Mele Kalikimaka

Okay, so it's a few days after Christmas. But remember when it wasn't just Christmas Day that we celebrated but the whole season? It used to be at least a solid month of Christmas carols, shopping, partying and merrymaking. We used to also do stuff that would seem insanely inconvenient now. Remember the "Misa de Gallo"? Mass of the rooster? You went to mass before dawn, right when the roosters started crowing. Now for the most part, this was no fun, but when you got to a certain age and became interested in the opposite sex, this afforded great opportunity to make early social engagements while showing the adults your pious commitment to the season. By the time one was a young adult, this could be combined with late night partying for all night to dawn marathon of holiday celebration. The best was that it ended with the church's blessings and an all day nap.

Now this could only take place during that special time when you were young enough to be going to school but old enough to be allowed to stay up past midnight. The reality of jobs, children, and anything that smacked of responsibility meant that the all night merry making had to go and then you were stuck with merely rising to go to mass in the middle of the night.

Now, I find it difficulat to find the time to go to church on Sundays at the very reasonable time of 9 am. I confess that when Meet The Press started airing at 9 am, the same time as Sunday Mass in Mountain View, political discussions amongst the pundits and talking heads wins. When you become used to airing all sides of every issue, it becomes painful to sit through lectures that cannot be questioned. Faith is one of those things that has to be complete. Any little nagging doubts take over and you find yourself holding mental arguments with your parish priest while you pretend to be in submissive agreement.

My parents had faith. Many of my friends and former schoolmates have faith that strikes me as incredible in this day and age. I admire them and see that it brings great peace of mind. For the time being, I shall have to make do with honesty. The honesty of my doubts and the honesty of my desire to make sense out of a world of randomness and difficulties.

For the New Year, I am trying to have resolve so I can finally have some resolutions that I can keep. But instead of trying to change something about myself, I'll just try to do things differently. Like resolving to blog at least once a week. There you have it.

Oh, as an aside, I am watching CNN and the news reporter is at the Philippine Airlines check-in counter at LAX. She is astounded at the numbers and gargantuan sizes of all the LBC boxes going to Manila!

Hoy! .... Any New Blogs?

Just to let you all know where the hell I've been:

First, I live on the Big Island of Hawaii, with my husband and two dogs. Our business is on the Kona side, sunny and touristy. Our house is on the Hilo side, rainy and.... provincial.
1
We have, at this time, three (3!) vehicles. A Chevy Tahoe in reasonable condition, a Jeep Wrangler under the curse of an evil, evil (or maybe really just horribly incompetent) mechanic, and a GMC Jimmy held hostage by the Hawaiian DMV. In other words, we can only drive the Tahoe.

So, we don't just drive back and forth as we please. We have to make major plans that involve both of us going everywhere together. Last week, we were in Kona, taking care of business so no computer time. Then Scott's 85 year old mother went to the hospital with sepsis. He then went to see her for what might be the last time, and took the computer with the internet connection with him... to California.

So now, I'm sitting in an internet cafe in Pahoa, the Hawaiian wild, wild, west. The folks here are tattooed and dreadlocked. The hemp plant is the official flower. These are the inheritors of the hippie generation. Some of them appear to be original hippies. Seated next to me are a table of travelers with backpacks, from Europe, on their way to Tibet, discussing "society" as if it were a horrible boarding they had just escaped. I am feeling way too normal and suburban in my yoga pants and hoodie. Next time I come... I shall not bathe... or brush my hair... or shave. I'll wear long flowing skirts and a tank with no bra. I'll wear all my beads, bracelets, bangles, and earrings. I'll have to get a tattoo and some piercings.

Ah forget it.... I'll just look like some 50 year old time traveler. Besides, I'll never be able to decide on a tattoo.

Will be back on schedule and blogging again by weekend. Stay tuned.

Barrister Barrista

2007 was not a good year. In February, my father was diagnosed with stage 4 lung cancer. In October he was dead.

By December, I could not continue to function as an attorney. In between composing my letters and declarations, I found myself surfing the Internet. I became addicted to shopping for a business to buy: fast food, clothing, electronics store, sail boat rentals, arugula farm... Each one promised a fascinating, care free, new life.

