Cupcakes to Celebrate

 

So much has happened since my last post.

            As I write this, I am almost 5 months pregnant. Yes, it’s a miracle. After my ectopic pregnancy, it took Matt and I a while to get pregnant again. But, finally it happened, and right when we least expected it—I was just starting a new job and we were in the process of moving into our new digs. “Impossible,” I told myself when I was three weeks delayed. Not with all the stress and all the action. Finally, I ask Matt to pick up a pregnancy test at the drugstore, “I’m sure the result will be negative, but I just need to take the test already so I can consult with the OB-GYNE and see what’s wrong.”

            I go to sleep that night, planning to do the test the next morning when my HCG levels would be highest. But, I wake up in the wee hours of the morning and cannot bring myself to go back to sleep. I had to know.

            So, I go into the bathroom and do the test. The 5-minute wait for the results felt like forever as a mish-mash of emotions came over me. A part of me felt indifferent, telling myself that I KNOW it will be negative and its ok. Another part was afraid of yet another disappointing result, dreading the dull pain that it will bring. But, there was still that tiny part that was hopeful, that maybe this time a small miracle might actually happened. And as the two lines indicating a positive result appeared, it was a new set of emotions that took over: First, shock; then slowly, there’s that raw feeling of happiness reserved solely, I thought, for lottery winners. For the first time in a really long while, I felt victorious.

            I rushed to share this feeling with my husband, who was fast asleep and without a clue in the world. Half-awake, he mumbles asking what was wrong, and I said, “I’m pregnant.” He says, “Huh? How?” And I laughingly reply, “I don’t know! I just am. Isn’t that crazy?” Still half-asleep, he celebrates a bit with a small “yay” and tells me to go back to bed. Naturally, it all set in the next morning, when the reality of it all was too vivid to ignore.

            The journey since then has been long and sometimes scary, with the trauma of the ectopic pregnancy still very fresh in our minds. But so far, it has been close to perfect, with just a little nausea during the first trimester I had to endure. But its all good, I really cannot complain. We have prayed long and hard, and now we have been blessed. Sometimes we still shake our heads in disbelief, and I think that was the whole purpose to the ordeal we had to endure. Now, we appreciate every single tidbit of this pregnancy, every day that passes and I have this blossoming life within me. It’s the most amazing gift both of us have ever received, and we are so grateful.

            As Matt and I celebrate our fourth wedding anniversary this weekend, we continue on this premise of gratefulness. No, it has not been perfect: we have had our share of issues and “real world problems” that we’ve had—and continue—to deal with. But still, there is just too much to be thankful for. For one, we now know who our real friends are. Ordeals weed out the fun-time friends from those who will stick with you even at your lowest. Same goes with family—some have proven to be truly valuable components in our lives, while others apparently we can do without. But most importantly, these troubles made us realize that we cannot live without each other, no matter what. We fight, we argue, we shout, we cry—but in the end, one cannot be complete without the other.

            A few months ago, at the height of my trying first trimester, a craving for cupcakes hit me and I threw it out into the universe (Facebook, actually), waiting to see if my prayers would be answered. A blessing came in the form of a friend I haven’t seen in a long time that just happened to be in the same area as Cupcakes by Sonja and was headed towards the direction of my office. So, she sends me a private message on Facebook asking for directions to my building, and that was that. No, she wasn’t selling insurance or Nu Skin—she just gave me my half-dozen cupcakes, congratulated me on my pregnancy, we hugged, and she went on her way.

            And I think that’s what life is all about—you can plan as much as you want, but things hardly ever pan out the way you envision it. We just need to do our best, live and love as hard as we can, and hope that things turn out fine. It really is about faith, if you think about it. Then, when the powers that be decide its time, you get the love of your life, your dream job, your own family—or even your cupcakes. And when that finally happens, you will be so unbelievably grateful.

             

Meeting the Meat: Reflections of a Carnivore

I grew up on carnivorous excess, having been raised in a family that has no dietary restrictions. My early memories of fiestas in my father’s hometown in Quezon are pervaded by the panicked clucks and squeals of chickens and pigs being butchered. Baptisms and birthdays sometimes called for whole-roasted calf, and I was always a happy participant in devouring the tender, aromatic meat. There has always been a natural awareness that the meat being consumed was once a living, breathing creature, and there was nothing wrong with that. It was just the way things were.

