Wrapped Around Her Little Paw

Originally Published in the Philippine Star

A warning to all you parents out there who give in to their kid’s pleas for a pet: think first about who’s going to own who. Because, as sure as the sun rises in the east, it’s not you who’s going to do the owning. Mark my word.

It all started when my sons decided they wanted a Shih Tzu just like their cousins’. Admittedly adorable creatures, they awakened the whole ‘a boy and his dog’ longing in my children’s hearts. And dog lover that their father is, he gave in without much of a struggle. I wasn’t as certain but when my husband and sons decide on such a rarity as a common course of action, who am I to object?

She came to us at two months of age, a ball of white fur with a light brown band across her lower back and so small that you could hold her in the cup of two hands (or one if you’ve got large mitts). We knew we were in trouble when first PV began calling her our only daughter and then Bryan introduced her to everyone as his little sister. When I was referred to as her ‘mommy’, that clinched her place in our family.

Two years later she holds us in the palm of her furry paw. Problem is, she knows it. And has no qualms about using it to her advantage either.

We could not bear the thought of so tiny a puppy being by herself in the dark at night. So we agreed that we would keep her in our bedroom for the first month or so after her arrival. Well, when I eventually broached the question of whether we could move her downstairs, I received glares of disbelief and indignant protests in return. Needless to say, the idea has been shelved and will likely never see the light of day.

Parents of infants know whereof I speak when I mention the foibles of toilet training. Strangely enough, complaints from PV about our sons’ erratic potty habits started way before we could reasonably expect them to truly comprehend the need to go the bathroom to relieve themselves. Not so with his “little girl”. Mop or pick up after her we all did until she was mature enough to be properly trained but not a single bit of grousing did I hear from him about her accidents.

And my sons are hopeless at disciplining her. The very thought of raising our voices to scold her or taking a hand to her backside horrifies them, turns Bryan my supposedly sensible college-age son, into an empathetic puddle of useless goo and is guaranteed to reduce my doting nine-year-old Jonathan to tears of commiseration. Yet none of them have misgivings about one brother or the other being ripped a new one for misbehaving. Double standard anyone?

Not that PV is any less maudlin when it comes to her. Whereas we carefully count our centavos with regard to our grooming needs, he readily shells out cash to ensure that she always looks as pretty as a picture. We spend five hundred bucks for her regular shampoo, haircut and blow-dry. Okay, the fee includes a pedicure, brushing her teeth and a generous spritz of breath spray as well. Nonetheless, that’s comparable to what I pay when I visit a salon for the same amount of service (minus the teeth brushing and breath spray, of course). But while I worry about the cost of each trip to the parlor, he happily forks over money for her beauty treatment. So now our Shih Tzu is more fashionably coiffed than I am. Not to mention sports the latest in doggie scents—he bought her cologne, too, let me add.

I should get annoyed with all the attention and allowance she’s given by my menfolk. But I don’t; I can’t. Not when she cheerfully plops down on her belly so we can brush her coat and remains still even when we have to work out a stubborn tangle. Not when she comes scrambling out of wherever she’s settled herself or parks herself at the door at the mere sound of my voice. And certainly not when she follows me just about everywhere and shows one and all whose company she prefers the most.

She hops, not runs. Yips, not barks. And she will attack an inanimate object with all the ferocity of a lion cub, an effect somewhat ruined by her endearing stuffed toy appearance. Scratch or rub a particular area of her stomach and one hind foot or the other or both will do an imitation of Thumper the rabbit in the Disney classic Bambi. And, dear me, but she knows how to use her eyes. It’s unfair. Dogs shouldn’t be able to gaze soulfully at their humans and entice them into doing stuff against their feeble wills. Especially not dogs with long-lashed button eyes and pert little noses to match. My sons claim she looks like a baby Ewok, that teddy bear-like creature of Star Wars fame.

My husband sent pictures of her along with his latest email to a cousin currently residing in Texas in the USA. Said cousin, a bank executive, showed the pictures to his colleagues, all senior bank officers, and the reaction was one and the same: “Is she for real?” followed by “Aaawww, she’s adorable” and sundry versions thereof.