By February, Scott and I began our move to Kona, Hawaii, where we had just bought a souvenir shop. Bad as 2007 was, 2008 was worse. The economic downturn went into a spiraling freefall and we lost the business. But, my coffee and chocolate supplier asked me to take over operation of his coffee shop in downtown Kailua-Kona, and all of a sudden I was a barrista.

I had never worked in a coffee shop before but had frequented many. My dad was an espresso addict so we had spent lots of time sipping cappuccinos and lattes in trendy upscale coffee spots. I knew what I liked and I liked good coffee.... with lots of cream and sugar.

Learning to operate a coffee shop has a quick but steep learning curve. The equipment was big, black, and imposing with shiny silver knobs and spouts. This was serious stuff. I learned to grind beans, measure the coffee, brew big pots of black gold. This was Kona, whose volcanic soils, cloud cover, altitude, and sunny days brought forth some of the most sought after and expensive coffee in the world.

This could be fun. I learned to make cold coffee drinks: iced coffee, iced lattes (actually a misnomer but that's another story), and frappes. Unfortunately, the espresso machine was not operational. No problem, if anyone asked for an espresso drink, "Sorry, our machine is down". And customers took this well. No one was offended or threatened to report me to the state bar for sanctions.

Every October, Kona hosts the premiere Ironman event in the world. This one is the mecca for all serious tri-athletes. The course consists of a 2.4 mile swim, a 112 mile bicycle ride, and a 26.2 mile run through tough ocean waves and moon like lava-covered terrain. For one week,around ten thousand tri-athletes, trainers, sports media, and entourage descend upon this little town whose center, heart, and soul was our dinky little pier. All at once, our quiet streets were packed with bulging, biceps, quads, calves, and triceps. The Speedo clad strutted around next to the aloha shirt and Bermuda shorts crowd.

The night before the Ironman event, Fix-it Frank showed up with my new espresso machine. "Now you gonna be a real coffee shop", he announced. I didn't know I wasn't. He fiddled around with washers and hoses and birthed a steaming, spouting, machine that espressed, and frothed, and scalded. Very imposing, but he showed us how to press buttons, turn knobs, and make espresso. We stayed at the shop up to midnight, getting ready for the next day. Hans, our part time help, promised me he had worked in restaurants and coffee shops and knew everything to know about the barrista business. We would meet at the shop at 5:00 am the next day, to prepare for an onslaught of customers. Our shop was steps from the start and finish lines; we were practically ground zero.

At 3:00 am, my eyes flew open. A disturbing thought jolted me up. "Scott!" I poked my deeply snoring husband. "Do you know how to make cappuccino?!"

He grunted, peered at me through one bleary eye, "hrnnngmphno", he slurred, and rolled over back to sleep.

"We're screwed!", I thought, as I stumbled out of bed to the laptop where I entered, "How to make cappuccino". Angels sang as pages of coffee sites appeared. I began my predawn research. One part espresso, one part steamed milk, one part froth. We can do it. I went back to sleep.

Two hours later, I am perched behind Scott on our little red moped, clinging for my life as we wind through the traffic barriers into town. In the 5:00 am dark, we can make out crowds... throngs of people, carrying chairs and cameras, making their way to the start line. All in need of some kind of caffeine.

We snuck into the shop but people followed after us, tapping on the glass doors, "Coffee? Coffee?"

"Don't open yet", I told Scott. "We have to practice!"

We took turns steaming and frothing until we could hold our waiting, caffeine starved customers off no longer. Scott opened the doors, and the lines formed. "Double, half-caff, skinny caramel! Single cappuccino non-fat! Double Mocha latte!" I ground, espressed, steamed, and frothed. Scott ground, espressed, steamed, and frothed. We served espresso dairy mixtures. Lord knows what we were making, as we capped drink after drink. The lines were long and there was no time for complaints or even tasting their drinks as customers hurried out the doors to catch a good spot for the start of the swim event.

Then the lines disappeared. "Come up to the roof!" One of the other vendors shouted to us. "Everyone's watching the start! Just close up the shop and come up!"

