped into little letter o's by machines and then dipped in an evil cheeselike flavoring. Soaked in cheese product. And sugar. And when you put it on your tongue, the crud and cheeselike substance and the sugar and all the additives melt deliciously coating your tongue with heaven, and your tastebuds take control of your brain and you feel like you did when you had your first kiss, and you understand why that tree was called the tree of the knowledge of good and evil. It's so good it's disgusting.

The zip lock comes very handy, because you can really only have a couple of pieces at a time because it's sickeningly rich and cheesy and sweet. A couple of bites that add a couple of pounds to your hips. Agh. Oishi is the anti-Christ!

Book Review: Claude Tayag's FOOD TOUR

2009-05-22T20:25:00.007+08:00

If you caught Anthony Bourdain's Philippine stopover episode, then you have seen Claude Tayag. He entertained Tony at his restaurant/home/art gallery, Bale Dutung, in Pampanga, presenting a very posh, telegenic rendition of kare kare. He also introduced Tony to sisig.

And if you're not Kapampangan, maybe you were offended by his assertion that Filipino food is Pampanga food. But I got what he meant. He meant to say that Filipino food is different for everyone, depending on your own experience and cultural milieu. The food you grew up with as you lived in the region you grew up in, the food served by your mom and/or your lola, the food that comforted you as a child and continues to comfort you now is your definition of Filipino food.

But this is not about Claude Tayag's Tony Bourdain guesting. This is about his book.

If you are a foodie worth your salts, if you take every three day weekend as an excuse, an opportunity to discover the regions and their cuisines, then grab a copy of this book, and keep it close to your sunglasses and favorite weekend jaunt outfit.

It will be your guide, your handbook as you traverse the country and its neighbors, searching for fantastic culinary experiences that sate the appetite for food as well as for culture. It presents helpful information including contact details so you can replicate the food tours he has taken. Really, get a copy. I can see myself bringing this with me as I go south and north of the Philippines.

The book is actually a compilation of his columns in the Philippine Star. At the end of each entry is a recipe.

It is not the best written food and travel book I've ever read. Claude Tayag is not an awful writer, but let's just say his core talents lie in the visual and the culinary. He writes well enough in a breezy, conversational manner with no pretensions. Maybe a little unimaginative with a tendency to interject using the word "burp" a lot. But hey, you're not buying this book because of its literary merits. You're buying this because it will inspire and enlighten the hungry gourmand and antsy vagabond in you.

There are 3 things I didn't like about this book. The first one is its size -- bigger than your standard trade paperback, it is not very handy. The next one is its price -- P550; I think it's worth it because I will get a lot of use from the book. I also like the quality of its binding and paper stock, and that alone makes it worth it for me, but it's a prohibitive price if you want to spread the word about it and want each of your friends to get a copy. The last thing that lessened my enjoyment of this book is that the entries are verbatim lifts from his columns, and sometimes they would include captions for photos that were part of the original newspaper articles but were not included in the book. It was a bit frustrating not having the visuals that go with the captions.

But the things I liked about the book compensated for the above flaws. I liked the history of sisig, his dining guidelines, the healthy balance of street food and fine dining experiences, how he communicated his lip-smacking love of food with no apologies, and his practical traveler tips. I love the way his stories include his wife Maryann as his partner in gourmanding and traveling. He makes fun of her a lot, but he is obviously head over heels in love with her. And best of all, I like the pen sketches that accompany each article; they add so much value, art, and charm to the book.

Oh, and one more thing, don't read this hungry.

Musing Mondays: Mommy's Fault

2009-05-19T00:24:00.007+08:00

Musing Mondays are hosted by Rebecca!.

Do you remember how you developed a love for reading? Was it from a particular person, or person(s)? Do you remember any books that you read, or were read to you, as a young child? (question courtesy of Diane)

I blame it all on my mom. I'm not sure how old I was when my mom started teaching me to read, but I remember that I wasn't in school yet, so I must have been 3. My mom would give me a newspaper and ask/command me to read in front of my relatives. Most moms would ask their kid to sing or to dance. My mom would show off my reading prowess. I remember mispronouncing the word highway, and they got a chuckle out of that.

Mom started me off with Ladybug fairy tales. Rumpelstiltskin just might be my very first book. In my mind's eye, I can still see one of my favorite books then, Little Match Girl. What a sad, sad story. Every birthday and Christmas, I would get 5 Nancy Drew books until finally I had the complete series. To this day, that collection is still in my must-save-in-a-fire list. I didn't really grow up with many toys so I had to rely on books for entertainment.

I blame my mom for this addiction to books. And I thank her much for it.

The Ultimate Bookworm Gift

2009-05-18T19:05:00.002+08:00

I want one for Christmas! No, I can't wait. I want one for Independence Day. Slurp. Slurp.

Gosh, I just might never leave the house with something like this in my room.

Mario Vargas Llosa's AUNT JULIA AND THE SCRIPTWRITER

2009-05-17T18:27:00.011+08:00

Mario. Vargas. Llosa. For some strange reason that name conjured a vision of an extremely serious writer typing somber, tedious sagas spanning generations, replete with tumultuous political events and heartbreaking drama. How wrong I was. Aunt Julia and the Scriptwriter is anything but serious. I should have been more observant and let the whimsical cover clue me in. Nothing somber about it. It's flashy, color splashed, and it looks like the artist had much fun reading the novel and was inspired in designing the cover art.

It is a fun book. The back cover blurbs use adjectives like funny, extravagant, madcap, uproarious. All descriptions accurate.

The story revolves around Varguitas, a young law student and aspiring author who is paying his dues by writing slash plagiarizing news for radio. Set in the 50s, the story happens at a time when TV is not yet the ubiquitous medium it is now. Radio rules as the channel for entertaining and informing the masses.

Two Bolivians come to town.

One is Pedro Camacho, a talented but twisted writer who writes scripts and directs radio drama. His radio shows hook listeners and soon he becomes the buzz of Lima.

When Varguitas, peculiar in that society because he prefers books over the radio, asks his grandma why she likes radio serials so much, she says 'It's more lifelike, hearing the characters talk, it's more real. And what's more, when you're my age, your hearing is better than your eyesight." His other relatives explains their addiction by saying, "because they set a person to dreaming, to living things that are impossible in real life, because there are truths to be learned from them, or because every woman remains more or less or a romantic at heart." And that explains why Camacho's following grows. As his popularity rises to mythic proportions, his manic madness worsens, and soon he's out of control.

The stories that Camacho writes are central to the story. They are narrated in chapters alternating with the main plot chapters. So the reader actually reads many little stories within one book. Stories that entertain, shock, and end the chapters in cliffhangers and intriguing questions the way serials are wont to do. To me, this is interesting because the book uses similar devices to a book I read recently, Ricky Lee's Para Kay B. But Llosa's book ties the stories more cohesively to the main plot.

The other visitor from Bolivia is Aunt Julia, related to Varguitos only by law, recently divorced, and out to find a husband. She did not count on having a romance with a relative 14 years her junior. What ensues is mayhem as irate relatives, well-meaning friends, queer mayors, and a violent father get involved in this comedy that twists, convolutes, and climaxes (ooops, spoiler alert) in the most exciting and tiring wedding I've ever read about.

The story could and should have ended very soon after the climax. Instead it over-explains what happens after the meaty part of the story. A protracted epilogue. Only then do you realize that the book is actually a semi-autobiographical account. Wiki can shed more light about the autobiographical elements of this fiction.

This is my first Llosa, my first novel written by a Peruvian author. It overtook many books in my TBR short list because of a reading challenge I wanted to join. I didn't get to finish the book in time to make the challenge deadline, but I'm glad I read it just the same. It's the kind of book one calls delightful. Llosa is a witty writer who knows how to have fun and how to have his readers join in the fun.

The Latin American vibe is dominant and gives the novel its energy. The soap opera theme influences much the novel's cadence and reading experience. I like that the book is a good balance of realism, satire, fantasy, and slapstick. I enjoyed the detailed account of what happens in the making of radio serials. I like the clever way of using the first few lines of each chapter as titles. Llosa certainly writes to amuse.

I don't know if it's the translation, but the writing is on the side of verbose, with long complex sentences and hard words that trip me up like cyclothymic, oneiric, and deliquescence. As I type, all these words get those squiggly red lines, but they do exist; just look them up.

I recommend you look up some Llosas as well. Well worth reading. This book is my response to the Global Voices Book Challenge.

Malcolm Gladwell's OUTLIERS, THE STORY OF SUCCESS

2009-05-16T16:26:00.008+08:00

"Meritocracy" is one of those much bandied terms of the 90s. Pretty much the way "servant leadership" is today's buzzword, a favorite among cliche-loving speechsters. I didn't understand meritocracy much then, and it took Malcolm Gladwell's latest book for me to wrap my head around it. Ironically, the book illustrates it by underplaying it.

Gladwell asserts that merit alone is not the key to success. It it not what we do that enables us to get ahead. Which is not to say that hard work and diligence are not important. They are. In fact, Gladwell's magic number for somebody to achieve some kind of success in a chosen field is 10,000 hours. It takes 10,000 hours of practice to get good at something. Look at Bill Gates. He's been hacking (literally, not in the security assault sense) at computers since he was a teenager. The Beatles spent thousands of hours in smoke filled pubs to be as good as they are as a band. They worked harder than their peers so they got farther.

But 10,000 hours of practice is just part of the formula. There are other extraneous factors that have made people succeed where others failed. Things like cultural legacies. And circumstantial opportunity. And where, when, and to which family you were born. These things may work to our advantage or disadvantage.

The case of Korean Air pilots would strike you as a compelling argument that culture can affect our ability to do our jobs. In this case, their high regard for authority created communication problems that proved fatal. Recognition of the problem enabled the Koreans to turn the situation around. They had to stop using what is called "mitigated speech" to prevent more plane crashes. They had to be taken out of their culture and be re-normed.

Interestingly, the Philippines was mentioned as one of those countries most enslaved by this respect for authority. When my sister in law (a doctor involved in child protection) and I were discussing the book, she mentioned that our traditional practice of calling adults, related to us or not, with respectful terms as Tito or Kuya is a double edged legacy. One one hand, it makes us a gracious and polite lot. On the other, it sets up a situation of familiarity, misplaced trust, and undue respect that abusers may take advantage of. Like the Korean pilots, maybe we need to "shed some part of our own cultural identity" to prevent tragic circumstances.

But let's go back to the story of success that the book Outliers tells.

This book says that it is not necessarily the brightest who succeeds. Our smarts can only get us so far. This has been proven empirically. A high IQ can arguably get you to good schools. But once you're in, you're in the same level playing field as those who also got in, whether their IQ is higher or lower than yours. Interesting, eh?

Don't believe anyone who boasts of his success, 'I did this, all by myself." According to Gladwell, they are "products of history and community, of opportunity and legacy. Their success is not exceptional or mysterious. It is grounded in a web of advantages and inheritances, some deserved, some not, some earned, some just plain lucky -- but all critical to making them who they are."

As usual, Gladwell fills the pages of a book with fascinating information shared through fascinating stories. Reading Gladwell always makes me wonder if there's any practical use to the copious information he shares. At the verge of (gasp) middle age, I no longer have any control over the circumstances and legacies that have shaped my life to the way it is now. And 10,000 hours? With a sinking feeling, I ask myself if there is something in my life, other than breathing and eating, that I have done for 10,000 hours. Hmmm, I better stop playing YoVille and do more of whatever it is I want to do best. I don't have much time left.

I suppose this is useful to parents, teachers, and any one who can influence the very young. This is useful to the young, the generation just starting to invest the first of those 10,000 hours. Gladwell says, "To build a better world we need to replace the patchwork of lucky breaks and arbitrary advantages that today determine success... with a society that provides opportunities for all."

The book teaches us to look at the circumstances and the cultural aspects that can affect, positively or negatively, our chances of success. The first challenge is to recognize them. Then use or circumvent them. Then work hard, work smart, be open and alert to opportunities, and carry on.

Whether this book is useful or not, Gladwell, as he has done with The Tipping Point and Blink, entertains, engages, and encourages his readers to think. Gladwell, I find him doing in all his 3 books, posits some brave, fantastic, maybe debatable, theories that may not necessarily be well grounded conclusions to his research, but he does make us think. Doesn't he?

Red Kimono

2009-05-15T17:26:00.006+08:00

Unit 1A GF, Fort Strip, Fort Bonifacio,
Taguig City, Metro Manila

The Bait: All the Japanese food you can eat
The Line: "Get the best of both worlds -- buffet quantity and a la carte quality."
The Hook: Value for money, or rather, volume for money
The Sinker: Carb fest, not in a good way
The Catch: P535 per person exclusive of drinks and other ala carte items

I just learned about the term "volume for money" in Claude Tayag's book Food Tour. He attributes the phrase to Chef Myrna Segismundo. It refers to the Pinoy's predilection to stuff their faces and load their stomach in buffet lines. Volume a priority, taste only secondary.

Red Kimono's Better than Buffet helped me understand the concept.

It was the second time we went for the 534 peso all-you-can-eat promo. The first time was for dinner some months back. We arrived hungry and joined a group of more than a dozen people. And I enjoyed stuffing my face as well as the camaraderie of playing 1-2-3 pass with all the dishes being passed around the table.

A couple of days ago we went back for lunch, and it was not as enjoyable as the first time.

I need to explain the promo. It is buffet with a twist. And they say it is better than buffet. I disagree. Buffet is a simple concept of lining up the dishes on the buffet table, and the diner is free to strategize what to pick and how much of each.

I tend to go value for money focusing my attention on the starters, which feature high value dishes like sashimis, oysters, and carpaccios; then I skip the main dishes, the pastas, and the rice; and home in on the desserts. In a buffet one can control the quantity per dish. One can enjoy a mere tablespoonful of an item and be satisfied.

In Red Kimono's Better than Buffet concept, there is no buffet table. Instead, they bring the buffet to you. You pick items on a printed menu. You can get as many orders as you like. Then they bring the dishes to you already plated in family style quantities.

Plus there are conditions. They have the usual conditions of no leftovers, no take-home. I can agree with those rules because they minimize wastage. (Yes, we need to remember the starving people in China) The problem is you don't have control over the quantity per order. So you don't get to sample as many dish varieties as you would in a regular buffet.

There is also a condition about a minimum order of rice. The worst thing is they serve only sushis; no sashimis. So imagine how carb-laden you are by the end of the meal, even if you have managed to artfully and deceptively distribute your leftover rice among the plates and under them so it won't be too obvious that you actually had leftover food. Gag me with a sako of rice!

The other reason why this is not better than buffet is that there is no buffet table to walk to. I actually like walking from my table to the buffet table. And back. I can delude myself into thinking that I am exercising in between bites. Walking while carrying the weight of the loaded plate. At Red Kimono, you are deprived of that brisk-walking workout. Unless you need to go to the wash or take a biological break -- for that you need to go take a stub from the servers and walk outside the restaurant to the common rest rooms.

Carbs plus no-exercise -- not the best post-meal sensation. All your body systems focused on digesting all that starch. I was surprised that I was able to stave the lethargy and drive home before having the mother of all siestas. Take note: I am not a siesta person.

But after having said all that, I would still recommend this promo if (one) you are very hungry, (two) you are dining with a big group so you can share dishes, and (three) if you're a member of the extra-rice confederation.

I don't know if there was a change in chef, but the food seemed to be better the first time. Or maybe we were just hungrier. Back then, I loved the crabstick rolls with wasabi mayonnaise, the shitake mushroom teppanyaki, the chicken teriyaki, the grilled miso chicken, and the layered spinach & tofu. The beef kamameshi also seemed beefier then.

On our second visit, I enjoyed the california crunch and the salmon & cream cheese maki. The pork teriyaki is tender and tasty, but make sure you coordinate your orders. We also had teriyaki chicken, and I felt there was just way too much teriyaki in the world.

Of course, dessert is part of the better than buffet menu. If your stomach is not at bursting level, you may have the buko pandan jelly with vanilla ice cream. The green tea ice cream was too overwhelmingly tea-tasting, so I didn't like it. You can also try the chocolate balls.

So, is it better than buffet? Nah. But go ahead and stuff yourself when the time and conditions are right.

Kiangan Flashback

2009-05-15T10:22:00.003+08:00

This is a cut and paste from a May 8, 2002 blog. The photos were added recently. Made some minor edits before posting.

---start of flashback entry ---

Sappy Travelogue
May 8, 2002

I just had a memorable weekend, and for some reason I cannot find the words to write about it. We went up North and maybe my muse loved it there so much that she decided to stay behind. It’s extremely frustrating because I am wishing I can write about it as well as I have experienced it. Muse, muse, come back wherever you are. Nope, nothing. Still at a loss for words. So I’ll just plunge on and try to describe my weekend. I was able to get some free vacation leaves for Friday and Monday due to 2 instances I had to work Sundays. That meant I had a 4-day weekend to enjoy. And enjoy it I did. Tuks, his sister Yella, his cousin Angie, and I set off for the Northern province of Ifugao in Tuks’ reliable Honda Civic. We left our house past 10 and went to pick up Yella and Angie and we were at the North Expressway by midnight and out of it in more or less an hour. We exited and got into long winding roads of countryside. The three femmes slept most of the way while Tuks drove, something he seems to truly enjoy. We woke up to a breathtaking sunrise, with mountains, hills, and rice fields replacing our daily vista of concrete and steel. The road, lined with trees, stretched towards a horizon. The sky was cast with a pinkish bluish glow. It was refreshing to wake up and know we are out of the city and away from the rat race arena. Our mobile phones inutile as no cell sites were in sight. There was one Kodak moment when we caught the sun peeking out at that point where two mountains overlap. Kind of a cliché photo op, but it was too beautiful to pass up. I asked Tuks to stop the car. I said the word stop about five times but he kept on driving. When he slowed down it was too late. The view was gone and if we drove back the sun would not be in the same place anymore. His excuse for not stopping was that he did not think I was serious about asking him to stop. Sounded like something from a rape trial. I said stop and I meant it. But Tuks, the Vacation Nazi himself, has this race he plays in his mind as if Michael Schumacher and the devil are after him, and the jury of the Guinness Book of Records are waiting at the destination point to clock in his record breaking time. There could be a Mother Mary apparition by the side of the road, or a real, live Elvis Presley sighting by the highway shoulder, or Jennifer Lopez herself in a thong with a sign that says “will f*** for food” and he still won’t stop just to take pictures. It messes up his flight plan or something. I tried to sleep to forget about missing the photo op, and as I woke up Yella realized we were lost and we had to do a U turn. Ironically, the turn we missed was about a kilometer from the photo opp spot. I think Tuks, in his rush to ignore the sun peeping over the mountains scene, stepped on the gas and that’s how we missed a turn. If we had stopped to take that photo we would have been coasting leisurely and we probably would have noticed the little directional sign. And we wouldn’t have lost so much time.

Other than that sour moment with the Vacation Nazi, every other moment went well. We arrived at the house of our host in time for breakfast, checked in at the Yamashita Shrine, where we were billeted, and headed for the Banaue Rice Terraces.

