Eternal Weekends

Sunday mornings have always moved at their own unhurried pace.

I woke up to an unusual sight in the hallway outside my parents' bedroom: a food cart quietly waiting by the door. In our house, that's almost always a telltale sign that someone inside isn't feeling well. But today, there were two meal trays instead of one.

It turns out both Mom and Dad are under the weather and have decided to keep to their room for the day. Nothing dramatic, thankfully, just one of those mornings that call for rest, silence, and the comfort of familiar walls.

Their breakfast, however, was delightfully spartan. A bowl of sardines, a couple of apples, a cup of oats, and no fewer than ten hard-boiled eggs. Ten! For a fleeting moment, I wondered if my parents had secretly embarked on a bodybuilding program. Either that, or they had mistaken breakfast for a protein-loading competition.

My own plate, fortunately, was a little more indulgent: fried galunggong, sinangag, and a sunny-side-up egg. The galunggong had been fried to that perfect point where every bite shattered with a satisfying crunch. It was the kind of crispness that makes self-control impossible. Before I knew it, spoonful after spoonful of fragrant garlic fried rice had disappeared alongside it, each mouthful insisting on just one more.

Lunch was different. It was my sister-in-law's birthday.

Knowing her, she'd probably be happy with a plate of pancit and coke zero. Hindi 'yan mahilig sa bonggang handaan. Basta the family is there. goods na sya.

Pero si Mommy? even if nursing a fever and marooned in her bedroom, won't settle for the mediocre. The night before, she had already instructed Manang Cion to cook paella because it's my sister-in-law's favorite. Tapos lumabas din ang sikat niyang homemade cake.

Well... "homemade."

Let's just say the chiffon cake began its journey at the neighborhood bakeshop. But the fruits, the icing, the arrangement, the finishing touches, the love, at ang mandatory quality control? All courtesy of Mom.

So yes, in this house, it's still Mom's cake.

At kung may magtanong kung saan galing ang chiffon...Wala kang narinig sa akin lol.

Just as Sunday lunches in our home have always done, this one lingered long enough to become merienda, and then, without anyone noticing, quietly turned into dinner.

The table seemed incapable of being empty. Every time a platter was cleared, another would appear in its place. There were homemade bola-bola siopao, pancit palabok fragrant with shrimp and annatto, and Hawaiian pizza that disappeared almost as soon as it was served. The children claimed the lion's share, leaving the grown-ups laughing over the last few slices and hurriedly arranging fresh trays so everyone, especially the little ones, could eat to their heart's content.

It has always been this way in our family. Food is never counted by servings but by the certainty that there will always be enough for one more.

As I sat quietly at the table, I found myself watching everyone more than I was eating.

From the doorway of their room, my parents made a brief appearance. They were still recovering from the flu and wisely kept their distance, but somehow their presence was enough. They did not have to sit at the table to remind us that they remained at its center.

Around me, conversations flowed as naturally as the afternoon light. My siblings and their spouses were catching up on a week's worth of stories, each tale interrupted by laughter before it could properly end. The children, together with those we fondly call our adopted siblings, ran through the house with the boundless energy only Sundays seem able to summon.

At one end of the table sat Manang Cion and Tess. They were not serving us today; they were eating with us. In this home, they long ago crossed the invisible line between household staff and family. It would have felt stranger if they had not been seated beside us.

My boyfriend was there too, comfortably folded into the rhythm of the afternoon, no longer a guest to be entertained but simply another chair at the table, another voice joining the conversation, another hand reaching for the palabok.

Looking around, I realized that these are the quiet riches by which a life ought to be measured. Not by titles, nor by possessions, nor by the contents of a bank account. Certainly not by money packed in suitcases. These are blessings that cannot be bought, inherited, or negotiated. They are received, tended to, and, if one is fortunate, passed on.

Some Sundays ask nothing extraordinary of us. They simply invite us to pay attention: a food cart waiting outside a bedroom door, parents recovering behind it, children racing through familiar hallways, old stories retold as though they were new, and a table where there is always room for one more.

Kahit pagod ka, you make time.

Kahit madaliang date lang sa McDo or sa Shell sa SLEX, you are there.

I have mentioned many times before that since high school, I have always been the type of person who looked for ways to earn extra money. During summer breaks in the province, I washed cars and sold balut. On weekends, I helped run our family store. When college came around, I wrote research papers for lazy but generous blockmates who were more than willing to pay. I also did errands for a lawyer and even worked for a shipping company whenever an opportunity came along.

