Pam Pastor's Blog, page 3

How to make garlic parmesan chicken wings

I swear, there’s a real recipe in here somewhere.







Ingredients



A computer

internet connection

Google

nail polish

top coat

4 kilos chicken wings (or less, if you want to listen to Jill’s cook)

flour for dredging

1 cup salted butter

8 cloves of garlic, crushed

powdered parmesan

grated parmesan

Italian seasoning

onion salt

onion powder

garlic granules/powder

paprika

salt

pepper



Directions



1. Realize that Jill’s spicy pasta and Mexican corn aren’t enough. Your dinner party menu needs chicken.

2. Briefly consider making your soy garlic chicken wings but drop the idea because admit it, you have done soy garlic chicken to death.

3. Think about making buffalo wings and then roll your eyes at your stupidity. The pasta is spicy, the corn is spicy, what are you trying to do – set someone’s mouth on fire? (And if that’s the plan, target Giff.)

4. Let the lightbulb hit you. Garlic parmesan wings! Delicious! And not spicy! Yes!

5. Google “garlic parmesan wings recipe.”

6. Look at photos of garlic parmesan wings and try – and fail – to decide which plate of wings looks the most delicious.

7. Google “best garlic parmesan wings recipe.”

8. Google “perfect garlic parmesan wings recipe.”

9. Google “garlic parmesan wings recipe so good your guests will want to dry hump them.”

10. Stop googling.

11. Watch old episodes of Dateline and 48 Hours on YouTube for hours.

12. Stop watching when you realize that you still haven’t found a recipe for garlic parmesan wings.

13. Google “best garlic parmesan wings recipe” again.

14. Read about twenty different recipes and find yourself completely confused, like the Bachelorette on the first episode of, uh, The Bachelorette.

15. And, just like the Bachelorette, think, “They all look meaty. And delicious. How will I choose?”

16. Say to yourself, hopefully unlike the Bachelorette: “Screw choosing. I will use all the recipes at the same time.”

17. Use your phone to grab screenshots of the ingredients list of all the different recipes.

18. Go to the supermarket.

19. Ignore your ingredients list and head to the chocolates section first.

20. Go to the dairy section and look for a block of parmesan cheese because you want to grate your own.

21. Be left disappointed by the measly cheese choices and walk to the pasta section to grab a can of powder masquerading as parmesan.

22. Return to the dairy section for one more attempt at finding decent parmesan. Find real grated parmesan hiding in a black box. And it comes with a free pot holder! Score!

23. Resist the urge to pump your fist in the air.

24. Grab three blocks of salted butter.

25. Head to the produce section and grab a bag of garlic.

26. Stand in front of the spice racks and scroll through your many screenshots. Feel a little overwhelmed. Make the quick decision to just get all the spices listed in all the recipes and figure out which ones to use later.

27. Grab dried basil, Italian seasoning, onion salt, onion powder, garlic granules.

28. Scan the shelf for garlic salt and find nothing. Wonder: if you can’t buy garlic salt, can you just use garlic granules and salt?

29. Look at all the spices in your cart and convince yourself that even if you don’t get to use all of them, you’ll find a way to use them later.

30. Ask Jill how much chicken you should buy.

31. Wait as she calls their cook and listen as the cook recommends that you get 2 kilos of chicken.

32. Go to the poultry guy and ask for 4 kilos of wings, just to be sure. You don’t want to run out of chicken wings – it has happened to you once before and it wasn’t pretty.

33. Ask them to chop the wings between the flat and the drumette.

34. Pay for your purchases.

35. Leave the supermarket.

36. Paint your nails.

37. Seriously, paint your nails. You can’t have horribly chipped nails when you’re co-hosting a dinner.

38. Go to the kitchen and ignore the chicken.

39. Make hot fudge.

40. While you’re making hot fudge, find someone who will peel and crush the garlic cloves for you.

41. Spend so much time working on the hot fudge that by the time you finish, it’s almost dinner time.

42. Season the raw chicken with salt, pepper and Italian seasoning. Really rub those flavors in, like you are giving the wings a creepy, pervy massage.

43. Deep fry the chicken. If you are lucky, find someone to deep fry them for you.

44. Panic when the first guest arrives and the food isn’t ready yet.

45. Chit-chat as the chicken wings are frying and Jill is serving her pasta and the angels are grilling the corn.

46. Panic again when you realize that they are all waiting for the chicken.

47. Panic even more when you realize you need to throw the sauce together now and you have no time to consult your twenty recipes.

