tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-67599119007055261292011-10-07T03:13:33.576+08:00Insanity on a full stomach.Chris Uyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10735059697898033034noreply@blogger.comBlogger801100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6759911900705526129.post-19893687314800722112011-01-18T21:04:00.003+08:002011-01-19T22:59:52.611+08:00

A friend recounts her initial encounter with spaghetti. She is, as she likes to say, taga-bukid or from the mountains, a term which suggests not so much geographic elevation or social isolation as naïveté, not unlike that of a promdi (shorthand for “from the province” — which I am, by the way). In fact, a taga-bukid is a promdi’s promdi. Hey, we have our prejudices too.But back to that spaghetti.

Chris Uyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10735059697898033034noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6759911900705526129.post-148868334090156452011-01-06T22:37:00.004+08:002011-01-07T11:28:02.136+08:00

Six days into the new year and we have yet to see the sun. The intermittent showers of Christmas finally developed into a steady downpour while I was sleeping off the ungodly effects of too much booze from ostensibly greeting 2011 the night before. It was a gentle, insistent rain. Stay in, it said. Stay put.And so I did; one doesn’t argue with nature. I slept, snuggled with the dogs, watched

Chris Uyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10735059697898033034noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6759911900705526129.post-47448421397555678022010-09-24T21:18:00.090+08:002010-09-27T17:23:24.662+08:00

I can’t imagine eating up to three pounds of raw pechay daily — I’ve never really had to, at least not until I read this four-month-old news report.Apparently, too much pechay can kill you in the end. The victim had hoped that a daily regimen of the leafy cabbage would help her manage her diabetes — that’s the sensible part; I would have been surprised had she done so for the taste. Raw,

Chris Uyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10735059697898033034noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6759911900705526129.post-20391982773336964812010-09-17T14:12:00.010+08:002010-09-25T21:10:20.660+08:00

Mantis shrimp. I trust you see the resemblance(s), although the guy next to me remarked that they looked like giant scorpions. They’re hanlilitik, the vendor said. Lobster.Wrong. Mantis shrimp isn’t even shrimp, I learn when I look it up online. Same class, different order. It does, however, taste lobster-ish. If I were this creature, I would have a serious personality disorder. And who’s to say

Chris Uyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10735059697898033034noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6759911900705526129.post-52498669730767494942010-08-29T11:27:00.008+08:002010-08-29T15:58:24.250+08:00

I like love it when a brother speaks his mind this eloquently. Even better when it comes with a beat you can bounce to. Enjoy. (via kottke)

Chris Uyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10735059697898033034noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6759911900705526129.post-83374820159472019142010-08-25T01:07:00.046+08:002010-08-25T21:08:51.344+08:00

Is it just me, or is there something flaky about SkyFlakes these days? This is definitely not the cracker I grew up on, which was crunchy, toasty (I always look for browning at the edges before I buy, not just grab any pack), and tasted the way SkyFlakes should, which was SkyFlakey. You know what I mean. If you don’t, I ought to tell you that the real thing doesn’t crumble in your mouth, feel

Chris Uyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10735059697898033034noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6759911900705526129.post-48686985992640943492010-08-20T23:17:00.007+08:002010-08-21T13:08:32.650+08:00

The last thing I need is for a junk food label to tell me that I will die from gluttony, but here it is. At least I can’t say I had not been warned. Not that the dead can complain.“Have you heard? Chris died.”“Oh? I didn’t know he was sick.”“He wasn’t.”“Accident?”“Magic Chips.”“What, he didn’t read the label?”

Chris Uyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10735059697898033034noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6759911900705526129.post-22636265264548536082010-07-29T22:25:00.108+08:002010-08-18T22:37:25.613+08:00

“Why don’t you like chicken?” a friend asked recently. That got me thinking. I say I don’t like chicken, but what does that mean, exactly? I certainly do not not like it enough to forgo Buffalo wings, and certainly not enough to keep me from swooning over Sunburst’s sinfully delicious deep-fried isol (chicken butt), which may sound gross to the uninitiated, but they don’t know what they’re

Chris Uyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10735059697898033034noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6759911900705526129.post-78007786606594751922010-07-25T11:16:00.003+08:002011-04-18T11:06:24.870+08:00

ABOUT ELLY (2009)Written & directed by Asghar FarhadiHere is a movie that tells it like it is. Just what “it” is, however, becomes increasingly unclear. When Sepideh (Golshifteh Farahani) tells the old caretaker at the beach that among her companions are a pair of newlyweds, we think we know why: all the villas are booked. In fact, her little lie lands them an accommodation. So what if the house

Chris Uyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10735059697898033034noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6759911900705526129.post-86734221965202242202010-06-30T13:04:00.013+08:002010-08-12T21:42:20.157+08:00

Until I learned to cook I had a problem with gift-giving. Blame it on the romantic in me: I had this notion that a gift was supposed to be special. Wasn’t that silly?I mean, why give at all? To fulfill a social obligation? To return a favor? To get laid? Valid reasons all, but none that special . (Besides, if you have to give something in order to get laid, that’s most likely solicitation.) Look

Chris Uyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10735059697898033034noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6759911900705526129.post-40694039443056799822010-06-18T10:28:00.381+08:002010-09-30T02:52:22.648+08:00

