It has come to the point that vendors packed our purchases together. “Hoy, tonto,” I told the fishmonger’s assistant the other week, “I said we were taking half each of that fish head. You billed us separately, did you not?”
“Oops,” he said. “I thought–”
“I doubt you were thinking at all. And just so you know, we’re not married. Yet.”
Or ever, thank you. I have practically known Jenny all my life. Her father and mine belong to the same barkada — as we do, all the way back to grade school. Among our group, only three have chosen to stay put in Maasin, so naturally we stick together. As much as we can, that is; Noreen is married and recently promoted at work and so forever busy.
I cook, Jenny drives, and everyone’s happy. Most of our lakaw (trips) are to the market (I go everyday if I can). The fact is, she knows a lot more about seafood than I do. On top of that, she’s game to try anything. I like to think I’m not fussy, but whenever I find myself silently disapproving of a fish she is enthusiastic about — fish I have in most cases never tried — I realize: I’m just like my father!
“Hah,” she says, “you think mine’s any easier? He likes his vegetables done to death, so we cook ours in two batches, one just for him and the other for the rest of us.”
She knows her vegetables, too, needless to say. I used to wonder how she could buy so much when there are only four of them. Finally I asked their help for one of her recipes. It was a huge hit in our house. So when Jenny asked me if I had tried adobong bago (Spanish joint fir), I knew better than to dismiss it out of hand despite my reservations about those leaves being rather insubstantial for such manner of cooking (they’re otherwise superb in soup).
This time the dish wasn’t as well-received. Actually, my father did not even try it (and Ma wasn’t around that day for lunch). Bad it was far from; it just takes getting used to, I guess. Wish I could say the same for marriage, but I wouldn’t know, would I?
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