The Banaue Rice Terraces. We grew up being taught in school that this place was the eighth wonder of the world. As adults we realized that almost every country has its own “eighth wonder”. Call me biased, however, I think this spot is quite deserving of that claim. I will try to post my photos as soon as I can, but you can drop by this site I found through google http://members.tripod.com/billedo/banaue.html to get a preview of how amazing this place is. Think Mt. Rushmore in grandeur, but prettier. It is a wonderful example of God and man’s coalition to create monumental art. Think 2,000 years back and how the tribal mountainfolk who created this wonder had to survive against or with the environment. Too far from the sea to subsist on seafood, their mountain slopes too steep for traditional rice fields, the Ifugao folk carved rice terraces following the contours of the mountain, meticulously piled and matched the rocks for reinforcement, used mud to bind the structure, built an ingenious irrigation system, and combined function with art leaving a work of beauty and a source of sustenance for future generations.

Having said all that, I also have to honestly say that it was a bit of a letdown. Modernization has brought about damage to what would otherwise be an awesome piece of nature art. Shanties of corrugated iron and wood scraps speckled the otherwise green and amazing scenery. Time has diminished its beauty, and the artists who created the original are no longer here to care to save it. It is on the list of endangered World Heritage sites and that at least is helpful.

And then we saw Charlie’s Angels. These are the 3 Ifugao women clad in full regalia, faded feathers on their hair, clad in hand woven costumes, standing by the road to have their photos taken with the tourists for a little forced "tip."

Afterwards, we went to the market place to look for local craft and interesting produce. We (meaning Tuks) just spent a small fortune the day before on my car A/C repair so a shopping spree was out of the question. I used all my will power not to buy anything. Okay, so it wasn’t will power. I just did not bring any cash with me. At the end of the market trip, all I bought were two hand woven sashes that I used as a bow to bind the photo album. The photo album turned out so pretty, with pictures (took 5 rolls of film) and illustrations.

We lunched at this hole in the wall place called Las Vegas Inn. Nothing Vegas about it thought. Rustic meets tacky. With a great view of the terraces. We had curry rice; igado, a local meat stew dish; something with lettuce and cucumber they call Israel Salad, which tasted really good; and fried milkfish.

We went back to Kiangan back to the Shrine where we were checked in. Showered. Walked towards the house of the bride, Lenore.

Lenore was a social worker working for the Child Protection Unit where Yella also works. She is a 40ish single mom, and was about to marry Paul, a 50ish American divorcee. They met 20 years ago, as maid of honor and bestman to Lenore’s cousin, and Paul’s brother’s wedding. No sparks, but they met again after 20 years, fell in love, and was about to marry. Their wedding was actually our pretext to having ourselves a grand vacation. An Ifugao wedding is more than just interesting. It is such a memorable, astounding experience. It is steeped in tradition, and very rich with symbolistic rituals. There are pre-wedding and post-wedding rituals that involve the slaughter of pigs, cows, carabaos and chickens. I do not think I will get into detail with this because it requires much cultural tolerance to appreciate. Some parts are gruesome but we had to respect the cultural differences.

During the eve of the wedding, we were at Lenore’s house. There were some rituals done. We did not understand the dialect used so mainly we just watched. There were gongs playing, dancing, chanting, and lots of ground stomping. Ancestors were called, gods were invoked. Afterward, the priests and the couple, who were forbidden to touch each other, walked to a neighbor’s house to drink rice wine brewed specifically for the occasion. The wine tasted good. We continued to just watch and take photos because the people were conversing in their dialect and we could only guess what they were talking about. Poor groom, of course, was hopelessly lost.

We went back to the house for the highlight of the evening – the “poor piggy should have stayed at home” scene. The main ritual involved the sacrifice of a native pig and the extraction of its liver as an unusual alternative for tea leaves. The chief priest looked at the state of the liver and the bile sack to determine if the union was to be blessed by the gods. The liver seemed to have passed merit, and the shaman foretold that the coupling would be successful and fruitful. Offspring will be many despite them being 40ish and 50ish old already. The ceremony went on till dawn. Chanting and dancing mostly. But we left right after dinner. Which was merely choked down out of respect. Nothing like witnessing a pig execution to ruin the appetite.

The next morning was the Catholic wedding, which we decided to skip. We instead went to the market where we did not find anything of interest. They were selling city stuff – plastics, fake jeans, etc.

We then drove to Bae, a valley of rice fields and amazing beauty. Nothing, not the photos, not my wordy descriptions can ever do justice for the spectacular sight of rolling fields, and mountains, and wild flowers, and vines, and more rice terraces and the locals doing their farming. It’s just so awesome, so incredibly beautiful it can make an atheist thank God. The road was a single lane concrete path winding over the fields and so you get this feeling that you are rolling in clouds of green. It is just beautiful. Spectacular. Priceless. Again, God and man conspired to draw out ooohs and aaaahs and OMG’s from us gaping, drooling spectators.

We parked the car and walked 283 million steps down a hill. My legs were trembling at the exertion; muscles left dormant struggled to keep up. At the bottom of the steps was a rusty bridge spanning a river. It was summer, and the water was barely ankle high. We followed the river downstream where they said there was a waterfall up ahead. Up ahead might be a short distance to the locals, but for us used to cars, escalators and walkalators, it was quite a walk. There was no clear path so we had to walk on mossy rocks and pebbles, hold on to vines, dip our teva’ed sandals on cool water. I slipped twice, once breaking 3 nails on my right foot. We did not even see the waterfall because getting there seemed too dangerous for our old cranky bones to survive. So we just sat and marveled at the view.

On the way back, we stopped by the bridge. A part of the river was deep enough for swimming and a lot of pre-teen boys were happily playing, diving from the cliff onto the water. We wished we brought a change of clothes so we too could take a dip in the cool water.

Walking back up the 283 steps was more difficult than going down. We had to take a lot of “nature appreciation” stops just to catch our breath. Gasping, panting or not, I would have stopped too. It is an awesome feeling sitting down alone just allowing nature to beguile me with its spellbinding magic. Basking. Praying thanksgiving for being so privileged to be where I was. Composing snippets of poetry in my head. Inhaling the strange, rare scent of fresh air. I would sit and observe insects sucking pollen from wildflowers, watch a butterfly color coordinate itself with the flower petals it lands on, look at trees and notice how their branches serve as picture frames for nature, highlighting portions of the vast scenery. A few seconds of rest and I had the time to notice the lone tropical palm tree seeming out of place and yet looking strikingly beautiful, standing defiant in a forest of hardwood trees. Leafless Jemilina trees with their white trunks serving as accents to the dark verdant background.

A leaf fell and I was there to hear it drop. And then another leaf fell, and another leaf, and another, and another. And soon it was raining leaves. I likened them to little children running home screaming, the rain is here, the rain is here for the leaves falling occurrence was followed by a drizzle. I was praying for it to pour just to complete the nature experience. Who said words were necessary for poetry? What I was so privileged to see was poetry for the eyes.

And as if God knew the climbing, wading, trekking exercise was going to knock the breath out of us, there was a halo-halo stand waiting for us near where we parked. Halo-halo is a dessert concoction of sweetened fruits mixed together with crushed ice and milk. It was heavenly, especially because we forgot to bring any water with us and we were really thirsty from the trek. In the halo-halo stand, the lady who minded the store had an infant covered in homemade comforters. He had a name that sounded like medicine, benadryl or something like that. He had the cutest smile. And he was unaware of how lucky he was to grow up in a place of such beauty.

From where we were we could hear the gongs of the wedding reminding us to drive back for the tribal wedding ceremonies. It was the most difficult task to pull ourselves out of that huge slice of heaven. After a quick trip to buy more film, we went to Lenore’s house. Lunch was being served. Now, this you’ve got to imagine. There is no such thing as a small private wedding for the Ifugaos. At least 17 pigs were killed to feed all the townsfolk. No RSVP customs here. Everyone can just drop by, queue for the meal, which they ate on de-layered banana trunks. After lunch, they had the Ifugao wedding ceremony. Even more ceremonious than the previous activities.

The bride, the groom, the priests and the entourage were in full regalia. There were so many rituals. More of the gongs, the chanting, and the ground stomping. Bride and groom were given beads for their hair, fertility necklaces, intricate headpieces. More ground stomping and chanting. The other shaman’s feet must have withstood a million stomping. They were the widest feet I’ve ever seen, spread out like a fan, contorted, and twisted, and sturdy. Wine was poured on the couple’s feet.

Then the entourage was led out into the streets. Like a line following the pied piper, they walked and danced with the groom and the men striking the gongs in an unusual beat. We did not follow them, but from what we heard, they went to another place and a dozen chickens were choked to death; one of the unfortunate fowl was tied to the groom’s waist. The standing joke was that there was a new definition of love. Real love is dancing out in the streets in a g-string with a dead chicken on your hip just to marry the woman you love.

We left the bride’s home and went to check out of the inn. We were supposed to stay and maybe view the post-wedding ceremonies the next day, but we were all overwhelmed with ceremony and decided to cut short our stay and drive back to the next province to make our trip back to the city the next day a little shorter.

We ended up at Solano, a bustling town in Nueva Ecija, which boasted of no major tourist attraction. The board, lodging and food costs were double of that in Kiangan. On the way to Governor’s Hotel, we stopped at the Dutch Pancake Restaurant. I went out of the car to ask the Dutch owner what time they opened in the morning. We were planning to have breakfast there. After checking into the hotel, we decided to have dinner at the Dutch restaurant also.

The T-bone was highly recommended, but I found it a bit tough. The scalloped potatoes were very good though. The pancake desert was also good. And it was fine service for the owner to run and get us wine even if it wasn’t offered in the menu. On our way out, he mentioned a little girl who went up to him earlier in the evening asking about what time they opened in the morning. It turned out that I was that girl, but he said I looked much younger a couple of hours ago. He said I looked no more than 14 then. I didn’t know if I would be thrilled to be mistaken for a teenager or aghast that I aged so quickly. Nonetheless, he was a nice host and we had breakfast there the next day. He mentioned wanting to expand his restaurant as a franchise and was willing to give the first franchise for free just to break into the market. Mental note to remember this when we are looking for business ventures.

On the drive back to the city, we stopped for lunch at this charming restaurant called Vicentico’s Grill. Food was excellent and the local antique décor was lovely. A couple of stopovers to buy goodies for the folks back home. Tuks dropped me off at my Dad’s place so that I can say goodbye to him before his trip to Europe. I stayed the night there. The next day, Monday, I had my practice round of being a woman of leisure. Woke up late. Breakfasted leisurely. Spent the good part of the morning creating a roller coaster park in the computer. Dragged my nephew and my niece to have my nephew’s tuition fee assessed. Went to see Spider Man. Hohum. Try as I might, I just can not find Kirstn Dunst pretty. Had popcorn, soda and fries for the movie. Mc Donald’s ice cream cones, chicken poppers, mashed potatoes and fries for after the movie. Back home, more computer games, dinner and Tuks finally picked me up to go back to real life. My greatest learning out of the whole experience is that I really should not worry about my Islandhopper business venture. Seeing the places I saw, falling in love with my own country, experiencing so much pride to call this land home, I know now that whether I succeed or fail in this venture, I would have had the time of my life traveling and seeing all these wonderful places and getting to know my country. Aaaah. God is good!

No to the Philippine Book Blockade

2009-05-15T03:03:00.005+08:00

By now, every Pinoy bookworm has heard about the furor over the Philippine Book Blockade. I haven't blogged much about the issue because I don't think there is anything I can add to what has already been said by those better versed in the legal intricacies. And those with louder voices, stronger influence.

I am one of the most apolitical persons I know. I don't even like reading the newspaper, so in matters that concern the government, I usually play the silent observer. Even when I feel strongly about certain causes or issues, I prefer to be lend support by adding to the critical mass.

And here is a way to add to the critical mass. Sign the petition here.

http://www.thepetitionsite.com/1/no-to-the-philippine-book-blockade

By the way, here is a page with a list of links about the issue: http://www.shelfari.com/groups/12439/discussions/118287/IS-CUSTOMS-CORRUPTING-OUR-BOOKS-

Wishlist Wednesday: Lonely Planet's The Travel Book

2009-05-12T23:24:00.007+08:00

Spotted at: New Arrivals, Lifestyle Section, 2nd Floor of the spanking new National Book Store at Glorietta 5

What it is about: Why, travel, of course. It's an A to Z catalog of profiles of every country in the world, 2 pages allotted to each country. With limited paper square inchage, It is not jam-packed with information. Instead, it highlights some very select aspects of each destination country. Specific suggestions on what you must read, watch, or listen to before you go there and what you must see, eat, and do when you get there.

Why I lust for it: Travel Planet is great at presenting different non-cliched views of places, of places far from the beaten path. Also, this will be a great addition to my collection of books that include The Photo Book, The Fashion Book, The Art Book, and The House Book. Yes, it's a shallow reason, but there's no logic to this book lust.

The price of the object of my desire: A little over a thousand pesos

Why I deserve this book and why you might want to give it to me: I survived Sagada (see previous post). And I used my mothballed backpacks to get there. I am sooo Lonely Planet.

Amazon reviews here.

The Nine Things I Learned about Life by Spelunking in Sagada

2009-05-05T18:13:00.016+08:00

14 fun, fearless, clueless souls, most of them book geeks from my book club took advantage of the Labor Day weekend and grabbed the chance to tick off a bucket list item: Spelunking at Sagada. I was one of them. And that cliche about learning lessons the hard way -- this experience exemplifies it.

Here are the lessons I learned the hard, slippery, slimy, smelly, scary way:

LESSON ONE: The dumb gets farther; the dumber gets dead. - For a bunch of book geeks, we did not do our research thoroughly enough. When asked to choose between the normal cave tour (PhP 100 per person) and the Connection Challenge (PhP 400 per person), which traverses 2 caves, Sumaging and Lumiang, we chose what sounded more exciting, more difficult, more unforgettable. Maybe we’ve been reading too much fantasy. Maybe it's the hashish in the Sagada air. We wanted to release the inner extreme athletes inside us. And we got what we asked for. And failed to anticipate just how difficult it would be, for geeks as well as non geeks, for the fit and for those whose most strenuous exercise is carrying bag loads of books from Booksale. We all had no idea what challenges lay ahead. The guides did not give us a clue.

On hindsight, that naiveté, that ignorance, that stupidity was good. If we had known how formidable the challenge was, most of us in the group would probably have not taken it. We would have backed out when we still could. At the mouth of the first cave.

Instead, we went in, excited, awestruck, dumbfounded, dumb as rats led by the pied piper. And got the surprise of our lives. Many surprises, in fact. Gimongous walls to scale, steep crags to climb down, cliffs to descend, slippery rocks to walk on, knee-deep muck to dip our bare feet into, blind corners to hug, streamlets to swim in, the narrowest of edges keeping us from plunging into deep dark pits. It was unbelievable what we had to go over, go under, go through, jump into, squeeze in, hurdle, straddle.

Truly, if somebody had shown me first a video of what we had to do, I would have chosen not to do it, knowing full well knowing full well that given my fitness level, I couldn't. Not knowing made me do it. It was sheer stupidity that got us there, literally in between a rock and a hard place. The uncertainty almost killed me, but it was also what got me through. The dumb, the clueless, when unaware of the dangers ahead, can actually accomplish more as he walks in ignorant bliss. And I’m glad I was stupid enough to do it. Because that was by far, the most exciting, most amazing thing I had to do in my whole life.

Of course, we were blessed to have survived relatively unscathed despite our ignorance. Tales of those who were stupid enough to go in without guides and never to come out again serve as a counterpoint to this lesson. It’s okay to be clueless sometimes, but rash stupidity could cost you your life.

LESSON TWO: We have nothing to fear but fear itself. Aww, shut up! - I do not fear heights, nor water. I have scuba dived in open water. I have rafted through grade 4 white water with a stupid smile on my face. I have parasailed alone and was able to look down without feeling squeamish. I get a kick from roller coaster rides, the higher, the faster, the scarier, the better. My bucket list includes bungee jumping and skydiving.

The first time I had to take a high ropes challenge, I couldn’t contain my excitement and wanted to zip down the wire a dozen times. I was fearless. I was 25 years old, a size 6. I could do anything.

As a trainer facilitating high ropes challenges, I had seen participants break down in tears as they confronted their fear of heights. I could only watch without really understanding what that fear was all about.

Until now. 42 years old. 70 pounds overweight. My sense of balance faulty. With nothing to rely on but the grace and strength I got from ballet classes with Ms. Valeriana in second grade, and from a few lousy attempts at a badminton regimen.

In the cave, we had to rappel down a cliff, the bottom of which we couldn’t see from where we were. No harness, no safety nets. The ropes did not even have knots for gripping. And what confounded us was that the rope was tied to a lithe, little man, barefoot, sitting by the edge of the cliff. Our lives depended on him being strong enough not to be pulled by our weight to go hurtling down with us to our sure deaths.

I was afraid of falling to my death, the guides picking up my brains and innards splattered on the cavern floor. I was afraid I would die without having completed my scrapbooks. I was afraid of falling and not dying, but being permanently disabled and not being able to drive myself to the bookstore. I was afraid I'd look stupid.

I was afraid. Petrified. As afraid as I’ve never ever been in my whole life. So afraid I cried for a few seconds. What made me cry was this inner struggle of accepting that I had to do it. There was no chickening out, no charming or bribing my way through, no delegating the tough parts to others, no negotiations, no way to circumvent the challenge. I had to get down that cliff or else stay in that cave forever subsisting on a diet of bat sashimi. I was so afraid, so stupefied my brain could not even manage to make my life flash before my eyes.

But then again, after all the drama, when I got out of the cave, got home, and had a shower, I realized I had no scratches. No bruises. I did not even break a nail or scratch my pedicure. Not even though I slipped a dozen times. Not even though I missed a step rappelling up a crag and I held on the rope, swinging dangerously, ramming my already sore body against a rocky wall. I suppose fear kept me safe. It made me walk slower, and made me look like a stupid granny wimp, but it was also the instinct that made me take only sure steps and kept me from harm.

Fear is not always a bad thing.

LESSON THREE: We are stronger, faster, harder than we can ever imagine. Like I said, I’m not in the best shape. I find myself panting just mounting the bed. And I would never believe that I could do what I did in those caves. I still could not believe it now.

Nearing the exit, we stared at a 3-storey high, 15 degree steep wall that separated us from the freedom outside. In normal circumstances I would have thought it impossible to climb it and survive. But all the earlier challenges showed me that I could do what I never thought I was capable of doing. So even if the adrenalin was already starting to dwindle, and I was tired from 7 hours of gruelling spelunking, I just took a look at the challenge in front of me and did it. I heaved, I grunted, I whined, and I climbed, and climbed,and climbed until I finally got out of that cave. I realized I am stronger than I ever thought. I can do far more than I ever thought possible.

I realized how much our mindsets limit us from doing what we want to do, how much we underestimate our strengths, how much power is within us. It took the caves of Sagada and 5 sadistic guides to make me discover my inner strength.

LESSON FOUR: Crap is inevitable. – In the last upward stretch out of the cave, we had to climb stone steps, made extremely slippery by bat excrement. The stench was unbearable, but the worst thing was that we had to hold on to some of the rocks to balance or lift ourselves up. Our fingers would land on inch-thick sludge – thick, icky layers of moist, mushy guano. And every germophobic fiber in my body would cringe and cry. But I just had to hold on for dear life fueled with the desire to just get out of that wretched cave that had held us captive for far too many hours.