Bohol has more than seventy outlying islands. The biggest, Panglao, you are probably familiar with. That’s where most of the resorts are. A few minutes’ ride from Tagbilaran City and you’re beachin’, baby.Lapinig — ever heard of it? I don’t think so. It’s second in size to Panglao, but with exactly one resort to show for it. My friends and I spent the weekend there. When we got back to Cebu,

Chris Uyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10735059697898033034noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6759911900705526129.post-81570462457491181392010-06-05T22:21:00.085+08:002010-08-13T17:49:11.831+08:00

Any day now, when the monsoon rolls in and brings with it gusty winds, torrential rain and generally gloomy weather, we just might look back at this hellish summer and regard it with something akin to wistfulness. But not until then. In the meantime, we sweat — and I more than others.I sweat easily, copiously. It’s not a pretty sight. Heat wave or no, five minutes out of the shower and I’m

Chris Uyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10735059697898033034noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6759911900705526129.post-20775248762242888332010-05-31T04:31:00.041+08:002010-06-02T00:05:14.992+08:00

At some point in a horror movie, a character will tense up and say, “Something’s out there!” The apprehension will be justified. There is something out there. Man, ghost, beast, or machine — it doesn’t matter; it’s up to no good and headed this way. You can bet your hundred bucks on it (or if the movie is in IMAX, at least three times that).The real world? Not so neat. (I am not inclined to dwell

Chris Uyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10735059697898033034noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6759911900705526129.post-14656506035260421642010-05-29T13:15:00.009+08:002010-06-03T23:05:57.073+08:00

Among the many incarnations of pork, the chorizo is one of the most inspired. Very few people will disagree with me on that point, and my mother just has to be one of them.Oh how she rails against the stuff — she who has never bought (much less eaten) chorizo in her life, or passed up an opportunity to drill into my head why “that filth” is not fit for human consumption. God I love her, but she

Chris Uyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10735059697898033034noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6759911900705526129.post-48640031360625096022010-05-24T22:45:00.004+08:002010-06-21T12:30:47.896+08:00

No self-respecting Pinoy cooks/eats without kalamansi. Yet I have been doing just that this past week. It’s been tough finding them at the market lately. Or rather, you can, except they’re the size of playing marbles. Squeeze ’em and weep.The shortage has made a mess of my routine. Kalamansi juice is my juice of choice; I drink as much of it as plain water. Soft-drinks, processed juice, tea,

Chris Uyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10735059697898033034noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6759911900705526129.post-38952670090556110552010-05-18T01:06:00.047+08:002010-06-15T20:33:24.041+08:00

Before I left Manila — and school — for good, home was an apartment on Vito Cruz Street.1 I had hopped my way there from three previous addresses in the same area (Malate) and from such diverse points as Makati, Quezon City, Las Piñas, and my friend Bubbles’ place in Parañaque. I was constantly on the move that my mother had stopped keeping track of my whereabouts; she made up for it by refusing

Chris Uyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10735059697898033034noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6759911900705526129.post-37304730990569221052010-05-13T10:05:00.011+08:002010-05-15T09:28:36.620+08:00

Waste not, want not. Pickled watermelon rind? Why not? I’ve done papaya, cucumber, bamboo shoot, cabbage, pepper, okra, bitter gourd, chive, water spinach — what’s one more?But first, let’s talk about watermelons in general. What do you know about them? I ask because I overheard my mother saying something about their lack of nutritional value, and I realized that I didn’t know enough about the

Chris Uyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10735059697898033034noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6759911900705526129.post-30898961862367665702010-05-06T20:48:00.021+08:002010-06-15T18:17:35.001+08:00

There’s this thing A. does. “Hey!” he’d say. “I made [name of dish] today and it was perfect!”Damn if that doesn’t get my goat every time. For starters, he sounds like he’s channeling Kris Aquino when he says it: smug, shrill, and sickeningly saccharine. The way he casually tosses off that superlative, squeaking and drawing it out (purr-fehhhct!)… “Krissy,” I’d counter, doing a Boy Abunda. “What

Chris Uyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10735059697898033034noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6759911900705526129.post-65470821843063262212010-04-30T23:39:00.080+08:002010-06-21T12:21:31.958+08:00

What’s sweet and juicy and yellow? Had you asked me yesterday, watermelon would have been the last thing to come into mind. Then my father bought some from a neighbor this morning; I sliced one open and there it was: Noynoy!I had been down this road before. Purple cabbage. Red lettuce. Blood oranges. You know what? It seems that the more unnaturally colored a fruit or veggie, the more of an edge

Chris Uyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10735059697898033034noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6759911900705526129.post-84890929078752506002010-04-14T21:42:00.031+08:002010-05-08T16:39:50.640+08:00

It wasn’t until I was fifteen that I had my first hamburger. Some of you will doubtless scoff at this claim as another of my exercises in hyperbole, but it’s cross-my-heart-and-hope-to-die true. Burgers weren’t always a big thing in this country. The same could be said of lechon manok. Or pizza. I’m old, see: I can easily imagine life without those things because I was there when they weren’t.