48. Take a deep breath and remind yourself that if you can ace your El Filibusterismo exam in high school without ever reading it, you can throw together a garlic parmesan sauce without rereading a recipe.

49. Melt a few spoonfuls of butter.

50. Add the crushed garlic and sauté it.

51. Just before it turns brown, add the rest of the butter.

52. When the butter is completely melted, add the parmesan. Start with the powder.

53. If you bought enough real grated parmesan, add some of it to the butter mixture too. If not, don’t. You will need it later.

54. Add the spices liberally. Onion salt, onion powder, garlic granules, Italian seasoning, salt, pepper – throw them in.

55. Try not to look surprised when your butter mixture actually starts looking like garlic parmesan sauce.

56. Grab one of the freshly fried wings, put it on a plate and drizzle it with your sauce.

57. Take a bite and chew.

58. Resist the urge to shout “Holy shit, it really tastes like garlic parmesan wings!”

59. Make Jill take a bite and pretend to be nonchalant when she says, “Sarap!”

60. Grab a sturdy tupperware, put a few wings in, drizzle the wings with sauce, close the tupperware and shake it until the wings are coated with sauce.

61. Open the tupperware, add some grated parmesan, close and shake.

62. Serve.

63. Repeat steps 60 to 62 until your guests are too full to eat another wing.

64. The next day, realize that you still have about a kilo of wings left and that you will need to make more sauce.

65. Repeat steps 49 to 62.

Mirror monster. WTF.

 

“Did you leave your handprint on the bathroom mirror?” Jill asked me, her brow furrowed.

 

“No. Why would I do that?” 

 

I was indignant. Did she think I had nothing better to do than leave prints all over people’s bathrooms?

 

But she was relentless.

 

“Seriously, was that your hand?” 

 

“No way. Why would you even think it was me?”

 

“The print is so big,” she said. 

 

“There’s your answer. It wasn’t me. You know my hands are small,” I said, feeling triumphant, like a detective who had just solved an incredibly complex case. 

 

But Jill ignored my CSI moment. She didn’t seem impressed – she just look scared. She whipped out her iPhone, flipped through her photos and handed the phone to me.

 

Suddenly, I was scared too. The print was big. And so defined. I could see all the fingers. So creepy. Creepy times two hundred. It was like a horrible monster had decided to leave a mark on the bathroom to let us know he had been there. I felt a chill run down my spine. 

 

We stared at each other, our eyes wide with fear.

 

But then I thought, wait a minute, I may be afraid but I’m also still indignant. A handprint on the mirror and automatically it’s my fault? I needed scientific proof that it really wasn’t mine. I zoomed in on the handprint and held up my left hand to compare.

 

“It’s the right hand,” Jill said. 

 

I rolled my eyes and switched hands. 

 

I looked closely at the lines on the handprint and the lines on my hand. Did they match? I wasn’t sure. I needed a closer look. I got up and headed to the bathroom as Jill called after me, “Wala na, nilinis na ni Manang!” 

 

As I took those three steps, it hit me. In slow motion. A scene from the previous night. 

 

I was brushing my teeth in front of that very mirror. Suddenly, a mosquito started flying around my face. Annoyed, I swatted at it. It disappeared for a few seconds before reappearing. It flew around and then landed on the mirror. “Aha!” I thought. “You’re dead now!” I smacked the mirror with my open palm. Then I continued brushing my teeth. 

 

FUCK. IT WAS ME.

 

The flashback ended and, like that goddamn mosquito, my indignation had disappeared. I turned towards Jill, my shoulders slumped in defeat, and said, “Yeah, it was me.” 

 

I’m the handprint-leaving monster.

 

And the worst part? I’m not even sure I really killed that mosquito.

A very weird Christmas dinner (or how I started my career as a doll killer)

(Warning: long post with a lot of pictures. Expect fake blood, gore, brains and a zombie baby. Skip this if you’re squeamish. Photos by me and Jill.)



For four years now, Jill, Giff and I have been hosting a yearly Christmas dinner for our friends.



Last year, we started our barkada Secret Santa and held the big reveal at the dinner. The reveal was super fun – we all had to present and unwrap gifts one at a time while everyone else watched – and what made it even more exciting was Giff’s gift-wrapping contest which Jill won.



