If you’re wondering why I haven’t purchased a ticket to fly somewhere and get on my Cole Walks action, don’t worry, I’m not suffering from any serious illness of some sort: 1) Since I arrived from Singapore, I was hunting here, there and everywhere for a job; 2) If I’m not showing up at interviews, I’m at home completing my courses–oh, my academic life; and 3) I’m trying to learn the basics of one aspect of my life that I haven’t really cultivated, that is cooking.
Yes, who would have thought, right? Princess Cole, can’t do the dishes, can’t do her own laundry, can’t cook to save her life, is now her household’s Pasta Chef, or at least because her family has no choice but to eat what their Princess has prepared for them–whether it’s relatively edible or utterly repulsive. But I have to say, I’m not that prissy. I can handle things on my own, only that I haven’t mastered the chores part yet. Although, when I moved to Laos and had acquired my own place for a while, I was the one cleaning my flat even if I lived in a guesthouse. I managed my own finances, and above all, I looked after my own health and safety.
Things had leveled up though, when I got domesticated while in-between jobs here in my hometown. I started doing my own laundry (my parents drop off theirs at a shop somewhere), and that was also my first time to use the washer. My good friend for a decade now was shocked about this tidbit. Poor her, she’s friends with a priss. I didn’t exactly plan on messing with our kitchen because I really wanted to get back to playing the piano. Plus, I seriously thought I won’t be able to do anything right in the kitchen because I am a firm believer that there are some things one just can’t do. The thought of slicing, dicing, mincing, sautéing, burning/slicing my finger just freaked me out. I keep hearing my mom’s shrieks when she accidentally cuts her finger whenever I see our knives. But as it turns out, my hand-eye-coordination worked better in the kitchen than tapping the keys of our old piano. I got hungry one afternoon, spotted some cheap-az pasta sitting in the cupboard, and leftover ready-made pesto sauce in the fridge. What else am I supposed to do?
My first try was, of course, a tragedy. Pasta was overcooked. The whole thing upset me that I just had to accept the challenge of the culinary arts. In the following weeks: 1) My mom shared some secrets of the trade; 2) I studied Giada de Laurentiis’ and Rachael Ray’s recipes on Food Network; and 3) Forced my family to be my guinea pigs for my cooking HAH! And well, whaddyaknow, one Sunday morning (or okay that was almost noon, I slept real late–insomnia attacks), my brother was kicking my foot saying “Hoy, Pigrolac, gumising ka na!” (Hey, Pigrolac, get up!) If you’re wondering what Pigrolac is, it’s a brand of pig feeds. I know, I have the sweetest brothers in the whole friggin world. So I got up, my mom was in the kitchen, I asked her why all of a sudden my brother was so eager to wake me up because the last time that that happened was back when we were in college–and that was a loooong time ago. My mom just answered “Magluto ka na daw,” (It’s time for you to cook). I didn’t know if I was going to be pissed off with the Pigrolac comment or actually be proud that, at least, my brother requested for me to cook. For real or not, I was happy.
And so, there goes my story, enjoy my pasta creations. Hit me up for some collaborations HAH!
So what’s next–Filipino food? Mexican? Lao? 😉
All photos were taken using Hipstamatic for iPhone.