So we locked the store and went up on the rooftop balcony of the Kona Inn Shopping Village and saw before us, one of the most glorious sights of Kailua-Kona. Thousands of swimmers were bobbing in the bay. Thousands of spectators were standing on the beach and sitting on the bay wall. Helicopters and emergency boats were hovering and floating nearby. The sky was blue and cloudless. The sun was warm and golden. The energy was electrifying. Then the loudspeakers quieted, the Hawaiian prayers were chanted, the conch was blown, and the race was on.

We reopened and actually had some time to think about what we were doing. Hans never showed up (I found out later he had determined I was too bossy). We made more cappuccinos, lattes, and mochas although I seriously suspect that every drink we made really was a latte, some indeterminate mixture of espresso, steamed milk, and froth. But the Ironman was on. Everyone cheered all day long as athletes clambered back onto shore, got on their bicycles to ride out towards wind-blown Kohala, and then tossed their bikes away to run down through Kona and past our shop to the finish line. The athletes continued past the shop till midnight, panting, sweating, some limping. One had a prosthetic leg. All who finished were victorious. We felt victorious too.

Thanks, But......No Thanks

While today is Thanksgiving and a day for family and friends to come together to reflect gratefully on their blessings, we must constantly remain vigilant for the evil that lurks within us. I have practiced juvenile dependency law and family law for 15 years and thought I had seen everything, but truth is stranger than fiction. Sometimes it is the truth in your own life that is strangest of all.

After every holiday, comes an increase of allegations of abuse against children by friends or family members. For obvious reasons, the combination of food, family togetherness, and alcohol can lead to impaired judgment among people we should most be able to trust. Working as minors' counsel, I have seen too many holidays end with detentions and filings of domestic abuse, physical abuse, and sexual abuse. It is the sexual abuse that is most insidious and unforgivable as it masquerades as love.

This came home to me this year as two supposedly dear members of my extended circle of friends were revealed to be predatory sexual perverts. These were men who were looked up to and admired within our communities. Men who were successful and appeared to have everything in life. Men who had beautiful wives and were the envy of all around them.

I was astounded and horrified by the revelations. The worst thing was that I was not really surprised. Did you ever know someone who just made you feel uncomfortable? Someone who complimented you profusely but looked at you just a little too long? Maybe there was something in that look that was just....wrong. I would call this the "ick" factor. My legal training demands that every person be given the benefit of the doubt until the evidence was in. I change my mind. The "ick" factor is usually spot on right. Let the judge and jury apply the law. When it comes to the children in my life, I am relying on my gut instinct.

One of these men was actually arrested and is now serving a very long prison sentence. But the other one is out and about and unaware that some of us know. Now, there is just not quite the right set of facts for a criminal or civil filing for this particular molester. Also, we love his wife and children and do not want them to bear the embarrassment of finding out. But he should be placed on notice. We know what he did.

So this Thanksgiving, I will be giving thanks for many things... but trust will not be one of them.

Huy and Hoy

Communicating in Filipino is fun. I make no claims to speaking any of the Filipino dialects fluently but second best is sounding like you do. First thing to learn is how to "capture" someone's attention. There is "psssst." This is a soft hiss, meant only for the intended recipient of attention-capturing who might not even hear it but senses something in the atmosphere causing him to turn his head this way and that until he sees the hisser. The hissing is then acknowledged by exaggerated lifting of the eyebrows.

Then there is "SSSutttt!", with heavy emphasis on the ssss and ttttt. Dog Whisperer uses this to alert dogs to unwanted behavior. But Filipino parents have used this for centuries to alert their children to parental surveillance. with practice, the "SSSuttt" can be so loud as to be heard across a restaurant or department store. It means "Stop that, now!" The recipient of the "SSSuttt" instinctively drops everything and flinches at this sound. Perhaps because it can sometimes be accompanied by a "batok", a light but swift whack to the back of the head.

"Huy" and "Hoy" are other attention grabbers. "Huy" is more surreptitious and could indicate something conspiratorial like "Huy, can I copy your homework?". "Hoy" is outraged. "Hoy! Stop copying my homework!