In a Mythbusters episode, Adam and Jamie once concluded that “Poo is everywhere.” Literally. Sadly, it is true metaphorically too. Life can get crappy sometimes. Oftentimes, one can walk around and avoid stepping on poo, but there are times when there is just no way around it, and one has to bear with all the crap. You just have to grin and bear it. The thing is a little crap ain’t going to kill us.

LESSON FIVE: That big, fat ass (or nose, or ears) of yours will someday be put to good use. - What got me through the toughest physical challenges and the most perilous conditions? My stamina? Strategy? My upper body strength and leg power? Nah! It's my big, fat ass.

As we slid on rocks and soil, our guides asked us to rely on a skill creatively called the butt technique. Many, many times, we had to get ourselves closer to the pull of gravity and sit down, and let our butts do the walking, the wading, the sliding. And for the first time in my life, I thanked God for my ample assets.

I have always had what are euphemistically called child-bearing hips and the most generous rump to go with them. I hate how they get in the way of fashion and vanity. But that time at the cave, I was so grateful for all that generous padding.

It was a clear case of making lemonades out of life’s lemons. Life is fair when the things we consider as faults are actually blessings in disguise. In Outliers, Malcolm Gladwell talks about 1930s born Jewish lawyers who were barred from WASP law firms forcing them to develop skills that would actually spell their success 20 years later.

So, don’t whine too much about your big ears or your big butts or whatever it is you consider a liability. They just might come handy someday.

LESSON SIX: Trust the experts, especially when you’re not one. –For all the bravado and the pride we felt after that incredible experience, we all know we couldn’t have done it without our guides, James, Andrew, Mark, Matthew, and Jory. (Those apostolic names did not escape my attention.) So many times in that whole experience, we really did not know what to do and were too afraid to do whatever it was we had to do. We had to literally let our guides lead our feet through every step. I mean every little scaredy step. And they would even let us step on their knees, shoulders, hands, and bear our weights as we shifted our balance to move forward.

For control freaks like me, it was very difficult letting go, trusting someone else, and bearing the shame of total reliance on others. But what choice did I have? So, I had to let go and let the guides get me through. When the guide said, “Trust me,” I had no choice but to obey. I trusted him with my life.

It’s the same thing in life. Don’t be macho. There are times when we have to let the experts show us how. We have to humble ourselves and allow others to help us for the sakes of safety, survival, and success.

LESSON SEVEN: Rest when you get the chance and enjoy it. – Spelunking with a large group, we had to sometimes wait for each other as we shared 5 guides and the light of a few kerosene lamps. Those were moments for rest. I loved those moments as we caught our breath and had the time to look around and admire the beauty within the cave – the fantastic rock formations, the shadows and the lights creating moving art against the smooth and the rough rocks, the heights, the layers, the sexy curves of walls, the secret crevices, the trickling and falling of the water, awesome sights no camera can capture. They’re meant to be etched in memory.

Those rest breaks slowed us down and stretched what was meant to be a 4-hour trek to 7 hours of torture. But those breaks actually fueled me, not just by replenishing energy, but also by inspiring me with beauty, and reminding me how blessed, how privileged I was to experience something so awesome.

LESSON EIGHT: The less you have, the less you fear. – Travel light. Travel light. Travel light. It’s a lesson that in my years of jet setting and island hopping, I still cannot comprehend. But when you’re in a slippery niche, 20 feet off stable ground, trying to balance yourself is made more difficult by anything hanging from your neck, shoulders, arms. Having too many things -- some of them precious like high-tech cameras, your return tickets -- complicates matters as you try to protect your goods when really you should be protecting your head and limbs. The less you have with you, the less you worry about losing or breaking them.

At one point, I had to accept that my camera had already been destroyed by the water and the blows. Strangely, I felt liberated from having to take more pictures and finding time to download them when I get back home.

Travel light. It’s still a maxim I find hard to accept wholeheartedly. But it is a lesson well learned in those dark, dank, dangerous caves where material possessions play second fiddle to life and health.

LESSON NINE: Shoes are important. – You have to use the right shoes for the right time and place. I thought my trusted Teva’s were good enough. But they are trekking shoes, not spelunking shoes. And at some point, it was better to go barefoot to let our feet grasp the rocks more securely. Having the right shoes for the right time and place is important. Okay, I don’t really know what this teaches me about life. I just want to justify my shoe closet issues.

Today, I say CAVE is a 4 letter word. My joints are still sore. My voice a bit hoarse. My body recuperating from all the slips and falls. But I can say about spelunking at Sagada, I’ve been there and done that. And I’m glad I did.

Sagada pics here:

http://islandhopper.multiply.com/photos/album/37

http://sumthinblue.multiply.com/photos/album/271/The_Long_Road_to_Sagada_?replies_read=10

http://sumthinblue.multiply.com/photos/album/272

I am the Advocate

2009-04-29T10:29:00.005+08:00

Though I've taken the Myers Briggs Personality Test a number of times, I wasn't able to resist taking it again here: http://www.mypersonality.info/

And these are my results: Fairly accurate I would say.

ENFP - The "Advocate"

Temperament: Visionary

ENFPs are introspective, values-oriented, inspiring, social and extremely expressive. They actively send their thoughts and ideas out into the world as a way to bring attention to what they feel to be important, which often has to do with ethics and current events. ENFPs are natural advocates, attracting people to themselves and their cause with excellent people skills, warmth, energy and positivity. ENFPs are described as creative, resourceful, assertive, spontaneous, life-loving, charismatic, passionate and experimental.

About the ENFP
"They can't bear to miss out on what is going on around them; they must experience, first hand, all the significant social events that affect our lives."

- The Portrait of the Champion Idealist (Keirsey)

"ENFPs are warm, enthusiastic people, typically very bright and full of potential. They live in the world of possibilities, and can become very passionate and excited about things. Their enthusiasm lends them the ability to inspire and motivate others, more so than we see in other types. They can talk their way in or out of anything. They love life, seeing it as a special gift, and strive to make the most out of it."

- Portrait of an ENFP (The Personality Page)

"Friends are what life is about to ENFPs, moreso even than the other NFs. They hold up their end of the relationship, sometimes being victimized by less caring individuals. ENFPs are energized by being around people. Some have real difficulty being alone, especially on a regular basis."

- ENFP Profile (TypeLogic)

"outgoing, social, disorganized, easily talked into doing silly things, spontaneous, wild and crazy, acts without thinking..."

- ENFP Jung Type Descriptions (similarminds.com)

"ENFPs are energetic and enthusiastic leaders who are likely to take charge when a new endeavor needs a visionary spokesperson. ENFPs are values-oriented people who become champions of causes and services relating to human needs and dreams. Their leadership style is one of soliciting and recognizing others' contributions and of evaluating the personal needs of their followers. ENFPs are often charismatic leaders who are able to help people see the possibilities beyond themselves and their current realities. They function as catalysts."

- ENFP - The Visionary (Lifexplore)

"Ranked 1st of all 16 types in using social and emotional coping resources and 2nd in using cognitive resources. "

- ENFP Facts (discoveryourpersonality.com)

Famous ENFPs

Real ENFP People

Alicia Silverstone - actress (Clueless), fashion model
Andy Kaufman - American entertainer
Andy Rooney - television writer
Bill Cosby - actor, comedian, activist
Bill Moyers - journalist, commentator
Bob Dylan - singer-songwriter, musician
Buster Keaton - silent film comic actor
Carol Burnett - comedian
Charles Dickens - English novelist
Dave Thomas - businessman (Wendy's), philanthropist
Dr. Seuss (Theodor Seuss Geise) - writer, cartoonist
Franz Joseph Haydn - composer
James Dobson - evangelical psychologist
Joseph Campbell - writer, orator
King Jordan - deaf president of Gallaudet University

Lewis Grizzard - humorist

Martin Short - Canadian actor, comedian

Paul Harvey - radio broadcaster

Paul Robeson - actor, athlete, singer, writer, activist

Phil Donahue - TV personality

Regis Philbin - TV personality

Robin Williams - actor

Samuel Clemens (Mark Twain) - writer

Sandra Bullock - actress

Sinbad - actor, comedian

Upton Sinclair - author, investigative journalist

Will Rogers - Comedian

Fictional ENFPs (Characters)

Ariel - The Little Mermaid

Balki - Perfect Strangers

Dr. Doug Ross - ER

Lara Antipova - Doctor Zhivago

Steve Urkel - Family Matters

Will - The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air

ENFP Career Matches

ENFPs are often happy with the following jobs which tend to match well with the Advocate/Visionary personality.

Accountant/Auditor

Actor

Art Director

Artist

Banker/Economist

Career Counselor

Church Worker

Conference Planner

Consultant

Designer

Dietitian/Nutritionist

Diplomat

Editor

Engineer

Entrepreneur

Homemaker

Housing Director

Human Resources

Journalist

Lawyer/Attorney

Marketer

Massage Therapist

Merchandise Planner

Musician

Newscaster

Nurse

Occupational Therapist

Painter

Politician

Project Manager

Psychologist/Counselor

Public Relation

Researcher

Scientist

Senior Manager

Social Scientist

Social Worker

Speech Pathologist

Teacher/Professor

Technical Specialist

Trainer

Writer

Para Kay B , Book Clubs, and other "Flippant" Matters

2009-04-28T21:30:00.022+08:00

Our book club had its 12th meeting last Saturday. Quite an accomplishment considering:
- there is no compelling need to do this,
- members are all voluntary organizers,
- and we don't really get any material rewards for doing so.
I guess all those bullet points just want to say, we do this not because we have to but because we want to. And what amazes me is the energy that drives the members to stage the book discussion events in creative ways, each month's theme, mood, venue, treatment different from the previous months'.

In our book club, which meets once a month, we take turns moderating. The moderator, generally, gets to pick the book or the genre, with a great degree of influence from the members. This enables us to sample a diversity of genres and authors; there is no one voice that dictates what we're going to read.

This month, our moderator Sana Sta. Ana decided first on a contemporary novel. Then she chose Ricky Lee's first novel, Para Kay B. This was not the first time we tackled the work of a Filipino author; the first one was Carlos Vergara's Ang Kagila-gilalas na Pakikipagsapalaran ni Zsazsa Zaturnnah. But this was the first Filipino-authored novel.

Interestingly, our first Filipino novel is in Taglish. I, personally, liked that it is so. It couldn't have been credible otherwise. Sana did not choose the book because she loved it and expected everybody else to love it too. She chose it because she knew the responses would be varied. Maybe even violent. And that would make for interesting discussions.

And the discussions were indeed interesting. Different takes. We liked and disliked different parts. No doubt our different personalities influenced our reactions to the book. What made it even more interesting was that the author sat with us to shed light on his intentions for the book. One could argue that the author's intentions are not relevant to the reading. Maybe so. My review here reflects my visceral reactions to the book before we sat with the author, and I suppose I need to let them be. Altering my review based on the discussion strikes me as a tad hypocritical. But I have to say that after that discussion, I can't help but see the book in a different light.

I wasn't fond of the ending of the book. Flipper Blooey liked it for its metafiction. Like I've said before, and forgive me if I dare quote myself, "Frankly, I wouldn’t recognize postmodernism even if it hits me on the face with a metanarrative." But Ricky Lee gave me a new way of understanding it. I still maintain what I said in the discussion that given that the central message and character reveal themselves in the end, I wish the author had injected more cleverly hidden clues in every chapter that would just thread the whole thing better and would make the ending more cohesive for the dense; yes, that's me. But Ricky Lee explained that that ending is what makes the novel Ricky Lee's, that it is his way of breaking norms; blurring boundaries; taking risks; cluttering what others might want to be neat; and then creating meaning, order, and substance in chaos. After hearing all that, I had a greater appreciation, not just for the novel, but for the writing process as well.

The novel is written is what may strike people as light, very colloquial, maybe even too low brow. But it takes talent, skill, a deep understanding of Philippine culture and language, an intelligent sense of humor, a million edits, and hard work to make the reading easy. "Constant rewriting," says Ricky Lee, was the not-so-apparent secret to make the language sound so natural and believable.

I also appreciated how intent shaped the story. Like why Ricky Lee used conventions and stereotypes so that at the end, those conventions can be shattered. I have never tried writing fiction, and after this discussion, I think I never will. It's intimidating how one needs to end a story convincingly. Ricky Lee did not start with the end in mind. But I suspect there was gut instinct that guided him through the writing process. Gut instinct that can only be developed through decades of writing.

But the part that had my inner geek aflutter was Ricky Lee's description of the novel's intertextuality. Okay, I had to wiki that and had to wipe the blood off the computer screen as my brain bled from all that talk about Saussure and Barthes. But I will just phrase what I learned about intertextuality from Ricky Lee in the best way I know how. He talked about the play of words and letters, like how all the women character's roles names start with a letter from the name Bessie. The title, Para Kay B, is also part of this whole thing about intertextuality. The Writer, a character in the book, who plays god by controlling text, letters, words in an attempt to control life, is actually controlled by the same elements in his supposed real life. "Natalo siya ng mga letrang minamanipulate niya." I love how Ricky Lee talked about how we use words to build ourselves up as well as to devastate us.

I do not have enough intelligent words to do justice to the ideas communicated by Ricky Lee. And this blog post could not sufficiently and succinctly capture all the other points I furiously scribbled on my notebook.

But here's my point. The book club is a great way of enhancing the reading experience. Whatever I got from the book was multiplied, magnified by the discussion that followed. And this happens with or without the author's presence because each member adds a new perspective, a twist in the interpretation, a strange conjecture, something you missed in your own reading. But in the case of Para Kay B, the understanding and the appreciation were greatly deepened by Ricky Lee's explanations.

Days after the discussion, I am still chewing on some of the points we discussed. Maybe without the discussion, Para Kay B, would just be a book I enjoyed. The book discussion made it so much more than that. And I learned new things about language and literature. And that's the reward that book clubs bring.

Ang FFP Para Kay B

2009-04-26T01:22:00.004+08:00

The Flippers had another fun book discussion. Talaga! Etong proof. http://tinyurl.com/dbtdmr

We discussed Ricky Lee's Para Kay B, his first novel ever.

One of the characters in the novel, Irene, has a photographic memory and is fascinated with facts. I'm going to channel her in writing this brief report.

Number of times the Flippers have met in a bookstore: 2 (The first one was our first eyeball sa Books for Less, Roces branch. And the 2nd time was today at Bestsellers at Robinson's Galleria.)

Number of times we've had the author/creator join the meeting: 2 (The first one was Carlo Vergara for Zsa Zsa Zaturnnah, and the 2nd time was today when Ricky Lee, multi-awarded scriptwriter and author of the novel Para Kay B came to visit. He was very accommodating in answering our numerous questions. I was so enlightened.)

Number of Flippers in this meeting: 20ish

Number of times the Flippers have met for a book discussion: 12!!! Amazing.

The next Flippers book discussion: May 23, 2PM at Barbara's in Intramuros; read any Philippine history book.

PARA KAY B by Ricky Lee

2009-04-23T02:29:00.006+08:00

Another book that would have lingered listlessly in Mt. TBR had it not been chosen as a book club book of the month. But no regrets. I was way overdue on reading a Filipino novel. And I’m a little glad that I did not have to read an emotionally charged Filipino novel replete with profound thoughts, penetrating cultural criticism, social relevance, and historical allusions, something with a convoluted plot spanning 6 generations. This is a light read. Campy, entertaining. Just about all that my mush of a brain can take these days.

And it’s written in Taglish. Kaya madaling basahin. Walang mga salitang mahirap arukin. Kahit hindi ko alam ang ibig sabihin ng burirak, kahit papano ay na-gets ko ang storya at tema ng nobela.

Each of the first 5 chapters is a love story. Some of which are love stories that delve on the idea of bawal na pag-ibig. The second chapter is a bit hard to take because of the incestuous theme. Medyo kadiri. Ang favourite ko ay ang 3rd chapter, yung tungkol kay Erica. Feeling ko para siyang Latin American magical realism chuva na hinaluan ng kabaduyan ng ABS-CBN at GMA 7 telenovelas. Parang Ricky Lee is poking fun at the realm and genres in which he makes his living as a scriptwriter.

The main theme that ties the 5 stories is the idea, ang teorya ng narrator na may quota ang pag-ibig. Sa 5 na iibig, 1 lang ang magiging masaya. Does the novel prove this thesis? I guess you’ve got to read the book to find out.

The best way to enjoy this novel is not to take it too seriously. It’s not meant to be intellectualized too much.

After all, Ricky Lee’s intention is really to make this novel as accessible as possible to the masses of Filipinos who might not otherwise read novels.

Imagine, nag FGD at nag-interview pa siya ng iba’t ibang tao in the process of writing this novel. Hmmm, and that could very well be the failure of this novel as well.

Feeling ko okay siya from chapters 1 to 5. Natuwa ako. Lumobo ang ilong ko sa kakatawa. Kahit medyo exagg and slapstick. But after those first 5 chapters, it became one gooey, incomprehensible mess. Masyado nang gumulo. Confusing. Drawn out. Ang labo. Maybe that is the point when the FGDs and other people’s comments got in the way. Parang nawalan ng control ang author over the story. Parang he tried to have an ending that would please everybody, which of course is not possible. This is also the point that you really have to consider that Ricky Lee has a strong cinematic perspective. That ending, with all the characters popping out of the woodwork might work best in a movie. But in a novel, it seems awkward, over explained. Medyo mapapakamot ka sa ulo, asking yourself, anoraw?!? Inadjust ko na lang ang thinking ko. In the movie in my mind, I imagined it to be something like Bayaning Third World. So ayun, natanggap ko na rin ang ending kahit papano.

Sa tutuo lang, ang nobela ay hindi lang tungkol sa pag-ibig. It’s also about writing, the power of the word, the power of the writer to move the world, to change history, to alter memory; to express ideology or not to; to arrange time, place, character according to one’s liking or to others’. To paraphrase what the novel’s Writer (also a character in the book)says, sa pamamagitan ng salita, he can stop movement, he can reveal the secrets of people, make rain fall, punish corrupt officials, and totally eradicate poverty from this county. But in the end, that power is finite. Futile. Powerless against reality. Kahit anong galing, ganda, o saya ng sinulat mo, haharapin mo rin ang tutuong buhay kung saan hindi mo kontrolado at malamang hindi mo gusto ang mangyayari. I like that message. And it's a message I, as somebody who has romanticized the power of that word, needed to hear. It struck me maybe because lately I’ve been finding myself in that quandary. Minsan gusto kong walang gawin kung hindi magbasa ng libro. Masarap eh. Masaya. I can escape into other worlds and feel for other characters without having to take the personal risks and all that drama. But the truth is real life has to be attended to. Kailangan magtrabaho, maglinis ng bahay, maglaba, madumihan, pawisan, makisama sa mga tutuong tao na hindi lahat ay gusto mo o gusto ka.