Chris Uyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10735059697898033034noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6759911900705526129.post-51404620315762209272010-03-30T12:43:00.061+08:002010-06-08T19:18:34.391+08:00

People complain about the heat the way they do about rain in September. It’s summer, get it? Granted, it’s inordinately hot, but you know very well why that is.Why not think of the heat as your friend instead? Get a tan. Paint the roof. Launder that grubby duvet. I’m sure you’ll think of something. Me, I’m drying some finger chilies I found at the market a few days ago. While other vendors only

Chris Uyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10735059697898033034noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6759911900705526129.post-37313528496006453342010-03-28T20:47:00.082+08:002010-05-21T18:15:20.639+08:00

There are three things you can be sure of when summer hits these parts: the heat, the fiestas, and the letters of solicitation. The first is a given, the second a matter of tradition as much as practicality (why risk ruining a celebration by holding it during the rainy season?), while the third is, not to put it too harshly, a drain on one’s goodwill.You can tell that that bothers me, no?

Chris Uyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10735059697898033034noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6759911900705526129.post-186119230292538452010-02-27T16:42:00.033+08:002010-05-05T18:08:58.064+08:00

She didn’t want a party. That’s what she said: “No party. Not this time.”“But it’ll be your sixtieth! Doesn’t that call for a celebration? Jerome and Tots will even be flying in from Manila!”She pursed her lips, shook her head, tried to look convincing. “Then throw a party for your friends, if you want. I’ve had it with parties. Too much work. My heart can’t take it anymore.”Now she put it that

Chris Uyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10735059697898033034noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6759911900705526129.post-38256235549184329342009-09-03T16:45:00.010+08:002010-08-20T23:17:07.222+08:00

Dunno about you, but I keep processing this tidbit of information as (a brain) | (spinal cord defect) instead of (a (brain|spinal cord) defect). Pass me some folate, will ya?

Chris Uyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10735059697898033034noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6759911900705526129.post-82709703111865573892009-08-14T11:20:00.026+08:002010-08-02T17:38:18.976+08:00

At first I laughed. Asked if he thought he deserved to be named National Artist for Visual Arts and Film, Magno Jose Caparas, more famously known as Carlo J., told ANC’s Cheche Lazaro: “Alam mo, talagang bagay sa akin… Kasi ang image ko, nationwide. Ang trabaho ko, binabasa, pinapanood sa buong bansa… Pambansa ang imahe at trabaho ko.”1Yes, I laughed. Then I realized: This isn’t funny at all.2

Chris Uyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10735059697898033034noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6759911900705526129.post-52755768602438003722009-08-08T22:10:00.023+08:002010-05-05T18:17:00.266+08:00

Where I live, it is impossible to find decent crusty bread. One or two bakeries make baguettes — French bread, they’re called. The French would be insulted, tough and desiccated those things are. If you need bread to go with pasta or make sandwiches, the only other alternative is spongy American bread. Most people have no problem with that. I don’t. In the grand scheme of things, it’s not really

Chris Uyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10735059697898033034noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6759911900705526129.post-74988137566942980452009-08-04T12:51:00.019+08:002010-05-05T18:26:40.386+08:00

“It was so sad,” my friend A. was saying last night. “Every time they played that Jose Mari Chan song — you know, the one with lyrics from Ninoy’s poem — I couldn’t help but cry. So, so sad. I’m really going to miss Tita Cory…”Then he brightened up. “Guess what, though: I won! Not much, but there were too many Cory combinations.”I almost choked on a peanut. Gamblers — they’re so “with” the times,

Chris Uyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10735059697898033034noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6759911900705526129.post-25359342377164326722009-07-08T22:53:00.009+08:002010-08-02T17:46:46.701+08:00

Pentacle — check. Dagger — check. Full moon in background — check. Bride from Hell having a bad hair day — check. One look at that poster and you know this is definitely not a Woody Allen movie. Are you kidding? That girl looks creepy as a freaking can of caterpillars.But why suggest creepiness when you can spell it out, right? Enter our copywriter. Think, copywriter, think. Think comparatively.

Chris Uyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10735059697898033034noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6759911900705526129.post-2203337621141500822009-07-02T23:51:00.029+08:002010-05-05T18:31:52.247+08:00

When my cousin Tingtong was seven, his mother took it upon herself to introduce him to proper pancit. This was after she discovered that we were regularly gorging on pancit sold outside the school, right under the stand of acacia trees at the rear of the town plaza where Na Terê and Na Titang held court over their ramshackle food emporia, cajoling us to part with our five- and ten- and

Chris Uyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10735059697898033034noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6759911900705526129.post-42242442847519763172009-06-28T00:24:00.056+08:002010-08-02T17:47:49.514+08:00

I have seen people raise their brows when served monggos (mung beans) as a sweet porridge instead of the savory dish that they are accustomed to. “You’ve never had this before?” I would ask, incredulous at the fact that they have been missing out on one of the best things in life. “Oh, you’re in for a treat; you’ll see.”So it’s not the most visually appealing thing, that’s for sure. What do you

Chris Uyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10735059697898033034noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6759911900705526129.post-27152215566269856052009-06-16T12:24:00.050+08:002010-05-03T13:05:40.319+08:00