And since she won, she decided on this year’s gift-wrapping theme: zombie apocalypse.



Yes, seriously.



I didn’t complain at first. She made the announcement in November and I thought I had plenty of time to work on my wrapping. I already had the perfect plan – I was going to make zombie doll versions of ourselves.



Yes, just like Sluterella, the doll I made and lost at the 2008 Olympics.

And because I thought I had plenty of time, I concentrated on task number one first: making my Secret Santa wish list. (Yes, we’re required to submit wish lists.)



Then I concentrated on task number two: buying gifts for Coco, my Secret Santa recipient.



But that wasn’t as simple as I thought it would be.



The watch, light bulbs and vinyl Coco wanted aren’t available in any of the stores here. I tried ordering the vinyl from our favorite vinyl guy but he said it was backordered and wouldn’t arrive before Christmas.



I wanted to get him the shoes but I went to the stores several times and they didn’t have the right color in the right size.



I looked for the lamp, looked for it everywhere, but didn’t find one that looked like photo he posted.



But I didn’t panic. I thought I had plenty of time.



Then I woke up one morning and realized that, holy shit, it was the day before our Christmas dinner and I still hadn’t bought a single present for Coco. And I hadn’t made a single zombie doll.



I looked at Coco’s wish list again. I made a few phone calls, reserved the leather camera case he wanted and headed out to the malls. Two malls later, I had two gifts for Coco and still no idea how to wrap them.



All I knew was I wanted gore, serious gore.



So I walked into Toys R Us and walked up to one of the salesmen and said, “Excuse me, saan yung mga zombie niyo dito?”



“Zombie?” the guy repeated incredulously.



I nodded and he walked up to another salesman. “San daw yung mga zombie?”



“Zombie, ma’am?” salesman #2 gave me the same incredulous stare which I ignored.



“Oo, zombie. Kahit anong zombie, figurine, mask…”



“Ma’am wala pong ganun. Kasi po matatakot yung mga bata. Baka po may mag-complain.”



“Wala bang nakakatakot na kahit ano dito?”



Obviously, I was really desperate. I ended up walking out of Toys R Us empty-handed.



I kept walking around the mall, waiting for inspiration to strike. I visited a hardware shop in hopes of finding materials I could use for building a zombie survival kit. But once again, I found nothing.



Then inspiration struck. If I found a doll that was big enough, I could rip it open and hide the gifts inside. I went back to Toys R Us. No big dolls, nothing I could slice open.



I called Jill who was at Shopwise buying ingredients for the Christmas dinner.



“Can you check if they have big dolls there?”



A few minutes later she called back and said yes, there were big dolls. And they weren’t just big dolls, they were creepy big dolls.



Bingo.



I went to Shopwise, chose my victim doll and because I wanted gore, I bought red food coloring for fake blood and gulaman so I could make fake intestines. (I didn’t know where I could get liquid latex at the last minute.)



But I had another problem. Only the Swiss Army knife would fit inside the doll. The camera leather case was too big.



Then I thought, I could submerge the case inside a brain specimen jar. That would be cool. But I couldn’t find jars that were big enough at Shopwise. And it was too late to go to a different store – we had to start baking the cake pops.



That night, I mixed the batter and as Jill started to bake the cakes she and Giff would use to make the snowmen cake pops, I started to wrap Coco’s gift.



I’m pretty sure you’ve never seen a gift wrapped this way before.



I opened the doll box and realize with glee and horror that if you removed its pacifier, it actually started talking and crying. “Mama, Mama, Papa, Papa.”



Creepiness factor doubled.



I put the pacifier back in the doll’s mouth – I didn’t want it crying as I turned it into a zombie baby. I have to admit the doll was growing on me – it was beginning to look cute and not creepy. And so I tried to be as gentle as I could. I used scissors to cut his stomach open. I wrapped the Swiss Army knife with cling film and buried it inside the baby’s body. Then I made leg, arm and face wounds, dabbing them with red food coloring to simulate blood. But I soon realized that the food coloring dried to a pale red that just didn’t look believable.



So I raided Jill’s art box. “Not the Prang, not the Prang,” she kept saying.

Mixing the paint with the food coloring produced better results.

I was particularly proud of this foot wound I painted.



I decided to scrap my plan to make fake intestines – it was going to be too messy and I was worried ants would get to the gulaman.