Did I mention that I also have this peculiar habit of picking up coins from the road? Yes, that's me.

"But you're not poor," a well-meaning friend once remarked.

"But tomorrow is never promised," I replied.

That, in a nutshell, explains how my mind works. It isn't greed that drives me. It's the fear of uncertainty.

That same mindset is why, aside from my regular job, I keep a few side hustles. The first screenshot shows a payment I received for developing automation solutions for small businesses using Python, Java, C++, Power Automate, and UiPath. The second is a check for $8.12, a little over ₱400, for translating a document into Spanish. I also do a bit of ghostwriting for a publication from time to time.

Beyond active income, I try to build passive income as well. I regularly contribute to Pag-IBIG MP2 and SSS WISP because I like the idea of government-backed investment programs quietly working in the background while I sleep.

The only thing I haven't seriously considered is live selling. I think I would end up buying my own products just to support myself.

I'm writing this because, at least for me, the idea of retiring early has always felt more like a modern fantasy than a realistic goal. That's just my opinion. I have already accepted that I will probably continue working, in one form or another, for as long as I am physically and mentally able. And strangely enough, that realization has brought me peace rather than anxiety.

Dear reader, money does not guarantee happiness, but responsible financial stewardship certainly gives you options. It allows you to travel when you want, pursue the things that bring you joy, help the people you love, and most importantly, stand on your own two feet.

Because when you are financially secure, you are not easily trapped by toxic people or unhealthy situations. If someone begins to drain your peace or diminish your dignity, you have the freedom to walk away, rebuild elsewhere, and choose a life that protects your well-being.

Saturday was uneventful. We stayed indoors and practically slept the entire afternoon. These days, sleep has become a luxury item, right up there with affordable groceries and finding parking in Makati. If I manage six hours of sleep, I already consider it a miracle. But whenever I'm in Bohol, somehow my body remembers what proper rest feels like and happily clocks in well beyond six hours. Yet another reason I can't wait to go back to the isla.

Today was another free day. I heard morning Mass celebrated by Fr. Anthony, caught up with a few relatives afterward, but politely declined their lunch invitation. As much as I enjoy family gatherings, I was craving something equally sacred: me time.

So off I went to Dulcinea for a solo lunch. I'm not quite sure what's happening there, but both the food and the service have definitely seen better days. Maybe it was just an off day, but lately my safest restaurant choice has been Manam. Then again, taste is subjective. One person's culinary masterpiece is another person's "Pwede na."

After lunch, I wandered into a bookstore fully intending to buy a stack of books. I love buying books. Reading all of them is another story. Strangely enough, none of the titles called out to me. It was one of those rare moments when I walked out of a bookstore empty-handed. I still can't decide whether that's maturity or a sign that I need new glasses.

I thought about strolling around the mall a little longer, but I kept yawning every five minutes. My body had clearly filed a formal complaint and was demanding another nap. Good thing the boyfriend had finished lunch with his family and suggested I head over to his place instead. Considering the thought of driving from Makati to Alabang via the Skyway on a humid Sunday afternoon was enough to make me even sleepier, it sounded like an excellent plan.

So here I am, typing this blog from the boyfriend's room while contemplating whether I should write another paragraph or simply surrender to another nap. If napping were an Olympic sport, I'd at least make the qualifying rounds.

Back in Manila on business, which is a polite way of saying I was voluntarily exposing myself to traffic. But what can I do? my father is my boss and I am at his beck and call.

I spend most of my days on the road, meeting clients, running errands, and hopping from one appointment to another. As tempting as it sounds to pull over by the roadside and enjoy a leisurely meal at a carinderia, reality usually has other plans. Thankfully, Manang Cion makes sure I leave the house armed with packed meals and sandwiches, enough to keep me fueled from morning until evening. Yes, I eat most of my meals inside the car. It saves time, saves money, and at this point, my driver's seat has probably earned honorary dining table status.

But life isn't all work. Every now and then, I manage to carve out time for friends, and this particular occasion called for something special: a much-needed reunion at a wedding. And what a reunion it was.

One of the funniest realizations from that gathering was how all of us have finally made peace with getting older. Gone are the days when we'd passionately insist to the world that we were still "under 35." The evidence was impossible to ignore. We now discuss and appreciate whiskey the way we used to talk about beer. We openly admit that recovery takes longer than the activity itself. We compare muscle pains with the enthusiasm we once reserved for weekend plans. And perhaps the most telling sign of maturity: nobody even attempted to brag about having enough energy for a second round in sex. We all quietly accepted our fate and reached for another glass of water instead.