Ma’am Zony was our high-school choir mistress. Yes, I was once in a choir, even though I was (still am) tone deaf. But choir membership meant exemption from physical education class, which I loathed with every lazy bone of my 90-pound body, and if I had to move heaven and earth to get into the club, well then so be it.Not that I had to. I was friends with Ma’am Zony’s youngest daughter, a fact

Chris Uyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10735059697898033034noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6759911900705526129.post-42084878400559168782009-06-09T17:55:00.014+08:002010-05-05T18:34:05.591+08:00

One of the advantages of country living is that when city slickers come to visit, you don’t need to serve them fancy food. You are not expected to. They want rustic, man. They have come to commune with nature, to get away from “it all”. As long as there’s mobile phone coverage or an Internet connection, they’re happy campers.So why torture yourself, right? For a trip to the beach, it’s pork belly

Chris Uyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10735059697898033034noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6759911900705526129.post-24805608060034641912009-04-30T22:01:00.029+08:002010-05-25T22:29:17.482+08:00

For some people it’s a dinnertime thing, but in my case it’s just as I’m about to drift off into my siesta. At that fateful moment when I blissfully let go of wakefulness and all its attendant worries — that’s when the phone rings. And it almost always turns out to be the most inconsequential call, too.“Hello,” says an absurdly cheery voice, “this is [name of telemarketer] from [name of company]

Chris Uyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10735059697898033034noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6759911900705526129.post-25453796735961187042009-03-25T20:22:00.067+08:002010-08-02T17:58:43.293+08:00

GARLIC AND SAPPHIRESThe Secret Life of a Critic in DisguiseRuth Reichl (Penguin, 2005)“I always seem to get bad service,” I told Helen. “I don’t know why.”“Well, I do,” she snapped. “You look like an old lady.”I have to do right by Ruth Reichl. After finding two of her recipes somewhat of a letdown (see here and here), I’m compelled to say that you have to experience this book. It is written with

Chris Uyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10735059697898033034noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6759911900705526129.post-37263536745802599412009-03-13T23:42:00.009+08:002009-09-23T17:31:43.855+08:00

Lately, the cook has taken to watching her favorite teleserye in my room. It’s about two guys who are in love with the same girl, the twist being that they turn out to be brothers (half-brothers, actually — they have the same father). One is dirt-poor and the other rich, and both their mothers are continually at each other’s throats; it pays to familiarize yourself with the “down” volume button

Chris Uyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10735059697898033034noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6759911900705526129.post-18928069684190231592009-03-07T00:40:00.009+08:002010-05-05T18:40:26.451+08:00

People read for a variety of reasons. I’m talking about reading as a voluntary act, as opposed to, say, reading the Noli or Fili as a course requirement; you’re not supposed to do a report/be quizzed on a book and love said book, too — that’s perverse. For an author to be required reading almost always unfairly ruins that author for legions of students. García-Márquez didn’t enchant as much when

Chris Uyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10735059697898033034noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6759911900705526129.post-31402672906479181382009-03-03T22:51:00.079+08:002010-06-05T00:05:07.545+08:00

You’d think that after that episode with the clam soup, I would have known better than to believe everything I read, even if it was by the editor-in-chief of Gourmet magazine. Once burned, twice shy, right? Apparently not. It seems my brain is wired a lot looser than you give me credit for. It must have short-circuited when I came across another Ruth Reichl recipe, this time for gougères. She

Chris Uyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10735059697898033034noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6759911900705526129.post-58148252421646071672009-02-26T22:10:00.027+08:002010-05-05T18:44:32.637+08:00

My friend Eva is a wonderful cook, but don’t tell her that. It embarrasses her. She seems to think that because she is basically self-taught, it disqualifies her cooking from any praise — as if a simple meal well executed could not in itself be considered a culinary achievement. She is so damned modest, it drives me nuts.Good food is good food; it matters not if it is cooked for an hour or not at

Chris Uyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10735059697898033034noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6759911900705526129.post-26704436265433742192009-02-18T13:26:00.016+08:002009-09-15T03:39:02.315+08:00

You read right, and it gets better, I assure you. These crab balls are crispy-chewy, delicious, and totally addictive. They’re also a cinch to make. In sum, not a good thing. Scary, even. That’s why I want to give you the recipe. If I couldn’t stop gorging on these sinful spheres of starch, I might as well ruin your diet, too.You see, I had been trying to get rid of the bags of imitation crab

Chris Uyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10735059697898033034noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6759911900705526129.post-37250883668539779602009-02-13T00:18:00.016+08:002011-05-29T23:20:10.898+08:00

“What,” asked the cook, “is the point in using wine when plain water will do?”Good question. I was reading Ruth Reichl’s Garlic and Sapphires: The Secret Life of a Critic in Disguise and took a fancy to her recipe for moules marinières (literally, “sailor’s mussels”) — or rather, the wine component of it, which struck me as a bit effete.Not Manang, though. She found this silly. “What’s wrong with

Chris Uyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10735059697898033034noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6759911900705526129.post-8724510720763300252009-02-05T00:50:00.008+08:002010-05-05T18:47:57.403+08:00

