And my favorite read for 2010 is (drummmmrrrrrrooooooollll) Suzanne Collins’s The Hunger Games Trilogy.


And my favorite read for 2010 is (drummmmrrrrrrooooooollll) Suzanne Collins’s The Hunger Games Trilogy.
One of the traditions that our book club, Flips Flipping Pages, has developed is to start the year sharing with each other our best and worst reads of the previous year.
As for 2010, I targeted to read 70 books, and I thought that I achieved that close to midnight of December 31. It turned out that I miscounted, and I actually read 71 books! Yey, me!
I woke up as we neared Magalang, Pampanga. I always love the approach to a town. It’s a predictable, comforting pattern. You first go through the suburbs, where progress is constantly changing the landscape, old homes and rice fields giving way to the sprouting of gated subdivisions. Then you pass through the busy bayan (town center) with it Jollibees, and post-war market buildings, and all sorts of enterprise and merchandise. Then as you go deeper into the more parochial parts of town, things quiet down and the roads get a little rougher, the sights greener, the structures fewer and farther in between. And you can even roll down your car windows to breathe in that unusual smell — they call it fresh air.
But we discovered that’s at Abe’s Farm, it’s more than just the food, there are many other reasons to visit.
The calm. Within the walls, you feel you’re far, far away from civilization. You’re surrounded by dense foliage, muffling the sounds of the outside world, covering you, making you feel like you’re one with nature, even though, I admit, I’m not the one with nature kind of girl. There’s no rush. Paths meander; it’s never about getting from point A to point B in no time. People seem to walk around and talk in whispers, as if reverential of the country quiet.
So off to our cottage.
Insert 60s style hazy fade outs and sound effects to indicate a long time lapse because the censors cut the good parts in the bedroom.
Aside: I was amazed to discover that U.S.-based companies that restore old cars actually find it cheaper to ship the vehicle and parts to the Philippines, where local workers have been trained to do restoration work, and then ship back the finished goods to the U.S. Whew! Long sentence.
Aling Lucing’s sisig, Susie’s pansit luglug, Susie’s tibok tibok (similar to maja blanca, but uses carabao’s milk) — our mini Pampanga food tour, all consumed at the food court beside the supermarket.
I almost don’t know how to end this post, in the same way, that it was hard to end that weekend in the middle of the weekend. So, because the 15th year is merely a milestone in a what I hope to be a long, long marriage, I will not just say The End. Instead, I end with To be continued…
This book also elucidates the difference between acronyms (abbreviations that can be pronounced as words) and initials (an abbreviation read by its individual letters). AIDS is an acronym, and HIV is an initial. And BURMA is an acronym that means, Between Us, Remember Me Always. MANILA, you will discover, is not just a city, but is a greeting that means, May All Nights Inspire Love Always. And I’m pretty sure your life would be so much better now that you know that PASIG stands for Please Always Say I’m Gorgeous.
If I may, I’d like to add to Lacaba’s research. On page 66, he discusses the term ala verde (free for all), and in the process of dissecting the term, he touches on the meaning of steak a la pobre, which he defines as “steak cooked in the style of the poor.” I dare to venture a deeper analysis. My guess is that Steak ala Pobre is the bastardized form of the French Steak Au Poivre, which is “a classic French steak dish with a creamy peppercorn sauce.” The Steak ala Pobre I know of is also smothered with peppercorns. It’s a delicious dish, but had it retained its name as steak au poivre, it would probably be not as popular for rich and pobre diners alike. A hungry carnivorous wouldn’t want to bother with French pronunciations. But that’s just my theory. I have “no lexicographic proof.”
Though he seems to have done due research, Lacaba offers the same disclaimer in this book: “My assertions here are based purely on chika, chismak, and chukchak.”
Plangak!
In a sea of white
You spot the speck of gray
In a world of rights
You watch the bit that’s wrong
Of the things I’ve done
You ask about the one I didn’t
What I want to do
You delight in telling me not to
Does it make you fulfilled
To notice the fault
Does it make you feel superior
To detect the errors
Do you find joy
In killing mine
Does reminding me of my flaws
Justify yours
Does clipping my wings
Free you from the pressure of your own flight
Does keeping me from shining
Excuse you from seeking your own light
You focus on the gap
You seek what’s missing
You fail to see what’s there
What’s good, what’s pleasing
You zoom in on the worst of me
And highlight the parts I want to hide
You uncover those
I need to deny
Yes, perfect I am not
And for praises I whore
They’re just cheap words
Yet you give so little
The economy of your flattery
Is the hunger of my soul
Would you have been a writer
Or a call center agent
Or somebody who insisted
On being neither of his parents
Would you have been creative
Like mom, a spaced out artist
Or would you have been street smart
Like dad, a pragmatist
Would you have been a rebellious teenager
Driving, moving under some bad influence
Or would you have been a good son
Blessed with perfectly good sense
You probably would be chubby
Not too big, not too tall
Maybe just a little bit athletic
Chances are, you could not sing at all
You would break my heart
Every time you get sick or hurt
You would break my face into a smile
With your charm, your mirth
Surely you would have dimples
And a laugh that can get others laughing too
Surely you’ll be assured
I would spend my life loving you
Would you mind it so much
If my tired, achy heart stops hoping
And my long-empty womb stops waiting
Because the years have not stopped me from aging
Son, I loved you before I could meet you
I wanted you long before I could bear children
And even now as hope wavers and desire tapers
I still ask if not now, then when
With envy I look
At young new lovers crazy in love
Naïve, clueless, fresh
Untouched by real pain
of real life
and unreal love
Unaware of hurts that lurk
and gash one’s heart
When one so loved
Stops loving back
or wavers and betrays
With jaded eyes I see
Silly love
Foolish hopes
Stupid smiles
Adoration unabashed
I smirk thinking someday
You’ll be hurt too
Beyond belief
Heart shattered
Illusions destroyed forever
With the wisdom of pain I gaze
At him who has
shattered my heart
Destroyed my illusions forever
Wavered, hurt, betrayed
And my old, badly bruised heart melts
My weathered face breaks into a stupid smile
Reflecting foolish hope and silly love
Loving beyond belief
Even after a history of forgiven hurts
The last time I was in love was only minutes ago
Not in the clueless fashion of ages ago
Jaded I guess I am not
Foolish I may be
Envious of youth I remain
But love recurs
Concurs
Forgives
Rarely forgets
But to the last, I will love