The catalyst that spurred my musings was the killing of a goat during a trip to our island retreat. The animal belonged to my cousin Vic, whom I discovered has set-up a farm in one of their properties inland which included a growing legion of cattle, roosters and other livestock. It was decided, during the lambanog-laced conversations of the men during our first night’s dinner, that dinner the following night would be Caldereta (a rich tomato-based stew) made from freshly-butchered goat meat. The adventurous foodie in me was excited, having only tried goat a few times in my life.

The following morning, I wake up to sunny skies and go for a quick swim with my five-year-old niece, Nana (actually, it was low tide, so we did more of “wading” than “swimming”.) When we returned to the house, I go to the dining area to grab a piyaya and then I saw it- tied to a tree in the back of the house was a white goat. Its coat pristine, his three-inch horns jutting out of its small forehead, it looks placid and unperturbed, completely oblivious to his fate, I believed. My sister, Queen Bee, thought otherwise: “It knows it’s dying”, she says. True or not, we’ll never really know, but this small proclamation suddenly changes my entire perspective. The animal lover in me suddenly overpowered the unrelenting food lover, and I am suddenly filled with compassion. I cannot even bear to look at the goat, as I imagined it praying its final Hail Mary’s while it stared blankly into space. I turn around to leave as I thought to myself: “We’re all murderers.”

I have always rolled my eyes at most Westerners’ aversion to seeing their food in their original form before consuming it. In developed countries, it seems that people have gotten so used to seeing their meats and fish properly filleted and deboned, that the idea of seeing a chicken or fish head in a dish renders even the burliest man squeamish. This, as Nana would say, is just plain “silly”. I mean, do they really think there is a factory somewhere in Middle America where a giant Steak Machine churns out perfectly-cut rib-eyes, vacuum packed and then shipped to the nearest Wal-Mart? Or that the fillet of sole on their plate was swimming around the English Channel looking like that, minus the beurre blanc? Ok, fine, nobody could be that “silly” to actually think that, and yes, there are also culinary traditions in the West that remain rustic and accepting of traditional butchering and cooking methods. But the question remains: What’s the big deal?

Obviously, most Asians don’t seem to mind. The Chinese are happy to serve a beautifully-steamed Garoupa whole, to be deboned table side and then served (always) with the head intact, showcasing the prized fish cheeks, jaws and eyeballs. In several cultures, whole pigs roasted on a spit or cooked under dirt and coals are traditional festive fare. During Anthony Bourdain’s “No Reservations” tour of the Philippines, foodie/author/restauranteur Claude Tayag and him were happily picking away at a goat’s head swimming in a bowl of flavorful broth at a kambingan in Pampanga.

But, after that chilling encounter with the live animal, there was a little voice inside of me that screamed, “Don’t let them kill the goat!” For the few moments after, I was almost sick to my stomach, wondering if what we were about to do was absolutely necessary- I mean, we brought enough food to feed our group for an entire week. Did we really need more meat? As I distracted myself with other things- a rousing game of Uno, some Spanish Rosado, more piyaya- I see the house staff gathering at the back of the house, and I knew what was coming. I heard the goat protesting at first, and then its agonizing cries as it struggles for breath. And then it was over. Soon, I hear the matador’s machete striking against stone as it butchered the goat by the poso.

Do not get me wrong- I am not about to go vegan, or any level of vegetarianism. But, there is a sudden reverence for animal life that was not there before. I have always loved animals, but the fluffy kind, or the ones you find at the zoo. To me, livestock was different, and they were meant to be in my belly. But, seeing that goat before it was butchered truly struck a cord, and I am somehow less jaded and callous. I still think people who cannot eat fish with heads are silly, but at least I know now not to scoff at those who cannot slaughter their own dinner.



After the goat-killing drama, dinner set me back to my old perspective- which is, meat is awesome. The calereta- cooked by the butcher himself- was exactly what I imagined it to be: a spicy, robust sauce perfectly complimenting the tender and mildy-gamey meat. The little bones are easily picked off the soft tendons and the meat is juicy and tender. It was excellent. Being the drama queen that I could be, I declare with mock conviction, “The goat did not die in vain.” My dad gags at the joke, rice kernels almost shooting out of his nose, but I was only half kidding.



