My godmother, Encar, when she was alive, gave my family great big jars of uraro cookies (this local delicacy is a cross between pulburon and butter cookies) for Christmas every year – that’s every year of her very, very, very long life. As she was from Bataan, the six-year-old me thought Bataan was the Great Uraro Cookie Capital and that the uraro is its greatest gift to the world. By the time I was eight, I had reached my lifetime quota for those damned cookies. Soon, my brother, sisters and I so dreaded my ninang’s annual gift that each large jar would remain in our cupboard unopened for two or three years before it is guiltily discarded. I can imagine the exchange my mom and my older sister probably had while they decided the cookies' fate:
Ate Sushi: Ma, let’s throw this out.
Mama: No, that jar was from 1977. This is from 1976. We throw this out first.
Ate Sushi: Ok, we get rid of this next year then.
Mama: Be mindful where you throw the jar. Encar might find out -- nakakahiya naman [It would be embarrassing].
Ate Sushi: Ma, how could she possibly discover we're getting rid of these?
Mama: She's the Monsignor's sister -- you never know ...
By the time I was a teenager, the comedy that was the uraro cookie had reached legend status.
I would never have imagined then, that those dry nasty little things that threatened my life many times by refusing to slide down my esophagus, would be – more than any tangible thing in the world – what brings back warm memories of the many Christmases with Papa, Mama, Kuya Jun, Ate Sushi and Bebs, in that old house in Legion of Mary Street -- when we were growing up, when life was delightfully simpler, when we were all together.
I want a great big jar of uraro cookies for Christmas this year. **sentimental sigh**
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12.11.2002
PIGS
My neice JJ and I went for a movie date the other day. While waiting for the movie to start, happily chomping on our popcorn, the KFC commercial with the flirty date couple came on. My 30-year old friend commented only the other day how sexy that commercial was -- all that gravy and the licking and eye contact -- you know what I mean.
Looking at my 14-year old neice, I saw her grimacing. "Ninang, ang baboy nila. [Godmother, they're pigs.]"
I laughed so hard. To myself, "Oh yes, dear. Adults are."
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12.07.2002
GHOST OF CHRISTMAS PAST
Of my relatively uneventful childhood, one memory can still make me cringe. When I was five-six-seven, I did my Hawaiian dance routine at my Dad's office Christmas parties (yes, I did so more than once). In my grass skirt (which was made of plastic straw), I would sway and do my thing to the Ray Conriff Singers' immortal rendition of "Pearly Shells" and "Tiny Bubbles." Oh, the indignity!
I still have this nightmare about being on stage at my Dad’s office Christmas party. Disaster strikes when instead of “The Hawaiian Wedding Song,” the theme to “Hawaii Five-O” starts. I try to dance by hips off but couldn’t keep up and I end up in my underwear. Or something. See, I told you I was deeply scarred.
Now, years later, I am free of fearful dread that accompanies the approach of Christmas. I am an adult! And I don’t have to do anything embarrassing I didn’t volunteer for! Or so I thought.
Our new President thought it would be endearing for the Management Team to belt out a Christmas medley, ending with the rock version of “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer” at next week’s party.
What is it about me that cops like? It baffles me how when situations call for the intervention of police officers, I could -- quite effortlessly -- get on their good side.
I always could charm my way out of a ticket. Imagine, no tickets in a decade of driving. I really must have some inexplicable magical power over beings carrying a badge.
My “powers” were again proven this weekend. I was in a traffic accident. Nothing major -- my vehicle grazed another, as a jerk was driving on the wrong side of the road. (We are not in the UK or Japan; so the only explanation to why he was driving there was because he truly was a brainless jerk.)
Upon realizing the futility of our heated argument, the unapologetic Jerk and I headed to the police station to get a police report – a necessary attachment to motor vehicle insurance claims here. As soon as we delivered our story to the inspector-on-duty, all I had to do was contentedly watch Jerk squirm as the big burly officer lectured him on traffic safety – at a decibel level fitting a conversation with a grandma with a faulty hearing aide. When the officers were getting our written statements, I got a nice cushioned seat and a desk while Jerk leaned against a wall, beside a drunk in handcuffs. 'Love ya, Sergeant Rivera!
(Ala-Yoda) All my life, power over them, I have. No wait – except that one time I was questioned for attempted murder …
Sidebar: My recent silence was because I have been in a really bad mood. I've been controlling myself from writing here when I'm dead tired and piss-mad (lethal combination); as my friends are starting to think I'm meaner than I am -- putting me in the league of Miriam Santiago. No, no, no...
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