I wasn’t just going to hand Coco a zombie baby. There had to be a story. So I scrawled this letter to Coco from the baby’s mother, smearing it with fake blood and letting drops of water drip onto it to simulate tears because yes, she was crying when she wrote this. I ended the letter abruptly because that was the moment the zombies got to her.

I found the crate that carried the Villa Del Conte chocolates someone gave me last year and decided to recycle it as the baby’s little coffin. It was the perfect size.

Then I brought out the stamp set I bought just days ago.

I used it to stamp creepy messages onto the crate’s cover. Run Coco. Save yourself.

And I added fake blood.

Then I wrapped the whole thing with the netting that came with the Christmas gift basket someone gave me last week. (Yay for recycling!)

I was done wrapping one gift – the other had to wait until the next day.



When I woke up the next day, the first thing I did was go to another mall and find a jar that could hold my brain specimen (which was actually a beautiful brain-shaped head of cauliflower that I bought at Shopwise the day before).



I returned to Jill’s where she and Giff were already cooking. My wrapping had to wait. I had a lot of cooking to do. I made deviled quail eggs.

And baked mussels.

And open-faced tacos that I sadly do not have a photo of.



Giff baked this awesome walnut apple coffee cake (delicious!) and she and Jill put their finishing touches on the chocolate chip banana muffins with snowmen butter cake pops.

Nel arrived to make his paella and Coco started assembling his tapas as the guests arrived. As they started to eat the appetizers, I snuck off to wrap my other present and get ready for dinner.



My original plan was to submerge the gift in bloody water and put the brain on top of it. But I should have paid more attention in science class because Archimedes’ principle totally fucked me over. I settled for putting the brain at the bottom and my gift on top. It wasn’t ideal but it would have to work. I also added spurts of Elmer’s glue to make it look like the brain was starting to decay and disintegrate.



I went down and joined them for dinner.

I told Nel and Coco that my gift would be interactive and I found it funny that Coco kept saying he was excited to see my wrapping. He had no idea he was going to be my victim.



After dinner, the craziness started.

They all wondered what was under the black cloth. And since they were focusing on that and not my wooden crate, I thought I should unveil that first. The story would change depending on which gift Coco opened first. If he opened the crate first, that would mean the brain in the jar was Coco’s. But if he opened the jar specimen first, that would mean the brain in the jar was the baby’s mother’s – and that would be a happier ending for Coco. That would mean he didn’t become a zombie after he found the baby.



But I had to stop thinking about my contest entry – it was time to see what everyone else had made.



Jill is such an overachiever that even if she’s not a contestant this year (she’s judging), she still followed the zombie theme, hand-dyeing gauze with fake blood and using it as the ribbon for her many many gifts for Nel.

Nel’s gift for Jill had a story too – humans were trying to find a cure for the zombie virus but before they got it, the zombies attacked them.

Giff opted out of the contest – and I couldn’t believe it because he is the king of gift wrapping.

Le used hand-dyed fabric to wrap her gifts for Jolo.

I liked how Jolo wrapped his gift for Tatin too. I loved how it still looked Christmassy.

Tatin’s wrapping was both freaky and funny. Ayaw paawat ng Christmas lights. We couldn’t stop laughing, especially when J took it apart and said, “Ang pangit! Pero ang galing!”ird

J, who drew Plants vs. Zombies-inspired art on his gift, deserves an award for best dramatic reading. His zombie “ho ho ho” still haunts me today.

J picked Gia who then gave her gift to Giff. I love it too.

And since it came with a mask, we made Giff wear it as he opened his gift.

Then we realized that only Coco and I had not presented our gifts. Which means he picked me and I picked him. I told him to go first and he retrieved this from his car.

A freaky paper mache zombie foot. I was creeped out by the realistic toes. And the fact that it looked like it was flipping me the bird.



But inside the freaky foot was this beauty.

Black Yosi Samra flats which I’ve wanted for months and months.

Thank you, Coco!

It was Coco’s turn to open his gifts. I tossed gloves his way and he gamely put them on.

We started with the brain.

My cauliflower didn’t fail – it looked freaky.

It took Coco a while to actually open the gift. I was so worried the water would destroy the leather case that I wrapped it multiple times in cling film and Ziploc.



And when they thought it was over, I asked Coco to read the last line on the jar.



“Found with deceased infant.”



Then I produced the crate.

Coco uncovered it and read the letter.