There were no (more) goats harmed during the writing of this entry. The photo of the live goat is from true-wildlife.blogspot.com and is not the actual goat butchered for the caldereta. It looks like it, though.

Cupcakes for the Pain

A week ago, I was diagnosed with an ectopic pregnancy.

Two weeks before that, I already knew I was pregnant. We have been trying for a few months, after all, so after being delayed for a week, I was excited/scared to take a home-kit pregnancy test. When the two lines indicating a positive result appeared, I was beyond elated. I wake up a sleeping Matt to tell him, who was jubilant as any half-awake person could possibly be.

Announcements were made tentatively, beginning with immediate family. As the reality slowly set in, everyday our excitement built-up, and it became harder and harder to keep it under wraps. We began telling our closest friends, wanting to share the good news of this amazing blessing.

But, during my first ultrasound, we received some crushing news. I remember it vividly- the technician (also a doctor, but not my OB) said, "Yes, you are pregnant. But we have a problem." My heart immediately jumped up to my throat, I looked helplessly at Matt and my mom, who both looked equally perplexed.

The uterus is empty, she pointed out, and she shifted the ultrasound towards the left, and pointed with the cursor where the sac is embedded. The fertilized egg attached itself to the widest part of the left Fallopian tube, whereas it should have continued its journey down the tube and attached itself to the thickened lining of the uterus. The technician then points at the center of the sac where you could see what looks like a blinking white light. It was the fetus' little heart, beating.

An ectopic pregnancy is probably one of life's biggest sucker punches- at the height of all the elation and excitement, you are suddenly told, "nope, sorry, it's not going to happen." A ruptured tube from an ectopic pregnancy can cause internal bleeding, and even lead to the mother's death. I cannot even articulate the devastation of being given the most beautiful gift, only to be told later on that there is no way in the world I can keep it. It all began to sink in on the car ride home, where Matt and I finally broke down, sobbing quietly, as we sought solace in each other's arms.

We got a second ultrasound the following morning in another hospital, which yielded the same result, and then everything happened so fast after that. My doctor instructed me to have myself admitted at noon for a laparoscopy, saying that delaying the surgery would only increase the risk of rupture. And based on my research, that is the last thing I want to happen at that point- it would lead to intense pain and also call for a more complicated procedure. My surgery was scheduled for 5PM and I remember being wheeled into the OR at exactly 5:30PM. The anesthesiologist gave me a first shot which was meant to sedate me- "like being drunk on Patron", she joked. The second shot I felt running up my arm from the IV, and before the feeling hit my shoulder, I was knocked out.

The procedure usually lasts four hours, the nurses told us. Mine was done in a little over an hour and a half.

Laparoscopy allows the surgeon to explore and perform surgery with the aid of a thin, tiny camera and minuscule incisions. The doctor made a small slice on my left fallopian tube, and then scooped out the "growth". The blocks on the tube were caused by endometrial growths, which she also found on the right tube and behind the uterus. The cause of endometriosis is unknown, but there are several theories. Whatever it is, mine was finally discovered and dealt with, and now it's gone. "I fixed all that needed to be fixed, to prepare for your next pregnancies," my doctor reassured me. I find consolation in the fact that at least all my parts are still there- my tubes and ovaries intact. At least.

After two nights at the hospital, I go home to continue my recuperation. I discovered that painkillers are good for the actual "surgical pain", but not the stomach cramps from gas. That was where most of the discomfort came from. The best cure for it was to move around- roll from side to side, or get up and walk around a bit, even if it hurt. I never would have imagined farts to be such a precious commodity, but at that point they were. Now, I'm still taking it easy, spending most of my time off my feet. I sometimes forget that although minor, I just had a surgical procedure performed on me, and I should allow my body ample time to heal. I am very thankful that I have that luxury, since not all women can stay in bed for a week or more.

All this free time allows me to be introspective and see the beauty in the midst of my misery. The love and support from family and friends have been overwhelming, and even up to now I would cry alternately out of both sadness and joy. I am thankful that my condition was diagnosed early on, allowing my doctor to act quickly and perform the surgery at record time. It really could have been a lot worse, I realize that now. And on that note, I'm just so lucky to have had an exceptional doctor and the best healthcare. St. Luke's Medical Center at Fort Global is an excellent hospital (Matt described it as "very first-world") and I hope that we could find a way in the near future for this kind of medical care to be made available to everyone.

