Of Tortillas and My Husband’s Lover
Something stupid – much more than what the song of the same title tells us – happened to me tonight preparing dinner. After some enchanted Kari-Kare (oxtail stew) evening with two friends and Walter the other day, it was time to try that tortilla recipe lifted from a Tapas book borrowed from a friend (I am glad she doesn’t seem to miss her book). Who was this book author who said not to lend your books because they never get returned and that the books he has in his library are the books he borrowed from his friends? Anyway, I’d wanted to try this recipe since the day, but each time I thought the time was perfect for this tortilla, Walter would have some Viennese recipe in mind; his kitchen rules.
Arriving in his garden house shortly after lunch today, he asked what I wanted to have for dinner. He reminded me of last night’s left-over Kari-Kare (oxtail stew). Whatever, I said. You can have the casserole, and I’ll have something else. Then I saw the Tapas book on the dining table and thought I might be lucky tonight. There was this bunch of fresh, crisp spinach chilling in the fridge since the last weekend — new harvest from another friend’s garden. Fancy that I don’t seem to run out of friends who have little treasure of a garden where everything I need for my cooking grows in abundance! And all the other ingredients for a perfect tortilla were in the fridge: mushrooms, parsley, bell pepper, parmesan cheese, eggs, and so on. My lucky day, indeed!
There was enough time to tackle the tortilla, so I enjoyed catching up on the latest on Eric and Vincent. (No clue? Check out the Philippine telenovela called My Husband’s Lover, and you can forget even the best tortilla of your life. You’ll get hooked, trust me!). Meanwhile, Walter was chopping everything I needed and reminded me it was about time I started cooking.
After some hit-and-miss with the procedure (Darn you, Vincent!), the tortilla was ready for the oven. Five minutes, the recipe says. I went back to YouTube until Walter reminded me five minutes was up. With one hand protected with a rubber hand glove, I took out the hot pan from the oven, put it on top of the oven plate, poked the tortilla with a fork to ensure it was done, and lifted the handle with my left hand sans the glove. It took a while before the pain registered in my brain, and I dropped the pan. Fuck you, Eric! Fuck you, Lali! (Vincent, I prefer.)
Cutting the tortilla with one hand was not easy. The other was greasy with burns ointment.
It dawned on me that I cannot have my tortilla and your husband simultaneously.
August 21, 2013