The practice of these four sounds will surprise the market vendors in Hilo and Kona. They love to prattle in their native Filipino dialects, secure in their belief that no one understands them. Be indignant at their prices, "Hoy, that's too expensive! You think I'm rich?" And then follow with, "Huy, give me a discount, okay?"

Minor Matters

Most of you know that after graduating from Law
School, I spent the next 15 years representing children in Juvenile Dependency Court and Family Law Court. I represented children who were abandoned, neglected, beaten, raped, molested, exposed to illegal drugs, and exposed to domestic violence. They ranged in age from newborns to seventeen (sometimes as old as 23) years old.

I was their voice in court. It was a voice in the dark.

Malina (not her real name) was five years old when she saw her father kill her mother by drowning her in the family bathtub. The father was sent away for life in Pelican Bay, his parental rights were terminated and Malina was adopted. When Malina was eight, her adoptive mother returned Malina to the courts and terminated the adoption. Malina had been exhibiting strange behavior; she liked knives. The adoptive mother awoke one night to find Malina standing over her with a knife in her hand. Malina spent the rest of her childhood in group homes.

Malina was 15 when I was appointed to take over her representation from a retiring attorney. She was a pretty bi-racial girl with a beautiful smile and a charming demeanor but her social worker had written in her report that Malina was manipulative and conniving. All Malina wanted from the court was the ability to spend time with her "grandmother", a woman who had been godmother to her ex-adoptive mother.

The court allowed only monitored visits. Malina was on all kinds of psychotropic medication. She was failing in almost every subject in school. She refused to take her meds because they made her sluggish. No one trusted her; no one listened to her. I set her up for a review of medications, counseling, and I offered to monitor the visits with "grandma". None of that took place. A few weeks after I first met her, Malina went AWOL.

Two years went by where Malina's review hearings consisted of renewing her warrants for detention. Then a new case came into court, an infant had been born to a minor mother and I represented that mother. It was Malina. She was now bloated from her recent pregnancy, but thrilled to be a new mother. She named her baby boy "Lawrence" (not his real name). Dad was a white boy Malina had come to know on the streets.

Malina was placed in a large facility for girls in the system. Social workers did not want to place baby Lawrence with Malina because she had been a runaway. But the facility had lockdown capabilities, so Malina and I managed to convince the court to give her a chance to care for her baby.

There might have been another reason that social workers did not want to place Lawrence with Malina. Lawrence was caucasian in appearance. With all the black and hispanic babies in the dependency system, healthy white babies were in huge demand by adoptive parents. When babies are removed from their parents, they are "fast-tracked" for adoption.

Malina took all the parenting classes at the facility and relished her role as mother. But, she was loud, opinionated, and lazy, at least according to the social workers reports. Staff had found dirty diapers stashed under Malina's bed. They found dirty bottles lying around her room and discovered Lawrence with a diaper rash. Lawrence was six months old when the social worker decided to place him with Dad, a 16 year old, and his step-mother. Dad was then found to be not appropriate as he might have been doing drugs and refused to submit to testing. So placement of Lawrence was now with the woman who married Dad's dad.

This destroyed Malina, but I convinced her to buck up and do whatever was necessary to get her baby back: take more classes, get good grades, do not argue with your social worker. Now, Malina liked to talk. And she was opinionated. No one wanted to monitor her visits with Lawrence; they had to take place at a social worker's office. Malina lost hope and she started going AWOL again. She was transferred from placement to placement. Now reunification seemed all but impossible.

I volunteered to monitor the visits every Saturday from 10 a.m. to 5 p.m. This truly was detrimental to my limited social life. First, I picked up Malina, then we went to Baby Lawrence's Dad's home (where Dad was not allowed to reside because of the unresolved drug issues). Along with Baby Lawrence, we picked up a car seat, stroller, and huge bag full of diapers and baby paraphernalia. We went to the mall. We walked around Old Town Pasadena. We went to lunch. In gasoline and lunch money alone, I was going broke.