Our book discussion will happen in a few days. Ngayon pa lang, marami nang mga atungal at papuri. Iba ibang reaksiyon at pananaw. Gusto ng iba ang nobela. Ang iba, nangookray na. Nakikinita ko na, para silang si Bessie at si Ester magtatarayan at magdakdakan. Kaya parang si Sandra, tanggap at enjoy ko na rin ang real life. Parang tutuo.

10 Most Amazing Places I’ve Visited

2009-04-22T10:37:00.007+08:00

I’ve been blessed to have the opportunity to travel. And though oftentimes I travel for work and don’t have the time to tour, I do try to grab pockets of time to absorb the culture and just totally enjoy the beauty, the exhilaration of seeing something for the first time. And for those trips that are purely vacations, ahhhh, I’m a great vacationer. I do my research and I make it a point to see something new and interesting. I also love visiting a place alone. So I can totally enjoy the place at my own pace, take as many photos as I desire, take short little appreciation breaks, linger, ponder, meander, without the vacation nazi (aka my husband) breathing down my back so he can beat some imaginary record for the shortest time to get from one place to another. But I digress.

Here are my top ten amazing places:

1. The Louvre, France – This is a place that humbles you. One of the first stops is the Department of Egyptian Antiquities (http://egyptianantiquities.com.au/Journey/Sections/INTRO.CFM). As I gawked at relics of early civilization, I just felt the reality that I am just one inconsequential fraction of a nanospeck in the timeline of the world. The giant paintings at the Medici Hall made me feel small, insignificant, and I realized that whatever talent and skills I had could not possibly match those of the creators of those master pieces. I felt so humbled, yet my soul felt so elated, my eyes so sated, and my heart a little proud to be part of the human race that has created all these beautiful works of art. The one day we spent at the Louvre was hardly enough. One of my dreams is to be able to come back to this place to wander at leisure for days.

2. Harajuku, Japan – One stop from the Shibuya station in Tokyo, and you leave the train to step into a different planet. Harajuku offers dazzling out-of-this-world spectacles. And it has nothing to do with the architecture, art, or any manmade tourist attraction. It’s the people. Young people. With an aversion for looking like everybody else. Japan’s fashion sub-cultures sporting the strangest, hippest, wildest of fashions taking the streets as their runway. Name a color, and somebody around there has that in his or her hair. It’s been more than a decade since I’ve last been there, so I don’t know if it’s still the same avant-garde young fashion capital of the world. A peek at Wikipedia says parts of it have become mallified. But Japanese youth in Manga, Gothic Lolita (the first time I’ve heard of this fashion genre), hip hop, still swarm in this surrealistic fashion wonderland.

3. Tsukiji Fish Market, Japan - You have to wake up at dawn to be able to catch the action here. The noise first, and the smell next accost you, wake you up. And then it’s the frenetic activity that wipes out any vestige of sleepiness. Your eyes dart from one spot to the next because there’s something interesting going on wherever you look. Who knew that fish auctions can be that much fun to watch? You look at the organized lines of frozen fish, numbered like marathon runners, most of them longer and bigger than most of the humans there, and you just know that the tuna panga you had in Davao or GenSan is related to some of the headless carcasses lined up on the auction floor. There’s also a market section retailing a dizzying array of seafood from all over the world. Because we were staying in a hotel, we couldn’t really go shopping for our lunch. But then again, I don’t think I would have been able to buy anything, because I would have been too overwhelmed to make a choice. Salmon, cuttlefish, fish I’ve never seen before, the longest clawed crabs. With my scuba dive card forever out of reach, this is the closest I’ll be to being underwater.

4. Huntington Gardens and Library, California – I’m surprised not a lot of people know about this place. Selfishly, I’m glad not a lot of people know about this place. It’s sort of a secret hideaway only a few minutes from Los Angeles. You pass a posh residential area to get there. The library is a bibliophile’s wet dream. A high ceiling accommodates two levels of rare, leather bound books. My heart ached in envy and desire for my own library to be that awesome. The 2nd print of the Gutenberg Bible, encased in glass, brought out the geek in me, and I almost genuflected, thanking God, and Gutenberg of course, for inventing the printing press. But the library, magnificent as it is, holds your attention only for a few minutes. The gardens, take note of the plural form, beckon. I made the right decision to go alone so I can walk at my own pace, and sit down when I wanted to just rest, read, relax, and wish that I could sketch. Each garden has a theme. The Japanese garden might look familiar to you since it has been used for some supposedly Japan-set Hollywood movies. There is a rose garden, an herb garden, and an English garden they call the Skahespeare Garden. It’s hard to pick a favorite, but from my memory, I liked the desert garden best because I got there by sunset and the giant cacti drew dramatic silhouettes against the orange cast sky. Next time, you’re in LA, check out these secret gardens.

5. Kiangan, Philippines – Check this out. http://islandhopper.blogspot.com/2009/05/kiangan-flashback.html

6. Sapa, Vietnam – It was the perfect vacation and we came at the perfect time – during the Tet holiday. It was the first time we’ve taken an overnight train ride. I slept at the upper bunk and my husband took the one below. We slept and when we woke up, it was dawn. We took a van with a number of people who were on tour. And that’s how this amazing vacation started. Sapa is breathtakingly beautiful especially in the winter, when there is a heavy mist covering the town plaza and the church. Women from different tribes pester and follow you around selling their wares – and at some point you give in and buy something that’s beautiful, and colorful and done with painstaking detail. The vacation is about hikes -- hikes up mountains, hikes down valleys where the tribesfolks live, make indigo dyed fabrics, hikes along cliffs with awesome views. But the highlight of my Sapa adventure was the magical rose plantation. It looked surrealistically beautiful and I felt that I just stepped into the dream scene of a period movie. Even more astonishing was when these local teenagers called us into their cottage to have tea with them. A cottage so simple the floor was of packed earth. Song, our tour guide, helped me to communicate, but mostly it was their facial expressions of innocent wonder that spoke to me. Sadly, I never blogged about the experience, but sappy as it may sound, this scene will forever be etched in my memory.

7. Hanoi, Vietnam – In the trendy store at Church Street, Tina Sparkles, they sell a beaded bag that says “I was in Hanoi before McDonald’s.” One of my biggest regret is not having bought that bag, which says so much about what Hanoi is, but might not stay that way anymore. It is a place that one must see now, before the malls take over. While it still feels like you’re in another place in another time. While the streets are lined with little stores selling the most colorful crafts and art; you get the sense you’re in the Orient’s version of the souk. I only lived there for 7 months, but a part of me will always miss Hanoi with its 7 lakes, Highland Coffee shops, 12-dollar hotel rooms, street food; where getting lost in its littered streets is a game I play; where hopefully no golden arches will ever invade.

8. Capones Island Lighthouse – Scattered along the coasts of the Philippines are Spanish-era lighthouses badly ravaged by time and neglect. My first lighthouse trip was to the one in Burgos near Pagudpod. I’ve also visited the Bolinao and Calatagan lighthouses. My favorite is the one in Capones Island in Zambales. http://islandhopper.blogspot.com/2008/11/chasing-lighthouses.html

9. The waters of Donsol and the Butandings (Whale Sharks) – Butandings are solitary creatures. They do not swim in schools. They are also very shy; you get too close to them, they leave the surface and go down into the depths of the sea. So, they’re a bit hard to find. When I finally got up close and personal with one, I was stupefied, glued to one spot in the water, and with the snorkel in my mouth, I just exclaimed, Oh My God. I was in awe. Laughing too. The butanding we saw was a magnificent creature. It had rows of white dots on its back. It looked more like a whale than a shark. It was amazing being only about 3-4 meters away from the creature. It glided under me and I saw the whole beautiful creature. Awesome.

10. I struggled to choose the 10th place to put in this list, so I’ll just list down the runner-ups which will share this last slot – Old Town beside Jet D’eau in Geneva, San Francisco’s Halloween night, Little Italy in Boston, Bethlehem Town in Pennsylvania during the Christmas season, New York, Palawan, Bohol and the underwater world of Anilao.

The other amazing places I still want to visit are: Morocco, Egypt, Greece, Batanes, Borobudur, and Ankor Wat.

Woohoo! Flippers for World Domination. Let the Geeks Inherit the Earth

2009-04-21T13:24:00.002+08:00

Who would have thought that doing what we love best -- buying, reading, talking about books -- would land us in the broadsheet?

Thanks to Blooey for opening the opportunity to land in the papers and promote our love for books.

Take the Reading Challenge!

2009-04-18T00:24:00.002+08:00

April 23 is UNESCO World Book Day – and just because the Global Voices team loves blogs, doesn’t mean we have forgotten other forms of the written word! In fact, because we think reading literature is such an enjoyable way to learn about another culture, we have a fun challenge for all Global Voices contributors and readers, and bloggers everywhere.

The Global Voices Book Challenge is as follows: Read here.

My Reading Nook Unveiled

2009-04-12T01:59:00.004+08:00

It's still work in progress. Still have a few more books to shelve. And the rest of the room is still a mess. But I'm loving my reading nook. I pretty much read everywhere else, but this is where I read at night, a few steps away from the bed where my husband snores away. That floor to ceiling shelf filters the light so he does not complain so much now about the light getting in the way of his beauty sleep.

It is as cozy as it looks. And it is my corner. At least, it's mine until we get cable, and then this lounge chair will double up for TV watching, and the battle for the remote and the comfy chair resumes. In the meantime, this corner is mine.

I also do my knitting and daydreaming here.

NORWEGIAN WOOD by Haruki Murakami

2009-04-11T12:44:00.003+08:00

So I have decided to be a Murakami fan. And this book made me do it. Not because it's the best one I've read of his thus far, even though it is. But because Murakami's voice is becoming a familiar one, and I'm liking it. Of course, a big part of that voice is that of translator Jay Rubin. And then there are the voices of his characters, each one distinct and to me quite endearing.

Toru Watanabe narrates in a voice reflective of Nick Carraway's in The Great Gatsby, Toru's favorite book. His is a voice that tries to subdue itself as the other characters assert themselves, loudly, emotionally. Just a few steps away from being a fly in the wall, he observes life around him and lets the other characters move him. He moves as the seemingly sane and stable character in a sea of broken souls.

I fell in love with the most broken among them, Naoko. Naoko and her beautiful sadness. And her hair slide. And her troubled past. And her attempts to set her life right in an asylum where the objective is not just to "correct the deformation" in their characters but to recognize and accept them, and still continue to live. "That's what distinguishes us from the outside world: most people go about their lives unconscious of their deformities, while in this little world of ours the deformities are a precondition. Just as Indians wear feathers on their heads to show what tribe they belong to, we wear our deformities in the open. And we live quietly so as not to hurt one another." She makes me think about my deformities, those I acknowledge and those I hide.

Like Toru, I was also torn between Naoko and Midori. Midori, the light against Naoko's dark spirit, the one who represents hope amid and despite a life filled with death and pain. Lively, wild, offbeat, her voice is a necessary one in a novel that would otherwise be too dismal for enjoyment. Her quirky language, her micro-minis, her bizarre dreams, her even stranger daydreams and fantasies, all lovable.

And then there's Reiko, the one who should have had the life of a successful pianist. Instead, she lives her days in an asylum to escape the outside world, a world which has battered her soul. Her voice is the most musical of all in a novel that's typical Murakami, heavily spiked with music. Reiko plays her guitar for her healing as much as for the healing of others around her. The Beatles' Norwegian Wood is among her repertoire.

There are other voices as well. The voice of Japanese youth in the 60s. Nagasawa's (Toru's college buddy and sexcapades mentor), charismatic, intelligent. The world is his for the taking, and he takes all that he possibly can. Kizuki's (Toru's childhood best friend and Naoko's boyfriend) voice from the dead, that continues to haunt and affect Toru's and Naoko's life.

But Toru speaks back to Hizuki: Hey there, Kizuki. Unlike you I've chosen to live - and to live the best I know how. Sure, it was hard for you. What the hell, it's hard for me. Really hard. And all because you killed yourself and left Naoko behind. But that's something I will never do. I will never, ever, turn my back on her. First of all, because I love her, and because I'm stronger than she is. And I'm just going on getting stronger. I'm going to mature. I'm going to be an adult. Because that's what I have to do... I have to pay the price to go on living.

These voices haunt me even weeks after the reading. And I've got Murakami to blame for it.

THE DIVING POOL by Yoko Ogawa

2009-04-10T23:43:00.002+08:00

Japanese litfest continues.

3 novellas comprise Yoko Ogawa's The Diving Pool.

The first novella, with the same title as the book, is narrated by Aya. She is the daughter of a couple running an orphanage. Ironically, she feels the least privileged among the orphans living under their roof. They, at least, have the chance of being adopted and moving away. It's from that dreary perspective that Aya sees her world.

The only bright spot in her life is Jun, an orphan in their home. He dives to compete, but to Aya, he dives so she can watch his graceful body cut through air, water, time, and her emotions "to reach the deepest place inside of her." Stealthily, Aya watches him dive, admiring the grace of his motions, the line of his muscle, the alignment of his wrists. Ogawa narrates with a focus on the minutiae, on the languid but not innocent thoughts that run through Aya's head.

The other novellas are told with the same languor. Drama kept at a minimum. Emotions not over emphasized; merely suggested. The narration of events calm. Yet, the reader's reactions would be anything but. Because what the novellas have in common is the theme that danger lurks underneath a surface of tranquility, evil behind a facade of normalcy.

The second novella, Pregnancy Diary, merely hints at the diabolical. And it is the most sinister of the three stories. In the end, you're left to using your own imagination, which is probably more frightening than anything the story could narrate.

The third novella, Dormitory, is the one most likely to become an episode of Twilight Zone if that show were to be revived. Again, the ending does not spell everything out for you. You're left imagining the worst.

The Diving Pool is a light, easy read of themes that are heavy, disturbing, haunting. Not quite satisfying, because I'm left wanting more.

Beppo's Barber Shop: Barbelicious!

2009-04-10T08:27:00.003+08:00

One of the best things about being a missus is accompanying the mister to the barber shop. Barber shops are usually no-nonsense places, awash with brash white lights, devoid of exotic eastern decor. That's why they are not as seductive as spas. Absence of fancy Asian frills notwithstanding, they provide comparable levels of service.

Men go to the barber shop not for the ambiance but for simple pampering sans zen music and that irritating soundtrack of birds chirping. Given a few minutes, you start appreciating the DOMish music, and even start finding it strangely comforting.

The good thing about barber shops is that, unlike beauty salons, they are not frequented by gaggles of girls bonding, texting, gossiping. Just men, quiet and serious, intent on only one purpose: to zone out from the world, the work, and the wife. An invisible "Do not disturb" sign hanging around their necks.

This particular wife tagged along but promised to ignore the husband so she can also zone out. He picked Beppo's Barber Shop at the ground floor of A Venue on Makati Ave. She picked the foot massage from the extensive menu of services.

She picks well. After several days of hard, physical labor -- moving heavy objects and standing for hours dusting and such -- she feels the soles of her feet are screaming, "Massage us, massage us!"

*Ending bothersome third person narration here*

Sheena, my therapist starts with hard, reflexology-like movements from the knees down. She goes easy on the oil, just enough to make it pleasurable, and not too much to make me feel like I'm being prepped for roasting. As I focus on Wuthering Heights, Sheena focuses on providing comfort to my tired feet and her deft fingers do not miss a spot, rubbing away my pains. After the thorough kneading, which I think is glorious enough, she brings out this scary contraption that she straps to her hand. When her fingers touch my flesh, I discover that one thing missing from my life until now, well, two things actually -- Sheena and her wonderful, vibrating machine.

Nirvana. I am not fond of using eastern religious terms, but WordWeb's definition fits perfectly -- complete bliss and delight and peace. I drop my book at its story's most exciting part, as it is getting in the way of my zen. That wonderful vibrating machine, from hereon to be called WVM, is the answer to all the world's problems -- wars, drugs, road rage, and Britney Spears. If everyone would just have Sheena and her WVM, then everybody will be living in a state of well being, and we will all just get along.

After the WVM does its wondrous job on my feet, the rest of my body feels envious. Sheena hears my shoulders' jealous rage and massages my arms, hands, shoulders, head. I run out of eastern mystic terms to describe the ecstasy.

Then she slows the pace and ends with a light finger massage. And I understand finally what my guy friends mean by "happy ending." Then she does what very few spa therapists do -- towel wipe out the oil and slap on a splash of one of my favorite scents in the world, rubbing alcohol. Then she covers me up with some fuzzy towels and lets me nap for a few minutes.

As I hover between dazed awakeness and the brink of REM, I understand why men usually top up with more services they don't really need like manicures and ear waxing. They just don't want the experience to end. Sad sigh.

Sheena doesn't allow me to leave with bedhead. She spritzes water on my hair and brushes it, making the fat tip and the pension plan I'm planning to give her so much worth it.

Really, this is the most fun and pleasure you can have without taking off your clothes (I mean, taking off your clothes at the spa, pervie). All for 350 pesos.

My new word: barbelicious.

Try out Beppos' Barber Shops' grooming and massage services. They also have branches at Cash & Carry (South Super Highway) and The Link Building (Makati Avenue across Landmark)

PS: (June 8, 2009) Today I went for hot oil treatment and again had a pleasurable encounter with the Wondeful Vibrating Machine, this time on my head. Lovely. Great hand massage too on the shoulders down to my fingertips. Mmmmm!

A PALE VIEW OF HILLS by Kazuo Ishiguro

2009-04-05T16:42:00.004+08:00

Another Japanese authored book. There are two more posts on the way. Our book club, Flips Flipping Pages, discussed Japanese literature last March. And we had the liberty to choose any title for as long as it fell under the broad category of Japanese literature. I read 2 books before the discussion, and followed up my JapLit education with 2 more.

Thus far, the one thing I found that all these books had in common is: cats. Cats figure prominently in every piece of Japanese literature I have read. The last one I read, Norwegian Wood, almost did not meet this criteria. Then, near the end a cat named Seagull entered the picture. In A Pale View of Hills, the loathsome creatures play a central role, symbolizing dispensable relationships and responsibilities. People who know me know that I hate cats - the animal as well as the topic. So, let's move on.

I also noticed that Japanese authors like to tell their stories the way they serve their tea. Slowly, lyrically, patiently. Maybe a bit mysteriously. Testing your ability to sit still, an underdeveloped skill in this time when people and events move in the speed of light just to catch up. Storytelling that forces you to slow down, linger, hold your breath, and wait for something to happen. A Pale View of Hills is self-indulgent narration. By that I mean, the author asks you to indulge him, to patiently read through the long meandering thoughts, and you just hope that somehow, somewhere, some time in the novel, there is a point. Halfway through the book, I still had no idea what this was all about. You just simply make a decision to drop the book or just enjoy the narration and hope that it would be worth it.

It's a bit like walking through the forest; trees, shadows, and mist obscure the path, and you're not certain if it's going somewhere...ah wait, I'm doing that right now, am I not? I am waxing Ishiguroesque. Ah, I am so easily influenced by the things I read. Anyway, let's get on with it.

A Pale View of Hills is about Etsuko. Transplanted to London, recent events have made her recall a summer after the war, right back when she was in Japan. She was newly married, pregnant with her first child, and like her fellow Japanese, trying to rebuild a life.