More importantly, this experience brought my relationship with my husband to a different level, adding a different dimension and greater depth. I feel so close to him now, and seeing how he handled himself throughout this ordeal made me appreciate him even more. He is a strong and loving person, and he will make an amazing father when the time finally comes.

So, to get myself through this, I have put myself on a high-sugar diet. The first morning at home, back from the hospital, I was feasting on my niece's goodie bag (she celebrated her 5th birthday the same day of my surgery): breakfast was Reese's chocolate peanut butter cups, bite-sized Milky Way bars and Gummy Bears. Flipping through my sister's cupcake cookbooks brought on a different craving, which my husband was only too happy to indulge- the day before our anniversary (which we had to celebrate at home) he surprised me with four gorgeous cupcakes from Sonja's, two of which were my favorite Red Velvet.

No, cupcakes do not cure a broken heart, but they remind you of happier times and better things. These situations tend to reinforce the presence of a Higher Being, and- as cliche as it may sound- that things happen for a reason. And I believe that. I have to. Because- despite cupcakes not having any curative properties- they are good. And all will be good.



Note: The rate of ectopic pregnancies have risen over the years- currently, it is 1 out of 50. It is the number one cause of deaths for mothers during the first trimester. If you think you are pregnant, a trans-vaginal ultrasound could confirm if the pregnancy is in utero or otherwise. Do not delay treatment or surgery- talk to your OB about your options. Remember: the sooner the diagnosis and treatment, the better the results.

OBB crashes a Table for Three

Thank you to my dear friend- food blogger Sanj- for the feature on One Big Bite and yours truly in what is undisputedly one of Manila's most respected food blogs, Table for Three, Please. Hopefully, people would still follow their blog despite my corrupting it with my nonsense.

To read, please click on the link below:

http://www.tableforthreeplease.com/2011/02/on-table-chinkee-clemente-koppe.html

A Plateful of Gratitude

I believe that Thanksgiving Day should be celebrated everywhere.

What I like about it is that it pretty much forces you to step back and appreciate the things that are going quite well for you. In these fast-paced times of high-maintenance toddlers donning iPods and cellphones, we start to take simple conveniences for granted and constantly bitch about the small things that go wrong.

I admit that I belong to that group of formerly-idealistic gen-Xers who were out to change the world but- after being immersed in this cesspool called Life- were suddenly transformed into these hardened shells of our former selves, jaded and cynical. Nevertheless, once in a while I make a conscious effort to be appreciative of the blessings that have come my way. That is what makes Thanksgiving Day, in my opinion, so great. It’s because any day that makes people a little bit happier- a little bit more grateful to be alive, despite all the craziness in the world we live in- should definitely be celebrated. Nobody, I believe, should be exempt from it.

So, while I enjoyed Thanksgiving dinner at Circles in Shangri-la Hotel Makati with Matt, I reflected on the things that are making my life awesome.

First, I am thankful for the year that passed. It was a long and crazy journey filled with tests, life lessons, major changes and adjustments. But then again, it was also a year of reunions, happiness, laughter and new beginnings. I have always been a firm believer that all things happen for a reason and I have learned to take every challenge that comes my way as a fortifying agent that strengthens my spirit. Bring it on, as they say. Therefore, I am thankful for all that passed, both good and bad.

After getting married and living away from home for the first time ever, I have become more appreciative of the good health and happiness of my family. I still see them regularly, of course, but it was a major change for me not to see them first thing when I wake up, to hear the animated chatter outside my room and I’m even beginning to miss the constant invasions of privacy (mostly by my mom). Now, I find myself thinking about them all the time and have even begun to worry about them occasionally, which is something I never did in the past. So, yes, I’m very happy that we are all thriving and happy, even if we now live 20 minutes away from each other.

I am grateful that love continues to grow in the new home that Matt and I are building together. I’m not talking about an actual structure, but that figurative safe-place where we can always find comfort, security and, above all, love. That adjustment period that everybody was talking about has been a pain in the neck, but we seem to be gracefully transitioning and things are getting better. We still have a long way to go, but I take it as a good sign that despite the new challenges we face together, we come out of it stronger and even happier to have each other.