(If you’re not familiar with MarketManila.com, this post is not for you. This is for believers, er, site regulars only; otherwise you won’t have any idea what I’m talking about — not that that doesn’t happen often around these parts.)What if Marketman runs for Congress — and wins?In any other setting, such a scenario would be considered a folly — madness, even. But here we’re talking about the

Chris Uyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10735059697898033034noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6759911900705526129.post-30911194931107886332009-01-30T23:17:00.044+08:002011-05-29T23:22:50.271+08:00

#1 How far removed are you from the source(s) of your nourishment?I remember a time, not that long ago, when I could still identify the provenance of the food that graced our table. At least some of it, anyway. Rice from my mother’s family’s farm, plus all sorts of fruit in season. The occasional bangus from an uncle’s fishpond. Chicken, usually as payment for repair work from cash-strapped

Chris Uyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10735059697898033034noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6759911900705526129.post-1247276913213846972009-01-05T23:53:00.032+08:002010-06-02T02:45:43.723+08:00

On Christmas day, Windows greeted me with this message:USB Device Not RecognizedOne of the USB devices attached to this computer has malfunctioned, and Windows does not recognize it.Bill Gate’s blasted operating system was mighty insistent about it, too, pestering me at fifteen-second intervals. Most annoying, especially since I didn’t have a clue how to fix the problem.So in the time-honored

Chris Uyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10735059697898033034noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6759911900705526129.post-82020683571275286382008-12-19T12:57:00.026+08:002010-05-05T18:53:11.429+08:00

If I told you that I could pinch the unholy crap out of you with my toes, would you believe me? I guess you would. If you didn’t, well, all I’d need is enough proximity to convince you otherwise. The bottom line is, don’t gainsay me on this one unless you’re a masochist.My mother once let drop that that must have been because she had a mad craving for crabs when she was pregnant with me. That

Chris Uyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10735059697898033034noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6759911900705526129.post-89041445618932252392008-12-17T23:26:00.008+08:002010-05-16T22:55:01.607+08:00

This, friends, is my vegetarian version of the taco: store-bought shells stuffed with thinly sliced cabbage and lots of grated cheddar or Monterey Jack cheese, topped with thick ’n’ chunky salsa or pico de gallo, and toasted for a minute or two.This is definitely not taco the way it is made in Mexico. I could not care less. It’s delicioso. Looks a bit underfilled, but that’s from the cheese

Chris Uyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10735059697898033034noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6759911900705526129.post-33046485206431312302008-12-12T18:01:00.013+08:002010-03-27T12:51:24.849+08:00

Dear Ms. Ramos,I admire you; I really do. You remind me of my lola, who also survived the war and went on to build a successful business from modest beginnings. Of course, you’re out of her league — you own National Bookstore and Powerbooks, as if you need reminding — and she’s already dead, my grandma, while you’re still up and at it. But that’s beside the point, isn’t it? The point is that when

Chris Uyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10735059697898033034noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6759911900705526129.post-80740149168352128642008-12-08T23:35:00.026+08:002010-05-05T18:55:08.269+08:00

Cebu, November 15 — My stomach was in knots as the taxi made its way up Villalon Drive. I was going to a party (of sorts) and I hate parties, especially that part where I have to open my mouth… to converse. I don’t mind telling you that I’m absolutely lousy at conversations. When cornered into one, I prefer to let the other person do all the talking while I supply the appropriate non-verbal

Chris Uyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10735059697898033034noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6759911900705526129.post-64362781614519351632008-11-20T19:51:00.047+08:002010-04-19T21:55:54.577+08:00

The latest addition to my “I-didn’t-know-you-could-do-that!” list is pickled kangkong (water spinach). It came with our order of grilled mackerel, looking all-too familiar in that curious way that makes you doubt your eyes. “Excuse me,” I said to the waiter. “Is this what I think it is?”Of course it was. I just wanted to be sure, you see, because kangkong has always struck me as having limited

Chris Uyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10735059697898033034noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6759911900705526129.post-50436440612335588192008-09-17T23:12:00.024+08:002010-03-05T21:12:12.810+08:00

A PLACE CALLED HERECecelia Ahern (Hyperion, 2006)Have you ever been in a situation where you were pretty sure you had said something particularly clever or deep, and people just didn’t get it? I feel this novel, Cecelia Ahern’s fourth, is the literary equivalent of that situation, except in this case I’m the one who doesn’t get it. (And for saying that I’m not altogether sure if I should be

Chris Uyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10735059697898033034noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6759911900705526129.post-2972110664012106622008-09-02T23:56:00.017+08:002010-03-27T12:57:02.171+08:00

Just so we’re clear: I’m not all that crazy about lettuce. At best, it’s light, crisp, and fat-free; it adds color and bulk to salads and takes a minute to prepare. At worst, well, try getting your ass as far as possible from where lettuce is grown — like where I live, for instance — and sample the kind sold there; that’s where the really naughty lettuce are sent to die, far from the

Chris Uyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10735059697898033034noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6759911900705526129.post-66714751816619342862008-08-24T20:33:00.017+08:002010-05-05T18:58:44.299+08:00

Back in the late ’80s when I was still in college, there was this joint located right across the road from La Salle Taft that our be-acned cabal frequented. It called itself an “eatery” or something like that, but what it was, in fact, was a beerhouse. I have no idea if it’s still around, but for reference there was a diner next door that catered less to culinary appetites and more to the baser

