The Romeros
General, not an ordinary mortal. A military man, I imagined he would be stern-looking, you know. And the wife? Imeldific! But amidst the chaos, the warmth of our friendship and the shared laughter made it all bearable.
And then they arrived. That was the General? He could have been a matinee idol! With his “lady-killer” looks (do we still use that description?), especially in his heyday, I can imagine. Imelda, for sure, had had sleepless nights every time her General would be away on duty.
On the other hand, Imelda could have been one of Manila’s ramp models of her time. With her slim figure, well-defined facial structure, and sense of style, Conchitina Sevilla and Tinting Cojuangco would have second thoughts walking down the fashion ramp. And she was a funny girl, too, Imelda.
Marilyn and I enjoyed their company. It was easy to get along with them. You become a captive audience, mostly when he laughed, Raffy. We liked his sense of humor. I remember the night Marilyn invited him and Imelda to dinner. She was cooking and stressed out. Not new to me – she is, after all, the poster girl for stress. Marylin had to think about what to cook for dinner, which wouldn’t take much effort or preparation. Oatmeal, may I suggest? It would be her prompt reply each time I ring her up and ask what was cooking. “Need something to eat before taking my medicines,” was her usual refrain. But the dinner preparations, as always, turned into a hilarious adventure.
I was coming to dinner, too. I’d take care of the dessert, I said. Apple Pie! “You’re kidding,” that was Marilyn, not hiding her contempt. “We have yet to finish that apple pie you baked the other day!” My first attempt to bake an apple pie. It wasn’t bad. I was not happy with it, so I gave it to Marilyn. My fridge was full; I lied and convinced her that apple pies are best when chilled. She showed up the next day at my place for dinner — with the dreaded apple pie.
The apple pie I bought for dinner was frozen, so Marilyn asked whether we should put it in the oven before Raffy and Imelda arrived.
“It would not take long to bake; most are 10 minutes, so let’s do it later.” I wished Marilyn had been more insistent. The label said otherwise: 50-60 minutes! That someone bothered to read the instructions was sheer genius; that was after the guests were seated at the dining table, and some Jamie Oliver wannabe got curious about my frozen apple pie.
“See, I told you,” said someone in the kitchen, horrified. Enough time between the soup and the dessert, so what’s the big deal! That was me. Preheat the oven —me again. Eat your Bolognese! Yes, Marilyn served Spaghetti Bolognese. It was excellent —a significant deviation from her perennial baked chicken in mayo and oatmeal, what else? Imelda was impressed. General Raffy paid her a compliment, smiling genuinely, I thought. “You’re a good cook; I loved your Bolognese,” he said even before he had his first bite. It was a pleasant surprise, to say the least. He was a diplomat, too— the General.
The apple pie never made it to the dining table “’cause it took so long to bake it, and I’ll never have this recipe again, Oh, no!” laments Richard Harris in his version of McArthur’s Park. I could only sympathize with him. So could Imelda and her General. The oven ran hot for 60 minutes while the frozen apple pie sat in the kitchen, “melting in the dark.” Someone forgot to put it in the oven. Just brilliant! The General winked, praising Marylin once again, and raising a glass of red, he proposed a toast, “To the Cook! Prost!”
I miss those days spent with Imelda and the General. They made a couple of visits to Vienna and made more beautiful memories to keep and cherish. Mostly to remind us of the General. Raffy died in his sleep back home, not too long after his last visit.
We salute you, General. We’ll miss you.