The Official Name Game

This I have to say: the e-census service of the National Statistics Office is really efficient. Three days after completing my online transaction, I got a copy of my official birth certificate. I didn't have to do the requisite table hopping that is the norm in most government offices, I didn't have to wait in line and I certainly didn't have to wait out the lunch break in the virtual company of Tito, Vic and Joey.

Having said that, I still believe that we put too much faith in the hands of mere mortals who are supposed to safeguard the records of our lives. My birth certificate--the data on which are hand-written (which in effect pegs my era as pre-Olympia and pre-Microsoft)--had the generic "Baby" before what I thought to be my real first name. And to think I used to laugh at my two aunts--the two "Babys"--who are now senior citizens!

It will take a court hearing and subsequent publications--and the corresponding fees, of course--to get rid of the offending "Baby." Clerical error, they call it, which doesn't exactly say much about our clerks.

So now I join the ranks of those with horrific stories about their vital records. A friend who is obviously female had to go through a sex change on paper: she was registered as a "he." Another friend married a girl who was born in Taiwan. On the marriage certificate, he became the "Taiwanese."

And then there's Sister Number Four, whose baptismal records showed that our Dad is not her father. This, of course, did not sit well with my Mom, who was this short of hieing off to a nunnery in her younger years. When she checked the church logs, it turned out that the record keeper skipped an entry, and all the children on that page had the "wrong" fathers. :p

The Great Tights Chase

I am a certified last-minute shopper. Stores--especially the part where the clothes are--sting my eyes and I end up all red-eyed and puffy. So I usually wait, and wait, and wait, for that now-or-never moment to venture into a clothing store.

Last week had me weaving in and out of places that I haven't been to in a long, long time. The daughter needed tights for a school program, and I guess I gave the department stores hereabouts way too much credit. I figured I'd have a pair in 15 minutes--with enough time to spare.

Alas, things were not meant to be. As the minutes wore on, and as the stores I went to became more and more of the stores of my childhood (think Sampaguita, Hollywood, D'Best and Goodwill Bazaar!), I began invoking the saints and the muses of dance. To no avail, of course.

An hour later, I gave up and begged Teacher to allow my daughter to dance in leggings. Of course I could have made the hour-long trip to Legaspi but the husband doesn't like spur-of-the-moment drives and the two of us are not exactly Amazing Race material. :p

On the day of the performance, more than half of the girls were IN leggings.

What do you know? I am not the only last-minute shopper in Sorsogon!

Yeto's Beef Caldereta

In memory of Sir Yeto--he who lived, loved and laughed well. And left us with memories of high school, a dreamy kitchen and growing up in a small town.

Sir Yeto generously shared this in a feature in Food: The Magazine of Good Cooking.

2 kilos stewing beef, cut into pieces
10-12 cups water
1 kilo pork liver
2 cups grated Cheddar cheese
2 cups tomato sauce
1 cup vinegar
1/4 cup brown sugar
salt to taste
2 cups sliced pimientos morones or fresh baguio pepper
2 cups pitted green olives
1/4 cup olive oil
3-4 cloves garlic, crushed
1 cup sliced onion
1 small can or two long pieces chorizo de Bilbao, cut crosswise into 1/2" slices
salt and pepper to taste

Put beef in a large casserole and pour enough water to cover. Cover casserole and bring water to a boil then lower heat immediately to simmer. Let simmer about one hour.

Meanwhile, broil pork liver until medium rare. Grind or chop liver finely.

Combine liver with cheese, tomato sauce, vinegar, sugar, salt, pimientos morones and green olives. Stir until smooth. Set aside.

In a large skillet, heat olive oil and saute garlic, onions and chorizo de Bilbao. Stir in liver mixture and simmer for about 15 minutes, or until mixture turns lighter in color.

Pour liver mixture into the beef in the casserole and simmer for 15 minutes or until mixture thickens and beef is completely tender. Season with salt and pepper to taste.

Dully Right

Still giddy, perhaps, from the Miss U high, the talent scouts in my neck of the woods are all agog about the "Search for the Little Kasanggayahan Princess." The event is trying to market itself as a beauty-and-brains-and-talent thingy, but I am not keeping my hopes up.

Not after my nowhere near perfect vision zoomed in on the poster, which requires the little misses to "be able to understand, converse and right in English."

And to submit a "dully filled-up application form."

Curiosity Overkill

I am naturally curious. Make that naturally Uzi. Just a hint of "breaking news" and my ears stand at attention, my eyes turn semi-bionic and my feet take me close to where the action is.

Make that close, but not quite. As in out of harm's way, and definitely not within sniping distance. And when "the event" occurs in the middle of the night, I snoop with the curtains drawn, the lights turned down

Last night's overkill of a hostage drama put us Uzis in a bad light. I cringed as national TV flashed scenes of civilians caught in the crossfire, of hangers-on actually elbowing out the authorities for a stab of the action. Call it bedlam, or mayhem, but the bloodshed could have been helped.

Maybe, just maybe, there should be a code of conduct for usiseros.

Plus 1

I turned 43 21 minutes ago.

If I were the me of a thousand denials ago, I would have wanted the sentence to be "I turned 21 43 minutes ago." It doesn't matter now, of course. I am older than my Mom was when I was in high school. Older, in fact, than most of my teachers were back then. And I thought they were ancient!

But I have come to accept the fact that age is nothing but a number. That it is just a string of manageable additions. And 43 is yet another chance to do things--crazy, irreverent, happy things--before the bones start creaking and before botox beckons. :p

Promdi

This week, I came face to face with my inner claustrophobic. En route to my sister's place, with four of us squeezed in the backseat, I felt a shortness of breath followed by something close to panic. It was like being sucked into a black hole, like the time I came this close to drowning. It took me a couple of minutes to get past the panicky stage.

Come to think of it, I am the type who needs to have space--physically and otherwise. I gave up big-city living because I needed breathing space. Because I realized that Sorsogon Street was merely a stand in for the real thing. I wanted to be where there are still big, sheltering trees, where the beach isn't just an ad on a travel magazine but a 15-minute drive.

Four days in Manila is more than I can manage. Time enough, I guess, for a party, or a trip to the bookstore. For gelato and affogato and catching up with the family. Time enough for things urban, including stewing in traffic and not feeling guilty for a cup of coffee that costs more than the average worker's daily wage.

I could have stayed for a few more days, but restlessness was setting in, and I couldn't risk another anxiety attack. The concrete jungle is no match to highways framed by rice fields.

I am officially a probinsyana.