So much like almost infanticipating, she would, as a matter of habit, crave for something, most often at such ungodly hours. And like fawning sycophant I’m like, OK, I’ll get it for you, “but, Miss, where am I supposed to get banana cue in the dead of night?”

Other than samgyeopsal and ramen, pasta is a personal favorite. Simple, yet she’s very particular with how her pesto should have been cooked. Mi goreng, char kway teow, perhaps someone’s signature pomodoro pasta couldn’t begin to match one thing if she gets really specific with it: “I want Pinoy pansit,” she would say, “and I want it prepared by you.”

I have yet to make one; best I could tell is that the first time I tried my hand in the dirty kitchen, I came up with a cutesy fried-egg sandwich slapped together over the sink. Truth is, however simple, her palate is hard to please, and I always end up finishing her soup bowl, which is always a little over half-empty, be it even in a new Japanese noodle place she said she had been waiting for ages to eat aka ramen in, or a hole in the wall people from miles and miles around drive to to try a roast-beef sandwich. But always, at the end of the day, a slight hint of appreciation always approves of anybody’s effort of taking her there.

Because, really, how to describe her?

Imagine me whipping my wonderful kitchen stuff (and, well, getting really serious with it for the first time), and serving it as I watch her pick on it in serious degustations. She would put her fork down as a sign of disappointment and of course I would be sad. Then she would pick it up again and finish the whole thing and of course I would be happy.

About vernonvelasco

I do things like roll around the house singing in front of a moving electric fan, play with the hair curler and flush the toilet bowl over and over. The cutest thing about toilet bowls is that they burp.