Moda

My mom, being a true blue Ilonggo, fancies the word "moda" which means "fashionable", "fad", or "the in style". When we moved to Davao, she didn't care much about Bisaya and when she's around my Bisaya-speaking friends, she'd start off talking in bad Tagalog, and give in to her Ilonggo roots by the time she got to her second sentence. And everytime she'd say "moda" my friends would secretly laugh because "moda" is Bisaya G-speak for "mother".

Like most Filipino mothers now, my mom is proudly OFW, and like most OFWs my mom has a story to tell. What I will tell you though, is the day we baked a cake.

I was probably around 8 or 10 years old, when my mom decided to try her baking skills. And why not? She bought new measuring cups and she borrowed my auntie's oven (or was it an improvised double broiler, I cannot remember). It was the perfect time to bring out the rusting mixer from the cabinet and use it once and for all.

She measured each ingredient carefully. She tried to look like an expert baker but when she turned on the mixer, jolted and said "Ay, kalbo!", I knew that she was a noob and she was hanging on to that recipe book for dear life. My role was to lick all excesses from the bowl and the spatula. This served two purposes, one, it helped for a quick wash, and two, the official taste test.

The taste test was sumptuous. But to carry that same taste after the fire test was a whole new ballgame. My mom panicked when, after three hours, the top half of the cake still wasn't done. We've already used up all our toothpicks and have graduated to using forks to see if the cake was ready. We stopped pricking when we officially made the supposedly flat spongy surface looking like a moon replica.

Finally, we made it. We made an edible pair of leather boots. The cake came out overdone on the bottom part. Only 20% of the cake was cake. The rest was, as I've mentioned, edible leather boots. The texture was so tough but I devoured it as if I was Hannibal Lecter on a face buffet. I seriously loved it. It was the most delicious chocolatey goodness I have ever tasted.

What I'm saying is, my mom is different than most moms. She can't bake, but she passes on recipes for a better life. Her hands may be hard on dough but her touch is as soft and warm as freshly baked bread. We only see her once a year but her voice is always loud and clear as if she has never left our side. She hasn't read us too many bedtime stories but when we chat she'd tell the most intriguing real life anecdotes that can put my blog out of business if she decides to blog herself.

My moda. She's different but I wouldn't want a different moda. I love you mom, happy Mother's Day.

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A High School Story

The plot was almost like the Drew Barrymore movie: One evening, I suddenly found myself in High School. What do I do to fit in?

We were five in the car. The boss' wife was driving and Lee, her 15-year old son was seated at the front complaining every two minutes how late we all were for the food festival. His mom complained back that he should've worn his jacket (translates to hoodie) because it would be freezing at the open field. I sat silently at the back trying not to mind the out-of-nowhere punches I was getting from a three year old nymph. Meanwhile, the maid said she can't wait to stuff food into the empty container she brought. I thought it's too Filipino of her to bring tupperware to a party.

Finally, we arrived at The Cambridge School and in parenthesis, "A British Style International School", and you thought schools aren't in fashion. Lily, Lee's younger sister, greeted us at the front gate with her friend Tina (Lee calls her Tuna cause she's a bit flaky). Lee went past Tuna without a word. They had a falling out a week ago and their cold war was getting colder by the day.

We all rushed to the food fair with our contribution of Chinese Noodles and Dumplings. But don't ask why they placed it on the South Africa table. Lily then showed me her display of overpriced bracelets and chokers and told me that before I choke on the price, I have to remember that proceeds will go to charity.

For the most part of the evening, I essentially just went around the school grounds, leaping from one table to the next tasting all sorts of food. Around the world in 80 bites you might say. I may sound biased but the best table, food-wise, was the Philippines. If Doha wasn't too strict, I wouldn't be surprised if I saw a whole lechon with a crispy, golden-brown grimace, displayed in front of muslim parents who were always apt to ask whether the food was halal or not.

The entertainment sucked but watchable as high school kids hurl and strut like it's their moment in the eyes of God. I would check on Lee once in a while because he was so excited to see his friends rap and breakdance. I'm more excited to see the band play. But at least both of us agree that the Lebanese Palestinian dance routine was just gay and annoying.

I got bored after two hours of eating and roaming and watching but I also felt high schoolish again. I suddenly felt the urge to do something rebellious. I stormed out of the school and looked for a grocer. Twenty minutes later (I still held that rebel mode after all that time), I was back in high school, smoking in one corner of the field and rocking with the school band.

The band was singing Wonderwall by Oasis. And somewhere in that open field, Lily was counting her bracelet sales, Tuna apologized to Lee and he "sorta" accepted her apology, the maid was discreetly filling her tupperware with Beef Caldereta, Lee's mom was having a blast seeing the little nymph dance around and I was on my fourth stick of Marlboro Lights.

The host of the show introduced the band's last song, and that was when Lee approached me, he caught me smoking and he gave me the WTF look. I just told him I felt like being a kid again.

Lee's mom and the rest of the family left early and Lee and I had to take a taxi. He was shivering. The night turned out to be freezing and he probably thought that his mom was right about wearing a jacket (or a hoodie).

I was about to throw the rest of the cigarettes when Lee stopped me. He said to keep one stick just in case. So I did. We finally got into a taxi and praised its warmth.

That was three days ago. A night when I felt like I was seventeen again (insert Eurythmics song here

Eurythmics - Seven...

) I still have that cigarette stick in my pocket. Just in case. OUT.

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Shabu-shabu, the fattening kind

My visit to Hong Kong this year is more pleasant. The last time I was here my mom and I used to fight and argue about almost anything and I showed my rebel side by smoking in front of her. But that was a good couple of years ago and while the buildings here remain the same, I have changed. I quit smoking and after coming out to my mom she has understood me better. So now we're just enjoying our time together, like pigging out on buffet hot pot or shabu-shabu and snapping greeting card worthy poses at the Christmas displays in Central. I love my mom and tis the season to be merry. I Can't wait to be back...and do some serious shopping.

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