Of course, what would life be without family and friends? I am thankful to be surrounded by good people who always want what is best for me and who usher me towards the right direction when I am beginning to lose focus. I have also been very lucky to have maintained my old friendships and continue to meet new people who are teaching me new things and adding excitement to my life. Aside from those that I see regularly, there are also my relatives and friends who live far, but have always kept in touch and are generous with their love and concern, even from a distance. Oh, and let’s not forget my new relatives from Matt’s side! I am really grateful that they truly are a wonderful family of good and genuine people. Honestly, I feel very, very lucky to have them in my life.

Finally, I am thankful to have found happiness and fulfillment in everything that I do. As a new wife, I am truly enjoying my new role and everything that comes with it. I never thought that I would find so much satisfaction in hearing Matt say, “OH MY GOD! Your Caldereta is THE BEST!” Aside from the bliss that I find in my culinary triumphs, I am also thankful for the happiness that writing continues to bring me, as well as the job that allows me the time to write and draws on my strengths as a creative and a multi-dimensional person.

Looking at this entry that I expected to be just a couple of paragraphs long, I cannot help but be thankful that I actually have so much to be grateful for. It’s good to know that when things are looking a bit grim, I have this list to remind me that God has been kind and that I should not dwell on the bad stuff.

All this, thanks to a plateful of turkey and stuffing.

Older and Hungrier: My Birthday

All my life, I have always looked forward to birthdays. Despite being born during the relatively overcast month of October, I would always request for a pool party as a child. I love the water, and nothing could be more fun than an entire day of splashing around in the pool with my sisters and cousins while the sticks of pork barbecue sizzled on the grill. Famished, my little hands pruney from being soaked in water for hours, us kids would feast on the grilled sticks of pork, Pinoy-style spaghetti, fried chicken and chocolate cake from Goldilocks topped with my favorite cartoon character of the moment.

When I outgrew the games and the chlorine, I would always throw parties for my friends. In high school, some friends and I would have joint celebrations of our birthdays. We would rent out some condo's penthouse, pitch in to buy booze and invite friends from our all-girl's school and our guy friends from other schools. Food at that time was not the priority- we would much rather spend our saved allowances (and birthday cash from our parents) on buying beer (remember Blue Ice?) and the dreaded/revered bottle of Jose Cuervo tequila. My old friends and I would chuckle when we recall our classic party fare of chicken lollipops, cornicks and- the centerpiece- cocktail hotdogs and marshmallows on toothpicks speared around a head of cabbage. Now that's some classic stuff!

When we moved to Makati, the larger space made it possible to have bigger parties. Food would be catered by my favorite restaurants, and then later on, by my sister Foxychef. Beer bongs and jello shots were later on replaced by martini bars and wine. Whatever it was that we were in the mood for, we made sure that we had it in abundance which would last us until the wee hours of the morning. Luckily, we had pretty cool neighbors who shared our penchant for revelry (or at least had a very high tolerance for it), so we never had problems of village security banging on our door.

Now, finally living on my own for the first time in my life, I suddenly long for the quiet mellow weekends with my family. I started my day with breakfast in bed prepared by Matt, a simple plate of my favorite breakfast fare: scrambled eggs, bacon and toast. The fact that my husband does not cook and loves to sleep in late made the meal taste even better.

Since my birthday fell on a Sunday, I decided to have our regular Sunday dinner at my pad instead. My parents brought some Angus rib-eyes for me to cook, and two kinds of paella from La Tienda (note: Thank you, Miguel, for ordering them for me!). Foxychef prepared some Iberian Chicken and our other sister, Queenbee, brought some Baked Salmon from Conti's. Since it was my birthday and did not want to spend it in the kitchen, I just prepared a simple cheese and coldcuts platter with Manchego and Saint Paulin cheeses, smoked tangigue, anchovy-stuffed olives and chistora.

Now I relish these quiet evenings with the family, just eating good food, sipping on drinks and enjoying the conversation around the table. My niece, Rianna, is the consummate entertainer, helping me set-up the meal before dinner and then, afterwards, keeping us in stitches as she sings and dances to her favorite songs by The Pussycat Dolls and Black Eyed Peas. She also took most of the pictures that night, and some were actually quite good.

I really enjoyed the evening and look forward to having another potluck dinner with the family. Good food, after all, is nothing without good company to share it with. I cannot thank God enough for giving me a wonderful family to have many more amazing meals to come.