But Malina loved taking care of her baby and Baby Lawrence was a happy, delightful little fellow, pink cheeked with straight brown bangs just like Moe from the Three Stooges. Malina taught him to drink from a sippy cup. She made sure we ordered vegetables so he could push them around his highchair tray. "I read that it's really good for babies to learn to feed themselves by allowing them to play with their food", she told me while wiping off rice that had become paste in Lawrence's sweaty little palms.

We became familiar with every ladies' room that had clean diaper changing facilities. Malina carefully applied medicated cream to Lawrence's raw bottom. "He has eczema and psoriasis.", she told me. "Look, they took him from me because he had a diaper rash. He still has a diaper rash. It's because has really sensitive skin."

In Dependency Court, parents do not get much time to reunify with their children. Time was flying and a hearing was set to determine if Malina had earned the right to be able to have Lawrence placed with her again. But Malina's placement would not allow babies, and many other facilities would not consider her because of her past runaway behavior. Dad's step-mother wanted to adopt Lawrence.

The court decided it was in Lawrence's best interests to have a permanent adoptive home rather than wait and see if a home could ever be found for Malina and Lawrence. Many times, if the baby's placement is with a relative, courts will allow the mother to live in that relative's home. If the relative will allow it. Dad's step-mom and Malina did not like each other.

I set the matter for trial. I estimated that the trial would take three hours. I would have mother and baby evaluated by court appointed experts. I didn't want her to give up. I don't know if she heard a word I said. I told her I would visit her over the weekend. But before week's end, I got another AWOL report. I never saw Malina again.

I don't know where she went or what happened to her. It still breaks my heart.

Who Do You Friend?

I attended the Assumption Convent, an all girl catholic school in Manila, from the time I was in Kindergarten (also know as Prep 1-B, first grade was Prep1-A and then the rest of the grades followed as 2nd, 3rd, 4th, etc.) until I graduated High School. Twelve years, the same school, the same plaid skirt, sailor shirt, and neck tie. Well not technically the very same skirt, shirt and tie, these are fungible items after all ..... but definitely the same one and only look.

First day of school, we gathered with our mothers in the Chalet. The Chalet was essentially a covered concrete area, but our school's foundress was French and so we clung to some bits of Frenchiness in the middle of a city that was culturally more Spanish, Chinese, and American.

Another example of our Frenchiness was that we were all trained to curtsy for our superiors. Receiving our report cards, that were read out to the entire school assembly ("Kah-ren Robi-chow, 2 Bs, 3 Cs, and a D in Mathematics, tsk-tsk"), we each curtsied and thanked the serious faced nun reading our grades. "Thank you, Mother Agnes.", we recited in our childish sing-song, left leg bent, right leg swept behind diagonally 225 degrees to the rear and left, left hand holding plaid skirt out, right hand held out palm up, and head bowed waiting to receive our report cards, one by one, in alphabetical order.

Back to the first day of Kindergarten, I can remember like yesterday. Carol Uy, bobbed hair and straight bangs, had a bag full of "tansans" (bottle caps). She dropped some of her tansans under the bench we were all supposed to be sitting on demurely, and this brought her great concern as if these tansans were made of gold. "My tansans, my tansans", she muttered while kneeling up, over and below our seats. In that instant I realized that she was cool and I was not because she had tansans while I didn't.

All these girls I went to school with gave me my first introduction to the rules of childhood and life. We kept each other in line: "Ha-laaaaah, you're not supposed to do that." We ratted on each other: "Mother Remedios, Kah-ren has no paper." We friended and unfriended each other before facebook came along and made the verbs official: "If you don't friend her, I'll friend you."

As elementary passed into high school years, political upheaval took over the country and martial law was declared. Some of the girls left the country with their families. The school modernized and curties became a quaint practice all but forgotten. Still, we always stopped at noon to pray the Angelus, before we clobbered each other at "Bataille" (a ball game named after war, seriously). We all went on to higher education in Manila and all over the world.

We now live in Asia, Europe, Australia, and the Americas. We are in law, medicine, government, the corporate world, religious service, the arts and the society pages. We celebrated our 25th and 30th high school reunions by going back to Mother Rose Hall, and rehearsing, and then performing in dance revues. Each one of us is a diva extraordinaire. We are at each others' sides in an instant. No request is too big or too small.

