COVID and the Birthday Boy, Err, Lolo–Rather
I miss the joy of cooking and dining with my friends. The shared experience of preparing Asian recipes — chopping and mincing — can be tiring, but it’s always worth it when we sit down to eat together. These recipes, passed down through generations, not only connect us to our cultural roots but also serve as a medium for bonding and sharing our stories. The COVID Lockdown has made my table a lonely place, especially today. But even as I sit alone, I find comfort in the improvised meal I’ve put together from what I could find in my kitchen:
The three-day-old kanin (boiled rice)
The fresh tofu.
Zucchinis.
A wrinkled red bell pepper.
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.
Disappointment struck when my neighbor canceled our dinner plans at the last minute. She had a valid reason-her husband’s Zoom seminar-but it still left me with a big bowl of fresh sardines that I had to put in the freezer. I had been looking forward to our dinner and the company. The sudden change of plans left me feeling a mix of emotions-disappointment, loneliness, and a tinge of frustration at the wasted food.
I have a fresh batch of anchovies from the same Turkish fishmonger where I got the same last week, I said. They have a new delivery again this week, so I went back to get some. We’ll have them for dinner, I said, promising to keep an eye on them while I deep-fry them, lest they burn, as happened last week. I spent quite some time scrubbing my kitchen to get rid of the stench of roasted fish and oil. I was surprised that the neighbors did not call the hotline.
There was a glimmer of hope when my friend Lynna agreed to join me for an early dinner. The anticipation of a shared meal —the thought of having someone to share my table with —added a spark of joy to my day.
“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 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 an 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. I have 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 to go overboard—buying stuff I didn’t know I had a surplus of in my pantry, like mung bean noodles, soya beans, fish sauce, soya sauce, and glutinous rice for my ginatan and palitaw. You never know when you’ll get the cravings. The list is long. My freezer cannot accommodate more items. Freezing is a bagful of saging na saba (cook-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 cold do I find myself in my flat. It is now bitterly 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 yet allowed 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 essential contact. We may choose one person to meet for us if they live alone, or we face a fine of 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 left for 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 on my terrace? The 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, made from cooked, mashed potatoes, then formed into small or medium dumplings. They’re sticky and tender; they can quickly melt in your mouth, like those home-made dumplings the mother of Heinz— a very good German friend—used to make on Sundays to go with braised beef. I think they’re the best.
“You can get them in Vienna,” Heinz 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 Heinz’s mom would serve us, but they were not the brand Heinz told me to get. Finally, I decided to go to the supermarket where he got his dumplings, but 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,” Heinz said when I called. My jaw dropped. “And stick them up to your ass,” I wanted to say. He made me understand that what he was telling me was 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. Search me. Get a jar of apricot jam, also, for my pandesal. The apricot jar dropped on the floor while I was 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 had not frozen the tiny anchovies, which had 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 zucchinis—limp, but never mind.
Anchovies, done. Potatoes and zucchini, done. I poured myself a glass of chilled white and was about to sit at the table when I remembered the cheesecake 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 source of consolation—I told a friend in a Messenger message while 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 a Covid Lockdown. COVID makes a lonely table for one. Even for a birthday boy, Lolo, rather.