The wedding wasn't just about reconnecting with old friends. I also joined my boyfriend and his siblings for a meal afterward. To be honest, this is usually the part that makes me a little uneasy. Meeting family always comes with that subtle pressure to put your best foot forward, smile at the right moments, and somehow blend in without looking like you're trying too hard.

Thankfully, my worries were unfounded. His siblings turned out to be refreshingly down-to-earth professionals who, much like me, are simply trying to survive the daily grind. People whose idea of a well-deserved reward at the end of a long day isn't anything extravagant, just good food, easy conversation, and a chance to sit down without checking their phones every five minutes.

tennis is a full body workout. as in pawis all the way.

For someone who goes to Mass every day, I find myself questioning whether God is truly pleased with how I live out my faith and how I relate to others.

A couple of weeks ago, I had an especially difficult day, made heavier by a petty argument with my boyfriend. Basta, everything seemed to unravel at once. My routine fell apart, my schedule was thrown off, and the tasks I normally take care of were left undone.

To add to my growing frustration, I realized my wallet was nearly empty, so I lined up at the nearest ATM. As I was about to withdraw cash, a beggar approached me and asked for money for transportation. I told him to wait, but he continued explaining his need for pamasahe. Somehow, it felt as though I was being pressured. I grew flustered, confused about which buttons to press, and irritation quickly took over.

In my frustration (given all that had happened that day) I raised my voice at him. “Sandali, wag mo ako madaliin!”

Those were the exact words I used to push him away. The man fell silent and then began to cry.

Even as I type this narration, remembering how dismissive I was that led to a poor man crying, shakes me to the core.

My God, what have I become? This is not me.

As I sit and examine my conscience, I am led to the realization that whatever misfortune I experienced that day, and regardless of whether the beggar’s story was true or not, none of it gave me the right to raise my voice so easily. At the end of the day, that man has a name. He deserves respect. He is a child of God, meant to be welcomed, helped, and valued.

After several weeks of staying in Manila, I am finally homebound to Bohol. Naturally, adulthood dictates that I must bring my vehicle with me, so I am taking the RoRo from either Manila or Batangas Port to Cebu for Php 18,000, then from Cebu to Tagbilaran for another Php 6,000. Independence is real, but it invoices you aggressively.

Kuya said the sailing time from Luzon to Cebu would be around 24 to 36 hours, while Cebu to Bohol would take about five hours. In a perfect world, that means two days of travel under favorable conditions. Unfortunately, I live in the Philippines, where “favorable conditions” are more of a suggestion than a guarantee, so let us generously call it three days and lower our expectations accordingly.

Then there is insurance. Once the car is towed inside the ship, the default insurance suddenly disappears, like a magician’s assistant who has been unionized out of the act. You then have to purchase separate ferry insurance, the cost of which depends on how much your car is worth. I computed mine at around Php 15,000, which is the monetary equivalent of deep breathing exercises.

All in all, I am pegging the total expense at around Php 40,000, including food and whatever emotional snacks are required to survive port delays. So now I ask you, dear reader, with all the sincerity I can muster: do you still want to be an adult?

I am writing this from a Starbucks along UST in España. I spent the whole day running errands and felt I deserved a beverage afterward, because capitalism says self-care can be purchased in grande or venti. Traffic was terrible, which gave me a socially acceptable reason to loiter in a coffee shop and pretend I was there to write.

As I sat down, I could not help but overhear the conversation at the next table. To my surprise, I realized I can now understand Bisaya. Not fluently, but enough to piece together that they were discussing a former friend who is, in real life, a discreet igat (Malandi) who allegedly slept with their boyfriends. Tinuod inday. Amping nalang talaga. This is how language learning happens now, apparently, through gossip and caffeine.

On a more productive note, my writing gig as a ghostwriter has gained new traction. This time, it is an independent contract outside my publisher’s turf. Thankfully, my contract is non-exclusive, which means I can earn on the side without feeling like I am betraying anyone. The new client provides the details, dates, events, people, photos, and how everything went. My job is to sew all of that together into two drafts for approval. So far, two outputs have been approved, and I have been paid. Proof that words still work, even when no one knows they are yours.

Which brings me to a question I have been quietly avoiding. As a neophyte writer, should I legitimize my segment by joining the Palanca Awards and, in an ideal universe, land an award? Would anyone be interested in my niche, which is basically stories about ordinary life, its small beauty, and its persistent inconveniences? That remains to be seen.

