Lumpia Can Be Dangerous to Your Health
“The kitchen is burning; the kitchen is burning. Mike, Mike, do something!”
I froze! That was my kitchen!
And that was Lyanne in panic, shouting at Mike for help. Mike is her American boyfriend. All three of us worked in the same Department in the IAEA Headquarters in Vienna.
Mike is seldom in Vienna, so when I learned from Lyanne that he is in town, I invited them to a drink at my place. It is seldom that both of them are at home in Vienna when Mike visits. Lyanne makes travel plans for both of them. One day they are in the country, somewhere else next, and then Mike is back in the US. It surprised me hearing Lyanne saying they would gladly come “tomorrow.”
She suggested that perhaps I could also invite another couple, friends of ours—Harald and Elisabeth. Elisabeth was also a work colleague.
“It’s only for a drink,” I said to Lyanne. I didn’t have to tell her that I could only do that much because of my recent surgery. Not ready to entertain big time when I do all the works. That was Ok with her.
I was thinking of an Aperol cocktail when I said to come for a drink. It’s easy to make. But knowing what they like most, I check my bar to see what I have. I found the things one needs for a caipirinha—a bottle of Pitu, that essential Brazilian spirit. I got fresh limes in my fridge and a bag of crushed ice in the freezer. And the stuff for Margarita, I have them, too. Let La Vida Loca begin.
Lumpia was the best finger food I can think of to go with the drinks. It was a coincidence that I have all the stuff in my freezer—lumpia wrappers, shrimps, ground mixed pork, and beef. And there was fresh tofu l I got the other day together with the coriander. In my kitchen apron, I was Nora Daza or Aling Charing once more. Suddenly my kitchen smelled exotic again. Daza and Aling Charing were Filipino cooks and cookbook authors.
I was wrapping the last lumpia roll when my doorbell rang at precisely 4 pm—very punctual, very un-Filipino. I forgot for a while there that my guests were not Filipinos. I may have an Austrian passport but am still a Filipino to the core—getting late for an appointment is no big deal. We always say sorry naman with a smile. Trapik e! (Sorry, traffic on the road).
Lyanne was carrying a big bag. Inside were the ingredients for caipirinha, which I have at home. To be sure we have enough, she said—Mike, with a bucket of ice which I also have. In case we ran out, that was Lyanne again.
Lyanne was our caipirinha bar-tender in the office and at Walter’s garden some summer ago. I had one too many of that drink one end-of-work in the office when she made caipirinhas to say TGIF to everyone. I could feel the spirits getting in my system—my head was spinning, I was getting loud talking nonsense (or making sense) scaring some that I may out them, a workmate said when we came back to work Monday.
Walter picked me up from work after Lyanne phoned him. I won’t be able to make it home, she said. I woke up the following day with my head pounding and saw the trail of what I wore at work scattered from my doorway to my bedroom.
“No more caipirinhas for you, ever again!” Walter’s last parting words after he delivered me to my apartment and drove home. He had to carry me practically to his car parked outside Checkpoint 3 of the UN. It was a long walk, winding if you were thoroughly inebriated.
It must have been a nightmare for Walter that he screamed at Lyanne as she was about to hand me a glass of caipirinha that one summer day in his garden.
„No caipirinhas for him!“ That night I saw one garden guest stumbling on the ground as she crashed against the garden wire barrier fence on her way out. She had one too many. That was how I may have been when Walter picked me up that fateful caipirinha night in the office.
Never again, I swore until the next caipirinha day when we could have been charred to death beyond recognition.
I ran to the kitchen and saw the casserole where I deep fried my lumpia, engulfed in flame. Thick plumes of smoke billowed, yet I could see that the blaze was an inch away from kissing the exhaust fan. Lyanne told me to put the lid on the casserole to stop the flame, but it didn’t help until I covered it with a wet towel. Then, we opened all the doors and windows in my flat and ran out to the walkway until the smoke cleared. We were gagging and must have been loud, but no one but one person noticed the commotion. Finally, Lyanne explained a fire in the kitchen, but it was over now.
Mike and I were still coughing when we returned to the living room. Lyanne said we should start with the caipirinhas—to shake up our nerves. After my first sip of the drink, I burped—it tasted of soot. My lungs must have been black from the smoke I inhaled. Mike said he felt his sinuses cleared. What a way to get healed of his winter problem.
My guests said they had their fill when I suggested that I still make some more spring rolls, although I need a new cooking pot. The one caught in flame was beyond rescue. When I spooned out the batch of fried lumpia from the casserole, I left the plastic ladle in it with the oil still boiling hot that it melted, which must have started the fire. The heat caused the plastic bottle of vinegar standing near the stove to bend. No more spring rolls for them as they finished whatever lumpia was there before the blaze.
I don’t remember the time Mike and Lyanne left. I remember that I passed out when I reached the bedroom and could not stand up when I woke up the next day. My world was spinning. I felt like throwing up, but it was not easy. My stomach was empty from not having had anything since breakfast. Somehow I managed to get up for the bathroom and then the kitchen. I was dehydrated. I needed something very, very cold to drink. I thought that my splitting headache worsened, and my defibrillator ceased to work when I saw the kitchen. It was like Iraq in ruins.
I went back to bed until I was sober again around 2 pm and took a hot shower. That was when I realized that I must have soot in my hair and skin when the water gathered under my feet looked grey. Indeed, it was grey! It was the longest shower I ever had.
Lyanne and Mike were right–no more lumpia for them. They can be dangerous to your health. They can also make you homeless.
And caipirinhas? Ask Walter what he has to say. H…!