"Fear of Frying"

"I'm not a naturally anxious person. I am not afraid of enclosed spaces, open spaces or public speaking. I have no fear of flying. Heights have never bothered me. I view all of God's creatures - dogs, rats, cats, snakes, spiders, stingrays and sharks - as friendly, at least until they try to bite me. I am not abnormally fearful of financial ruin, male pattern baldness, impotence, the inevitable onset of senility or the prospect of dying alone. But I am terrified of kitchens."

- as shared by Andrew Humphreys on the Gourmet Traveller


Although it is the heart of the home, the kitchen was not quite the arena for me as a kid. Apart from the author's gender and seeming courage on the issue of impotence, I don't think I differed much then from Andrew Humphreys, especially on the "male pattern baldness". Memoirs from childhood also remind me of involuntarily deflecting from that direction which leads to the kitchen, mainly on Mum's advice to spend afterschool hours doing the homework. Maybe she didn't see in me that kind of innate talent Nancy had for cooking. Later on though, I learn I was meant for something almost as important, kitchen-related and otherwise.

But I was never never far from being there. I was almost omnipresent when Nancy was high on experimental baking, to lick a spatula or finger wipe that sweet batter from the mixer whisks. I was also there for taste tests and equally significant moments in Mum's trial runs. I was big on adjectives then, so a compliment or two was highly anticipated... and, of course, encouraging. :)

Dishwashing and other forms of cleaning make up the household chores I fetishised in, as Nancy was to cooking - and eating. :) Somehow, the kitchen had offered a niche for me as well. For years, especially when we were attending uni, Nancy and I were a team. With Mckoy being the utmost critic for our joined efforts' outcome (and also the biggest shareholder in terms of food servings), the kitchen was re-defined to me. Rather, it proved to me that, indeed, it is the heart of the home.

Now that I have my own kitchen, it is up to me how to make it my home's. Armed with cleaning prowess, I'm more than halfway there. I hope. It's Sunday once again, and it's that time of the week I can shape my kitchen to be the heart that it should be.

Despedidas

These past two months, we have bid temporary goodbyes to two friends who have returned to Sri Lanka. Suraj had just received his permanent residency visa and now intends to marry his long-time girlfriend before coming back, while Bathi has just had a sudden change of mind and decided to pack up for home.

Days before each left, we had despedidas for them but no more than the usual tearjerker types. Over wine and Chef Tyrone's bay trout specials, spirits were as festive as the night for Suraj with lots of conversations like he wasn't leaving. With Bathi, food or no food, there seems to be a perpetual jovial atmosphere anyway, and you can't find laughter louder than that anywhere else, though. Thanks to a couple of beers and Kappila's surprising homemaker dishes, it was quite a night to remember.

Cheers to you, Suraj and Bathi!

Pasta Marinara

So, it was pasta. And looks like he's eating. And, guess what, he's cooking it, too.

I was on my way to the kitchen (Promise!) when Hope Floats started as Sunday night's movie. Harry Connick Jr.'s rendition of More moves me, and watching his movie, I suppose, is my way of paying respect. More brings back memories of Mom singing it while playing the guitar. That was the only song she knew how to play with an instrument, and the only song I could sing without getting off-key.

Watching now, I could almost imagine Mom kicking me in the arse for letting my hubby cook after work. As a house rule, Tyrone doesn't cook on his work days. His days off, which also happen to be mine (For the lack of a real honeymoon, we have to spend his days off together.), are my days off from cooking. So you see, right now, I'm breaking a very important rule.

*poof!*