It’s a good thing Chibi can’t read else all the praise would further boost her already inflated ego. As it is, she already has us thoroughly dog-whipped and she hasn’t even had her first litter. Quite an impressive feat for a four-footed, non-verbal fur ball little more than half the size of my son’s gym bag.

Monday's Child

Birth Days
Monday's Child is fair of face
Tuesday's Child is full of grace
Wednesday's Child is full of woe
Thursday's Child has far to go
Friday's Child is loving and giving
Saturday's Child works hard for a living
But the Child that is born on the Sabbath Day
Is witty and wise and good and gay!

“Mommy, Mommy, can we go back to Hong Kong Disneyland?”

My second child Niccolo is aglow with excitement. Ever since we brought him to neighboring Hong Kong’s Disneyland, it has become his regular mantra to ask if we’ll be returning.

“Of course we can,” I say. “What do you want to do when we get there?”

“I want to see Mickey Mouse and Donald and Goofy,” he gaily informs me.

Born on a Monday, Niccolo is indeed fair of face. But nineteen years ago, he was diagnosed with autism, a life-long disorder that affects his communication, adaptation and social skills. A person with autism has been likened to an alien from another planet crash-landing on Earth. Most cannot cope with their surroundings. Many retreat into a world of their own where they feel safe and they know the rules of existence because it is they who made them.

No parent is ever prepared to receive such news. PV and I certainly were not. But after crying over it, we set ourselves to doing what we could to help our son. Considering the severity of Niccolo’s problems and the acute lack of special schools and services geared specifically towards children with autism in this country, we had our work cut out for us.

When he was first diagnosed, Niccolo didn’t speak, was extremely picky about his food, hated loud sounds of any kind, was frightened by certain colors, and couldn’t stand certain sensations on his skin. For instance the water from the shower would make him scream in pain and fear. He would refuse some foods simply because their colors or textures offended him yet obsessively ate certain dishes almost to the exclusion of others. Because he could not verbally tell us if there was something wrong, we couldn’t always understand him and that would in turn lead to tantrums galore. He also could not endure being among a lot of people.

Imagine what bringing him to a birthday party or family reunion was like. We would often retreat with him to one corner of the room lest the noises, colors and guests agitated him.

Mercifully, we were able to teach him certain basic functions much sooner than we expected. Such as toilet training and bathing and dressing himself. And eating without scattering half his food on the floor around him. And managing to cope with crowds. And becoming desensitized to the sounds, colors and sensations that used to traumatize him.

Several years and various doctors and special education schools, teachers and therapists later, he is a different child from the one who turned our world upside-down-side. And I don’t mean because he’s older.

He still cannot relate normally to other people—he has neither the communication nor social skills to do so. He continues to bear some of the quirky mannerisms that mark him as a person with autism. He cannot be mainstreamed—that is, go to a regular school—but must be tutored on an individual basis.

But on the other hand, he is an openly affectionate boy who enjoys being loved in turn. This is a blessing to us for many of his peers cannot stand to be embraced even by their own parents. He is fond of babies and small children and is very protective of Jonathan and their younger cousins. He can tell us what he needs or wants and can even converse with us albeit in his own limited way. He’s a whiz at many computer games, particularly those that demand good memory, quick reflexes and precise use of the mouse.

We can bring him just about anywhere—church, the movies, parties, out-of-town vacations and even trips abroad. We once brought him to Hong Kong in August, the height of the tourist influx from the mainland, and he endured hour-long waits in lines with minimal fuss. And he always sticks to us when we are in an unfamiliar place, which is especially reassuring when one reads horror stories about other children with autism wandering off seldom to be seen again.

What else? Oh yes, he now eats anything and everything. Not bad for a child who was once limited to fried chicken, spaghetti, chocolate and sinigang soup.

Big deal, some people might think. But to those who have watched him grow and develop, each forward step he takes is reason for rejoicing. And when he makes a hop—children with autism seldom improve by leaps and bounds—we deem it a miracle of the highest order.

He’ll probably need our care and support for the rest of his life. We’ve accepted that it is unlikely he’ll ever be able to live independently. Bryan and Jonathan have already promised to take care of him when the responsibility falls to them.