When I went through a divorce in the early 90's, they listened to me, held my hand, housed me, but mostly fed me. Juno, Dee, and Maribel opened their hearts, homes, and kitchens for me. I still owe them tupperware. Everytime Carol (of the tansan fame) flew into Los Angeles, she brought me presents, stories, and fed me the international airline flight crew diet regimen of krispy kreme, pancit, and coffee.

When my mother lay dying seven years ago, she needed blood. I felt like a vampire, interested in everyone's blood type and general health status. All my old schoolmates went online to spread the request for blood. Some came and donated their own blood. One pulled all the influence she had with the local blood bank to get Mom extra blood vouchers. All prayed.

From when we shared tansans and ba-on (food from home) in the Chalet, we friended for life.

Driving While Under the Influence of Dogs

So we used to live in Kailua-Kona. Which explains why everyone we know is on the other side of the island, about 2 1/2 hours away. This morning I wanted to attend the funeral service for a friend's deceased mother. But Tank, one of our dogs, has ulcers in his eyes that cause them to be all red and gunky, and he has to have eye drops administered every hour on the hour, and three times a day on the half hour. I have a schedule written out as four different medications are at work here.

I thought that Scott, would be back in Mountain View the night before to take over doggy nursing duty but our evil Jeep was in a demonic trance and would not start, which meant he was stuck in Kona. So I had to take the dogs with me.

Now I have three children and have multitasked before the verb became so overused. But kids eventually learn to use the toilet on their own, and dogs still need to be walked. Anyway, getting out of the house by 7:30 a.m. this morning involved showering, ironing, walking the dogs, and somehow trying to look somberly elegant without looking morbid for a sad occasion.

First problem: really cute beige capri pants had weird leopard spot looking stains that were not apparent until I was done ironing and put them on. Solution: wear my old court appearance iron wear polyester pants from Benetton. They still fit somewhat, and that pleases me.

Dogs have been walked and are tricked into getting into the truck and I have driven out the gate, gotten down to lock it, gotten back in to drive out the street, and then realized that I did not bring my hairbrush and makeup which I was going to use at one of the eyedrop stops. No big deal as I have not gotten far so I back up to the gate, leave dogs in the car with motor running and NPR blasting on radio (some Brazilian philanthropist was helping out the poorest children of Brazil by ensuring they could hold intelligent and fascinating conversations). I run down the gravel driveway in my 2 inch rope fiber sandals which I bought in Gingoog for 78 pesos, the equivalent of $1.50. I concentrate on being fleetfooted and make it all 150 feet to the front door when I realize that the house keys are still in the car. I run back and forth, grab my toiletries and set out again with my canine charges.

In fifteen minutes, I am almost to Volcano (yes, we live within spitting distance of an active volcano) when I realize that I can't remember if I turned the iron off........ I turn around cause I can't live with the mental mind game of Did I or Didn't I? As it turned out, I didn't. Phew, good thing I went back. Oh well, time for eye drops.

An hour later, I pull over in Naalehu, famous for sweet bread and over priced junk food when it is time again for eye drops. Good thing I am wearing iron wear polyester pants as I kick off my $1.50 sandals and clamber into the back seat to chase Tank around the back of the truck. He sees the eye drops in my hand and stands up to the half open window. "Nooooooo!", I yell. He jumped out into the road anyway. That window was a good 4 1/2 feet off the road. Tank is a really agile dog.

F**k! The truck is parked next to a really busy road. I somehow knelt into a dog dish full of water. I have no shoes on. I jump down onto the road to chase down and capture my fugitive dog while barefoot. Doggy is really a wuss so I immediately collar him and order him back into the truck. I roll up the windows and try with the eye drops again.

No other remarkable events took place except Buddy (the other dog) urinated in the back, requiring me to pull over, wash the back out with water and dried it up with a partially chewed roll of paper towels.

Eventually, I get to the church in Konawaena with time to spare. I brush my hair, put on my make up and sandals, and tuck my shirt into my polyester pants. I brush the dog hair off and pay my respects. The dogs sat in the truck and behaved. Survived another day of driving with dogs.