Two sub-plots develop, One concerns her neighbor, Sachiko, a single mother obsessed, but not quite upfront, with the idea of finding greener pastures in another land. Kazuo's Ishiguro's use of dialogue hints without telling that this is a woman you can't trust.

Sachiko's story is interspersed with a seemingly unrelated story -- the conflict between Etsuko's husband and her father in law.

These 2 stories move in parallel lines, and how they come together and affect Etsuko's present eventually emerges at the end in a surprise twist that reveals how her past shaped her present. History repeats itself. The generation gap between Etsuko's husband and his father is echoed in the strained relationship between Etsuko and her daughter, Niki. This time, culture differences, as well as a generation gap, test their kinship.

After all that, yes, there is a point. But you do have to slow down to enjoy the telling. Kazuo's gift for description, characterization, and narration makes the slow meandering journey through the pale hills worth it.

BLIND WILLOW, SLEEPING WOMAN by Haruki Murakami

2009-04-04T01:56:00.005+08:00

In the Introduction, Murakami likens the writing of short stories to planting gardens and writing novels to planting forests. In this book, he planted a lush, colorful collection of stories written from 1981 to 2005. The book is like Leonardo Da Vinci’s notebook, containing studies for bigger works, studies that are complete art by themselves. One story, Firefly, is a study that he eventually developed into the novel, Norwegian Wood, the work that brought Murakami into the nova of international bestseller authors.

One gets the feeling that a lot of the stories are autobiographical. In Chance Traveler, for instance, he specifically names himself as the narrator and places himself in the story.

I’m not fond of short stories. Most of the time, they’re weird, vague, ending abruptly leaving me scratching my head muttering, what the fafaya was that about?!? (Interrobang intended.) And then there’s Haruki Murakami, known for his delving in the bizarre and surreal.

The combination of short stories and Murakami really intimidated me.

I was pleasantly surprised to discover that Blind Willow, Sleeping Woman is very low on the weirdometer; not intimidating at all. And the biggest surprise is that most of the stories have very neat, complete plots, with dénouements not usually seen in short stories. Some are so well developed, they seem more like novellas than short stories.

Wiki describes Murakami’s work as “accessible yet profoundly complex.” With this book as basis, I have to agree. His prose is easily understandable, the narrative simple and fluid, and the themes universal. Though some stories have a touch of the bizarre and most exhibit Murakami’s style of magical realism, they are stories that are easy to relate to. Because underneath the fantastic plots are emotional themes most people can identify with.

The one that resonated with me best was the story of Tony Takitani, whose wife was obsessed with the accumulation of clothes. In my case, my obsession is amassing books. I’ll spare you the spoilers so I won’t say much about it except that it shows Murakami’s dry, humor as well as his splendid way of taking what’s ordinary to weave extraordinary tales.

A Poor Aunt Story is more fantastic but still very easy to grasp, which is not to say that it is simplistic or dumbed down. The narrator in the story suddenly finds himself bearing on his shoulder a poor aunt that just won’t go away. It’s great how this metaphor can be interpreted in different ways by different readers. The shoulder-borne aunt may represent limiting mindsets, bad habits, debilitating fears, and counterproductive behavior. Or whatever you think it is.

So relatable are the stories that if you take away the Japanese names of people and places, these stories could happen to anyone anywhere in the world. Anyone who suffers loss, experiences love, and wonders at life. Maybe because of it being so universal, what is missing is the "Japaneseness" of it. If you look closer though, the issues can be those which are prevalent in Japan. Suicide, for instance.

Expectedly, the stories show Murakami’s obsession with death, particularly suicide. A character says, “Death is not the opposite of life, but a part of it.” Even then, death is not trivialized; his characters ponder much on the loss of life and the sorrow that comes with it.

Before this, the only Murakami piece I’ve read was Kafka on the Shore, which wowed me with the writing but freaked me out with the oedipal theme. After reading this, I have not yet decided if I should become a fan. This might not be the book to convert me into a Murakamite. It is not iconic like Wind-Up Bird Chronicle, or Kafka on the Shore. It is rarely listed among his notable works. But if this well written book is not one of his best, then I would certainly like to read the rest of Murakami’s works.

One Night I Went Home with 14 Free Books...

2009-03-31T03:40:00.003+08:00

...maybe even more. I came from the ninja party of book lusters. I was so drunk with books I wasn't sure. And it's all because I'm a member of www.bookmooch.com. I'll let one of the bookmoochratis explain what all this is about.

Blooey tells you the story of how a bunch of Filipino bibliophiles revived the surface mail industry. It's an exciting story that involves worldwide treasure hunts, destroyed canvas bags, and a subpoena for a hapless customs officer.

And me, I'm just on the fringes of this story. 14 books is a slow day for Blooey and her ilk.

Cafe Juanita: A Melange of Colors and Flavors

2009-03-27T11:48:00.006+08:00

No. 2 United cor. West Capitol, Bo. Kapitolyo, Pasig City

The Bait: Good reviews from friends and media
The Line: Eclectically Romantic (according to Awesome Planet)
The Hook: Simply good cooking
The Sinker: Less than stellar service
The Catch: P400++ per person

This is the opposite of zen. The beyond-kitsch, bordello-like decor is a minimalist's nightmare. Gordon Ramsay would have a fit with the fusion-confusion of its ultra eclectic menu, which mixes Mediterranean with Asian. Cafe Juanita is a visual melee but a gustatory delight.

My husband, knowing I've been wanting to try the place, decided to treat me and my mother in law on the eve of my birthday. But he was noncommittal about the time so we weren't able to make reservations. And the place, with two floors and several family size dining tables, was packed. We missed the chance to dine at the main dining rooms. Instead, we slummed at their meriendahan. That there was no a/c on that hot March evening would be enough reason for me to go for a plan b resto. But I really wanted to try it, so we chose a table close to the blasting electric fan and ordered from the main resto's menu.

My husband will never pass up on his national flower, the Chicharon Bulaklak (P189), so we started with that. What can I say, it's good. Hard to go wrong with that.

That was followed by Sinigang na Corned Beef with Chorizo (P389). What's great about the dish is that before they served it, the server came out with a little cup of the broth and asked us to sample it the way they'd ask you to sample the wine before serving. You can ask them to adjust the acidity or the sourness. So the soup they delivered was just perfect. As sour as we wanted it. We rarely have this kind of sinigang broth, thickened by gabi. Really good, or it also could be that we were very hungry when we got there. There was nothing extraordinary with the corned beef, but the chorizo gave it a unique twist.

My favorite dish was the Tinuktok (P199). I suspect a lot of diner miss this as it is on the bottom of the comprehensive menu. Imagine this: crabmeat and buco wrapped in taro leaves topped by two sauces -- coconut and crab fat. Something I would definitely order when I go back.

Hubbalicious wanted Thai Style Crispy Dalag (P295), but they didn't have it that night. So we settled for Sole with Lemon Butter Sauce (P368). Faultless. Perfectly pan-grilled -- crispy on the outside and tender on the inside.

The Spicy Spare Ribs (P160?) was not listed on the dinner menu, but I saw a picture of it and ordered. The ribs have the kind of sneaky spiciness that creeps up on you, seems mild at first and next thing you know you're sneezing as the well hidden labuyo pepper bits tickle your nostrils and taste buds.

For dessert, Hubbalicious and Mom in law split a halo-halo. I sampled it but did not detect anything special about it. Plus it seemed to have too many beans, which I don't like in my halo halo. I don't like beans. Period.

My Cafe Juanita experience was capped by the famous Sticky Toffee Pudding (P89). This affirms what I've always known -- giving up dessert for life is just plain wrong. The pudding was very moist. The caramel sauce could be too sweet for others, but for me the combination of pudding, caramel sauce, and vanilla ice cream was just, uhm, I'm struggling to articulate how good it is. It has an old-fashioned, homemade appeal to it, but it is exceptionally good.

Our server was very pleasant and helpful, but she still needed a bit of training answering some of our questions. In fairness to her, I was inquisitive and my husband was determined to charm her with his corny jokes. She was very patient with both of us.

After dining, I checked out the main dining area again, and I think it's worth a second trip to have the full experience next time.

More photos at: http://islandhopper.multiply.com/photos/album/35/Birthday_Eve_at_Cafe_Juanita

LOVE STORY by Erich Segal

2009-03-27T03:45:00.003+08:00

My memory is playing tricks on me. Sometimes it tells me that I haven't yet read a particular book, and then I read it thinking for the first time, and everything just seems so familiar. Or sometimes I think I have read a book, but when I try to recall the plot, I haven't a clue. Pride and Prejudice is an example of the former; Carol Shields' Stone Diaries, of the latter.

And then there is this -- Erich Segal's Love Story. I don't know if it belongs to the former or the latter category. I must have read it. Everybody did. But I can't tell for sure.

Most of the people in my book group have read it so they were able to compare the feeling of reading it in their youth to the feeling of reading it now.

Reading it produced the strangest situation of everything being familiar. Why not? Love Story is a composite of tried and tested formulas for love stories. Rich boy meets poor girl. With all too familiar elements that spice up novels and movies -- opposing parents, a sense of you and I against the world, love against all odds, tragedy, and other love story clichés. That was intentional, according to our book club moderator. Erich Segal, literature professor, really wanted to use all those elements to, I guess, prove a point. And he wrote a movie that was so well loved; it could now be considered a classic. And the book that followed the movie sold millions.

The most fluid and clearest of writing makes this a very easy read. Segal is a talented and disciplined writer. The dialog is witty and just a smidge cheesy. You don’t want to, but you find yourself saying awww. It’s good. Yes, a “but” is about to follow. But I am a very selfish reader. Good writing is not enough. Plot and characters are important, but ultimately it is about the book striking a chord, serving as a mirror to my own life and thoughts. Yes, there has to be something about me somewhere. Stop rolling your eyes; I admitted I’m self-absorbed. And Love Story, to me, is just a story.

I guess what I'm saying is that I'm too old and jaded to appreciate Love Story. Not that I'm too old to appreciate falling in love, but this story really just skims the surface of love and relationships and marriage and family. My own relationships are way more complex, certainly not as pretty or novel-worthy, but they carry the scars of deeper hurts, uglier sins, graver losses. The wit and the kilig (romantic thrill) of the novel are nothing compared to the joys of real-life love. Death, cancer, and the premature end of a marriage are not things to be blasé about, but these have become all too common. So many movies and books have come after Love Story, employing the same basic plot but with more dramatic twists. More real-life dramas have hit closer to home. Love Story is a nice read. And, well, that’s it.

Running Away from Carbs at Italianni's

2009-03-25T22:33:00.003+08:00

Why is it that whenever the universe hears I'm going low carb, it sends me the most irresistible combination of carbohydrates? But I persist despite the odds.

When I got invited to a blogger event at Italianni's, I hurled my splenda packets in exasperation thinking Italianni's is really just a synonym for pizza and pasta.

I was pleasantly surprised to discover that the protein seeking diner actually has a lot of options, especially with their summer line-up of dishes.

Five dishes comprise their Small Price for a Big Lunch Promo. It doesn't surprise me that my favorites are the ones that are most appealing to carnivores. The Costina Brasatta, loin back ribs braised in tomatoes and red wine; and the Manzo di Arrosto, Roasted rib eye, are my top choices.

The braised ribs are so tender, literally falling off the bone and melting into my mouth in a delightful medley of herbs and garlic. Really. Just don't get any of the perfectly al dente spaghetti, and the carbs are kept at bay. Not bad at P395.

The rib eye. I like the rare in the inside and medium well on the outside doneness of this dish. I can't believe it was slow roasted for 8 hours. I also can't believe that it is only P350. The mushroom topping is also very good. Good carbs come from the grilled zucchini and capscicum bites that go with the steak.

The Pesci in Vino Blanco is a crowd favorite. This dish uses local dory fillet simmered in white wine and herbs. The fish is just the right side of tender. Flaky but in a good way. Again, stay away from the spaghetti aglio e olio if you want to go low carb. Otherwise, have a lot of it because it's really quite good.

The Pollo con Rucola, Chicken with Arugula, P295 is an interesting take on the usual herbed roasted chicken. I really love how the arugula is not merely a garnish, but the flavor really rubs onto the chicken skin, giving it a nutty taste. The flavor, however, doesn't seep into the rest of the chicken meat, which could also do with a bit more tenderness.

What I thought would be my favorite, surprisingly lands at the bottom of my fave list. The Spiedo del Pollo e Dei Pesci, Fish and Chicken Skewer P295. But it could be just me. I am not fond of white chicken meat. It's a well seasoned dish, but some kind of sauce would probably make this tastier.

If you're seriously avoiding carbs, I suggest you leave after you've had the entrees. Go. Now. Go. Because it would take the willpower of a monk to resist the desserts. One dessert, in particular, tested my carb-free resolve. Sadly, okay, I wasn't really that sad, I failed, and the Tartufo, (P450) won. In my defense, no one with functioning taste buds can resist this 3-layered chocolate cake with dark and white chocolate mousse and fudge frosting. It has this amazing flavor where the salty and the sweet tastes alternately titillate your palate. To quote my friend, twitchmimitwitch, it's abso-bloody-lutely delicious.

Did I mention this is a summer promo? So the good times will end, so better head over to Italianni's now.

Photo lifted from Italianni's press kit.

Nestle's Pops

2009-03-25T20:55:00.005+08:00

That previous post about the ensaimada, that description -- I take it back. This is the real, ultimate, ooh-aah-yeah-baby-baby-who's your daddy, oh-so-yummy delicious bite of pleasure. Scrumptious. Insert more superlatives here.

If you're familiar with the Dove ice cream bar, Nestle's Pops taste like it. It's not a very complex flavor. Just comfort food vanilla ice cream coated with chocolate. Ice cream you can eat as finger food. You pop each kiss-shaped pop into your mouth, and the flavor pops as the chocolate breaks and the vanilla ice cream melts onto your tongue. Then you close your eyes and contemplate the perfection of the universe and the sublime beauty of being alive.

I kid myself that the vanilla is mostly protein and the chocolate is mostly anti-oxidant, so having a dozen pops in one sitting is actually a healthy thing.

Take note the brand name is a plural noun. Because only one with an extremely high EQ, one who grew up in the misery of war, only one who can't understand the concept of buying all colors of great shoes, can have just one. It's very good and addicting.

I like it when the vanilla ice cream is slightly melted, so wait a few minutes after you pull the tub out of the freezer before you pop one. If you can.

Tender Trap Ensaymada

2009-03-25T16:33:00.003+08:00

Parmesan Ensaymada
from Tender Trap Bakeshop
at 681 Lee Street, Addition Hills, Mandaluyong City
(a new shop at Virra Mall according to the owner's blog: http://tender-trap-bakeshop.blogspot.com/)
P240 per dozen

So much deliciousness packed in these little balls of eyes-closed, ooh-ahh-yeah-baby-baby pleasure. Super moist ensaymadas topped with parmesan cheese. Though I like my ensaymadas smothered in butter and sugar and these aren't, the taste of the dough and the cheese makes up for the absence. I'm not an ensaymada connoisseur so I can't tell if it's the best in the city, but I wager it's in one or more of those "Best of" lists.

The bummer: it's a messy eat because the cheese is dry, and you end up with a sprinkling of cheese on your shirt.

THE MUSE ASYLUM by David Czuchlewski

2009-02-22T01:40:00.004+08:00

I confess I chose this book by virtue of its attractive cover. And the intriguing title.

The Muse Asylum is what it says it is, “an institution for the artistically gifted mentally ill.” This is where Andrew Wallace is voluntarily detained as he receives treatment for being crazy -- seeing people on his trail, smashing his professor’s car, imagining conspiracies against him. Conspiracies led by Horace Jacob Little -- the subject of his thesis, a reclusive writer, whose face, identity, and whereabouts have been an enigma to fans and the media.

Part of Andrew’s therapy is to write a memoir. In the memoir, which he calls Confessions, he writes, “Horace Jacob Little had been my password to love and happiness. My relationship with Lara tangled up in his fiction.”

Lara Knowles is Andrew’s fiancée. She is also the former love of Jake Burnett, a journalist who is assigned to write a scoop on Horace Jacob Little.

This threesome of former Princeton students gets entangled in a drama-filled chase for answers about love, truth, and Horace Jacob Little. Who is Horace Jacob Little? Where is he? What does he look like? Is he really after Andrew? As soon as you get the answers, the plot shifts and all your previous assumptions are blown out the window. And new answers emerge as even more new questions arise. The alternating narrations by Jake (the sane but seeking voice) and Andrew (the paranoid, tortured voice) give this novel a deep, interesting texture.

From the front cover blurb to the last pages of the novel, this is branded as a post modern novel. Frankly, I wouldn’t recognize postmodernism even if it hits me on the face with a metanarrative. Regardless, this is an entertaining read. Because Czuchlewski can write, albeit in a raw, first-novel, trying-hard-to-please-my-mentor-Joyce-Carol-Oates way. But he can write. He weaves words that make me feel the grime and heat of New York and the irony of isolation in the density of its people. He narrates in ways that make me empathize with every character. He inundates you with mush as Andrew describes his love for Lara, but hey, he’s a mad, love-sick, deeply troubled man and the author writes him as such. He knows how to lay it on and build it up, so much so that I was gearing up for a climax that would blow my mind away. Twenty pages away from the end of the book and I realized that that fantabulous, mind-blowing ending was not going to happen. The ending was satisfactory, with all the loose ends tied neatly and all the boggling questions answered. Satisfactory, but not fantastic.

Maybe Czuchlewski had a word count limit, or he ran out of time, because it seemed to me the novel could have been longer. Maybe by a couple more chapters. Long enough to properly explain how Jake Burnett, who started enamored by Lara and irked by Andrew suddenly became attached to Andrew and no longer in love with Lara. How the change of heart happened is not sufficiently developed. Or maybe that’s postmodernism playing with my head.

And is it postmodern to have a story within a story? Little's novels and short stories expectedly have striking parallelisms with the first narrative being played out within the quirky love triangle of Andrew-Lara-Jake. I like it, but lately, I've been reading a lot of those types of twists, they're no longer twists.

This is probably one of those books that I would like better after the reading. I’m still chewing on it even after having finished it days ago. There are clever surprises at the end that made me appreciate the author, his humor, and okay, postmodern literature.

THE FIVE DYSFUNCTIONS OF A TEAM by Patrick Lencioni

2009-02-19T14:50:00.004+08:00

It only takes one sitting (in the salon, for me) to read through this book. Whether you’re multitasking or dedicating your full attention to this book, it would be time well spent. Easy, light, and quick reading but heavy on substance. Smacks of good sense. This made me want to get back into full employment just so I can lead a team and apply the learnings.

As a writer, speaker, and management consultant on leadership topics, Patrick Lencioni couldn’t help but notice that genuine teamwork was elusive in most organizations. So he set out to write a book that dissects the pitfalls to team effectiveness. This is the output.

Even though it uses a parable approach and it touches on soft skills, it doesn’t get touchy feely. And just because it discusses leadership principles, it does not get pedantic or preachy either. Cerebral but practical. It doesn’t tell you what to do, but it gives you a lot of ideas to chew on.

