


I boast about the fact that I get ready for the upcoming week on Sundays; lunch for Monday sorted, extra-nice outfit, all emails done, head-start on creative assignments. We do early dinner as well so that we get two hours before getting into bed (10pm) to spend on wellness stuff like yoga (should really get back into it), a nice facial mask and ab crunches (hate it).
But when I work from home on a Monday, it’s like my body knows and sabotages me with habits that I thought I had gotten rid of. I fail to wake up early. I hit snooze all the way to 7:30 (I start work at 8am).
And to cap it off, I end up making a sad piece of burnt toast.
The other week, I was acting like a crazy person and complaining about ‘chaos’, ‘entropy’ and ‘flux’. But it wasn’t anything intellectual.
I was simply tired of the fact that I was doing chores constantly; that there was no end to it; that no matter how organised you are or that you’re a couple of steps ahead, things always catch up with you and you’re buried again in disorder. And you’re tired, you’d rather do something else instead. Can you ignore it for a while? How long though? Is this even a good approach?
But within 48 hours, I was over it. Life moved on whether you liked it or not.
I got a good night’s sleep, cleared my head, bought new outfits for a work-related show and put on a niacinamide face mask (my complexion was starting to look muddy).
I had work to do, bills to pay, belly fats to battle, house renovations to complete.
I can’t afford to not be my best.
I hate spring
I love waking up in the dark.
The darkness is telling me
that it’s okay. Everything will be alright.
What you can’t see, can’t be true, correct?
I don’t need to see the light.
I don’t need to be reassured,
that it’s what I need,
to make my way through.
To where exactly?
I have found my way
and it’s my way.
When I close my eyes,
it’s as close to home
as I’ll ever be.
I’ve made this once before and I wasn’t exactly thrilled. I thought it was dull and stodgy.
But the 2nd time’s the charm and I think it’s the recipe (a different one) and it’s also because I’ve used a stand-mixer for this one- you do a lot of mixing which a hand-whisk wouldn't be able to do as well.
The recipe called for a lot of creamy things and this is what you get in the end, a truly rich, ultra-creamy cake that straddles the fine line between a too-sweet and a too cheesy (savoury) concoction.
And to pair it with something that has alcohol makes it a little bit more adult, more refined.
After getting a mortgage, the next horrifying challenge you have to face would be fixing up the house you bought.
I know nothing of fixing things, let alone constructing or reconstructing stuff from scratch. If abilities and inclinations are somehow genetically passed on, then I’m truly my father’s son. Dad couldn’t be bothered not because he had better things to do, but because he was good at other things.
I try to reassure myself with that thought, that I am better with other things, but goddamn it- I wish I was good at this. The costs make me cry.
We’re having two bathrooms done, a toilet and the laundry area.
1. The sunset had its own show, its own crowd. We positioned ourselves right on the concrete breaker, hoisting one leg over the edge, but not really brave enough to have both on the other side. We sat facing each other and didn’t feel the least guilty that people who wanted to take photos couldn’t really invade our space to get a prime shot. Well, it’s first come, first served plus at the end of it we would have spent over $50 on Uber just getting in and out. For 15 minutes. Of a damn sunset.
When the tiny golden disk slipped into the ocean, everyone clapped as if it were miraculous.
Maybe it was.
2. We had Sal’s pizza and it was a beautiful day so we thought to eat it at the park. But alas, there was no shade and the noon sun was abominable, so we sat on the raised curb of the park pathways and watched the pigeons flying above Parliament Square. There was a pro-Palestinian rally on Bourke Street where our hotel was, and they were still there when we got back, all these people with their faces covered with a keffiyeh. We decided to check out the rooftop pool and fell asleep to the chants of ‘from the river to the sea. . . Palestine will be Free’.
3. The city of surcharges. NOT going to compute how much we paid in surcharges, but on some nights, we spent over $100 on cocktails. They were delicious though.
4. Found an oyster bar where you had to pick from a variety of oysters. I thought five was light, but it was strangely filling.
