Homely

They make waves

- not whiffs -

Of scentful honey.

Dainty and frecklish...

Nonetheless,

They are

Proof of how 'tiny' can

Attract from miles,

And how

'Homely' can linger for hours...

If not a lifetime. 

Public Libraries

I was browsing through the morning paper and stumbled on an Op Ed titled Without Public Libraries (Sin bibliotecas públicas). After lamenting on how limited governmental efforts are towards the betterment of libraries throughout the country, the author of the article quotes Humberto Eco's raison d'être of a library experience:

...an adventure, in the sense that many times a user goes for a book and finds a different one, which attracts him more.

This reminds me of my early visits to the school library...

Green library bag over my shoulders,

Savouring every second of the walk- 

Thinking and rethinking on what three books to borrow this week-

Tracing my fingertips along the shelves so satisfyingly abundant with new adventures,

Just imagining  worlds vaster than Swallows and Amazons , had me blushing and going 'oh, boy'. 

There was just so much, too much, to explore. 

As a ten year old, I dreamt of visiting the selection on the second floor, exclusive for high school kids

(Unfortunately,  I never got to tick this box off my  'When I am older...' to-do list, since I ended up not only changing schools but moving to another country before the seventh grade).

During my university years I frequented Guayaquil's Municipal Library for it had the cheapest photocopy rates ($ 0.02 a page). On a few occasions, reminiscing on the good old days, I tried to submerge myself into the library experience and was greatly disappointed, for it was one helluva hassle. But if  you are interested these are the steps you shall follow:

Seoul Summer

It’s been almost a week since I arrived in Seoul and I feel stingy with every minute passing by. There is so much I want to do- so much of the city I want to soak up. I feel this way every time I come here; yet this time around I’m smitten not by the endless shopping there’s to do or by the thought of seeing relatives but with the (surprisingly pleasant) Seoul Summer.

The last summer I spent in Seoul was in 1995- the most memorable summer of my entire life…

Running around in flowery dresses catching dragonflies...

Eating an exaggerated amount of red freeze pops...

Biting into a thermometer and almost swallowing mercury...

Playing hard and dirty with used coal briquettes and having my cousin take all the blame, because he's the boy and the one known to be michievous while I'm thought as the dumb and quiet girly girl...

Laughing,

Oh there was so much laughter back then.

My Dentist

If I were to make a list of the five reasons why I wouldn't leave this city  I'd probably include my dentist in it.

You see, I am the hugest sissy I know when it comes to needles and medical procedures, yet I trust my dentist enough to have three wisdom teeth removed in a single afternoon. But aside from being great at understanding my pain threshold, I believe what has me looking forward to my semestral checkups are the unexpected, small, life lessons I learn through him with every visit.

He's a stern-looking man in his early fifties who has a pair of jolly eyes hiding behind his very stereotypical silver-rimmed glasses. If I were to draw a portrait of him I'd trace a picture of Dwight Schrute over that of Liam Neeson.

Strawberry Jam

When I think of strawberries I picture:

1.   Straw hats and checkered shirts;

2. Cloudy-haired Edward in "Pretty Woman" calling room service to order strawberries & champagne;

3.  Deana Carter's song that tells the story of a girl making love to a college boy under the hot July moon.

I love berries, and as dumb as it may sound, I think my taste was greatly influenced by a picture book called "Jamberry" that I owned as a kid. The book had a bunch of catchy rhymes of this sort:

Under the bridge

And over the dam

Looking for berries

Berries for jam

Which made it fun to read out loud over and over again.

Berries are such fun snacks.

Bite sized, hassle-free,  citrus bursts.

:-)

But if I had to live with only one type of berries, these would unquestionably be strawberries.

Breakfast for Dinner

There is something ever so exquisite about executing activities that are meant for a specific occasion, at random hours of the day and unthought of seasons within a year:

Like singing Christmas carols in mid-May;

Like craving for birthday cake everyday of the year except for on your birthday;

Like going to the movie theater at 11a.m.;

Like eating icecream for breakfast, and breakfast for dinner;

Like listening to iHeartRadio's "Before Breakfast" podcast way past bedtime...

Traditionalists are surely to frown-upon such disorderly behaviour, but we thirty-something-year-olds are too headstrong to care.

Sweet Earthiness

If there is one thing that I make the most out of having a Netflix subscription is of their wide selection of documentaries- my favourite are those related to wildlife and environmental awareness; however, if I were to give out star stickers to my top 3 most enjoyed food documentaries, these would be:

1) Mind of a Chef, only season 1 (David Chang)

2) Chef's Table, season 4 (pastry)

3) For Grace

I make emphasis on Chef's Table season four because the child-like spirit that shines through the jolly eyes of these pastry chefs as they tell their stories-- is light-heartedly poetic and soothing, in such a way that they make me want to let out a sigh of relief (An 'I am not alone' kind of sigh) regarding a small concern I carry in the backburner my mind . See, I am in my early thirties yet my childlike nature is ever-so-present in my day to day: I still love a lot of the same things, with the same enthusiasm, as I did as a kid: trampolines, trees, tadpoles, cherry flavoured anything, dandelions, getting wet in the rain...

And sand or dirt. 