Pancit con Sushi

The most distinctive feature of a Hawaiian buffet is that it will serve up everything that any missionary, field worker, plantation manager, and carpetbagger who happened to set foot on these islands thought of as soul food, brimming with taste memories from Japan, Korea, Philippines, China, Portugal, and New England. Food entrees and side dishes appear that were never meant to sit next to each other on a plate, never mind be in the same room. Macaroni and Kim Chi. Korean Barbecue, Bibingka, and Spam. Pancit and Sushi Rolls. And to crown it off, Kalua Pork, Tuna Poke, and Poi.

You can never have too many carbs. Noodles, bread, and rice..... great mounds of it...... are the basis of every meal, to be topped of by meat or fish that is marinated in soy sauce, and topped with two fried eggs and gravy. That last meal is also known as the Loco Moco and is guaranteed to fortify you against the forty year famine.

Now this all sounds like an abomination to all you food snobs (And I know who you are!), but there have been the occasional imaginative chefs who have pulled together from this cacophony of flavors, the absolute culinary sublime. Delicately grilled Ono in a coconut milk and lime reduction. Barbecued skirt steak marinated in garlic, peppers, and ground coffee. Avocado, papaya, and macadamia nut guacamole. East meets West and conquers the Pacific.

But for now, it's spam, pancit and sushi! Aloha!

Nothing Like a good Funeral

I am going to a funeral service tomorrow. My first funeral service on the island. The deceased is the mother of one of the ladies from my Girls' Night Out Group (the GNOG).

The first funeral I remember was my maternal grandmother's. I was 11 years old. Lola Ipay was the only grandparent I got to know; all the others died before I got to meet them. I don't remember very much about her except that she seemed to be always immaculately coiffed and smiling. She usually had a bottle of Green Cross rubbing alcohol on hand. Her mission was to disinfect the world.

When Lola was sick and had to be hospitalized, there was a sense of festivity with all the family members gathering in the hospital. There were so many of us that we spilled out from her room into the hallways and the cafeteria. My mother was so concerned with her own mother's health that she practically forgot me as I was swept into a sea of cousins.

When Lola died, her body laid in state in a huge stone church in Quezon City. Large funeral wreaths lined the entire chapel. I remember there was one festooned with a ribbon announcing condolences from President and Mrs. Ferdinand Marcos (this was before she became Madame). The wake lasted for days and days. So many people came to pay respects. It was like a super-party. Everyone I knew and was related to gathered in one place.... with lots of prayer.... and food.

Then, all the adults had to go to Medina for the burial. So all the children were left in one cousin's house. The idea was that we should not miss more school. The parents went in two separate airplanes so that if any plane went down, there would be one parent left. We were under strict instruction to continue praying everyday. It was a giant sleepover interrupted by rosaries.

Lola was buried and all the parents came home... and life eventually returned to normal. But ever since, I've always enjoyed a good funeral.

Who's counting?

It has been raining for maybe 2 weeks now. How did I end up on this soggy rock, trapped under this eternal rain cloud? Thank God for dish network and MobiLink internet service. Otherwise, it's just wet, wet, and wet. Oh, and two dogs, who don't like getting their feetsies wet. And a husband who should hold the world's championship trophy in marathon napping. He claims the wet gives him an unfair advantage. I'm shooting for the championship in marathon cable news tv watching. It helps to only be mildly paying attention. That way, you can watch the same show over and over again.

Recipe for the day:

One egg
1 or 2 tablespoons of tomato paste
1/2 teaspoon sugar
2 tablespoons goat cheese
salt and pepper
1/2 teaspoon butter

Melt butter in small frying pan. When butter is hot, drop in egg. Wait 2 seconds, then scramble egg in the pan. The white and yolk will be swirly but distinct. When cooked, slide egg onto plate.
Put the tomato paste into the still hot frying pan. Stir sugar, salt and pepper into the past. When heated through, slide tomato paste next to egg. Place goat cheese on other side of egg. Sprinkle all with salt and pepper. Eat. Experiment with various combinations of the three flavors. Try to keep dog's noses off your plate.