Lencioni talks about trust, commitment, communication, accountability. Yes, you’ve heard those before. On the surface, he does not offer anything new; no new clever buzzwords that will rock the HR community and will soon be part of every cliché-ridden inspirational speech. But what he does is present a fresh perspective on old fashioned concepts. What he does very well is to sew up all these concepts together as interrelated elements. He does not give us a an ala carte checklist of teamwork must-haves. He prescribes that all these elements must be present, that they are interconnected parts. Teamwork starts with trust and builds up from there. Not very radical. Maybe even too sensible. But when you look at the failed teams out there, you realize these ideas are not so common.

The fable format makes this very memorable and easy to follow. Certainly not an original concept, but it works for me. This is from an article about Patrick Lencioni and this book:

“I think people learn better when they're engaged in a story,’ says Lencioni. ‘A lot of people who don't like to read business books, or get bogged down by them, will like a good story. I felt like I could actually better convey the message and help people understand how it works in the world by taking them through with a character who is dealing with it.”

To capitalize on the power of the storytelling tradition – good call, Patrick. Fictional it may be, but it is a realistic fable. So realistic it brings me back to my own experience of dysfunctional teams. Even personal relationships among family and friends.

It also considers human nature. Egos in the team can get in the way of achieving results. His theories do not ignore but instead consider the reality of these egos and how they play out in the workplace as well as how they need to be balanced with team achievement.

The eureka moment for me is its take on conflict. That it’s necessary. That it can be productive, constructive. Lencionie says about conflict: “If it’s not a little uncomfortable then it is not real.” They key is to keep doing it anyway.” I think this applies to work teams and to personal relationships as well.

The fable approach does have its built-in weakness. Because it is focused on a fictional account of a team, no real case studies could be given to substantiate Lencioni’s theories. I guess the best way to test them is to try them. First, get a copy of this required reading for managers and leaders.

THE 10 MOST ANNOYING ENGLISH GRAMMAR ERRORS by Jose A. Carillo

2009-02-18T23:39:00.006+08:00

I was itching to read this book because there are very few English grammar books written by Filipinos and primarily for Filipinos.

Why are such books important? Because a list of common grammar mistakes among Filipinos would differ from a list of common grammar mistakes committed by Americans. It has to do with the Filipino language's nuances that affect how we translate Filipino to English. Our misuse of prepositions, for example, owes itself to our having very few, hardworking, multi-tasking prepositions; the Filipino preposition sa, for example, takes the role of to, from, in, on.

Americans tend to make a big deal of the difference between lay and lie, when that does not bother us as much as matching subjects with verbs. Subject-verb agreement is very tricky for us because our verb conjugations are rarely affected by the number of the subject. (Si Juan ay pumunta sa palengke. Kaming lahat ay pumunta sa palengke.)

I like that Carillo focuses on the 10 Most Annoying Grammar Mistakes instead of attacking every grammar rule.

The blurb on the front cover says that this is a highly instructive book. It is. Carillo knows his stuff. I have learned, or at least been reminded of, a few things from this book.

I also like that the book is very slim. It makes it a handy guide that can occupy prime work station realty; you can keep this beside the computer.

The 120 peso price tag is one of the best things about this book. I want a book like this to be readily available to as many Filipinos as possible.

I’m with Carillo when he talks about squinting modifiers.

I share his passionate annoyance with the mixing of the pronoun their together with the indefinite pronoun everybody. I once saw a TV ad that used the tag line “Everyone has their own story.” And I wanted to write a vehement letter to the company. That is wrong because everyone, even though in its sense is plural (similar to all), grammatically it is singular. Everyone is welcome. Everyone has been informed of the latest rules. Everyone who attends the workshop must bring her own tools.

There are a couple of points that don’t sit well with me, the use of semi-colons for instance . Which is not to question the author's stand. It’s just proof that grammar is not necessarily an exact science. There is a great degree of subjectivity where the ear of the listener serves as a biased judge as to what sounds right.

Because this book is very focused, very concise, it is not for everybody. It’s very instructive, yes. But it is also very pedantic. This is not for the grammatically clueless. It seems to address highly educated readers who are already well versed in English but just need reminders or guidance in clarifying a few minor points of confusion. My observation can be substantiated by some of the reader responses. Those who read Carillo’s language guidelines are people who actually enjoy using and learning more about the language. People who consider it pleasantly challenging to debate Carillo’s language usage.

It is not for everybody. It is not for the truly annoying grammar criminals who have no idea that there is a difference between it’s and its. Not for those who fog up at hearing the phrase subject-verb agreement. Not for people who will be scared by the book’s impassioned debate about transitive verbs and intransitive verbs. Nor readers who might get turned off or intimidated by some of the complex grammar rules explained in the book. People who just want to be able to speak English with minimum embarrassment and would live and die without having to be illuminated on the thin-line difference between the verbs take and bring. Those who really annoy you with their unique and “creative” interpretation of the English language. The ones who truly need a grammar book.

What I'm trying to say is that the book's size, price, and coarse newsprint pages may have made the book accessible, but the language still does not.

I’m also bewildered by the Endnotes chapter. A last minute addition to a book that was already done, blueprints and all? I think it would have been better to insert them into the appropriate chapters, instead of having that postscript chapter. Seemed anti-climactic to me after its previous chapter, Summing it Up, well, summed it up.

Another thing I didn’t like about this book is that it is almost purely instructional. Maybe it’s just me, but I think entertainment value matters as well if one really wants to reach out to an audience of disinterested readers who might benefit from this book. Dr. Dups Reyes is one who attempts to do this and succeeds to a certain degree. Many other American books inject wit into their grammar lessons. June Casagrande’s Grammar Snobs are Great Big Meanies, Laurie Rozaki’s Comma Sutra, Steven Frank’s The Pen Commandments, and Lynne Truss’s Eats, Shoots, Leaves educate as well as entertain. It’s a good thing the book was short. Or else The 10 Most Annoying English Grammar Errors would be one of the most annoyingly boring books I’ve read.

Available at National Book Store.

Islandhopper's Best and Worst Reads of 2008

2009-02-04T13:42:00.004+08:00

The Flips Flipping Pages gathered on the last day of January 2009 to talk about their best and worst reads of 2008. It was supposed to be done ala-Show and Tell. Since most of my books have been boxed, I could not show my books. So I prepared this image instead. My absolute worst read was Heaven is Real. Never mind that is is badly written, repetitive, and solipsistic. What I didn't like about this was that it's so unbiblical, I think the devil itself wrote this. It deserves to burn, hence the lower right image. I just did not want to talk about it and dignify it, so my official worst read was Lauren Weisberger's The Devil Wears Prada. A slightly more entertaining take on the devil.

I saw the movie first and loved it. I suppose this only works in film, with the fashion montages, Meryl Streep, and Emily Blunt. The movie is crisp, fast-paced, and sharp-witted. The book is a major disappointment. Writing is mediocre, cumbersome, and tries too hard to be witty. I'm guessing it was just the Anna Wintour allusions that made this book a bestseller.

Check out my top 10 reads. Noteworthy are:

Lolita - Best Writing
I did not want nor expect to like this, but the I was blown away by Nabokov's writing. It takes great skill to make readers sympathize for such a despicable character.
Review at: http://islandhopper.blogspot.com/2008/11/lolita-by-vladimir-nabokov.html

To Kill A Mockingbird - Best Message
Review at: http://islandhopper.blogspot.com/2008/12/to-kill-mockinbird-by-harper-lee.html

Balzac and The Little Chinese Seamstress - Most Charming
and The Best Cinematography in the Movie of My Mind
Review at: http://islandhopper.blogspot.com/2008/11/balzac-and-little-chinese-seamstress-by.html

The Shack - Most Thought Provoking
Review at: http://islandhopper.blogspot.com/2008/11/shack-by-william-p-young.html

And the Best Read for 2008 was not the best written, not the most famous, not the one that made me cry. I chose it because it was the one that was most personal, the one that I could relate to the most, the one that struck a chord. A Celibate Season is about a husband and wife separated for a season due to the wife's work. This reminded me so much of the 7 months I spent working in Hanoi, Vietnam -- the loneliness, the misery, the growing independence, communicating through written words, the challenges to be faithful, and eventually the realization that very few things are worth the prolonged separation of husband and wife who want to keep a marriage healthy. Review at: http://islandhopper.blogspot.com/2008/11/celibate-season-by-carol-shields-and.html

2008 was definitely about books. I have never ever bought and read as many books as I did last year. I was hard put to choose the one best book, but there were many, many good reads. I felt so accomplished having set aside that much time for reading. The FFP book discussions challenged me to read books I wouldn't normally read, expanded my comfort zones, and forced me to form and express opinions about books. I discovered authors. I learned. I enjoyed. I met people even more passionate than I was about books. Thousands of pesos spent on books. Hundreds of miles and hours walked in search of books. Tens of square meters of floor space disappeared under mountain piles of books. The experience of falling in love with books over and over again -- just priceless.

THE BOOK THIEF by Markus Zusak

2009-01-23T01:59:00.003+08:00

Markus Zusak couldn't quite make up his mind if he wants this novel to be a heart tugging tearjerker or a charming piece of whimsy. So he does both. Alternately.

When it's being whimsical, the reader awwws and ooohs and aaahs and falls in love with Liesel Meminger, feisty, kindhearted, intelligent, and funny. The relationship between her and golden haired Rudy Steiner has got to be the best love story I've ever encountered in a long time, maybe ever.

When it's tugging at your heart, it makes you despise war and prejudice while being awed by how pure goodness can happen against a backdrop of evil. Your heart breaks at the losses and shame Liesel has to deal with.

Her being of Aryan descent saved her from an acid shower, but didn't spare her the terrors of war and an evil rule. At the start of the novel, Liesel loses her brother (by death) and her mother (by disappearance). Her foster parents, who live in the poor side of town, subsist on very little but manage to lavish her with love. Mr. Hubermann's love more obvious, softer than Mrs. Hubermann's brash, savage affection, which frankly borders on abusive.

The appearance of Jewish Max Vanderburg spikes their lives with drama and danger, but also knits their family closer, brings out the good in Mrs. Hubermann, and intensifies Liesel's love for books.

Books -- one of the elements that make this story even more appealing. The lengths that Liesel goes through to steal books, her fascination with the Mayor's library, the power of words channeled by Max Vanderburg as he tells his own story -- I can relate. Zusak cannot fail but endear himself with the book nuts who read this.

All the events are narrated by Death. Cheeky. Sarcastic. Tortured. Death without the scythe. Warm. Compassionate. He's just doing his job.

Zusak uses bullet points and asides as a helpful devise to add meaning to the story. Sometimes the writing borders on gimmicky. Some parts are predictable.

Much of its predictability is also intentional. Zusak is his own worst spoiler. He shifts from the linear flow and goes fast forward to the future to warn you of pending doom. So you brace yourself for the worst. And when the worst does come, Zusak delivers the drama tersely, quickly. And just as your eyes brim with tears, he shifts his tone and gets charming and funny again. So if there's anything that I hate about the book, it's that I never get to a full 5-hanky bawl. And I so wanted to cry. I want my money back.

Okay, I didn't get my money's worth of tear duct purgation. Nevertheless, I loved The Book Thief. If the author was pandering to my sentimentality, well, it worked. This is fine story telling. This is a young adult book that adults can appreciate. It's hard to pick up another novel after reading this as visions of the book thief still lingers.

THE DEAN'S DECEMBER by Saul Bellow

2009-01-21T15:26:00.005+08:00

Let's do a Covey and start with the end in sight. (Yes, I know that is a paraphrase.) This has got to be the most frustratingly perplexing ending I've ever had the displeasure of reading, and not in an I-am-so-intrigued-and-delightfully-mystified-I’ve-got-to-buy-the-sequel kind of way, but in a head-scratching, what-the-fafaya-was-that-all-about way.

The start and the middle were not all that satisfying either. According to Wikipedia, Bellow’s style tends to be brooding, and this particular novel is a broodfestmania.

It is set in late 70s Bucharest. Post-earthquake, communist-ruled, dictator-led, impoverished Rumania. Not exactly party central. Dean Albert Corde is there to accompany his wife to deal with the impending death of her mother. He spends a lot of time sitting in his wife's childhood bedroom. Ruminating. A whole lot of ruminating. I guess there’s nothing else to do. His mind travels back and forth between Bucharest and Chicago. In Chicago, he has suddenly become a social and academic pariah because of a controversial article he wrote. He replays the events in his mind and contemplates his past motivations and his inclinations for the future. In Bucharest, he encounters the workings of a totalitarian regime and he criticizes and scrutinizes . All in his mind. He doesn’t really do anything much with his thoughts. In Bucharest, he doesn’t do anything to resolve his righteous anger and defy the authorities. Back in Chicago, he doesn’t even put up a fight for his post.

Though the narration is by a third person, the perspective is that of Dean Corde. And because Corde mostly just sits and ruminates, the plot moves at an excruciating crawl. Each progression of event is merely used as a jumping point to recall and reflect on past events. Yes, more brooding. If you delete all his introspection and retain only the narrative, you would be left with a very thin book.

Once in a while, he turns his attention to the cyclamens in bloom, seeing them as symbols for his state of mind and life. But the symbolic meanings can get too obtuse for the non-horticulturist reader.

Is it all that bad? When I managed to keep myself awake, I did spot some good writing, good turns of words and phrases. I liked his descriptives. Probably the most entertaining parts of the book. More like commentaries really.

“This heavy woman, and pale, eyes large and dark - - she was as intelligent as she was stout. Her hair, parted evenly down the center in two symmetrical waves, suggested that the fundamental method of her character was to balance everything out, and that she kept a mysterious, ingenious equilibrium, her fat figure and her balanced thoughts being counterparts. “

Also entertaining are some of the little stories Dean Corde encounters as a journalist. His fictional accounts of a ghastly rape, of rats and corpses in the trenches, are so dark; I think to myself, “How can Bellows think up fiction this vile?”

Mildly amusing is his nightmarish experience at the crematorium. He sweats through his coat in the middle of a harshly cold winter.

Bellows won the Nobel Peace Prize for Literature years before he wrote The Dean’s December. And his writing showcases (shows off?) his intellectual chops. This is a book that cannot be read in isolation or ignorance of other books. Bellow litters the novel with allusions to other literary works, historical events, and philosophical ideas that the author assumes his reader knows. Huh! He didn't account for some fluffhead like me reading this.

I would still like to give Bellows another chance if I find another one of his books. Hopefully, pre-Nobel, and not something as slow, introspective, and repetitious as this.

Pilipinas Kong Mahal

2009-01-13T20:54:00.010+08:00

I wrote this entry about ten years ago back in those days when I was trying to create my own website from scratch. Back then, there was no blogger or multiply. I tweaked things just a teeny weeny bit to reflect current realities.

**G.S. was conceived, born, breast-fed, baptized, confirmed, nurtured, disciplined, educated, married, employed, unemployed, wowed in Philippine soil. Once in a while she steps out of this Pearl of the Orient to get a whiff of foreign culture and px goods, but she always comes back, longing for all things Filipino, paunchy traffic enforcers and dirty stray cats excluded.

The usual Philippine intro starts with our archipelago being made up of 7,107 islands, but what I do I know about these thousands of islands when I've only been to about 8 of them? In my eyes, the Philippines is made up mountains and volcanoes; rice paddies and little hills; tiny barrios and middle-sized villages; a number of subdivisions which require you to have a sticker to enter; vast parking spaces pretending to be major highways; chinese-owned malls urbanizing every bustling town; business districts with its Starbucks cafes and yuppy hang-outs; cities with old churches and remnants of our Spanish culture; squatter shanties with TV antennae and exposed laundry; countless restaurants and bars; and a whole lot of places where you can have fun -- if you know how to have fun.

We are bursting at the seams with a population of 90 or so million people. It would be impossible to come up with a description of the Filipino that would embrace each and every citizen. Though we share a common history and though we can joke about quirks that make us so unmistakably Pinoy, I have to ignore those generalizations and just say that we are diverse. Diverse even in the way we look -- tall, short, brown, fair, chinky-eyed, wide-eyed, lithe, buxom, we are all these things, as we are the products of ancestors intermarrying among the native filipino, malay, chinese, american, spanish, arabic, japanese, european, and whatever possible ethnic combinations. We are diverse in culture, religion, political beliefs, lifestyles, tastes, sexual preferences, and education.

Fact books will tell you we have a total land area of 297,000 square kilometers. If you're like me with limited spatial sense and you cannot really relate to that fact, just imagine this -- as your 747 approaches the southmost tip of the country and gets ready to land at Ninoy Aquino International Airport, it will span the country for 15 to 20 minutes before it gets over the tarmac which is in the big Northern island of Luzon. I guess that means it is not very big in actual land area. But think about it -- over 7,000 islands mean a whole lot of shorelines. So when they say here that life is a beach, you can take it literally. We have islands and islets, beach coves and beach resorts, dive spots and surf spots, lakes, seas and rivers. Forget your Amex; do not leave home without a snorkel, your cute shades, your favorite tanning lotion and at least one smashing swimming get-up.

I was talking about Luzon a while back. That is one of the three major island groups which are: Luzon, Visayas and Mindanao. Southmost is Mindanao. I will not pretend to know a whole lot about it because I have not spent a lot of time in there. And it's quite different from the Philippines that I know. There is a rich diversity of cultures present -- Christian, Muslim and tribal. I have been to Cagayan de Oro, which is called the "City of Golden Friendship". That title is very much deserved - nowhere else in the world will you see a group of people with such an abundant supply of smiles given so freely away. Davao is a city with the feel of a metropolis but with the charm of a quaint province. And, of course, Palawan, an exotic island with world class beachfront resorts, an underground river, a crocodile farm, and nature's showcase of breathtaking wonders.

What can you find in the Visayas ? Do you have the whole day -- to just read about it? Beautiful, enchanting, seductive islands: Bohol, with its Chocolate Hills and historic churches; Ilo-ilo, with its mansions and old-world charm; Cebu, which is like a more laid back Manila; and Boracay, with its reggae-thumping little bars, quaint inns and plush hotels, and little sandy nooks and crannies where horny lovers can have a quicky or two.

But Luzon is the island I know and love best. There are mountains, caves, lakes, waterfalls, lagoons, flatlands, rice terraces, little towns claiming their place in the map through an "original" delicacy, fishing villages, golf courses, country clubs, jet-ski resorts, universities, red-light districts, steel-and-glass business districts, a chinatown, weekly town fiestas, local politics and bizarre tragedies which usually provoke CNN newscasters to utter the phrase "only in the philippines", slums with style, exclusive villages with mansions and beamers, malls and mini-malls.

In the center of all of these is the place where I was conceived, born, breast-fed, etc., etc. (see above), a place outsiders call MANILA, but is actually a metropolis of cities and municipalities so close together, with borders indistinguishable, set apart only by the traffic jams for which this country is notorious. If one looks at the city with dispassionate eyes like Claire Danes did, it may look like a filthy jumble of smoke-belching vehicles, dilapidated buildings, pothole-infested roads, street children begging for change, a city cursed with poor planning and even poorer maintenance. But in my eyes, it is HOME, a very small world where you see somebody you know in every corner.