Spending the next weekend in Melbourne just gallivanting and our to-do list is basically populated with eating places; anything-mochi, Pinoy-fusion (very expensive though), mutant croissants preferably haemorrhaging pistachio cream, what else? Also meeting up with a college friend to try some oysters. We’ve made a vow to eat simply in the next four days.
I should stop baking on impulse. Baking should be thoughtful and intentional, calming and serene. The social media accounts that I look at from time to time are all shot at 120fps with a colour grading that implies endlessly languid summer days spent creating moist, airy confections in large, artisanal kitchens bathed in sunlight. The marble countertop gleams and the KitchenAid mixer whirs silently. Well, our kitchen is shit, so when I bake, I always tend to try to get it done as quickly as I can. I had a brownie pre-mix in the pantry and thought that finally doing a cheesecake brownie would be easier with half the recipe coming out of a box. And it was, but the results were mixed; the flavour could be better. The cheesecake was kind of bland like it needed a bit more sugar (I used half of what the recipe called for), or some topping.
It was so windy on Sunday that when I left the backdoor open, the wind just slammed it shut and while this has happened heaps of times with no incident, this time, the bottom panel shattered. I was immediately gripped with a specific kind of anxiety, unique to living in New Zealand; the inability to do home repairs myself, and the cost of hiring someone to do it. But then I remembered- we have home insurance, hooray! When we had it sorted through insurance within four hours on a Sunday, I thought that it was better than Christmas morning.
Baby-back St. Louis pork ribs for dinner because why not? I just put on a good rub on mine because I hate the sugary, one-note bbq sludge that restaurants put on their ribs.
I’m putting the sad, sludgy and gray overnight oats on the side for a while for something a bit more substantial.
I wish I had jumbo Pinoy hotdogs instead, but these are (pork) Kabbanos sausages made locally, and they would have to do. They take a while to cook through so take your time to grill them over low heat until all the little cuts you’ve made on them all bloom out like petals.
Our current spice obsession is ras el hanout which has found its way into our air-fryer chips and now, fried garlic rice. Sunny-side-up eggs are covered with our other favourite seasoning, More Than Just a Bagel Seasoning.
At the UP, this was my favourite go-to meal at Rodics who I think, invented the entire SiLog portmanteau. I didn’t care much for their signature TapSiLog because I felt that the salty, tangy beef bits demanded more rice, and the single-cup serving was never always enough. And it was never a thing back in the day to order an extra serving.
But the hotdog and rice combo was just right, and even if I can have extra rice, I won’t.
1. You can have it in two ways (white or dark) and both are equally good.
2. It’s so simple and uncomplicated to make, that it’s stupid
3. The worst thing you could do, is over-complicate it
4. Feel free to improvise; it wouldn’t change it.
5. It won’t be to everyone’s liking, but what it’s important is that you like your version.
The photo above is a cheesecake with a sliver of mochi at the bottom. It’s woefully small- my butt cheek is bigger and more substantial (now that I’m doing squats a lot). And it costs $45 per half or $110 (with delivery) for half an Ube and half a Biscoff. It’s great, don’t get me wrong, but not $110 great. Maybe, I wouldn’t have minded the price had it not arrived through the wringer of a courier debacle, because how many times have we been in a situation where we let go of a substantial sum, but didn’t mind the expense, because we got what we wanted right there and there?
But I had to wait nearly a whole week for this one and in that time, the expectation grew and grew in my head until the courier dropped off a teeny-tiny box and I thought, is this it??
I’ve certainly had a run of disappointing cakes this year, all bought with the expectation, that at a specific price point, then it must be really good. When we were in the Philippines in June, I made a mental note to try and get something (silvanas, sans sival from Goldilocks or Red Ribbon), but never got the chance. We had some cakes though for my mum’s birthday, and they were unquestionably great. Not a single thing to criticize about them. And they cost the equivalent of NZ$16.
But I’ve set out a challenge for myself - I will try and make my own mochi+cheesecake.