On the other hand, the chances of his childlike innocence completely vanishing are minimal. He may learn how to curse by copying someone else but he won’t comprehend the meaning or malice behind it. Bryan likes to say that Niccolo is already assured of a place in Heaven because he knows no evil.

“Mommy, can we go back to Hong Kong Disneyland?” he asks on yet another day.

Niccolo will not tire of repeating this question until we actually take him back there.

“How about if we go to Disney World in the States?” I suggest.

“Yeah!” he says elatedly.

“And what will you do there?”

“I want to see Woody and Buzz Lightyear! I want to ride the Pirates of the Carribean!”

Would we exchange him for a ‘normal’ child, well-meaning people sometimes ask.

We look at Niccolo. He is aglow with excitement and the sweetest smile creases his mouth. No, we always answer.

He’s our son and we love him. And what's more, he loves us. In a world so woefully short of love, that is the most precious gift of all.

It's Not the Scenery, It's the Attitude by Monette

The shrimps were as sweet and succulent as only fresh shrimp can be. The grilled squid was unbelievably tender and the labahita? Heaven on a plate—firm, juicy and still tasting of the sea. Someone mentioned its texture reminded him of crab meat, at which point the real crabs were remembered, brought out and demolished as happily and rapidly as everything that came before. Even the simple cucumber salad was scrumptious and the perfect foil to all that seafood. Only thing is we noticed that the dipping sauces were increasing rather than diminishing. That's when we realized the thatched roof of our hut was open right down its middle—narrow enough to keep the sun out but wide enough to let the rain in and onto us and our feast. So did we stop eating, pack up and look for another hut? Nope.

PV and I flew to Palawan two weeks ago to attend a meeting for the BCBP (that's our Catholic renewal community, the Brotherhood of Christian Businessmen and Professionals) Chapter Heads of our region. It was my first trip to Palawan and, to my surprise, PV's as well. I'd thought he'd already visited every nook and cranny of the country (with exception of Batanes for obvious reasons) during his days with McCann-Erickson and the Coca-Cola account. So since we were both first-timers, we tried to experience as much of Palawan as was possible in the span of our three-day stay. That meant island-hopping around Honda Bay and taking a pre-dawn drive to Sabang Beach on the way to the much raved about Underground River. That also entailed travelling by boat more often than I was comfortable with. But, hey, such adventures may not come one's way again (or at least in the foreseeable future) so I steeled myself, made certain I'd properly secured my life vest and breathed a prayer whenever the boatman slowed the boat in order to smoothly ride out large waves.

It was during the Honda Bay outing that we—eight couples, two kids and one BCBP mission director turned tourist guide—experienced the joys and hilarity of eating in the rain. It's rainy down yonder these days so both the sky and the sea were varying shades of gray when we set out for Snake Island and our seaside picnic. We weren't at all surprised when it started to rain in the middle of lunch. It was that nice long hole in the roof that caught us flat-footed. Yet all that water seeping down on everything didn't deter us from finishing our lunch. In fact, we were more concerned about the food getting wet than ourselves. 

We actually held our umbrellas over the dishes while we got thoroughly soaked without yet having taken a dip in the sea. But it was fun and funny if a little surreal. No one cared about our bedraggled appearances or the fact that we were devouring everything in sight with as much gusto as lumberjacks after a long day's work. And there was one unexpected benefit. We didn't have to wash the plates and utensils; we just let the rain dripping in from above do the job for us! And we still wound up with satisfied palates and pleasantly full stomachs, which was more than can be said for a large family of Badjaos that wandered into our vicinity. 

 It was quite heartbreaking when the family patriarch came to us and begged for our leftover rice. Their obvious hunger made us wish we had more than cold rice, the remnants of the cucumber salad and a few bananas to give them. As we left Snake Island and headed off to Pandan Island, we saw them eating what we'd managed to spare them with an urgency born of deprivation. It made us realize all the more how blessed we all are, a rained on picnic lunch notwithstanding.