It is a fascinating city with a lot of humor, where people-watching can keep you entertained for one whole lazy afternoon. That's what the traffic jams are for -- for people to slow down and notice the dancing traffic cop, appreciate how even those begging street children can find ways to entertain themselves and laugh and play. It is a city with a beat, though sometimes off or slow, it is a beat, nonetheless, that once it gets into your soul, is hard to shake.

Duo Steakhouse

2009-01-10T01:50:00.006+08:00

Ground Level, Serendra
Bonifacio Global City, Taguig, Metro Manila

632-8561200, 632-8561300

The Line: A combination of excellent food and impeccable service to provide you the perfect dining experience in a comfortable setting.
The Bait: Good steaks, according to glowing reviews
The Hook: An extensive menu and like the line says, impeccable service
The Sinker: Always crowded
The Catch: P1,000++ per head, excluding wine

"Ano! Foie Gras na naman!" Okay, that sounds terribly noveau. And it was meant as a joke. But half meant after all the rich food we've had during the holidays. So even if it's our anniversary dinner, we were hankering for something that resembled comfort food. Duo is not the obvious place to find comfort food, but we've been wanting to try it for a long time.

For starters we had Seared Tuna Sashimi (P320). Good, but nothing beats the first time I've had something like this at Good Earth. Then we had Beef Carpaccio (P345). Mmmm. I'm trying to stop my eyes from rolling up as I remember it. It tasted divine and so fresh I could imagine the cow grazing just hours before it selflessly dedicated its life to us. The carpaccio was topped by this very refreshing vegetable, which the waiter told us was miniature arugula. Of course, we had to order the famous Tessie Tomas Salad (P390 for small and P675 for large), which tosses together roasted prawns, salmon, shitake mushrooms, and greens. What I loved about the salad is the not-so-ordinary balsamic dressing; very, very good.. And the small sized order is quite satisfying.

Good start. Okay, those were not necessarily comfort food but we were comforted by how good everything tasted and the fact that the good reviews were not just hype.

Moving on to our entrees. The menu presented an overwhelming list of steaks, seafood, and steak and seafood combinations. We were intrigued by the Blackened US Angus Porterhouse (P730) served with fried potatoes so my husband ordered it. It did not disappoint. I especially loved the Cafe de Paris topping.

But what made me a Duo fan was my entree, the Seafood Saffron Stew (P590). The waiter described it as something like bouillabaisse so I was a bit disappointed when I saw that the sauce was more like broth, rather thin. It wasn't what I expected, but it was a very pleasant surprise to taste it. I'm no food expert and I don't have a trained palate, but I can tell that this dish was created by a genius. It was such a soulful dish it was elevated immediately to comfort food in my book. And it felt healthy to be eating fish and mussels too.

Another thing that made us happy was the way the manager obliged our request (made when we reserved) for a discount on corkage for our first bottle of wine. Service was very good. The restaurant was booked for a birthday party and so we had to take the outdoor tables. We were afraid the service might suffer because of that arrangement. But our waiter was very attentive and very gracious. Not snooty at all as one might expect from such a restaurant. I also liked that even if we forgot to indicate that we preferred the small serving of the salad, that they automatically gave us the small one when they could have conned us with the large order.

The weather was very cool that December evening. The food was, as promised, excellent. And we did find comfort food on our anniversary.

THE SHADOW OF THE WIND by Carlos Ruis Zafon

2009-01-07T17:00:00.002+08:00

"Books are mirrors; you only see in them what you already have inside you.."

I finished reading Shadow of the Wind a few minutes ago. I'm breathless. Spent. Awed not just at the book but at the power of books like this to simultaneously dumbfound me and awake my emotions. And I'm writing this right now so that I don't chicken out of reviewing this book once the I-am-not-worthy feelings set in.

The Shadow of the Wind is "a story about lonely people, about absence and loss," says Daniel, the novel's narrator. It's also a story about pain, betrayal, vengeance, forgiveness, secrets, lies, evil, envy, about family dysfunction, a culture of sanctimony, about poverty in more ways than just material, about different ways people love and hate; is it too much to say that it is about the human condition?

Three narratives that mirror each other with uncanny similarities. Intensely emotional moments that take your breath away. Surprises that keep you gasping. Horrific events that make you want to turn your eyes away from the page. Love stories that make your heart bleed. A pace that leaves you panting and turning the pages even when your eyelids and heart say that you've had enough for one sitting. Too many coincidences that only a novel as spellbinding as this can get away with.

I like that though the story has layers of meaning that would reveal themselves in future rereadings, the first layer is already satisfying.

And the characters -- Don Ricardo Aldaya, his women, his secrets, and his fourteen thousand books. Fortuny, the hatter who dies alone and learns too late how to love. Jacinta and her Zacharias. The son of a warmonger Miguel, driven by anger, love, and principle. And Lain Coubert, and so many more. But my favorite is Fermin - who looks like Boris Karloff when he is asleep and dresses as if he were a screen idol, who is always either horny or hungry, but is always funny. Except when he's being beaten to a pulp by the vile Fumero. Fumero, so vivid in my mind in his sailor suit. All these characters, except maybe for the women Daniel and Julian love, have dimensions. You see both the good and the evil in them, and the reason for their evilness. You see the hero's cowardice and the villains' broken hearts.

I don't like some of the dialogue - stilted, unnatural. Maybe it's the translation. Maybe Zafon wants too much to narrate using the characters' words. And he does that a lot. Snippets, long italicized tracts of words from different people so you get the story in pieces, or in vague suggestions that can lead you to wrong conclusions. But in the end, he had to rely on Nuria's long Remembrance of the Lost to tie everything together, just in case you still haven't figured out the missing pieces.

There was one particular twist that I didn't like. Too much of a cliche. That I felt was unnecessary to move the story along. Crammed in the story are a lot of unoriginal subplots already seen in family dramas.

But you can forgive Zafon all that because this is reading that is what reading fiction is all about. It entertains you, and stretches your imagination, and inspires you to read more books.

This is my first read for 2009, and I couldn't have chosen a better one to start the year and continue my romance with the book.

Islandhopper Dons an Apron...

2009-01-03T23:24:00.006+08:00

... and makes Pannacotta.

A few years ago, all I wanted to be was a domestic diva. Martha Stewart, pre-federal charges and prisondom, was my role model. I bought color coded chopping boards, planted basil on my window sill, and stocked up on every dried spice available to man. I remembered winning a baking contest when I was 10, and so I thought I had a promising future in the kitchen and I was going to be my own barefoot contessa.

I was so happy and proud when I made my first adobo. Nora Daza taught me. She did not teach me math so I did not know how to adjust the recipe for 10 for just the two of us. So for two weeks, all we had was adobo, the last serving of which as adobo flakes in a sandwich. But it was pretty good.

And then one time, I took a recipe from my Cooking for Two cookbook and substituted pork chops for lamb chops. It was a disaster. Energetically chewing the rubbery meat, my husband tried to say something so he complimented the uhm, the coca cola I served with dinner. Kitchen trauma. Ego catastrophe.

As somebody who thrives on compliments, I don't deal well with failure. So I threw away my Martha Stewart poster and with teary eyes said, I will never cook again. I cast out my culinary aspirations. Onion bulbs started sprouting plants inside the kitchen. Our first tank of LPG lasted 2 1/2 years. Far longer than some marriages do.

This domestic diva retired prematurely. Once in a rare while I whip up some puttanesca or throw a no-brainer salad. Sometimes, when I'm too lazy to wear a bra and eat out, my husband trusts me with simple dishes. Or I heat leftovers. I have successfully made Kalbi Chim and Osso Bucco once. And one birthday of mine, I did a whole production number, from scratch, by myself of a full course dinner that ended with scrumptious lava cake. No one died. It temporarily restored my self confidence, but generally, I stay out of the kitchen.

But once in a while, mostly when I'm watching Nigella, I think of that abandoned dream and of that souffle, and I think maybe it's not too late to be a culinary queen. And maybe someday I will be one.

But those dreams will have to stay in the back burner longer, because we're moving in with my mother in law. And she is the domestic goddess in the family. Not just because it's her kitchen, but because she's really, really good. So good, I cannot bear the shame of cooking by her side. And so I realized I would not be holding a spatula for a long, long time.

So, when we were discussing our Italian themed lunch last New Year's day, I raised my hand to say I will make the pannacotta.

I know, I know, long story. And all I wanted to share was this recipe:

Base:
1/2 liter fresh milk
1/2 liter whipping cream
2 packs of Knox unflavored gelatin
6 tbsps. sugar

Mix all ingredients and boil. Pour into dish. Set.
Top with mangoes or peach slices. Or strawberries. Or chocolates. Use your imagination.

Syrup:
1 cup sugar
1/2 cup water

Boil until sticky. Cool. Pour on top.

--end of recipe--

Note: This does not travel well. Look at picture below; this was how it looked after a 15 minute drive to venue. I had to fix it to do a quick fix, but I was not able to restore it to its original perfection. So, my tip is if you're going to transport it, to do the topping wherever you'll serve the dish.

The Big 8 of 2008 -- The Year of Living Leisurely

2009-01-02T03:30:00.006+08:00

The Lady of Leisure tag I have assigned to myself has always been meant in jest, or maybe as wishful thinking. In truth, the need for monthly salon trips and the propensity to stuff my shelves with books have compelled me to get out there and hustle for money. Also, the Proverbs 31 woman I aspire to be is not one to be idle.

But still, this year I did become a Lady of Leisure.

It must be a testament to the power of the word. I discovered that if you say something often enough, it becomes a reality.

My 2008, indeed, is the year of living leisurely. This year, I handled my career as if they were hobbies and attacked my hobbies as if they were my career. I learned that the art of doing nothing is not about slothful loafing, but about doing things with hardly any effort because they're fun and they feed the soul. Okay, I was lazy too. And stepping on breaks because of fear of making mistakes. And being true to my procrastinating nature, I kept a lot of plans and dreams in the back burner. I took it easy. I worked hard at having fun. In that respect, I was successful in my efforts, because I had more fun than is legally allowed.

I read 53 books in 2008. And it feels to me that that was my only major accomplishment. Well, what's the rush? I can relax now, I've already passed the deadline for the TOYM. And Grandma Moses remains an inspiration for starting late.

Anyway, enough preamble. This is the requisite year-end recap of the big things that happened to me in the year that was.

In no particular order:

1) Big Island Hopping - 2008 started with me flying off to the islands of the US for a wedding. In the 3rd quarter of the year, Hubbaluvvah and I were swinging our heads very fast watching formula 1 cars zip through the streets of Singapore. For somebody who this year earned what other people would find insufficient to buy a purse, I was able to magically find the resources to travel. And shop. Thanks to God, generous relatives, and well-timed training gigs, I was able to hop across the big ponds.

2) Bye Bye, Onie - Probably the only sad note of the year. Surprisingly though, our first Christmas and New Year without daddy were not as morose as I thought they would be. I think it is because of a reassurance that dad is in a much better, happier, painless place. Once in a while, I feel the pang of his absence and ache for him to be there, but it is followed by a peace that transcends understanding.

3) Blogerella - I have been blogging since 1999, back when the word blog was not even in my vocabulary. It was a way of scratching an itch to write, just write, just pound on keyboard any leftover angst not yet fully processed in pity parties equipped with copious amounts of alcohol and/or coffee and/or desserts. To just release words gurgling inside my head and bursting from my heart. But this year, I got into blogging more than just a way of self expression. I ventured out of the confines of Multiply and got into the more public spheres of wordpress and blogspot. I compartmentalized my mindburps into different blogs with different themes. I spent hours looking for templates and days adding widgets and gadgets galore. I tried to understand the science of hit rates. I twitterized. I am not yet sure why I'm doing all that, but I'm game enough to watch how this bloggaholia will evolve.

4) Batangas Escapes - And when I just want to wean myself from the wawawa, I go where dsl means daylong sleeping and loafing and go to Batangas to read, walk, stare at the lake, and catch a whiff of rural eau de swine. Aahhh.

5) Books, Books, and Book Nuts - It's my mother's fault. Like most of life's major issues, this bibliophilia can be blamed on the parents, specifically the female parent. But it's true. She got me reading when I was 3, and indoctrinated me into book collection. And now, in 2008, I met a bunch of people called Shelfarians, and Flippers who made me feel stepping into a bookstore without buying anything is a shameful crime. They are the reason why I can no longer see the floor of our second floor and why nothing strikes fear in my husband's heart than seeing me enter a bookstore. I acknowledge that it's madness and I am sick. Yes, I am Gege, and I am a biblioaddict. And aside from my mom, there are nuts out there that I can blame.

6) Big Black Eyebags - I live 6 timezones away from where my body is. For many reasons -- like #3 and #5 above , plus reading 75 student papers every week during the first term -- I've become friends with the hours after midnight. Sometimes I get to bed as my husband is leaving it to shower and go to work. This year's move to in-law land might/will have to change that. And that's probably a good thing. because eye creams are expensive.

7) Beach Escapade - Camiguin, my only claim to still be deserving of my Islandhopper name. This was the first time I went to this kind of adventure without husband, friend, and the family grill. Solo at White Island. Woman against nature in my ballroom-proportioned bedroom at Enigmata Tree House. Careening toward the sea in a motorbike. And who could forget Dodong?

8) Butter N Toast - How many times in the past few months have I found myself sighing the closest to a sigh of contentment? It's not a resting in laurels kind of contentment, but just this wonderful feeling that this club is making a difference in the lives of individuals hungry for learning and passionate about self development. I love this club, and I adore the people in it.

So there. The big 8 of 2008. And as I wind down this recap, I remember one more big thing -- the bonds. The bonds I've formed with so many people this year. Bonding with hubbaluvva as he spends less time traversing Luzon and more time conversing with me (minor miracle there), the transatlantic and I-knew-you-20-years-ago bonds made possible by Facebook, bonds with people who hate the books I love and love the books I hate, bonds with family, with sisters in faith, with students past and new, with faceless cyberfriends, with people who care about giving the underprivileged a voice, bonds built through cups of coffee, bonds developed every other Thursday night, bonds in a smaller and smaller world.

I don't believe in luck. I don't believe in numerelogy. But 2008 was a pretty good year.

Stuff I Like: Papemelroti Earrings Organizer

2008-12-30T20:05:00.015+08:00

Once upon a time, I was pretty happy keeping my earrings in this pill organizer:

But then, because life is one big shopping expedition, I got more earrings and more earrings, and the earrings got bigger. And so I was not happy because my baubles didn't fit the box anymore. Then one day, while I was driving along Roces Ave., I decided to have lunch at Chocolate Kiss. But something led me to the store beside it, Papemelroti, a favorite childhood haunt. I haven't been inside one in ages because I thought I have gotten over my cutesy country phase. But I discovered there were so many cool things to buy - boxes for organizing, notepads for gifting, and a truckload of scrapbooking paraphernalia. My little shopping basket immediately got filled with goodies.

Then I was drawn to this head:

A nice metal head. I liked the girl's wide-eyed expression. And what do you know...

I brought the lady home and made her cry. She's not really sad. Those tears are my silver earrings.

I added more earrings. And more earrings. And I'm happy now. My earrings now have a beautiful home.

This is not a very well written story. But my earrings, my lady earring holder, and I shall live happily ever after.

Give Books

2008-12-30T16:31:00.001+08:00

The holidays are not over yet. Still have time to give a gift.

Awarded, Flabbergasted

2008-12-28T00:56:00.005+08:00

I feel like one of those Oscar award winners without a script. I just want to thank my hairdresser and PinkLady. Well, really just PinkLady for giving me my first ever blog award. I don't feel deserving. Sniff. Sniff. Raising trophy. Thanks, Bing. I am thrilled. And i pass on this Butterfly Award to:

Ed Ebreo who posts beautiful metaphors. Ed has inspired me to write for a bigger audience and has also been so patient in teaching me tips and techniques for blogging. He sees the world i a different way and he cares enough to share his thoughts in very interesting ways.

Manila Bay Sunset

2008-12-27T23:33:00.004+08:00

The Filipinos are proud of the Manila Bay sunset. And for good reason. Check out these photos:

Christmas Eve

2008-12-24T14:27:00.002+08:00

Who has time to update on Christmas Eve? And if you're in the Philippines, the whole December is a mad flurry of activity. So, here's a hasty but well-meant greeting - Merry Christmas, everyone. May you have a meaningful celebration filled with all that's good about the season.

Happy Birthday, Jesus!

One Minute Levity

2008-12-17T11:26:00.004+08:00

Something made me smile out loud today. My friend Ed got one of those network site invitations from some guy. The extraordinary thing about it is that that guy is dead. Has been for about a couple of months now.

So, it's official. They have internet in the the afterlife.

Insert Twilight Zone soundtrack here.

Chi's Brick Oven Kitchen

2008-12-17T01:20:00.002+08:00

209 Aguirre Ave., B.F. Homes, Paranaque City, Philippines

Its unique selling proposition is that every dish comes out of their brick oven. And you have to go all the way to BF Paranaque to have some. I read about it from a blog post by my friend Jag. The USP stated above was intriguing enough, but oh, how he waxed and profaned about that chocolate dessert and we knew we had to try it! And though I no longer profane these days, I understand the role of profanity as a figure of speech for emphasis. Especially for food. But before we talk about the dessert, let's begin with the appetizers. There's no way baked potato can fail, and the Stuffed Potato Marbles (P110) are winners. I'm a big fan of potato skins, and this one had the skin, the flesh, and bacon and cheese stuffing, and sour cream dip. Everybody around the table liked it. The Wood-Fired Buffalo Wings (P175) failed to leave an impression on me. Mainly they failed to stay on the plate long enough. While I was taking pictures of the oven, my dinner mates attacked and left me with a ravaged platter not fit for a picture. I had a piece to eat though, but it really wasn't very memorable in flavor. What is memorable is the Puchon! (P295) This is pork na nilechon sa pugon served with soy vinaigrette. Crispy goodness. And we tried to convince ourselves that it's healthy because it was baked. None of us was convinced, but all of us were satisfied with this dish. Somebody ordered Buffalo Chicken Pizza (P315). Though that seemed redundant given that we also ordered Buffalo Wings, it deserved a place on the table. The thin crust was good. The tomato sauce and mozzarella blue cheese topping even better. I'm not a connoisseur with a palate that can differentiate brick oven pizza, but I can tell that this was very good pizza. I expected more from the Rigatoni in 3-Cheese Sauce (P235), but maybe mozzarella, cheddar, and quezo de bola are meant to be enjoyed not mixed together in one sauce. It was good, but not exceptional. And finally, the Brick Oven Chocolate Cake Ala Mode (P120). It's as good as Jag says it is. The difference with other Lava or Molten cakes is the texture of the outer layer of the cake. It looks as if it were coated with white flour and there's a mildly burnt and yummy flavor to it. Maybe that's the effect of brick oven baking. As for look and ambiance, the place is tastefully done with a homey quality apt for its being a village resto. I like the malaga tile look on the ceiling. And of course, that great looking brick oven at the center is a commanding visual presence and gives the place warmth. Bottomline, Chi's Kitchen is worth the trip to BF. To see is to believe: http://islandhopper.multiply.com/photos/album/30/Chis_Brick_Oven_Kitchen

Aubergine Restaurant Patisserie

2008-12-16T15:44:00.004+08:00

2/F, 32nd and 5th Building,
5th Avenue, Fort Bonifacio -
+6328569888

Some people exaggerate when they say certain dining experiences are better than sex. Dining at Aubergine makes you think about sex, and sunsets, and sand on your feet, and Puccini's when you're sad, and chocolate when you're mad, and everything that's sensual, that feels good, that's sublime and spectacular at the same time. Yes, it is that good.