This was lunch.

For reasons beyond me, my mother woke up and chose excess. On top of a perfectly respectable pork steak, she cooked vast amounts of lumpiang shanghai, the kind of quantity usually reserved for weddings, wakes, or the sudden return of a relative from Saudi Arabia. Naturally, I conducted an internal audit. Birthdays or anniversaries. None. Prayer group. Not until Saturday. Weekend lunch that requires abundance. Also no. In fact, our weekend meals are famously modest, mostly fish, vegetables, and the quiet acceptance of restraint.

“Landers has buy one, take one,” my mother explained, as if this were a universally accepted economic theory.

“So I bought four, so now we have eight kilos!” she added happily, lifting an unfried Shanghai and pressing it close to her face the way other women apply moisturizer.

“But this is a lot,” I said carefully. “How are we supposed to finish all of these?”

She looked at me the way only Filipino mothers can, the look that suggests both disappointment and prophecy.

“Eh kelan ako mag Shanghai party, aber? Pag patay na ako?”

The dagger look was first aimed at my brother, out of habit. Then it found me. Finally, without missing a beat, she turned to my adopted siblings and softened her voice: “Ano pong order n’yo?”

“Kanin po at sabaw kasi wala po kaming pera,” they replied obediently, as though they were street children ordering at a carinderia.

You see, upon retirement, my mother has adopted a radically new philosophy of life. Gone are the days when she immersed herself in the family business, driven by spreadsheets, responsibility, and the constant need to be productive. These days, productivity has been replaced with imagination. She now lives a laid-back life that involves frequent role-playing with my younger siblings. On this particular afternoon, she was a benevolent carinderia lady feeding the poor. Tomorrow, she might play Sara Discaya or Leni Robredo. Ewan.

This was not an isolated incident. On one memorable Sunday lunch, my brother, who is a judge in real life, walked into the house and was immediately ambushed. My younger siblings burst into tears, clung to his legs, and begged him to save our mother’s life. At that precise moment, mom emerged from the living room dressed entirely in orange, unmistakably a prisoner.

“Judge, maawa po kayo sa akin,” she pleaded. “Di ko po pinatay si mayor (hikbi) ”

The mayor, naturally, was my hesitant father, who is now lying very still on the couch. In the background, our two house helpers cried with conviction (Mayoooorrrrrr!!!!") as if this were a teleserye pilot and ratings depended on it.

putang ina, my weird family.

I went down to the kitchen and was greeted by the unmistakable perfume of melted cheese, kapeng barako, and Emperador brandy—an odd but comforting trifecta that could only mean one thing: tiramisu was being born. Mom, still feeling hurt from my kuya’s casual crime of calling her cakes “store-bought,” had entered full revenge mode. This was not baking; this was a moral lesson constructed layer by delicate layer.

“Yung kuya mo talaga, walang appreciation sa efforts ko!” she declared, whisk in hand, fury perfectly emulsified. “Hindi niya alam kung gaano kahirap magluto at mag-manage ng bahay!” The tirade rose and fell like perfectly beaten egg whites.

“Kuya was teasing you, Ma,” I said gently, because someone had to play peacemaker. Still, diplomacy demanded sacrifice, so I later suggested to my brother that he treat Mom to dinner as a peace offering. And further treat her for a grocery spree at SnR.

As if the universe felt I deserved a reward for surviving 2025, I found a box with my name on it. Turns out it was the boyfriend’s combined “Happy Birthday–Merry Christmas–Happy New Year” gift, a practical bundling of affection that I found deeply moving. I appreciated it even more knowing how criminally low the salary of a doctor in a private hospital can be (yes, Makati Med, I am talking to you) Love, apparently, is also budget-conscious.

That evening, I joined my parents for dinner with their “6:30 AM Mass Barkada”—a tight-knit group of retirees who attend daily mass at St. James and have since perfected the art of surviving. This was their post-holiday gathering, and they were collectively grateful that, as of 2025, no one had died. The bar, at this age, is refreshingly realistic. Their wish for 2026 and beyond was simple: that the barkadahan remains alive, kicking, and mobile.

Ganito pala ang gatherings ng mga thunders. Subtle, unhurried—and surprisingly familiar. Very much like how my friends and I conduct ours (fine, matanda na rin kami). Conversations went something like this:

“Chitang, anong nangyari sa mukha mo?” (A reference to a face that now appears to be on airplane mode, courtesy of Botox.)