Chris Uyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10735059697898033034noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6759911900705526129.post-43274342097557863772008-08-20T10:59:00.025+08:002010-08-02T18:02:44.038+08:00

People love a secret — or the idea of it. They want to know the “secret” to staying healthy, say. But is there one? Or are they really asking, “Is there any way to look and feel good without the hassle of eating sensibly and exercising regularly?” You know, just in case there actually is. At any rate, no one likes being told the secret is something called “self-discipline” and that it doesn’t

Chris Uyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10735059697898033034noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6759911900705526129.post-91813334924655036242008-08-12T23:21:00.028+08:002010-03-25T21:27:52.649+08:00

I confess to having a problem with appetizers. I eat one, and, my appetite stimulated, I reach for another. Then some more…And then I’m sated. End of meal.Fortunately, Filipino meals are a one-act affair. No preliminaries. Everything is laid out on the table and what you see is what you get (which reminds me of a cousin; we were at a multi-course dinner and by the third or fourth course she was

Chris Uyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10735059697898033034noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6759911900705526129.post-49039393441045317662008-08-08T11:43:00.024+08:002010-06-27T18:58:51.252+08:00

Are you up for some idle speculation? On the table is the matter of how a certain fish got its name. Ready?Analogy. Once upon a distant time, an Anglo-Saxon fisherman reeled in a strange specimen from the shallows. “Well look wat we ’ave ’ere,” he said to his companion. “Ne’er seen the likes of dis fish afore, ’ave we? Just lookit ’em big peepers an’ funny snout — don’t dem remind you dose

Chris Uyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10735059697898033034noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6759911900705526129.post-43171661897183851362008-08-04T01:41:00.009+08:002009-09-20T22:07:40.854+08:00

“I was born a manang. Movies give me a license to be someone else.” — Sharon Cuneta, actress“Take the trouble to notice and reflect, and you get more questions than answers.” — Ambeth Ocampo, historian“Open [this] book to any page, pick a sentence at random, and if it is overwritten, take a shot of vodka. You will be drunk in three pages.” — Jessica Zafra, writer, on Edward Docx’s Pravda“Here’s

Chris Uyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10735059697898033034noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6759911900705526129.post-10038122106757240122008-07-31T00:00:00.024+08:002010-05-05T19:06:47.064+08:00

Usapa nâ!As far as eating goes, words are the last thing you should put into your mouth. It’s okay for them to leave said orifice, but for them to find their way back — well, maybe you shouldn’t have opened your cakehole too soon. Now open up and say, “Ahhh!”Visayans have a lot of expressions involving food and eating, a fair share of them put-downs. Here’s a sampling. Use them, if ever, with a

Chris Uyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10735059697898033034noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6759911900705526129.post-33616859002527094892008-07-19T19:51:00.012+08:002010-03-19T20:25:46.787+08:00

PEONY IN LOVELisa See (Random House, 2007)As she lay dying, my paternal grandmother summoned me to her bedside. “Forgive me,” she said. For what, I had no idea. She remained lucid to the end, so she couldn’t have mistaken me for my cousin Buddha, who was once caught stealing candles from the family store and for which stunt was deposited into a sack that Lola ordered hung from a beam in the

Chris Uyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10735059697898033034noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6759911900705526129.post-44790718522742909842008-07-16T16:26:00.018+08:002010-08-02T18:04:46.593+08:00

Fear not, chicken lovers: I am not here to malign your beloved fowl. I think it’s only fair to tell you that that fried chicken nobody had for lunch a couple of days ago — it underwent a makeover, staged a comeback bid and acquitted itself honorably. We had it three ways and thoroughly enjoyed the results.As you may have already guessed, the basic recipe was chicken mayonnaise, or, as I prefer to

Chris Uyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10735059697898033034noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6759911900705526129.post-34570840806664028612008-07-10T22:25:00.009+08:002009-09-30T17:54:06.676+08:00

I have mentioned before that my sister’s a vegetarian. She picks her food the way she picks her battles, which is to say she’ll no more eat meat than try to lecture us on the evil of our ways — a sensible attitude, if you ask me, since in such manner is peace kept in the House That Worships Pork.There are trade-offs, of course. For one, she gets to paper the refrigerator — which I like to think

Chris Uyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10735059697898033034noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6759911900705526129.post-49700015049202804482008-07-06T18:35:00.019+08:002010-05-05T19:08:29.410+08:00

That’s right: the pizza dough recipe was short two cups of flour. There I was, sweating over the kitchen counter, re-checking the recipe to confirm that I had done everything by the book and wondering why the goddamned mixture still had the consistency of pancake batter — there I was, indeed, oozing sweat and frustration from every pore, when it hit me: The recipe called for almost 1:1

Chris Uyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10735059697898033034noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6759911900705526129.post-49373611144283843052008-07-03T18:14:00.011+08:002010-03-21T20:31:09.134+08:00

“You’re not getting any presentation points for this one,” said my father as he eyed the adobong nukos (squid). “It’s… ugly.”And so it was. And while we’re at it, I might as well tell you this, too: I suck at cooking squid. No matter how much I stick to the recipe, mine always comes out tough as rubber. The only way I can do halfway-decent squid is by breading and deep-frying, so I pretty much