My fondest childhood memory of sand took place in my friends Petty and Tony's enormous verandah. They had a wonderful pile of sand, enough for the three of us to bury ourselves and/or even make a life-sized jacuzzi. After an untimed afternoon of squirming around endlessly in the sand, as soon as we'd done washing, I remember their mom putting milky, cool, Nivea lotion on our arms and calves. Till this very day, the scent of Nivea lotion remains a synonym of playing in the sand to me.

Samuel's Hats

Of the many pieces of advice that my dad gives me this is one that I don't follow:

"Don't speak to strangers."

I am offended and embarrassed everytime my dad says this to me- for I know he means don't get friendly with men with whom you'll potentially fall in love with and lose your focus on making a lot of money. 'Dad, I'm sorry to say that I will date men while still working on my career, but that doesn't mean I'm a fool that falls in love with whoever I meet in the streets- your daughter here has standards, you know.' 

So after going through a couple torturous chats and promises ending in me answering, "yes, dad I promise I won't talk to strangers", I bought a ticket in the bus terminal, got on bus number 4, checked my seat number on my ticket which was next to a skinny, old, bald man who had his hands wrapped around a backpack that matched his shoes.

Travelling Alone

If there is one thing that is seen as more bizarre than eating alone is travelling alone.

Especially if done by a woman.

Especially if done for pure leisure.

(at least it's viewed so in this part of the world)

I was in the middle of transitioning my career from one path to another

And I needed a very intimate time with me and myself and nature,

Away from second thoughts,

Away from everyday,

Away from time consuming chores,

Away from expectations,

Away from emails and deadlines.

Reason for which, I decided to take a very short 3-day trip to the highlands.

The Case of Don Ramon

First Name: Not "Don", but Ramon; the "Don" before Ramon stands for "Mister" (synonym of señor) in Spanish.

Age: Mid-fifties

Signature traits: Long boney limbs, gray eyes, stiff straight hair that looks like burnt matches and a raspy voice similar to that of a witch stirring a cauldron.

I first met Don Ramon five years ago when he entered the ladies' restroom on the thirteenth floor. He was wearing a cobalt blue onesie, and holding a bucket and a mop.

The Perks of Eating Alone

In Korean there is an abbreviated term called "혼밥" (pronounced Hon-bab; literal translation 혼: alone 밥: rice/meal), that I've heard people refer to as if it's something pitiful yet unfortunately inevitable. 

I remember watching part of a documentary that takes place in Japan. The camera leads you into a restaurant, where it captures a long table with cubicle-like divisions with dimensions just big enough to fit a sitting average-adult male. The heighty sides of each cubicle are meant to give the person occupying the space privacy and a fort from prying eyes. A man huddled into a bowl of steamy soup is approached by the camera-man and asked how he feels about eating alone- he shrugs and says that with his tight work schedule he has no other option than to eat a fast lonely meal. 

The camera distances itself away from this man, as a female voice narrates on how nowadays more and more people have alone-meals and that restaurants adapt their infrastructure so as to accomodate these "single" customers. The documentary seems to allude that eating alone, or alone-time in general, is an unwanted condition. 

Personally?
I disagree  with the universalized approach to drape a negative veil upon "Alone Time", particularly and especially on eating alone.

Etymophilia

In recent years I've developed a rather odd inclination: a liking for words.

I've always liked reading, however around the time I reached my thirties reading has become not anymore an act of hunger for a story but more like a yearning to excavate for gems that are tucked away in between the lines...

Like stumbling upon dabs and specks of poetry within a horror novel:

"Tonight's moon was so bright that it had embarrassed all but the brightest stars into invisibility." (The Girl Who Loved Tom Gordon, Stephen King)

Morning Routine

I used to mock/self-pity myself for having the lame 9-to-5 routine on my weekdays. I felt like just another sardine on a hamster's wheel (figuratively speaking... although as of this week I find absurd situations more digestible than those that are a consequence of common sense, so I guess if I ever encounter a sardine inside a hamster's cage, specifically on the wheel, I'd take a sip of shrinking potion (yeah, the stuff that tastes like a shoe and smells like molasses), crawl inside the cage and lay next to it).

But since I realized how important it is to have "recesses" in between daily tedious, grown-up activities
,
I've been 

  eating more,

           sleeping better 

                     and grinning wider. 

The Silver-lining of Scarcity

I grew up loving raw fish and dried squid while living in a landlocked, third world country. How? My dad made it possible and my mama made it delicious. As a kid I learnt that food-wise there were no boundaries, one could always find a way to eat exquisitely.  As of today, I still live in South America (yet not anymore in a landlocked country) where Asian products are smuggled through the border with Peru; where (real) Worcestershire Sauce (we had what was locally produced and labelled as “Salsa Inglesa”, which personally wasn’t much different from the bottle next to it on the supermarket shelves called “Salsa China”) and Horseradish Sauce have entered the market only recently, and Sriracha is only found occasionally in “ramen” shops (note: I use the quotations because the “ramen” here is either a joke or an offense i.e., anything but close to the traditional soulful stuff); however, this didn’t ever stop me from trying out recipes that included these ingredients- one can always find creative alternatives and solutions.

I recently visited a friend in Vancouver and flushed with embarrassment as my friend saw me stuff my bags with bottles and jars of: Sriracha sauce, pumpkin spice, old spice, vanilla extract and (oh God) not to mention the mustard seeds. I felt so self-conscious- as if I was caught in public with holes in my pantyhose or spinach in between my front teeth; as if I  was a school girl wearing a dress that showed off my scabby knees.