More life lessons, with side of egg

Even when I was younger, I knew better than to argue about religion. Maybe God exists. Maybe He doesn’t. What’s it to you? Do you need to convince yourself that someone is keeping tabs in order to do the right thing? Can’t one just be good for goodness’ sake?

You also don’t wrangle with someone who has had one drink too many. This I learned when I was older. People can be illogical enough when sober. Nick Joaquin could weave words under the spell of San Miguel, but the man was an intellectual freak who probably needed the buzz to dull his senses to better understand his mortal subjects. He’s not dead, by the way, just retired. Like Elvis.

If you ask me, there’s absolutely nothing wrong with not being able to hold your liquor. It’s a fairly explainable biological reaction. But please check in your inner theologian at the door. If I saw no point in engaging the cute Mormon missionaries who used to drop by our house, why the hell should I patronize your drunken epiphany? Say what you will about the Mormons, but at least they don’t drink. And they speak flawless Bisaya.

Don’t get me wrong. It’s fun to be contentious. With the right company, that is. Alcohol does strange and wonderful things, but it does nothing to illuminate one on the finer points of theology (or anything else besides; you should see the notes I make when I’m smashed). It certainly doesn’t increase anyone’s facility with the English language, although for some, it engenders a sudden affinity for it. That makes for tortured arguments peppered with liberal doses of “you know.” In any case, don’t expect to win. That's if you manage to put a word in edgewise.

I might as well argue with my mother. No matter how much in the right I am, with her, I always end up being the smart-ass. Live long enough and you realize it’s not worth the hassle. The game’s rigged, why bother? I’m not saying you have to patronize: just shut up. An argument requires that there’s someone on the other end to raise a cavil.

But sometimes I just can’t help myself. A few months ago she attended a meet-and-greet organized by a doctor friend (mine) for cancer patients. It’s not everyday you get a chance to see Albert Martinez in person, you know. Days after their photos went up on Facebook, she was upset. “Do you know what people are saying? I have cancer! How stupid is that?”

I took the bait. “Look,” I said. “You’re not a doctor or a nurse; everyone knows that. They also know you’re not artista either, even if people say you look like Pilar Pilapil. So why were you there? Ergo, you’re a cancer patient!” It was the most logical way to explain the misunderstanding. I shouldn’t have laughed when I said it though.

“Yeah,” she snapped. “You’re the smart one. I’m just stupid.”

See what I mean? I happened to tell my friend Jenny about it, and she was, like, “Oh my God — yours, too!?!” It reminded me of what my college flat-mate had told me a long time ago. “I know it’s hard to believe, but when your mother gets to a certain age, watch out. She’ll be testy and unreasonable and annoyingly sensitive.” When I told him my mother was already all those things, he gave me a pitying look. “Well, you’ve got it made then. It’ll be hell, only worse.”

And I had thought, So what else is new? If Sister Helen from high-school religion was to be believed, that was where I was destined, anyway. She was a stern woman, old before her time. Everyone walked on eggshells around her. She managed to take offense at everything, especially with me, telling the whole class that I was her cross to bear. I regret not knowing then that taking up the Cross daily was exactly what St. Francis of Assisi had demanded of his adherents; I would have gleefully pointed out to her pockmarked face that I was actually doing her a favor.

Oh, to be young and smug! I would have liked to say that it was Sister H. who soured me on religion, but that’s not even remotely true. I just did not harbor much interest in the subject. So don’t ask me how come the dish pictured here bears the name “eggs in purgatory.” Purgatory, from what I remember, is some kind of way station for souls who aren’t quite eligible to be directly admitted to heaven — a detox facility, if you will, to purge them of lesser sins. Unless she’s still alive, I’m sure Sister H. is doing time there, in the company of the more righteous Catholic drunks, wondering — nay, seething — at the injustice of it all.

Eggs in Purgatory

Despite the weird name, this dish is just eggs poached in tomato sauce. If you have leftover pasta sauce, by all means, use that. Serve with rice or crusty bread.

• 2 tablespoons olive oil
• 1 clove garlic, minced
• 1 medium onion, minced
• 2 cups crushed tomatoes
• 1 teaspoon sugar
• ¼ teaspoon dried chili flakes


• 3 eggs
• 2 tablespoons Parmesan cheese, grated
• salt and pepper, to taste

1. Pour olive oil into a pan on medium heat. When hot, add onions and sauté until soft and lightly brown. Stir in garlic and sauté for another minute before adding tomato sauce. Season with salt and pepper, then add the sugar and chili flakes. Turn heat to low and let simmer, stirring occasionally until sauce thickens, but on the watery side (it will continue to reduce later as the eggs cook).
2. Break eggs into the sauce. Sprinkle a pinch of salt on each egg, then cover pan and wait until they cook to your preferred level of doneness. Serve with grated cheese on top.