Chris Uyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10735059697898033034noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6759911900705526129.post-51158884288219247322008-06-29T14:51:00.008+08:002009-09-23T17:41:31.831+08:00

Yep, that salad is purple — deal with it. The other day, I found half a head of purple (or red) cabbage in back of the fridge’s vegetable crisper. It must have been sitting there for a good two weeks or so, but unlike its more “ordinary” relative, the savoy, which would have positively languished after all that time, this one was still edible: only the outer layer had wilted (I learned just a

Chris Uyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10735059697898033034noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6759911900705526129.post-80353626303867944072008-06-24T23:17:00.010+08:002010-10-20T23:36:48.954+08:00

Cold, day-old spaghetti sealed my fate — Sauce and cheese in pasta cooked aboil.My desire ever the bitch to foil,As temptation beckoned from its plate.What’s a bit, it said, your diet can wait;A bit, it said, lest I go to spoil.Cold, day-old spaghetti sealed my fate;Sauce, cheese and sleeping olive oil.Ah, you make as if it’s not too late,Like with shudder from it yet recoil — My gut be full, my

Chris Uyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10735059697898033034noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6759911900705526129.post-67544521119415644332008-06-18T21:03:00.008+08:002009-09-30T22:18:53.781+08:00

It is with embarrassment that I admit that, until an hour ago, I had no idea the banana heart was actually a flower. A bud, to be exact. Frankly, I had never given it much thought until I sat down to write this post.I also have to confess that my newly acquired knowledge has only led to more confusion. Let’s see… The banana is an herb which develops fruits from female flowers. And then there’s

Chris Uyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10735059697898033034noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6759911900705526129.post-49801067558291106852008-06-05T19:05:00.008+08:002010-05-05T19:11:18.150+08:00

This is about as simple as it gets: chopped carrots, squash, chayote and cabbage sautéed to a soft crunch with garlic, onions, tomatoes, bell pepper, bits of pork (or some other meat), hibe (dried shrimp), and soy sauce. Not one vegetable gets to upstage the others, volume- or flavor-wise. If this were a movie, you would say that all the major stars got equal billing, and since the egalitarian

Chris Uyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10735059697898033034noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6759911900705526129.post-77948442126707833702008-05-31T20:27:00.017+08:002010-05-16T21:32:27.169+08:00

Ujap/uyap (Bisaya), bagoong alamang (Tagalog), belachan (Malay), kapi (Thai), terasi (Indonesian): shrimp paste by any other name smells as… pungent. Make that wonderfully, mouth-wateringly pungent. One whiff of that distinct aroma and my salivary glands go into overdrive. Heaven, if it ever stinks, should definitely stink of sautéed shrimp paste.Have you tasted raw shrimp paste, though? It’s

Chris Uyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10735059697898033034noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6759911900705526129.post-44521765568507688872008-05-27T19:52:00.009+08:002010-06-02T22:26:31.707+08:00

Basil is ridiculously easy to grow. Like its equally fuss-free gardenmates mint and oregano, it thrives with minimal attention, flourishing at its own merry pace until it threatens to take over your whole garden. At which point it becomes annoying.(Which reminds me of the basil sold in supermarkets: I imagine the retailers and suppliers laughing all the way to the bank, charging so much for

Chris Uyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10735059697898033034noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6759911900705526129.post-65118063699200310282008-05-22T17:43:00.026+08:002010-05-05T18:01:12.458+08:00

In this installment, we meet some characters and hope not to recognize ourselves.Someone once suggested we do a cost-benefit analysis of the fiesta, just to see how fucked-up our priorities really are. A spoilsport, that guy. Like, where’s the fun in that? Sure it’s a disgrace how some people squander money on parties and drunken revelries when it could have been better spent on matters more

Chris Uyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10735059697898033034noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6759911900705526129.post-19581797509637010852008-05-15T20:38:00.004+08:002010-06-27T18:49:57.383+08:00

Butter is like vanilla ice cream. If it’s good to start with, you just jazz it up a bit and it takes on a whole new flavor dimension.This afternoon I made the house favorite, kalamansi-garlic butter. I always make a big batch because it goes well with just about anything: bread, veggies, meat, fish, and shellfish (that, especially). Tastes pretty darn good, too; you’ll see.To make, you need two

Chris Uyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10735059697898033034noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6759911900705526129.post-13269250438746942092008-05-14T17:22:00.013+08:002010-03-21T22:24:42.452+08:00

sin·ya·lanadjective1. Departing from a conventional or established norm.Synonyms: odd, weird, eccentric, idiosyncratic, quirkyadjective, slang2. Displaying unusual physical characteristic(s), i.e., birth defect(s), and thus considered lucky (in cockfighting).noun1. One that deviates markedly from an established norm, especially a person of odd or unconventional behavior.The root word is the

Chris Uyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10735059697898033034noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6759911900705526129.post-88156605518890222852008-05-08T20:39:00.011+08:002010-03-19T23:06:54.836+08:00

