Pancakes have been around since prehistoric times. Earliest written accounts of them date back to the 5th century BC, and you bet your ass they did not refer to anything made out of a box — for that you’d have to jump forward more than 2,000 years when the first pancake mix (did you guess Aunt Jemima’s?) was introduced at the 1893 Chicago World’s Fair.¹
Breakfast on the go. That’s the idea behind the bruffin. Buttery and flaky brioche dough rolled with any combination of savory ingredients — bacon and cheddar, in this case, or what’s called a “British” — and baked in the shape of a muffin. BRioche + mUFFIN, get it? Not the most elegantly named pastry (as if cronut is, hah!), but it comes in handy for the man and woman on the move in the city that never sleeps. For the moment, it’s at least New York’s hippest bakery item.
There seems to be some confusion among Tagalogs as to what makopa is. These here are makopa, also known as Malay rose apple. They’re not to be confused with tambis or water apple, which are smaller, rounder (not ovate), paler (as in pinkish), and crunchier. The two are closely related, but makopa is makopa and tambis is tambis. Are we clear on that?
“I won’t be having dinner,” Ma announced.
“Are you sure?”
“All the Chinese could drop dead,” she said, “I’m that sure.”
“Whatever.” Pa is part Chinese.
A line of vendors occupy the sidewalk across the street from the wet market. Presumably they can not afford the rent inside, because, really, why would they rather be at the mercy of the elements, sitting on their haunches all day, nose-level with the exhaust pipes of passing vehicles? Even the flies leave them alone — no offense meant, but the stench is so much riper on the other side.
If you use fresh turmeric on a regular basis, it is a good idea to have utensils solely dedicated to its handling. This rhizome leaves a yellow-orange stain on everything it comes into contact with, and unless you possess the time or wherewithal (for a pricey “wonder” cleaner, say) to get rid of said stain, it’s likely there to stay, like Hitler on the German psyche, if less traumatizing.
I have consumed a lot of grilled food in my lifetime, yet until the other day I had never tried to grill anything myself. I didn’t really need to, but I wanted to learn something new. After almost seven years of blogging about food and with exactly one post featuring sinugba to show for it — well, shame on me.
Singapore, Java: it’s all cassava to me. Until I read up on its history, I had always wondered how this tuber came to be variously named after a country and an Indonesian island.* It’s so widely cultivated around the world that we assume it has always been around in these parts, but as it turns out, this most American of plants (Mexico/Brazil/Central America) was only introduced to the Far East in the mid-1800s — in Singapore and Java.
How else to call it? I was craving for chili con carne when a large bag of dried árbol chilies landed on my lap, courtesy of a friend’s aunt who had no idea what to do with them. That’s one of the benefits of being a food blogger; not that I solicit or encourage freebies, but it takes a lot of guesswork out of giving. If it’s edible, I am assumed to be interested. And I am. I don’t mind that I’m only getting it because others have no use for it (or don’t know how). I’ve snagged a few packs of vanilla bean pods that way. That stuff’s darned expensive.
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?
I was doing a routine check of the use-by dates on the packaged food in the pantry when I came upon several cans of Holiday Vienna sausage. It’s a popular local brand, if not with us. How did they get there? My sister was in town lately after a long absence and understandably nostalgic for the local food, but surely not that nostalgic.
I have no confidence in the Metro Manila Film Festival’s selection criteria. To determine a film’s qualifications solely by its script or treatment (more like the latter, I suspect) is like judging bread based on ingredients alone. It must take a lot of imagination. Then again, a look at the MMFF’s roster of films on any recent year is enough to convince me that a monkey with a dart can do better. Plus it would gladly do the work for bananas, saving taxpayers a lot of expense.
My father’s pushing 80 but I’m the one with the sorrier wardrobe. Ever sartorially challenged, I rely on friends to tell me what to wear, from the cut of my pants down to the color shoes to go with it. That’s during the rare times we’re together. “Shall I buy you some shirts?” my sister asks all the way from California. I tell her not to bother: I’m all kinds of small. Bench gets me right, but at 40+ I can only be so preppy. Levi’s and Giordano leave me a scarecrow. At Springfield I’m an XXS1 — if they have any in stock.
I greeted the new year with a terrified dog in my arms. While deaf old Inday slept through the whole racket, Palang scuttled around the kitchen looking for cover. Finally she leaped onto my my lap, mewling. “You’re not so tough now, are you?” And then it rained — not hard, just enough to put a damper on the revelry, the cracks and booms giving way to Mariah Carey caterwauling through “O Holy Night” on some neighbor’s speakers. I couldn’t decide which was worse.