When he realized he had to dig inside the baby for his gift, his reaction was priceless. “Shit! Seryoso?”

Check out Coco’s facial expressions while trying to get his gift out. We made him take the pacifier out so the doll was crying and talking while he was digging.

I love how Jill’s picture captured our friends’ reactions to my wrapping. Shocked laughter, disgust and yes, some of them looked like they wanted to be elsewhere.

I won the contest but I decided to give up the prize – after all, I was one of the hosts. Coco got the prize from Jill – I’m sure he was relieved he didn’t have to dig for it. (She’s not as crazy as I am.)

After all the gifts were opened, we relaxed, listened to music and drank the mojitos and vodka cocktails our bartenders Coco, Jolo and Jill mixed.

I think I drank about six mojitos and I had the world’s best buzz. I laughed until my throat hurt and the next day I woke up at 5 p.m., hands still covered by food coloring stains. I didn’t care though. I was just happy to know that my efforts were not in vain. I got the prize that I wanted – I get to choose next year’s theme.

Crepes, chicken skin and an explosion of foil

There was a plan. It was vague, but it was a plan.



People would go to Jill’s house so she can crack open her new bottles of vodka. She has a thing for Absolut in the weirdest flavors – I kinda blame the rekindling of that obsession on the bottle I brought home from South Africa (Watkins!) and the bottle Tim picked up in Abu Dhabi (Grapevine!).



It sounded like a good plan, even though vodka and I have been enemies for a while now, ever since we played that insane Snakes & Ladders drinking game in a hotel room and they forced me to down shots of vodka, even after I begged and begged for them to let me skip a turn. That night ended with me crying and crawling to the toilet to puke. So yeah, fuck you vodka.



But Giff bailed because he was going out with GA. And Michelle couldn’t, her babies were still sleeping.



Vodka night cancelled.



That’s fine, I thought, that meant I could stay in and have a granny Saturday.



See, here’s the thing: I love my granny Saturdays. I don’t like going out, I don’t like dressing up, all I want to do is stay on the couch with my special blanket and my laptop (or my iPad).



So I settled in for what was going to be a quiet, granny Saturday. I wasted hours on YouTube, watching Ellen interview different people, watching Mila Kunis speak Russian, watching those W and New York Times screen test sessions and listening to Seth Rogen’s weird laugh (I seriously want to be Seth Rogen in my next life).



But then, at 10 p.m., Jill says, “Do you want to go to Cafe Breton?”



Bye bye, granny Saturday. Hello, crepes.



We drove to Cafe Breton in Commonwealth. I had no idea it even existed – I had never seen that Technohub place before. And it blew my mind because I spent a huge chunk of my life driving through Commonwealth to get to my high school and my university and back home. And when I say driving through, I mean someone else was driving and I was in the passenger seat. Or the backseat. Except for that one time I tried to drive post-driving school. I successfully made it to the house before deciding that I just didn’t want to drive. Ever.



But back to the crepes.



Jill and I kept missing the goddamn entrance to Technohub so we ended up going around Quezon City Circle three freaking times. Naturally, I became dizzy.



Lele and their friend Mae were waiting at Breton and we spent an hour or so eating crepes and chatting. It was raining when we left and as we brisk-walked to the car, I marveled at the realization that my gold Yosi Samras were doing an excellent job at protecting my feet from the rain and puddles.



The butter and sugar crepe did not satisfy. Still hungry, we headed to Katipunan in search of food. Shakey’s? Nah. McDonald’s? Jollibee? Nah. Burger King? Maybe.



Then, Jill had a lightbulb moment. Route 196 pizza!



But granny reared her cranky head again – I wanted some pizza and maybe some beer but I wasn’t in the mood to sit in a bar and watch a band.



So Jill ordered pizza, chicken skin, tinapa rolls and we waited for the food in the car. And when the food finally came, it was like an explosion of foil. You see, Route 196 isn’t really a takeout place. They didn’t have boxes so they wrapped everything in foil. Hilarious. And delicious.



As we were getting ready to attack the food, I made the quick decision that no, this wasn’t going to be my Coke-worthy meal for August.



Last month, I made the decision that I will only allow myself to drink one can or one glass of Coke a month. I don’t like Coke Light, I don’t like Coke Zero, regular Coke is the only Coke I like drinking. It’s not healthy, I know, so I decided to cut down without completely depriving myself. I get one Coke a month and I get to choose when and where I’ll have it so I better make it count. And no, tonight wasn’t the night for it.