The trip to the Underground River the following day had its own unique charm. We left our bed-and-breakfast at a-dark-as-night 5:30 in the morning accompanied by a very pregnant and very loquacious tour guide. With four of us, PV and myself included, scheduled to fly back to Manila in the early afternoon, we decided to play it safe and try to be the first in line for the river tour so that we could get back in time to shower and head for the airport. During peak season, people have to line up for hours at a time for a boat and a boatman cum guide. We'd also been tipped off that the second half of a several hundreds strong contingent from Luzon was scheduled to take the tour the same day. We only hoped that it wouldn't rain that morning because a heavy downpour raises the water level of the river and makes the entrance impassable. Luck was with us however and I have to confess that was one of the most memorable tours I've ever taken. 

We all came out of it more humbled than ever by the power and creativity of God. I say creativity because the natural limestone "sculptures" we saw within have to be seen to be believed. They are simply incredible. Add to that the fact that it takes hundreds of years for stalactites and stalagmites to finally meet and join in the middle to become towering limestone pillars and millennia for the biggest and most intricate forms to grow—well, if that doesn't make one feel like a very small speck in the vastness of time and space I don't know what will. 

By the way, did I mention the bats and swallows? They were everywhere. The swallows dove and swerved and glided every which way while the slumbering bats clung to the walls in such numbers it was sometimes hard to see the cave walls for the bats. By the way, the Underground River swallows are of the same species whose saliva is the glue that holds their nests together and is the primary ingredient in "Bird's Nest Soup". For those of you who didn't know you were ingesting gelled bird spit when you dined on this famous Chinese soup, go ahead and gag. It kind of gives new meaning to the old saw "What you don't know won't hurt you", doesn't it? Anyway, I was relieved to learn that the bird nests inside the cave can't be harvested for culinary purposes, commercial or otherwise. I rather like the idea of those swallows and bats living relatively unbothered by humans in their subterranean haven. 

The river tours end in late afternoon leaving the cave denizens in peace for a good part of the day. We returned to Sabang Beach and had a really early lunch at 10:30. Some of the men including my hubby decided to try out tamilok, a supposed delicacy a girl was hawking nearby. She said it was a kind of marine worm. It looked like a glutinous mound of clumped together grayish squid tentacles to me! Dipped in spicy vinegar and eaten raw, the vendor claimed it tastes better than oysters on the half shell. The guys enthusiastically concurred but I decided to take their word for it. I'm fairly adventurous when it comes to food but I have my limits and doing an Extreme Cuisine demonstration with something that unappetizing in name and appearance is way beyond those limits. 

Looking back, I realize it wasn't merely the new sights and sounds that made our visit to Palawan so enjoyable. It was the company we kept and the positive attitude of that company that ensured our trip would be a happy and memorable one. It's something to always keep in mind when embarking on something new whether it's a place, a venture of some kind or an experiment in one's life—better to see one's glass as half full rather than half empty. And it won't hurt to imagine champagne in that glass either—or an extra thick double chocolate milk shake—whatever floats your boat. If you consistently look for the silver lining, you may not even notice the accompanying cloud.

Breathing A Sigh of Relief by Bryan

People will always be different from each other. You may say that there are people who seem so alike but, even then, there are certain things in those people that are radically different from one another. Family is no exception. I have a dad who is savvy with business, a mom who is a writer,  a brother with genius-like memory skills, and a little "sister" who is just miss always adorable.

If I get to the personality part, you'll see that sometimes you'll wake up in the morning realizing that the hardest people to live with could be your own family! Yet, here I am loving them. Despite our differences, we somehow complement each other. Some of us are more logical than the other which counteracts the emotional members of the family. Or one member being bolder while the other more cautious prevents either a sorry retreat or a hasty plunge into risk.

Of course, people tend to think more about the differences than the similarities. I find it funny how we all oogle the littlest bubu or how we all seem to sing songs by the Beatles in the car. We all love good food. We love being around each other (for the most part). *Sigh* Guess I'm lucky. We all are in this little family. Maybe tomorrow, I might piss off someone at home or maybe I may get a big hug from mom (hint hint). Doesn't matter what happens. My family is my family. For the good times and the bad, I can't be happier than being part of it.

Now Showing. Next Attraction. Coming Soon

My eldest son, Bryan, and I finally got to see the movie "Inception" last night at the THX theatre of Greenbelt. For over two hours we were glued to the screen. I was just bowled over by this masterpiece by Christopher Nolan. The guy is a true creative genius. Even the ending leaves one wondering whether Di Caprio's character finally made it to the real world or to what's just real in his own mind. Wow! But more than the movie was the opportunity to bond with Bryan.