“Paeng, ’di ba kakilala mo si Sara Discaya?” (Uncle Paeng denies this vehemently, head shaking like a dashboard bobble.)

“Bawal sa akin ’yan, matamis!” Auntie Barbs, moments before summoning her private nurse to check her sugar, discovering it’s low, and immediately launching a successful attack on the carrot cake.

“Oh, how the mighty have fallen, no? I heard they’re selling their house kasi ise-se-sequester daw ng governement… eh contractor din pala.” Volunteered by Tita Maritess, true to her name and divine calling as Maritess the Chismosa of San Juanico St.

this was merienda. mostly leftovers. because in my house, bawal magtapos ng pagkain, like serious.

the fruitcake was so good I was eating it with ham. weird but masarap.

A day before New Year’s Eve, my boyfriend came over and found me in full pambahay mode. The kind of pambahay with a shirt that used to be white back when we still had hopes and dreams.

He looked at me the way disappointed parents look at you when you post a selfie on Facebook. Not angry yet, but already rehearsing the sermon. “Bakit hindi ka pa bihis?” he asked, irritated in that controlled manner that suggests he has been counting to ten since he rang the doorbell.

“Bakit,” I said, squinting at him like he was the one who had lost the plot. “Where are we going?”

His face tightened. You know the expression. That particular jaw clench that means, “Lord, give me patience because if You give me strength, someone will get hurt.”

“We planned this, right? It’s our anniversary,” he said.

“Oh.” Pause. “Oo nga no.” Then, because I am me, I added, “Are we having sex at Sogo?”

At that point, he looked spiritually defeated. Like a man who had realized he was dating a complete jerk. Instead of lunging at me, he sat down, took a deep breath, and said, “Pack a decent amount of clothes. We’re spending New Year’s in Taipei. We need to be at NAIA asap.”

And in that moment, I felt the kind of panic that only comes when you realize you have accidentally forgotten a once-in-a-blue-moon vacation.

Like, how did I forget this? This man fought his inner demons, his hopsital workload, and the general Filipino work culture that treats vacation leaves like a mythological creature, just to make this happen. And here I was, acting like Taipei was a food delivery option.

To be fair, it wasn’t entirely my own volition. As you all know, being the only single one in the family means you are automatically promoted to Household Operations Manager. You do everything. You run the house, look after your parents, and take care of adopted siblings, to the point that I fly from Bohol to Manila so often it starts to feel like I’m just taking the LRT from Buendia to Central Station. Only with more airport security and a lot more emotional baggage.

On the way to the airport, instead of dragging me the way I deserved, he asked how my day went. If my dad needed a new prescription for his maintenance refills. If I had eaten. If I was okay.

“Hindi ka galit?” I asked, because I was ready to do my whole guilt monologue and he wasn’t cooperating.

He said he’d already had a tough week and would appreciate it if we could start this much-needed vacation without fighting.

“Baby,” he said, calm but firm, “we can get inis at each other, but we do not have to fight.”

It was the most mature thing anyone had ever said to me while stuck in Manila traffic.

A couple of hours later, we landed in Taoyuan International Airport, the air crisp and sharp, like Taipei itself was telling us, “Welcome. Fix your life.”

We took the train to Main Station, then grabbed an Uber to my grandma’s house. Aunt Lulu and Uncle Pete were there to welcome us. Ama had already gone to bed early because it was chilly, and apparently, old people know how to respect weather. Aunt Lulu wasn’t in the mood to cook either, because she had just come from hospital rounds. Both of them are doctors, which means they have no time for drama and even less time for dinner.

We ended up going out, because nobody wants to cook and we also didn’t fly to Taipei just to eat instant noodles like we were broke college students again.

My boyfriend took this opportunity to converse in Mandarin with my relatives. He was good, and I admired him for it, because when it comes to Hokkien, I am what you call “bwe yaw kong lo,” meaning I am the kind of person who contributes nothing to the conversation except nods and panic smiles. Or in more official terms, someone who is tā bú huì shuō zhōngwén la. He can’t speak Mandarin-Chinese, you know.

I let him be. Sige na. Sabi mo nga, baby, we can get inis but not fight.

So I gave him this one. I gave him the moment. I gave him the space to make pabibo to my relatives and I think he won them over.

And that night, as I watched him sleep, chubby cheeks, right arm raised over his head like he was flagging down an invisible taxi in his dreams, producing that peculiar snore I’ve come to like and love, I felt it.

