The COVID Lockdown and The Birthday Boy! Lolo, Rather

• By ebotpandayan
• Posted in Uncategorized
• On November 26, 2020
• 4 Comments.

I miss my friends with whom I share spontaneous cooking and dining. Asia recipes involve a lot of chopping and mincing; they can be exhausting. Sometimes I feel that it’s not worth all the effort that goes into the preparation, especially if you are alone, like me.

The COVID Lockdown makes a lonely table—like today. Never mind if what I was having were improvisations from what I could find in my kitchen:
The three-day-old boiled rice.
The fresh tofu.
Zucchinis.
The half of red bell pepper, now wrinkled.
A bunch of fresh coriander.
A big bowl of egg whites; from eight eggs. I only needed the yolks for my Baliwag Pandesal. Yes, the cursed bread rolls I baked the other day.

The fresh little anchovies I got yesterday from the Turkish grocer must go to the freezer after my neighbor canceled out dinner with me at my place. She told me that her husband would have a Zoom seminar, and she didn’t want to distract him with the TV. She asked if she could drop by and watch Netflix.

I have a fresh batch of anchovies from the same Turkish fishmonger where I got the same last week, I said. They have new delivery again this week, so I went back to get some. We’ll have them for dinner, I said, promising I will keep an eye while I deep-fry them, lest they burn like what happened last week. I spent quite some time giving my kitchen a good scrub to get rid of the filthy smell of roasted fish and oil. I was surprised that the neighbors did not call the hotline.

This other retiree friend, Lynna, who said yes, would join me for early dinner. That was this morning during our morning brisk-walk with Marilyn, the neighbor who canceled out dinner with me.

“We’ll see, “I told myself. I know Lynna quite well. She stood me up on countless occasions before, calling at the last minute when dinner was already cold to say she could not make it. Or she won’t bother to call at all. Oh, how many times have I promised myself to kill her one day. Read the handwriting on the wall. The day never came; the writing on the wall was still there—though no longer that legible. Ours was a case of a love-hate-love relationship. Platonic, I don’t need to convince you. And yet, we still have each other, to hate and to love till she is dead.

“So see you later for early dinner, “I said to Lynna as we got off the subway after coming from the city where I got a whole frozen goose for Walter to roast on my birthday.

“No, I cannot. Got so many things to do at home. ”

Oh, wow! Look, the handwriting on the wall is getting legible again!

Meanwhile, I must refrain from going to the grocery stores, especially to Asian shops. There’s always the temptation of going overboard—buying stuff that I didn’t know I have a surplus in my pantry like mung beans noodles, soya beans, fish sauce, soya sauce, glutinous rice for my ginatan and palitaw. You never know when you get the cravings. The list is long. My freezer cannot accommodate more items. Freezing is a bagful of saging na saba (cooked bananas); jackfruit, paper wrappers for lumpia and turon (banana fritters); banana leaves for my suman; longanisa and boneless bangus for breakfast; buko-cassava suman I brought from home in June. And many more that I can run my own Asia sari-sari store. Why the hoarding? In case of emergency, my justification. I have yet to use those frozen banana leaves I bought last summer. The truth is, I never had the time to make use of them. I spend much of my time entertaining friends in the garden, and only when it gets freezing that I find myself in my flat. It is now bitter cold, and the garden-house is closed for Winter—the time when we go back to the Philippines.

The sad news is, we cannot this time. Non-Philippine passport holders are not allowed yet to fly home.

Never mind, I consoled myself. At least I can now make use of all the frozen goodies I’d been keeping and invite my friends. Tuloy ang Ligaya! Let the party begin.

And then the spoiler—the Lockdown prohibitions.

Austria is in its second Lockdown where people are only allowed “to spend time with those in the same household, their partner, or a “single close or important “contact. We may choose one person to meet for us who live alone, or else we get fined for up to €1,450. The fine scares me more than anything else. With that amount of money, I can go to the Philippines and back, and still have a hefty sum to spend on shopping and treating friends to a lovely dinner. I did not know about the penalty until now.

What shall I do then with the 4-kg goose thawing in my terrace? Weather temp is between 1C and 2C lately, so my deck is once again a large fridge. When roasted, it goes very well with red cabbage and potato dumplings. I am not a fan of potato dumplings. Walter loves telling everyone that I look like a hamster when eating potato dumplings, especially those made with bread. My cheeks resemble those of a hamster’s because it takes me a while to swallow. I prefer the Kartoffelklöße, which is from cooked potatoes, mashed, and then formed into small or medium-size dumplings. They’re sticky and tender; they can quickly melt in your mouth, like those home-made dumplings the mother of a German friend used to make on Sundays to go with braised beef. I think they’re the best.

“You can get them in Vienna, “my friend told me and mentioned the name of the supermarket selling them. I thought all supermarkets sell them, so I went to one and didn’t find the specific dumplings. They have organic ones similar to what my friend’s mom would serve us, but they were not the brand her son told me to get. Finally, I decided to go to the supermarket where my friend got his dumplings, yet they were not there. I saw all kinds of dumplings— for regular people and vegans.

All the time, I was looking in the frozen food section. And all the time, the dumplings were on display alongside cheese, milk, and butter. Pureed potatoes. Not dumplings

“Oh, you make dumplings out of those,” my friend said when I called. My jaws dropped. “And stick them up to your ass, “I wanted to say. He made to understand that what he was telling me were those ready-made dumplings, which you dump into boiling water—another case of Lost in Translation.

I was like, “fix und Fertig, “as they say in German. I was done and exhausted. Why can’t I have rice to go with that bloody roasted goose? Back home, in the Philippines, I sit and relax. Someone does the organizing.

I had to dash to the supermarket for the nth time. This time, to get the stuff for my cheesecake. A glass jar of red cabbage, too, for the goose, or gander, maybe? Search me. Get a jar of apricot jam, also, for my pandesal. The apricot jar dropped on the floor while emptying my basket into the cash register-conveyor. I apologized to the cashier, who said that shit happens, no problem. Yes, shit happens, and it happens to me all the time.

I was famished when I got home and thankful that I did not freeze the tiny anchovies, which have been chilling in my fridge for the last two days. Lifesavers! There were potatoes on the kitchen top, growing roots, and butter beans. They go well with the anchovies. I had enough rice in the last couple of days to last me until the New Year. But, of course, it’s a lie. I found potatoes on the kitchen top, growing roots, and zucchinis—limp but never mind.

Anchovies, done. Potatoes and zucchini, done, I poured myself a glass of chilled white and about to sit at the table when I remember about the cheesecake that was baking in the oven—done, too—a grim reminder that I am getting very ancient.

I decided many years ago to accept the inevitable. My only font of consolation—I told a friend in a Messenger message while looking admiring my birthday cake—is that others had not been so lucky. I should be thankful that I will be seventy-two.

Seventy-two? Yes, 72, my foot!

I wish I could celebrate and share my cheesecake, and the Martinigansl, with my dear friends. Meanwhile, I am dining alone and will be alone for as long as there is Covid Lockdown. Covid makes a lonely table for one. Even for a birthday boy, Lolo, rather.

But then I’ll make tomorrow an exception. Walter and Richard and Marylin and her husband are coming to dinner. We cannot make noise though. No birthday song this time. Neighbors, you know.