But before the main feature was shown, we were treated to the future attractions. What caught our interest is the next attraction movie "The Expendables". This one promises to be the action movie of the year or rather the action stars movie of the year. Consider: Sylvester Stallone, Bruce Willis, Arnold Schwarzenegger, Dolph Lundgren, Mickey Rourke, Jet Li, Eric Roberts, etc., etc. in one movie. Bryan and I agreed that this Stallone-written movie will be a perfect movie date for us.

Another movie that caught our fancy is a coming attraction. The third movie of the Narnia series, "The Voyage of the Dawn Treader" will not only be a movie date for Bryan and me, but also for the rest of the family as well. Monette, Niccolo and Jonathan are all Narnia movie fans.

This entry is not meant to talk about the story lines or plots of the selected movies. I just want to share with you some forthcoming feature films that are worth looking forward to and which you can watch with other members of your family. Family, movies, and popcorn. The perfect combination.

Beginner's Luck by Monette

Originally published in The Philippine Star.

He set the first dish before me with equal parts pride and anxiety.  If one could go by appearance and aroma alone, he needn’t have worried.  Seldom had I seen eggs cooked to such a moist and fluffy state, the golden mound redolent with the aromatic scents of butter, garlic, basil and thyme.  Not bad for a first-timer.  Not bad at all.

It was an epiphany for my eldest son when he realized he was interested in the culinary arts.  Midway through his second year in college, he discovered that he enjoyed watching TV cooking shows with me.  That he was fascinated by the endless possibilities in pasta sauces and the various combinations of herbs, spices and sundry other flavorings.  So he asked me to teach him and I said we’d start with the basics.

One of the basics was egg cookery.  I told him so many cooks ruined perfectly good eggs by frying them over much too high heat or boiling them too long.  He also wanted to know how to make fried rice so he could whip up something for himself any time of the day.  So we got into rice cookery as well.

I suppose it was inevitable.  My father’s mother had been a wonderful cook and I recall spending many a lazy morning in her kitchen watching her cook.

Her kitchen wasn’t anything grand or fancy.  It wasn’t even in the house.  It looked like a three-sided shed lit by two fluorescent bulbs.  It was made of concrete, had a corrugated metal roof and was situated in the back of the house across a cemented courtyard.  It was what we called a “dirty kitchen,” something quite common in many homes, at the time.

Not that it was filthy or unsanitary.  But placing the kitchen outside the house guaranteed that there would be a minimum of pests in the main living area and the smells of cooking would not end up clinging to everything and everyone.  After all, this was in the days before stove top exhaust fans.  Besides, preparing most meals in the dirty kitchen spared the indoor kitchen from excessive wear and tear and, therefore, guaranteed it would always be presentable especially when there were guests in the house.

My grandmother’s kitchen was long and narrow and very simple.  She had a small two-burner table top gas stove, a recent concession to modernity; previously she had cooked over a kalan, a wood-burning stove.  There was also a utilitarian sink, a weathered wooden table where the food was prepared, narrow shelves on which reposed various pots and pans and utensils, an old standing electric fan and a rattan chair in which she could rest while waiting for soups and stews to finish cooking.  Strangely enough, the refrigerator and electric oven (she also loved to bake) remained in the house’s indoor kitchen, which was used more frequently as a breakfast nook than a place where food was actually cooked.

I associated my grandparents’ home with good food and boundless hospitality.  There was never a visit that didn’t end with my grandfather sitting us, their grandchildren, around either the old Formica breakfast table or the more formal dining table of dark polished wood and my grandmother serving us mouth-watering dishes running the gamut from the simple to the lavish.

If it was a holiday there was sure to be her wonderful Pancit Molo.  Or she would prepare our favorite chicken dish in which she marinated the bird in calamansi juice and Japanese soy sauce then baked it, basting the chicken once in a while with butter and drippings.  Another favorite was Lumpiang Sariwa.  And we could never resist her Halayang Ube, which was never too sweet, had a rich buttery flavor and retained a few whole bits just to keep it interesting.