So I had my pizza and my chicken skin with water and they were delicious.



And now I’m back in front of the computer, determined to continue my granny session, ignoring Cesar Millan on TV and trying to resist the lure of YouTube so I can Reddit and write about polish.

Confessions of a broken blogger

The only reason I visited the old blog was to dig up stuff about J. I was going to write about him in my other blog (yes, the polish blog) and thought it would be fun to include some stories from the old blog.



But you know what happens when you search for “J”? You get every single post you’ve ever posted as a result. Apparently, I use the letter J way too much. Thanks a lot, internet. Big help.



I searched for “Jason” instead and the result wasn’t satisfying either – it only yielded 25 posts when I know I’ve written about J way more times than that.



I am the Goldilocks of archive search results. Too many, too few. Bring on the goddamn bears.



But while the search didn’t give me what I needed, it did have a positive effect. Reading some of my old blog entries made me want to post here again. I don’t think I’ll ever be as open and as free and crazy as I was before (Seriously, when I see my archives, I always end up going, “Holy fuck, I wrote that for everyone to see?! WTF.”) but actually feeling the urge to open WordPress and type something here is a big step.



Sometimes I think, maybe my life was just more interesting then. Maybe I just had more things to write about in 2002. But that’s not true. Crazy things still happen to me. I stalked the New Kids On The Block. I was bitten by a lion in Africa. I drank so much I fell asleep in the bathroom. Why didn’t I write about that?



Here’s why: I’m a broken blogger.



Little bits and pieces of myself are scattered all over the internet – on Twitter, Facebook, Instagram, my friends’ inboxes, the newspaper’s website  - while this page remains static. Sad. Ignored.



Maybe that will finally change. Maybe.

Goodbye, (Sir) Gani

A few days before Christmas, I walked into Sir Gani's office and handed him a gift. It was nothing lavish, just a box of chocolate truffle-filled mochi balls that I thought he would enjoy. He took the box and said, looking embarrassed, "Naku…" He trailed off but I knew what he meant. He didn't have a gift for me.



I laughed and said, "Sir, it's okay! Merry Christmas!"



Sir Gani loved food. Often, he'd walk to the Lifestyle section to see what goodies we had spread out on our table. Sometimes there would be pizza, sometimes donuts, sometimes pansit. And it was always funny to see him, a big boss, doing something I think every person in the newsroom has done – use bond paper as a plate in the absence of real paper plates.



Sir Gani didn't just visit our department to look for sustenance. He'd ask me, on days we were putting Super to bed, "What time will you finish today?" And it didn't matter if I said "8″ or "9″ or "10." His response was always the same: "A.M.?" It was a throwback to the days when my section was notorious for closing our pages up to the wee hours. It didn't matter that I couldn't remember the last time we missed our deadline, Sir Gani never got tired of that joke.



Last year, I wrote the piece "The Next Person Who Asks Me When I'm Getting Married Will Get Punched In The Face." Naturally, the funny guy that he is, Sir Gani walked up to my desk to ask when I'm getting married. No, I didn't punch him in the face.



When he'd see new people in the office, he was the first to introduce himself. He was friendly, he was welcoming, he was approachable.



Over a decade ago, when I first started closing the pages of the youth section 2bU! at the age of 19, Sir Gani was one of the first to show full confidence in me. "Congratulations! Great issues!" he'd tell me, taking the time out from his busy day to give me a pat on the back.



I looked forward to seeing my pages tacked on the office walls, with his notes scribbled on top of them. "Interesting story," he wrote in red ink, over the head of a travel piece I wrote about Jakarta.



Sir Gani was also the first person to give me an assignment for the front page. He asked me to go to a three-day science and technology conference back in 2003.



"Scary," I said, before I could stop myself.



"Scary," he repeated, chuckling and shaking his head.



I asked him, "When's my deadline?"



He said, "Every day is your deadline."



I doubted myself. He didn't.



I loved that he was quick to embrace the presence of young people in the newsroom. That he didn't see us as a threat but as the future. That he commanded respect without terrorizing. That he ruled with kindness. That he was there to offer guidance, encouragement and kindness when they were needed. That he dealt with problems with a cool head and a great attitude. That he listened. That he cared. And as someone who literally grew up in the newsroom, that meant the world to me.



