Love hurts

I love tuna. My gout doesn’t. Sometimes when I’ve gone for days without that telltale throb in my left foot, I take up some fishwife’s offer of mangkô or tulingan (mackerel tuna), preferably the ones with rounded bodies, which taste better than the flat ones. Fried, grilled (which tastes better if you leave the guts in), in clear aromatic soup (tinowá/tinola) or poached in vinegar (inún-unán/paksiw), tuna is comfort food. Sometimes when the catch is particularly abundant, the price plummets to absurd lows and people buy mangkô in bulk, pack the butterflied fish in salt, and store them for months. This is tinabál. I have always meant to try it but never got the chance. And now I’m afraid to, because I suspect I’ll love it. To death. I love myself more, and I also have hypertension.

I love fish oil. It comes in softgel capsules. The label says that it “may reduce the risk of coronary heart disease,” although “the evidence is not conclusive.” I wish it were, but when it actually works, it’s on my arthritis. The only reason I don’t take it regularly is that it leaves me hungry the whole day, and I am quite enamored with my new 28-inch waistline. This leaves my left foot throbbing from time to time. And lately my right as well. I see a can of Century and imagine the possibilities. Have I mentioned I love tuna? Canned, too. With lots of rice. Or between thick slices of crusty bread, with hard-boiled eggs, Tartar sauce, and lettuce. Better still in lasagna, layered with cheesy bechamel and fresh pesto. I love lasagna. I can imagine the pain, but there you have it.

I love torturing myself. Pass me that capsule; I’m only human.