Just dessert

Because I rarely attend any kind of gathering, I am often dismissed as antisocial. Thing is, I’m no more social when I am with friends or family. While everyone settles down for chitchat after the meal, I prefer to pass the time outside, smoking. Or sleeping. If they see this as indicative of a personality disorder, I guess it has yet to reach a stage meriting alarm. Oh, him? I imagine them telling a curious party. Don’t mind him; he gets like that. Now what was it you were saying about Piolo Pascual?

I’m not much for labels but I do care for accuracy. I’m asocial, not anti-. I’m introverted, not psychopathic, and find forced amiability painful. I am reminded of what Francis Burton Harrison (governor-general of the PI from 1913 to 1921; he’s the Harrison in Harrison Plaza) said in his diary about a visit to my great-grandfather’s house. “I felt ill and wished to [leave],” he wrote, “but there is something of the jailer in a provincial host in this country — you must take his hospitality whether you will or no.”

I feel bad for my lolo, of course, but at least Harrison didn’t disparage the food — I think. Time was when parties were meant to showcase very particular strengths of a household’s culinary arsenal. We used to look forward to Tita Pina’s lengua, the late Na Mayay’s torta, or my friend Evan’s steamed crabs, which sounds ordinary, but you weren’t there to savor them. Nowadays most parties are catered, so it’s more or less the same fare wherever you go, especially if you live in a small town or city. “Oh dear, I hope they’re not serving their dreadful cordon bleu again.” “You must mean the morcon.” “That, too.”

Curiously, some households still prefer to make their own desserts. We don’t. None of us have the talent. That is why I gravitate to the dessert station first: it’s likely the last bastion of individuality in an increasingly commodified world, the one facet of the party into which the host could inject some personality by showing off his or her (although occasionally some ancient help’s) mettle.

Unfortunately, it is also where the greatest atrocities are committed. For the longest time it was macaroni salad with kaong (preserved sugar palm fruit) — green, red, sometimes the two. “Is she serving green salad?” my sister and I would chorus whenever a certain classmate of Ma’s asked us over — green being the nuclear tint of the kaong leaching into her pasta. It was very Seussian, and we could not resist being drawn to the stuff.

You know what’s really funny? It was the pièce de résistance, reserved for special guests. When time came to go home, we would be handed a small Tupperware of said salad. It was the freakiest thing ever to grace our fridge. Which was not to say that it went uneaten. Ma will complain about a dish looking or tasting funny (even going bad). “That’s strange,” I would say, “considering you just ate all of it.”

From the few parties I have been to so far this year (namely two), I see that macaroni with kaong is now a thing of the past. These days you are more likely to be offered the host’s mango float or cathedral window. I like mango float and have made it a few times myself, but never for a party. For that we ask Eva’s cousin, Gelyn. Hers is just so much better.

Then there is that old standby, maja blanca. I like it for its simplicity. Indeed, it is supposedly the easiest Pinoy dessert to make, consisting basically of coconut cream, water, sugar, and cornstarch. It isn’t. Easy, that is. At least not for me. On my first attempt, I get pap. Tasty, but it fails to congeal. On the second I somehow(!) forget to add water. That’s the batch pictured right above. Don’t be fooled: although it sets, it’s no good.

A few days later I accompany a friend to the grocery and chance upon bottled mandarin oranges. I recall that I still have a pack of small pasta somewhere. I had no idea what I was going to do with it when I bought it, and had yet to hear of a salad called frog’s eye, which is apparently popular in some parts of the western US, made with acini di pepe (pasta the size of peppercorns — the “eyes”), pineapple, orange, marshmallow, and cream. Given my acquaintance with sweet, kaong-studded macaroni salad, I have no business calling frog-eye salad weird.

When I say small pasta, I mean really small. Not acini di pepe; the label says “invicibles” (Casino brand). I couldn’t open the jar of peppercorns in the background, so you’ll just have to squint to make the comparison, but the pasta is way tinier, about the size of a mini-sago (tapioca ball), which I use instead of marshmallow (as long as we’re talking eyes, sago look more the part). To be perfectly frank, I don’t know what to make of the resulting salad. It’s not bad, that’s for sure, but I still prefer the chunkiness of macaroni (even penne). This one feels more like pudding.

I do realize two things. One is that I like mandarin orange — a surprise. We get boxes of them around the holidays but I’ve only ever thought of them as decor. The other is that I can do fruit salad without mayonnaise (I was raised on Nora Daza’s version, see). Combine the stock that comes with the pineapple and orange with an equal amount of sugar or condensed milk, a tablespoon of flour, a well-beaten egg, and a pinch of salt. Stir continuously over medium heat until thick, finish with a twist of lemon juice for some zing, and allow to cool before folding into heavy cream. Despite what seems like an unholy amount of sugar, the dressing is pleasantly light and not too sweet.

But I’m really the last person you should be taking dessert tips from. For that I will have to refer you to my friend, ’Day Celia. She’s very sociable, except she doesn’t blog. How can she possibly? A dentist by day, she’s too busy baking in her free time. Now there’s someone with a plan. And you think me sinister.