There’s nothing to eat in the house by way of snacks or nibbles. Crisps are only for Fridays or Saturdays. Bread is a treat. Biscuits are foreign. But we always have a tray of eggs. I cook three in a small frypan, putting in a little bit of water and putting a lid on top so that the steam cooks the yolks. A dab of butter, and onto a plate, dressed with chili oil and bagel seasoning.
It tides me over until dinner.
Plants are expensive. I wouldn’t balk at paying $300 for a pair of shoes, but to spend the same amount for a 1-metre high palm? Mmmmm. But with a couple of indoor plants certainly adding some organic, aesthetic adornment to the house, we always look forward to adding a couple more, but certainly not one that costs $300. Though if money was no object, I would fork out that much more for the appealing larger size of the plant rather than the rarity of it.
We wanted to put a plant out the newly rebuilt deck so off we went to perhaps, the best garden place in Auckland for great prices and sheer variety of choices, Roger’s Garden Centre in Mangere.
The whole set-up is outdoors- so wear footwear that can slosh through sometimes wet and muddy paths- with plants arranged by type and variety. There is a charming pavilion which houses indoor plants. In summer, it becomes a maze of luscious green vegetation and people pushing the familiar flamingo-pink wheelbarrows. In winter, it is still pretty like Sleeping Beauty’s garden, bewitched to sleep and stasis. Towards the back, a veritable forest of stick trees- peaches, apples and cherries- all bereft of leaves, seem to be waiting for that magical touch that would bring them back to life.
You always find something else other than the one you intended to buy, and for us, it was a couple of flowering shrubs that will be going to the front garden that M has been working on. And for me, I found a variegated miniature ficus; a steal (for its size) at $39.
We didn't buy this at Rogers though he had some. We bought this online and it was delivered like this allw wrapped up in carton.
a variegated ficus
People on some New Zealand Reddit boards have been posting photos of their weekly or daily groceries but I’ve been hesitant to post mine; but here it is anyway. Bear in mind that this is for two people (M does her own thing) who have no kids.
These purchases totalling just over $140 are just for the weekend (two main meals) with some of the staples like the low-carb bread (a treat), butter, eggs, yogurt and banana extending for the work week ahead. The bacon (another treat) at 1kg, is good for three meals. I’ve been weaning myself off caffeine (not that I feel any different) so bought a small jar of decaffeinated instant coffee.
The breakdown as follows:
- Crisps and dips are for Friday night snacks
- Fried chicken with brioche sliders and a buffalo ranch salad for Saturday dinner
- The whole dressed chicken for Sunday roast
- Sardines for my Sunday post-workout meal (didn’t realise there was so much fish in a single can).
I saw the trailer on Youtube with Ralph Fiennes in it.
And intriguingly, there seem to be a major character in it who happens to be Filipino- a Filipino archbishop of Baghdad (!) made a cardinal by the pope in pectore, which is an appointment made by the Pope himself without the need of revealing his identity to no one except God.
I tried Googling who got cast for the role but stopped myself as it seems I was led to sites that would have revealed something about the plot in the book.
Cardinal Benitez is described as ‘a little below average height, with a fine, handsome face. It was hard to put an age to him. His skin was smooth, his cheekbones sharp..”
Wow. That’s actually how people describe me!
Vaguely afraid of the heat. An all-enveloping one that sticks to you like how you’d feel cling film would. And you keep asking, when did it get this bad? Would you really get used to it? Is it just something in the mind, and that the mind can override it? On the fourth day, I gave up and retreated to one of the rooms to read and turned the air-conditioning on. I didn’t get to use half the usual facial stuff I normally put on my mug daily, and gave up wearing underwear altogether.
Authority/the Powers-that-be. I’d like to believe that our family name still has some value and that it’s a currency you can use when needed. But I hope that we won’t need to, not anymore anyway since we’re now citizens of another country. Or let my mother use it for herself instead to navigate an even more complex, even more sinister system running on favours, contacts and kickbacks.
