01.06.2026 - Hello it's been 3 years and No, I didn't go to Mars.
Food as Love Language
I once imagined a sitcom where each episode was built around one of my motherâs dishes. Every menu item its own story arc. Maybe I was seeing everything through rose-colored glassesâbut over the years, it was Mamaâs food that raised us. It taught us to share, anchored us to home, and quietly kept us together as we left the nest one by one.
I used to think it was the recipes themselvesâthe traditions, the practical skills passed downâthat compelled me to hover and collect details whenever Mama worked her magic spatula in my kitchen. But when she left yesterday, it created a sudden, gaping hole. I found myself scavenging leftovers from the fridge, realizing that the âend of daysâ had returned us to meals that were okay na yanâserviceable, but devoid of tenderness.
Maybe the low mood is temporary. Itâs winter, after all, and the week after Christmas carries its own emotional fog. Still, I wondered: what if the joy lasted longer? How could I capture it? Through daily recipes, perhapsâfood and life juxtaposed, woven together in a kind of magical realism, Ă la Isabel Allende, where meals carry memory, grief, and warmth all at once.
Twinning or Intertwin-ing
My mother and I are alikeâand not. She has endless patience and built a full, bustling life around family. I, on the other hand, have no desire to manage a family size of that scale. I donât dream of having a big household and multitask times the number of humans, I don't think I am able to process the world this way.
Maybe itâs not just a personal preference, but a generational fluke. As a millennial, my point of view on normalcy as being unstable has kept me in fight or flight mode. We were so used to our DINK stage (Double Income, No Kids) and the freedom it bringsâand Iâm at peace with that.
As Filipino-American, fitting neatly into any mold after migrating to the US is not a walk in the park for me, which re-reouted me away from a cookie-cutter life.
The Past Still Has a Chokehold
Old stories resurfaced during our Christmas cooking marathons. Some still sting. We teased our youngest sibling and spun endless âwhat ifâ versions of our lives: What if we had a filthy rich dad? What if there were fewer than six kids? What if I were an only childâwould I have been unbearably lonely?
Thatâs a story for another time.
By the final day of the trip, the stress of holiday hosting caught up with me. Beneath the noise and laughter, I felt a quiet loneliness settle in.
Bittersweet and Hopeful Ending
Eventually, dreamland had to conclude.
We had a wonderful time. Mom probably enjoyed one of her best Christmasesâwe shopped our hearts away and her favorite winter snow just kept coming. It felt excessive, almost theatrical, as if 2025 needed yet another reason to be strange.
I know having my mom for a short time will be part of my core memory. I keep returning to the warmth of having her around. The way her presence lingeredâjust like the hot meals she cooked on cold December days.
That, I think, is her true love language.