When my book, "Paper Cuts," was about to hit the market in December 2010, I had ten early copies to give away. I thought long and hard about who I wanted to give those first ten copies to. Sir Gani was one of those people. I gave him the book along with a card telling him how thankful I am for all the support he's given me all these years. I'm so glad I was able to tell him that he had touched my life in a positive way.



Inquirer feels more like a home than an office to me. And losing Sir Gani feels like losing a family member.



I will miss him. I will miss seeing him in the office. I will miss his presence at meetings. I will miss his jokes. I will miss his scribbles over our pages. I will miss running into him at Greenbelt Cinemas during late-night screenings. I will miss him asking me what time we'll finish. Heck, I will even miss those mass e-mails he loves sending.



So many people have paid tribute to Sir Gani. It's amazing to see how many people he's touched, how everyone seems to have their own personal connections with him. The tributes say the same things over and over. He was kind. He was a gentleman. He was soft-spoken. He was cheerful. He was all that and more.



For 13 years, while he was alive, he made me want to be a better journalist. And now, in his death, he makes me want to be a better person.

I can still smell rabbit poop

I foolishly thought we could save him.



That buying alfalfa from Yellow Cab when none could be found at the supermarket would be the trick that would keep our beloved bunny Smoke alive.



That bringing him to the garden to graze on grass and hop around would cheer him up enough and snap him out of his funk.



But no, he was sad. So incredibly sad, so different from the bunny we first met. And who can blame him? We were sad too, incredibly sad. We lost a pet but Smoke lost his best friend.



I was trying to stay positive but I knew at the back of my mind it was going to happen, even if he did show signs of getting better, even if he started to seem okay.



And so, on Monday morning, when Jill said, "Check on Smoke" and I said, "I'm scared" but still went straight for the bathroom where Smoke's cage was, I knew what I was going to find.



And there was Smoke – snuggled between his water bowl and the box that was supposed to be his cozy bed. I was still a few feet away but I already knew he was dead.



"Smoke!" I called his name even though I knew he wouldn't hear me.



I walked up to the cage. He didn't move in anticipation of food like he usually does.



Smoke was dead.



He stayed two extra days with us, two days of sadness, worry, love and care. Two days of spoiling and of complete adoration. Two days of alfalfa and poop.



Unlike Ash, Smoke died with his eyes closed. He looked almost peaceful, like he was just sleeping.



But this time I put my foot down. I may have been brave enough to pick up Ash and put him in the box but I cannot do the same with Smoke. Of the two, Smoke was my baby, my little furball, the one I snuggled with, my cuddle bunny. I didn't want to feel him lifeless. I didn't want to forget his warmth.



Manang Amy stepped up and put Smoke in his box.



The previous day, we had visited CRIBS to celebrate Jill's birthday with the babies there. We brought them toys and gifts and Le gave us boxes and boxes of Rustan's Care For The Rare Stuffed Toys to give to the kids too. "Keep the boxes after," Jill said, thinking about how much Smoke loved to play and hide and sleep in boxes.



We had twenty-four boxes in all. And on the way back from CRIBS, I wondered if he'd live long enough to use them all. He didn't. He only used two – one was his bed, the other one became his coffin.



When Manang Amy brought the cage out of the room, I refused to look. It was too painful.



As we were leaving, Jill said, "Manang Amy buried Smoke."



"She didn't wait for us?" I asked.



But when we went out, we saw that the hole was still empty, Smoke wasn't in his grave yet.



Where was his body?



We started searching. Slowly, I was beginning to panic. What if a cat had dragged him off? What if someone mistakenly threw him away?



"He was just here," Manang Amy said, pointing towards the den.



And instantly, we knew what had happened.



Our eyes turned to the pile of boxes that were still in a huge Rustan's paper bag. Manang Amy picked the one on top of the pile and looked inside it.



"Ito nga."



"Ma, did you take a box from here?" Jill hollered to her mom who was in her office in the attic.



Yes, yes, she did. She thought it was heavy because a stuffed toy was still inside.



We ended up laughing.



Laughing. Again. At a bunny funeral.



This time, Jinna wasn't there. But I made sure I put a flower on top of Smoke's box – I knew she'd like that.



It's been a couple of days since Smoke's death and I still miss him and Ash terribly.