Violence. I studied college in Manila and spent some time working there, but I can’t say exactly that I know it, not when the places I inhabited and moved around were places of privilege. Stepping out into a place like Cubao or Pasay is still jarring. You wish you were chameleon-like, to blend into the scenery, to look a little rough at the edges, your skin duller, your body language slightly less assured and more defeated. But have never succeeded in fooling the dodgy taxi drivers at the airport that I was an OFW, or those roving opportunists when my father was running for re-election that I was no one but the household help. Maybe it’s all in my imagination. Maybe it’s all mostly random. But I never linger, the share-ride mere minutes away to whisk me off to a ‘safer’ place, all my cash (in the mid-5 digits) stuffed in my tight pants pockets where I feel it’s safer. But in Pangasinan, I relax a little bit. I take the jeep around Dagupan which is forever fixing itself but never really succeeding. I take a tricycle home and take some perverse pleasure at all the gawking, of people trying to recognise me - look at that guy, he looks different.
The plane circled around Guangzhou for over an hour. There was a weather event the pilot said and looking out, the sky though was clear and the city below sparkled. But who knows- the weather everywhere has been strange. Then there was another announcement; the plane was being asked to fly and land in another airport an hour or so away.
So by the time we headed back, it was well past 3am and our connecting flight was canceled. When the airport staff started talking in barely incomprehensible English, my stomach lurched. You sort of realise that language universality is arbitrary; they can choose to not learn English fluently.
It felt like one of those disaster movies where people who were minding their business on the plane and keeping to themselves, suddenly start reaching out to one another. Earlier, when the plane was doing loops above Guangzhou, my seatmate who was a Filpino dairy farm hand working in Hastings started talking to me and we were hopeful, expecting it even, that no matter what happened, we were flying home to New Zealand. But it was not meant to be.
And in the chaos and babble of sleep-deprived passengers and mask-wearing airport staff, it was every man to himself. Or maybe that was just me. Growing up, I wasn’t reliant on anyone. I had to figure things out by myself whether I did a good job or not. I had to sort my shit first especially when to my shock, I was handed a boarding pass that indicated my flight to be nearly 24 hours away. The only thing I understood from the airport staff was ‘transit visa’ and ‘hotel’.
The other Filipinos were families and the Caucasians stuck together which didn’t help much as they thought that Googling the situation was better than trying to make sense of what the staff were saying. The Pinoy dairy farm hand vanished.
I managed to get the transit visa (how the officer understood my handwriting I would never know); then went through immigration where inexplicably, most of the Caucasians failed to even fill up the declaration card before getting into the queue and were asked to step out and do it first. Then I got through and it was finding the airline counter next so that they could give me accommodation.
The Filipino groups were seemingly wandering around and my first thought was that, well you do your own thing and I’ll do mine. I have never been a team person. My focus was getting out of the airport so I walked past them and left them to it. I thought briefly about my luggage and I assumed that since I was already given a boarding pass, my luggage would be delivered to that plane. If not, well, fuck it, there’s insurance.
I had my backpack which had my meds, my toiletries, and my electronics. Unfortunately, the only clothes I had were the clothes I wore for the flight, but there was nothing I could do about that.
I realised when I went through customs that we weren’t the only flight canceled. There was a queue several meters long to the China Southern counter. At this point, my hoodie was hot and my eyes were watering from being up so late. I went straight through to the counter and no one was paying attention; everyone was on their phone.
The staff were besieged by angry passengers; one even reached out to try and grab one of the staff’s keyboards. I felt sort of nauseous at the thought that this was hell, and that the worst fate of all, was being trapped in a situation not of your own making where you don’t understand the context of what was happening and where you can’t speak out.
But I knew what I wanted though - I wanted a bed. I wanted to wash my face. I didn’t want to sleep in the airport. I didn’t want to wash my armpits in a public sink. I didn’t want to amuse myself wandering into duty-free stores daydreaming of stuff I couldn’t afford.
I also was able to speak out - in the best American English I could muster 😂 - and the staff was more than happy to assist someone not screaming into her face in Mandarin or Cantonese or whatever.
In 15 minutes, I was on my way in a shuttle to the Marriott.