My father has very definite ideas about his food. Corned beef, for example, should never be chunky, no matter what Kris Aquino has to say on the subject. Bananas must be steamed for exactly 15 minutes. Meatballs have to be a certain size. Ginger is fine as long as it isn’t sliced finely. The coffee must not go past a certain level of the cup. That sort of thing.He is, in a word, finicky. Ask him

Chris Uyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10735059697898033034noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6759911900705526129.post-84771588521561960482008-05-07T22:23:00.008+08:002010-05-17T13:08:06.709+08:00

What the f—?I’ve been eating this stuff for the past few days but never noticed the pun until someone pointed it out to me. I can imagine the marketing genius behind this having a brainstorm: “I know! I know what to call our new peanut line: Pakiaw! As in, Mani Pakiaw — get it?”What will they think of next?Oh, it’s not that good. The peanuts, I mean. Too salty. I like Happy better.Still: Mani

Chris Uyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10735059697898033034noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6759911900705526129.post-46707265697710146002008-05-05T23:49:00.008+08:002010-06-27T18:46:08.512+08:00

Last Wednesday I woke up thinking it was Thursday, had lunch, and was busy nursing a Marlboro when I had a sudden craving to have spaghetti for dinner.Perfect, I thought. Two birds with one stone. I was in no mood to cook anything, Italian night or not. Anything but spaghetti, that was.I heated up a half-cup of olive oil in a skillet and tossed in a kilo of ground beef. The cook I set to work on

Chris Uyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10735059697898033034noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6759911900705526129.post-52733669202561629452008-05-03T21:52:00.008+08:002010-06-27T19:07:41.990+08:00

I am here, friends, to tell you of the grievous sins I have committed against the noble cauliflower. Oh, they are many — many, I say unto you! In thought and deed have I sinned. Now I prostrate myself in the presence of this blameless ball of curd and beg of it forgiveness. Would that it find this shamed and contrite soul worthy.But where, brothers and sisters, where to begin this sordid litany?

Chris Uyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10735059697898033034noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6759911900705526129.post-38116725038942311212008-05-01T17:16:00.016+08:002010-04-07T00:13:38.024+08:00

In case you haven’t noticed (or don’t know; I just realized you could be anywhere in the world reading this), it’s tambis season. A friend gave me bagfuls of these babies freshly picked from the tree in their front yard. Note the deep, even coloration, the absence of bruises, the thin film of sweat from a brief stay in the fridge — this bunch screams of crunchy, please-pass-the-salt

Chris Uyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10735059697898033034noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6759911900705526129.post-84624737597106871102008-04-28T17:13:00.013+08:002010-05-05T19:18:39.760+08:00

Memories — sometimes they light the gastronomic corners of my mind. Like when I met up with my old friend Ophie online, almost two decades after we last saw each other.All of a sudden I found myself thinking of embutido. Her mom’s, to be exact. I was introduced to this Filipino version of meatloaf back in college, when Ophie took it upon herself to oversee my daily feeding, seeing as how my lunch

Chris Uyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10735059697898033034noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6759911900705526129.post-4147501060140831812008-04-24T20:08:00.008+08:002010-05-03T12:49:41.831+08:00

Dinner is served and demanding my undivided gustatory attention. This, my friends, is what I call food. Give me piniritong mangko1 any old time and I’m happy as a frog in a downpour.2The picture doesn’t do the fish justice, but once you get a good whiff of that fried aroma permeating the kitchen and an eyeful of that firm, browned meat, you know you’re in for a treat. Pair with some kick-ass

Chris Uyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10735059697898033034noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6759911900705526129.post-75286945041874897192008-04-22T22:19:00.013+08:002010-06-27T19:07:15.085+08:00

In a gesture worthy of Gloria Arroyo (she who regularly moves the observance of certain holidays if they happen to fall in the middle of the work week), my mother ordered yesterday that Italian Night this week be on Tuesday, instead of the usual Thursday. Since she and Pa would be in Cebu for the next few days, it seemed sensible to suggest that they get their Italian fix there, only to be told

Chris Uyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10735059697898033034noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6759911900705526129.post-55600224963389788452008-04-20T23:29:00.007+08:002010-03-21T18:07:58.795+08:00

Don’t you just love it when a perfectly normal conversation goes off on a tangent into Bizarreland? This one transpired yesterday, just before dinner.MA: Hoy, whatever happened to the CD you promised to burn for your father?ME: What CD?[Pause.]Oh, that one.MA: Ajaw ko ingna!1 So where is it?ME: Oh, I gave it to him, uh, maybe two days ago. Or maybe that was yesterday.MA: Bantay, tan-aw’n man natô

Chris Uyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10735059697898033034noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6759911900705526129.post-9606866185136584812008-04-19T16:25:00.015+08:002010-10-20T23:34:18.787+08:00

A nasty hangover today I woke up withShouldn’t have drunk last night the way I didPromised to stop that kind of shit forthwithKnowing full well it’s only myself I kidSat down for lunch and saw the fare:Crispy1 adobo, made with loving careDunked in sukang pinakurat2, it’s heaven, I swearDare I gorge, or only stare?Adobo, if you don’t knowIs not in cholesterol lowIt screams for rice with it to

Chris Uyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10735059697898033034noreply@blogger.com0