(Her house was a favorite destination during the annual town fiesta.  Her neighbors, discerning folk, knew a good thing when they saw it.  Or in this case, tasted it.)

But even her everyday dishes were enough to make us linger at the table.  Her Sinigang was neither too sour nor bland.  Her Chicken and Pork Adobo would ensnare my hamburger loving brothers without fail.  And to satisfy my grandfather’s sweet tooth, she concocted her own version of bread pudding, using the lowly Pan de Sal instead of sliced white bread.

In my grandmother’s hands, even fried canned Vienna sausages tasted better than anyone else’s did.  Especially when eaten with freshly baked bread that my grandfather bought from the bakery across the street from their house.  To this day, I have never managed to fry Vienna sausages to that same state of perfection and neither has anyone else for that matter.  Incredible how so apparently simple a result should prove so difficult to attain.

Looking back I realized that more than just skill and knowledge made my grandmother’s food memorable.  It was also the atmosphere in her home.  It was an atmosphere born of the great love and respect my grandparents had for each other.  And they had so much of both that it naturally spilled over onto all their children and grandchildren.  It may sound ridiculous but I think that’s the reason everything tasted so much better there than anything we’d try elsewhere.

Though she passed away when Bryan was only two years old, he must have inherited some of her cooking genes, as we would put it.  My father did.  So had I, the rest of my family claims.  And now my son seemed to be following in our culinary footsteps.

So here it was one midnight in the middle of the week – the result of his initial lessons.  Aside from the scrambled eggs, he’d also created a fried rice dish using leftovers he found in the refrigerator.  Pork and chicken adobo bits, sautéed string beans and carrots, soy sauce and prepared teriyaki marinade, and just enough beaten eggs to bind the whole delicious mess together.

He was proud of his efforts.  He did not just plop everything down on the table but ladled the eggs and rice onto individual plates for the two of us.  He set the table and stirred up iced tea and then we sat down to a sumptuous midnight repast.

Who would have thought a meal of eggs and rice could be so utterly perfect?  But as I sat back with a replete sigh, it occurred to me that my son had made good use of certain special ingredients not found on any shelf or bought in any store.

An instinct for combining flavors ranked high on the list.  A knack for mixing colors and textures also counted.  And pride in one’s craft, too.  Now what else was lacking?  Oh yes, the most precious spice of all had been mixed in with a lavish hand.  Love.

Could there be a more perfect meal than the product of a genuine labor of love?

Do I Have A Green Thumb?

About four weeks ago, I attended a meeting at the head office of Amici Restaurants. On my way to the car which was parked right outside the restaurant, I was approached by a man who must be in his sixties. He begged me to buy some of his herbal plants which he brought to Manila from Batangas. He looked weary and tired. His herbs were laid out near the parking lot. Each herb was gingerly planted in a temporary container made of black plastic bag material.

The man offered to sell me each herb for P100.00. I listened to his plea as I did not want to simply dismiss him. The question in my mind at that time was ‘What will I do with those herbs? Do I even have a green thumb?’ But I felt a gentle tug in my heart. The gentle voice told me that it’s not about whether the herbs will live or not. What’s important is that I help the poor man go home to Batangas with some money in his pocket.

Just a week before this encounter, my wife, Monette, and I gave a talk for a marriage retreat in Tagaytay for our Catholic renewal community (Brotherhood of Christian Businessmen and Professionals or BCBP). We were presented afterward with a tarragon plant as a token of appreciation. So I bought 1 tarragon, 2 rosemary and 2 basil plants from the man from Batangas.

So voila! The family now has herbs to take care of. Monette and I dutifully take turns watering them daily. And I get to brew some fresh tarragon or basil tea every morning.

After I write this blog piece, I will hie off to the nearest garden supply shop to buy some plastic pots for the herbs. Since I bought them 4 weeks ago, they have remained in their black plastic bags. I can almost hear you saying what a bad gardener I am. I plead guilty. But do understand my hesitancy to spend more money on garden materials when I was not even sure if I have a green thumb. But now that I have some sort of confidence that I may have a green thumb after all (though it may be a pale green in color), I can invest in some plastic pots.

Wish me luck as I will gladly share some herbal leaves with you when the time comes.