Cooks
Walter was furious. He wanted to bake, but no eggs. Our cook fried them all when he wasn’t looking.
That was in 2014.
It was a sight to behold. Walter, in his usual animated manner, was instructing our cook in English, setting aside four eggs for his baking. To my surprise, she responded in English, ‘Yes, I understand,’ and giggled. It was a moment of cultural convergence, considering I thought her English was limited to basic greetings like ‘Good morning’ and ‘Goodbye’. (This unexpected exchange of English between Walter and the cook, who was not known for her English skills, added a humorous twist to the situation and highlighted the cultural convergence.)
“Where are my eggs?” That was Walter, some time after breakfast, all set for his baking session.
“Pinirito ko, bakit?” (I fried them, why?) The cook looked at me, frowning. “Apat na itlog, di ba?” (Four fried eggs, right?).
“Korek ka dyan, four eggs! ” I agreed. She didn’t notice the sarcasm. In our culture, sarcasm is not always easy to understand.
She did it again, the new-old cook! Fine, thank you. Good luck and Goodbye!
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Ila, my long-time cook, developed cancer and, after her mastectomy, decided to quit working long before the yuletide season last year. Her departure triggered a comedy of errors – hilarious, fucking kitchen encounters starting with our search for a new cook.
My sister, who lives in Sydney, came home for the holidays, leaving her husband and two grown-up kids behind—to unwind, she said. She spent the first day unwinding and looking for a housekeeper. A married woman from our town with a small child applied and was accepted, but didn’t show up on her first day of work. Ostensibly, her baby suddenly fell ill. Most likely, she got scared when my sister mentioned other things she might do from time to time. Multitasking, you know, said my sister. Her multitasking skill was put to the test for the rest of the holidays when no-cook/washerwoman came up. To blame, I guess, was the scary factor in the functional title—the Slash!
Shortly after we arrived from Vienna, we found a new cook: Delia, widowed twice, a teenage son from her first husband, and in a relationship. Her parents were from Leyte, and they moved to my hometown when she was fourteen. She was now fifty, but her sense of style said she was going on sixteen, with a thick, dark mane, high cheekbones, deep-set eyes, and a skinny figure. Not much to eat, she said, hence the haggard look. Her cotton pullover had a deep, plunging neckline. There was not much to cover, though. She giggled when I commented on it and quickly covered her mouth with one hand, but not quick enough to hide her missing two front teeth.
“Jesusna!” Walter gasped, clasped his hands, and cast up his eyes. It was not the missing front teeth but her tight, tight short-shorts! Puki shorts, I heard my friends refer to them. Walter returned to the kitchen and set his dough mixer at full speed. He appeared to be talking to himself. Walter has a habit of repeating a word or a sentence to himself when agitated. I could only guess what he was quoting.
We hired her anyway on the spot and asked if she could start the next day, a Sunday. If only she had not made a promise to our town’s patron saint to join other devotees in a ritual dance honoring him! Walter rolled his eyes again when he heard the translation.
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Our voodoo dancer lasted a week, barely, in her job. Saturday night, she asked my sister to ask me if it was Okay to get advanced pay, although we both agreed that payday was on the fifteenth and at the end of each month. Yes, she understood, but it was her first husband’s death anniversary the next day, and she would like to offer a Holy Mass at 6 a.m. for him. Yes, she would come to work immediately after church, she promised. And yes, she was already on her way to work, she said when my sister phoned her at 8 a.m. We didn’t see her that day and the day after. She caught a severe case of coughs and colds, as told to us by her reference person. Coughs and colds, my foot! While on her way to work? Why not?
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And that was how the “English cook” found her way back to my kitchen. Poor Walter —he woke up one morning to see her in the kitchen, focused on frying eggs. I didn’t tell Walter about her being rehired, even though I knew he had said we could manage without help. He can cook, I can cook, so no problem. He hummed a tune. Agitated, you ask? Betcha!
And he doesn’t eat sinigang (sour soup) anyway. I know, but I hate washing the dishes, and how about the laundry? Walter bought a washing machine—a real one, unlike the one sold here, where you first do the laundry and then dump it in the machine. Why that? Sometime, someday, the logic behind this method will sink in, but I don’t care anymore. We have a real washing machine—a revolution in Bukid-non. You can wish us good luck with the water supply.
My English cook is addicted to telenovelas. It dawned on me that: I could not bother her while Annalisa was crying a river because of her evil half-sister; she takes a siesta after lunch, never mind if there were things to be done (Walter does, so why can’t she?); you don’t tell her not to fry eggs at 6 a.m. because they get cold and greasy when breakfast was at 8 a.m. (Of course, she didn’t comment on that, but I don’t need to be a mind-reader); and so on. I lost my temper once and reminded her about our job title distinction in my own house, and I got the silent treatment. You don’t say that to a 70-something-year-old person, especially if the person was your first-degree cousin. “You’re fired!” There were many times when I wanted to scream at her, but I didn’t want to be the contravida in my own telenovela.
Now, if you were thinking of visiting me at home and you don’t find me here, you can always try the mental asylum, the town jail, or the cemetery.
PS: She didn’t show up today. Tomorrow, too, I hope. I should be shouting “Hooray,” but I have workers to feed. They’re building a “dirty kitchen” in my backyard. Someone has to do the cooking, and that someone is me. Why the dirty kitchen? @*(#)$&!
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Fast forward to 2025.
Walter asked the newly hired cook whose English is also limited to Good Morning, Good Afternoon, and Good Evening. And some! I heard her replying in English the other day when Walter asked her what he was getting for lunch.
“Yesterday,” her reply, meaning the leftover food from yesterday.
Nga naman! Yung natira kahapon. Yesterday, di ba?