It's food that makes you wonder why some people invest in illegal drugs when an ounce of foie gras can give you all the ecstasy you need sans the brainfry.

Visually, Aubergine is faultless. Posh decor with the Frenchy trimmings that give character to the place. A towering, gasp-inspiring wine bar. For us, a delightful view of the kitchen that should replace the aquarium channel because I could watch it the whole day. There is a guilty pleasure, like watching porn, in watching the great looking chefs-in-training putter around producing fabulous works of food art. I love the plating area where warm pendant lights keep the food warm. And the dessert station delivers the sherbet in "steaming" teapots. Art!! The lighting is just the right balance of dimness and coziness that gives your skin a golden glow but bright enough for you to appreciate the aesthetic delight of food presentation.

Sounds - ah, that's where they can be faulted. The ambient music does very little to drown out neighboring tables' chit chat noises, especially when the ones at the big round table are type A corporate bigwigs who all love the sounds of their collegiate twang voices. But eventually, you forget about noise as all your sensory functions focus on the sense of...

TASTE! - You're given a choice of soft or hard bread to go with the butter and the hummus in quaint glass squares. The waiter gives you appetizer on the house -- tuna carpaccio. The chervil leaf on top is divine.

Start with Melted French Brie de Meaux (P430) served on grilled watermelon, topped with watercress salad tossed in raspberry dressing, walnuts, and chinese truffles. I love the mix of cold and hot; and sweet and tart and savory rolling on my tongue.

Then, the Baked Oysters (P480) with wilted spinach and crispy bacon in champagne sauce. At first bite, it seems like the Rockefeller variety typical of any oyster bar, but eventually your palate detects something above par and exquisitely good about it. And you dwell on how great cooking can turn ordinary into extraordinary.

Then the main dishes. I figured the Trio of Grilled Mulwarra Beef Tenderloin, Braised Veal Cheek, and Pan Seared Duck Foie Gras (P1,350) would give me a sampler of the Degustation Meal, which was not tempting enough. This is heaven on a plate. I wanted my beef medium rare and they gave me carnivorousness perfection. Seared very lightly on the outside and rosy pink on the inside. I've had Veal Cheek before and this one didn't match the first time. It tasted just a wee bit better than homemade caldereta and didn't melt in my mouth like the first one did. And if I had to nitpick, the vegetables were a bit too wilted. But who cares about the vegetables when the foie gras was ooh-aah-baby-baby-so-good! I'm sorry to be so politically incorrect and insensitive to animal rights supporters, but this is food that really makes me happy to be above the food chain.

Hubbaluvva's US Angus Rib-Eye Beef Steak (P1,550 fpr 300 grams) was also very good.

We have just decided to move to another restaurant for dessert, when the waiter gave us free macaroons and grand marnier chocolates. Perfect to top off a fine meal.

Overall, very very good food that made me want to go back to my Multiply site and change all my resto ratings to one because I was just so bowled over by the food at Aubergine.

Service was very good. It felt like the cute waiters were fawning over us. There was a minor mix-up with the reservations but we got in there early so we got a nice booth with a great view of the kitchen of my dreams.

The only downer was the wine list. I read from the reviews that they have a good selection. I was expecting a great big leather book of exotic choices but we were given a little cardstock paper foldout of obscenely overpriced, not too spectacular, available at Cash & Carry for 229.95 wines. So we brought in our own bottle and coughed up a criminal 750 peso corkage.

We went here for my husband's birthday but I got a treat as well. I was too afraid to look at the final bill. My brain was slush incapable of doing math. And it's probably well and good I didn't ruin the delightful evening with sticker shock. But this was a celebration of my husband's year and life's many blessings, so an occasional splurge was called for.

The feast of the senses can be viewed here: http://islandhopper.multiply.com/photos/album/29/Aubergine

Four Things I Have Learned as an Adult

2008-12-16T01:35:00.000+08:00

I was cleaning up my inbox and found this excerpt from one of the email exchanges with friends.

FOUR THINGS I HAVE LEARNED AS AN ADULT:

1. Salvation is not about how good I am. It’s about how good God is. Reaching heaven is not about amassing heaven points. Jesus already died once and for all. And He did it not because I deserved it, but because He loves me.
2. Giving is so much better than receiving. And that says a lot considering I get so thrilled about receiving gifts.
3. There is just no excuse to be bored. Every experience, if you look hard enough, presents opportunities for learning and fascination. And if you’re ever bored, you always have the power to stir things up and make it exciting and fulfilling.
4. The power of choice is one of God’s greatest gifts. Take every good opportunity to use it, but use it wisely.

Three Dollars of Happiness

2008-12-10T08:24:00.004+08:00

A repost from May 2000
I have been called a nailchick. Definition : a female person who is inordinately preoccupied with her nails.

I guess that is better than being called a nail head. Definition : somebody who has the personality of a metal peg, or somebody whose grandest purpose is to be hammered on the head.

That title was meant to be neither complimentary, nor derogatory. It just is. I just am. A nailhead. I do obsess a bit about my nails. Okay, okay, I obsess more than just a bit. I have more than two dozen colors in my collection, ranging from virginal pink to satanic black. But this obsession goes beyond color, really. This addiction is not just about vanity or aesthetics. I mean, it is not just about whether this season dictates matte or sheen, or if purple goes with my skin tone.

What it is about is that it just feels so damn good to have your nails done. Feels really, really, really good. Better than sex? Nah, I wouldn't go that far in extolling the virtues of nail culture. I wouldn't put these activities in the same level, though there have been days when I would rather be manicured than shagged. It probably isn't as ooh-aah inducing as shopping on a no-max credit card. But when you don't have that utile gold visa, having your nails done delivers temporal nirvana for the puny sum of 120 pesos plus tips. My socially concerned husband would argue that my narcissistic folly is a minimum wage family's lunch and dinner. I will ignore the comment as I get into scrubs, wash my hands and feet in preparation for this delightful, delectable, sensual, luxurious indulgence.

The pleasure starts at home where I keep my arsenal of nail ware and I choose the color of the week. Outside in another world, malls are being bombed, foreign embassies are demanding hostage negotiation rights, the Central Bank governor is choosing between increasing interest rates or devaluating the peso, Erap is distressing over cancelling his European state visit to give priority to the worsening peace and order situation, I am lining up those colorful little bottles, and thinking, will I go for the kohl or the mocha glaze? Electric blue or matte pink? Vampy red or boring beige?

Having made my choice, I walk/ drive over to the parlor. I don't even mind the waiting time. The anticipation adds to the excitement. Witholding the gratification stretches the time spent in the salon atmosphere. My senses take in the scent of hair setting lotion, the screaming, screeching gaggle of salon staff in fag-speak, the heat of the hair steamer, the sight of women in terry turbans and scalps wrapped in foil, and the cerebral stimulation sparked by hollywood magazines littering the waiting room.

Then, the wait is over. The manicurist calls me and I excitedly respond and follow her as she leads me to my seat. Let me point out at this point that most manicurists have unkempt nails. That's their occupational hazard - having to hold acetone-dipped cotton balls and having to use their own nails to tidy up nail color, they can not possibly maintain their own nails. I personally consider that a monumental sacrifice. Thanks to their selfless disregard for their personal vanity, nailchicks like me get to sport the latest shades from urban decay, wet & wild, bobbie and caronia.

So back to nail heaven. I usually have my hand nails done first. The first thing the manicurist does is to remove any existing color. Then she dips this cute little nail brush into this pink liquid imaginatively called cuticle remover. Then she uses an implement called the pusher, which serves a much nobler purpose than those whose occupational title is the same. The manicurist, let's call her Vangie today... Vangie uses the pusher to scrape surface grime. It sounds disgusting, but be assured that the grime is colored white and is really just the topmost layer of the nail, not exactly yuck muck. The thought that this process may be causing damage to my nails is conveniently ignored as I give in to the pleasurable sensations. Vangie brushes all the nails again and then brings out the nipper, my favorite tool. Vangie nips around where the nails join skin removing superfluous dermis called the cuticle. Now, this is a delicate task. The manicuring tyro has caused many a wounded finger. But for us, nail mavens, a little blood, overnipped cuticles, tiny cuts are just minor irritants endured in the line of nailchick duty. Nothing that good old mercurochrome can not handle.

Cuticle-cleaning, actually the most orgasmic part of the process, now over. Everything is a bit anti-climactic, albeit still pleasurable, from this point on. Nails are filed - I go for square tipped. One final buff. A dollop of lotion. A hand massage that exceeds five minutes is glorious. Base coat applied. Two coats of color. Topcoat to protect the color from chipping, at least until after you leave the salon doors. Same process goes for the feet. Only it is much more pleasurable, because there is much more grime and extra skin to zap. Foot scrubs are nice-to-haves that double, no, triple the pleasure.

And as Vangie applies the last coat of polish on the last nail, I become sentimental, already missing the pampering sensations of having my nails done. Sighing. Wishing I had another pair of hands and feet. Hating the re-entry into the real world where our mentally challenged president reigns and dictates policies that diminish the peso, changing the title of this piece to two dollar fifty of happiness.

Give away some Levi's this Christmas

2008-12-09T02:48:00.000+08:00

Copy Over

2008-12-09T01:52:00.002+08:00

Whew! Finally, I've finished copying my reviews from my Multiply site to here. I'm still updating at multiply since that is home for me. But I will continue to update here as well. I'm just glad I'm done copying and pasting.

Fish & Co.

2008-12-08T20:51:00.006+08:00

3/F Greenbelt, Makati - +6327297431
G/F South Wing Mall of Asia, Pasay - +6325560683
G/F Streetscape, Shangri-la Mall, Mandaluyong- +6329102140

I’ve always liked dining at Fish & Co. Sometimes I lie awake thinking of the tender, peppery juiciness of the grilled calamari. Okay, I don’t. But I was so giddy about Sunday’s lunch that I want to wax poetic.

Sunday, of course, as the whole Republic of the Philippines knew, was the day of the Pacquiao – Dela Hoya fight. And those who wanted to watch the fight live, real time, ahead of the can’t-pay-per-view hoi polloi (which included us -- we were just being treated by our host) had to watch it in cinemas, bars, restaurants, or fork up 80 grand to Solar to watch it at home sans Ricoa and Motolite TV commercials.

We actually had reservations at Italliani’s but something conked out and so they couldn’t serve the fight together with pasta and pizza. What?!!? How will we watch the fight?!?!, was the silent scream inside our heads revealed only by our panicked faces. They tried to compensate by telling us they’re going to try getting us seats at Fish & Co.

Fish & Co. had a fight day promo -- 600 pesos per head for a little pan of fish and chips plus watching the fight from the LCD TV and giant screens scattered throughout the establishment. A successful promo it was as the place was packed. Those who had reservations were seated; some not so comfortably as booth chairs designed for 3 lithe diners had to carry 4-5 people. Gym-going men had to practice some butt contraction and semi squatting exercises as 2 men shared one stool. The kitchen couldn’t serve their fish and chips fast enough. Those without reservations were hogging the entrance doors, shouting reservations to the floor manager as if they were brokers at the NY Stock Exchange. A mass of non-paying humanity was inching dangerously close to toppling the velvet ropes and flimsy barriers (see pic). Some jerk of a guy was whining about his food not being served and extra seats blocking his vision. Testorone, adrenalin, and other violent hormones were on the rise as the excitement was building up as people were waiting to watch Pacquiao clobber dela Hoya or vice versa. It was madness. With all the potential for restaurant service disaster.

But it all turned out well. We got seated. We had good food. We got beered up. Pacquiao won. And the Fish & Co. service crew delivered top quality service. An altogether pleasant experience.

Aside from the promo fish and chips, which were served bite sized, we also ordered the non-promo version which is served as a big fillet of fish (P465). I liked the latter so much better. Tender, moist, flaky fish in light, airy breading, and a pretty good dill sauce. We ordered the fried calamari (P405) too; I like the grilled version better. The good food highlight was the Marsala pizza (P380), which I’m about ready to declare one of the city’s best, not just because of the piquant sauce and fat shrimp topping, but because of the unusual crust. Crust like croissant bread. As if layers of filo pastry, and not the usual dough, were used. Really good.

It was hard not to feel guilty having our lunch and watching the fight in our seats when inches behind us were people who stood up the whole 8 rounds, hungry, straining their necks, and probably touching other people’s sweat. There was one senior citizen near to me to whom I was tempted to lend my chair until he started smoking, a dangerous and inconsiderate thing to do in that dense pack of people. As the F&Co. staff and mall security were trying to crowd control. I was hoping no one would get unruly and the staff won’t become rude. As far I saw, they were relatively polite.

Good service that withstood the challenge of a high-stress situation. I suspect the floor manager, Lilet Martinez, headed for the spa right after that lunch ordeal. If she did, she totally deserved some pampering after managing the stress and keeping customers relatively happy. Our server, Jasper, was also able to keep her cool. She managed our expectations by warning us that ala carte menus would take longer than expected. So, we adjusted by being patient, but the food arrived earlier than expected. And the food was worth the wait. We were happy.

The situation, of course, might have been a bit different and all this sense of well being absent had Pacquaio lost.

Casa Rap

2008-12-08T17:38:00.002+08:00

Kilometer 90, San Jose, Batangas

"We join with the earth and with each other to bring new life to the land, to restore the waters, to refresh the air..." -- Excerpt from the UN Environmental Sabbath Program -- as printed on a postcard from the Casa Rap store.

Casa Rap is an old favorite. I once celebrated my birthday there with my family. And last year for my big 40th shebang, I had them deliver breakfast (hubad na longanisa, sinaing na tulingan, tawilis) to our farm in Batangas. I also ordered organic cherry tomatoes, cucumber and three kinds of lettuce from them plus their special dressing to serve for lunch.

It's hard to pinpoint my favorite thing about the place. There's the little curio shop with the most charming of items; the owner, Emma Alday, was trained by renowned potter Ugu Bigyan. There are the rustic gardens and pathways punctuated by little surprise nooks and corners, all filled with greenery that relaxes eyes, body and mind. Of course, there's the food, organic, not 5-star fancy but delicious and beautifully served. There's the tranquil ambiance that makes you feel you have escaped all that is urban and noisy and busy.

Maybe what I like best about this place is that though it brings you back to nature, it is a very progressive place. Every time we go there, they have something new to offer. Today, we were surprised by the new things that Sister Emma showed us -- a pigpen that uses a revolutionary method which produces no stink; container gardening that gives encouragement to those who want to go into vegetable farming even though they do not have huge tracts of land; the fact that they are now open for small corporate meetings; the restaurant-side store that has more merchandise to offer -- Batangas delicacies, organic vegetables, and gardening implements. But the most charming surprise was the food presentation. That's always been a special thing at Casa Rap, but this time lunch was served bento-style, so you get to sample a variety of dishes without spending and eating too much. These bento boxes are available for group dining, and depending on your choice of dishes the price can be adjusted. What was served to us could go for about 350pesos per person. And it is so worth it. We feasted on kalabasa soup, lato salad served with purple marigold (yeah I thought marigolds came only in yellow too) flowers, cassava ukoy with taro and thyme, pajo mango salsa, sinaing na tawilis, native chicken adobo, and guinatang sugpo. After all that, we still found space for ice cream with lambanog.

We moved on to a different place, but we had our take home, the suman sa lihiya that Casa Rap is famous for.

After all describing all that, all I could really say is what our balikbayan Tita Nene said, "Ah, talagang kasarap!"

Seth Godin's ALL MARKETERS ARE LIARS, THE POWER OF TELLING AUTHENTIC STORIES IN A LOW TRUST WORLD

2008-12-08T17:23:00.003+08:00

What sells a product these days? Is it price point? Is it the buyer’s need? Are product features and benefits the deciding factors for customers to buy? Seth Godin says it is none of those. Seth Godin says, it is the story.

Marketers, according to Godin, rely on the age-old tradition of story-telling to sell ideas and products to consumers. If the stories fit the consumers’ worldviews, if the stories strike them as authentic and remarkable, then chances are they’re going to buy, and you have a happy marketing story.

So, why the title? Well, the bad news is that, according to Godin, those stories are lies. The good news is that those are the lies that consumers, aka suckers, like us want to hear. Yes, we would like to think that there is detergent that will wash out last night’s revelry of red wine and oily tapas from our shirt. A consumer would want to believe that that skin whitener would make Dodong choose her over that mestiza bitch. We want to believe that hope can be purchased from Cash and Carry for 99.95.

Readers of Seth Godin know that he is a skilled marketer, and he knows how to tell his stories well. This book is no exception. Godin teaches us how to tell marketing stories that can influence consumers not just to buy, but also to go tell everyone else in their circle of influence to buy. He uses a lot of true marketing cases to illustrate his points.

In summary, Godin tells us in his usual engaging, informative manner that It’s the story and not the facts. Marketers deal with emotions, not reason. In marketing, the guy who knows the business of telling a story is the one who lives happily ever after.

SOUL OBSESSION by Nicky Cruz

2008-12-08T17:15:00.001+08:00

In his teens, Nicky Cruz was one of New York's most feared gang leaders. Today, he is an evangelist who preaches a powerful message of redemption. With his powerful anointing, he has led youth from the different ghettos of the world to come to know Christ.

He starts this book by talking about how his family was saved from the evils of witchcraft and how they lived the rest of their lives serving the Lord. What an encouraging story for those of us who are praying for the salvation of our families.

But Nicky Cruz urges us to think beyond our families, but to be obsessed with sharing the good news to the every lost soul in every place the Holy Spirit leads us. "That's how God works when He redeems His people. He does so much more than save us; He restores us. Whatever Satan has stolen, God gives back. Whatever time we've lost to sin, He reclaims through love. The wounds inflicted upon us by the world are healed by His wonderful grace.
This is the Jesus we worship - the Savior who died so that we can live!
This is the message we bring to a world still bound by sin.
This is the only testimony worth telling - the only think that really matters!
How can we not shout it out from the rooftops? How can we ever slip into moments of apathy after all that God has done for us? How can we not live with uninhibited passion and zeal, knowing what we know? understanding what we understand about Satan and his lies? after experiencing the unconditional forgiveness that Jesus brings?
How can any man keep silent?
Since the day Jesus came into my heart, my obsession in life has been to save lost souls. At that moment, Jesus burned into my heart a soul obsession - a blazing passion for those in need of a Savior. It is a fire that runs through my veins - what drives me forward, day after day, month after month, year after glorious year. My heart bursts with the message of God's love and faithfulness, and all I want to do is to share that truth with others!"

Nicky Cruz says it takes three things to reach a lost world -- passion, mercy, and vision. And the rest of the book he uses to tell stories that illustrate these three things.

"If you want to change the world, begin by letting God change you. By letting the passion of Jesus become your passion. By letting the Holy Spirit be your only guide and mentor every step, every minute of the day. By allowing God to set your heart on fire with a soul obsession!"

Indeed, a message that must be heard.