This thing I never expected to feel in a relationship. Not the grand romantic movie kind, but the quieter one.

The kind where someone chooses softness over ego. Patience over pride. Love over being right.

The kind where even if you show up in pambahay and forget the anniversary trip, someone still holds your hand and says: we can get inis, but we do not have to fight.

How was Christmas from your end? I hope it was peaceful, the food was good, and you spent it in the company of your loved ones. From my end, the 24th was spent as always in the old house and what better way to start the holidays was the chismisan amongst cousins.

I noticed that our Christmas get-together last 24th was medyo tempered compared to previous years. As in, hindi siya yung usual “handa ng barangay fiesta” level.

Not that I’m complaining ha. Actually, I felt relieved because this time, the food was provided by a caterer who cooked and grilled onsite. So yes, may smoky vibes at may pa “chef, isa pang liempo please.”

And YES, we ate on paper plates because honestly, pagod na kami maghugas ng pinggan, and the househelps were already on vacation. So that’s it. No dishes were broken in this Christmas celebration.

The spread itself was modest but saktong-sakto, enough to feed everyone. And thankfully, we avoided the classic Filipino tragedy of food waste because the leftovers were distributed equally. Parang ayuda, but make it Christmas.

Before Noche Buena, we had some sort of merienda to ease the hunger, especially with kids around because alam naman natin, pag gutom ang bata, buong pamilya apektado.

And of course, we teased the uncle who was responsible for the food because the spread was mostly bought from DEC’s, Don Benito’s, Chuan Kee, and other stalls you’d normally find in the food court of Robinsons Magnolia, which is literally just a stone’s throw away from the old house.

Imagine, instead of a fancy charcuterie board to pair with wine, we had saging na turon and asado rolls. Like, wow, sosyal. Congrats naman sa effort, uncle.

Again, not complaining. I was pleasantly surprised because somehow, it actually paired well with Shiraz. Like, who knew? Asado roll plus Shiraz equals Michelin star moment.

Around 12am, we exchanged gifts and played games, and dito bumawi talaga ako. I mean, I went home with lots of presents and prizes. Parang ako yung “favorite ni Lord” that night.

Each family also went home with Christmas baskets with homemade treats: peanut butter, atchara, and freshly baked bread. Very wholesome, very “love language is food.” The other basket was from the grandparents, mostly salt-laced canned goods. As in, pang-survival kit. Like, “Merry Christmas, anak. Here’s sodium.”

The morning after, my parents and I had a quick road trip to the farm to give our employees their well-deserved pamasko. And as usual, the good-for-nothing cousin tagged along, and yeah, true to his character, slept the whole ride.

Hainanese Chicken, cooked at home. Served at dinner. The dessert was cake.

I have said this before. My family are creatures of habit. By habit I mean we are frugal in the way only Filipino families can be, the kind that insists it is not kuripot, it is just practical. Of course we do not deprive ourselves of food, especially my mother, whose guiding philosophy in life is “kaya ko naman gayahin sa bahay yan.”

This line is usually delivered after we have eaten out, which is rare, and after she has taken exactly two bites of a dish she finds delicious. “Besides,” she adds, eyeing the portion size with suspicion, “konti lang servings dito. Ako yan, madami. For all.” She says this as if personally offended by restaurants that serve food she did not cook, but that we clearly enjoyed. My mother is easily threatened by good food, particularly when it comes from someone else’s kitchen.

“But Mom,” my kuya once protested, “your cakes are sponge cakes bought from the bakery in Aguirre. You just slather them with icing and fruits.” At this point my mother did not argue. She simply fixed him with the look. You know the one. The putang ama ka, I am your mother, so shut up, stare. The discussion ended there.

Make no mistake, my mother bakes. She genuinely loves it. What she does not love is the exact science of measuring ingredients, which she finds exhausting and frankly insulting. Hence the pinagbabawal na technique. Instead of cups and spoons, she relies on vibes. She eyeballs everything and tastes continuously, adding patis or suka until the ulam reaches a level she deems acceptable to humanity. This is how all our best dishes are made, guided by instinct, stubbornness, and repeated tasting.

The other night, for no apparent reason, I came home to find meatloaf on the table. Meatloaf. It was my mother’s first attempt, and surprisingly it was delicious. Moist, flavorful, suspiciously competent. “Retirement bores me, anak,” she said. “Travelling is tiring naman, kaya I cook instead.” This from the woman who once declared cooking a thankless job but now apparently treats it as her post retirement creative outlet.