I miss watching them eat. I miss having them hop all over the place. I miss marveling at how sweet they were to each other, how they always slept huddled up. I miss cuddling with them. Fuck, I even missing cleaning their pee.



The bathroom is unusually clean and it feels a little empty. I still feel like calling out their names sometimes. The smell of Irish Spring reminds me of days and nights spent scrubbing their cage. Last night, I changed to a new roll of toilet paper and stopped when I realized I no longer had bunnies waiting to play with the core. It's been days but I can still smell rabbit poop.



I can only console myself with the thought that they're now playing together in bunny heaven.



Do I want new bunnies? No. I don't think I can take another bunny heartbreak. Do I regret having Smoke and Ash in the first place? Hell no. I will forever cherish the short time we had together. I will always be thankful that I had the chance to get to know them.



I had two bunnies and I loved them to death.

Laughing at a bunny funeral

(Do not proceed if you do not want to read about poop, diarrhea, death and a lot of crying. You've been warned.)



I will admit, it was my brilliant idea.



"Why don't we give her a rabbit?" I said to Jill, as we planned her niece Jinna's Christmas gifts this year.



She was reluctant at first but I regaled her with stories about Brucey my bunny and we talked about how this might be a good way to teach Jinna about being responsible. She caved.



Numerous phone calls to different pet shops resulted in nothing – strangely, they had all run out of bunnies. But we were told we might find our answer in one place – Tiendesitas.



"We sell them in pairs. Because if not, they get lonely and die after three days," a lady at a sad little pet store told us.



We went to a different pet shop manned by a guy with multiple piercings. He was willing to sell us just one bunny but we decided to get two – we didn't want a lonely bunny. It took a long time and a lot of cuddling and cooing before we finally made our choice. We picked two boys – a beautiful white bunny with gray markings and a fat little bunny with very pale brown-gray fur and the most incredible dark brown nose.



We cuddled them on the way home, we were worried that the car ride would stress them out. We kept talking about names. "Amy and Adele." "Michael and Jackson."



Finally, Jill decided. The white and gray bunny would be called Ash. And the brownish gray one would be called Smoke.



Ash and Smoke.



They were playful bunnies, funny little creatures who liked exploring.



On New Year's Eve, we finally introduced Jinna to her new pets. She adored them and was gentle with them, petting them and feeding them.



The bunnies stayed in Jill's room – during the day they were allowed to run free and play, at night they slept in a cage in her bathroom. We made sure they were comfortable, that they never ran out of food and water, that they had toilet paper cores and boxes to play with.



We had a few days of bliss with the bunnies – bliss only marred by the need to clean their cages twice a day because rabbit pee plain stinks.



Every night before they sleep, I'd have my cuddle time with Smoke while Jill and Ash would play. Smoke was the sweeter bunny, Ash was a little grumpy but they were equally adorable.



And then, diarrhea happened. Smoke was the first one who got it. Research told me that it wasn't actually diarrhea – that the explosive mess we were seeing were unformed cecotropes. Following instructions from bunny experts, we made changes in their food intake and carefully cleaned the rabbits, the cage and their bowls. The next day, Smoke seemed to be getting better but Ash had diarrhea too. Again, we cleaned them up (it was a very messy process – you know it's true love when you're touching someone else's poop), tried to hydrate them and make them comfortable. Smoke was still playful and constantly eating but Ash wasn't as energetic.



He didn't seem extremely sick. He didn't seem like he was going to die.



At around 3 in the morning, Jill checked on the bunnies and started yelling. "Ash is not moving!"



My heart started beating triply fast. I looked at Ash and started crying. He was by the cage door, completely still. What was scary was how thin he suddenly looked. He still looked normal just a few hours before. But his ears looked alert and his eyes were wide open.



Maybe we could still save him.



I ran to my computer and tried to figure out what we can do. "Let's go, let's get him that water solution a girl used to revive her rabbit," I said to Jill.



"He's dead!" Jill said.



"No he's not!"



"He's dead."



We went back to the cage in the bathroom. I clapped my hands. Ash didn't move. I moved the cage. Ash didn't move. I called his name. Ash didn't move.



Ash was dead.



Jill and I were crying and crying and crying. Smoke was still in the messy cage and we wanted to get him out. But getting him out meant opening the cage door Ash was leaning against. Neither of us wanted to touch Ash. I didn't want to feel him cold and lifeless. I wanted to remember him as the beautiful, warm, grumpy furball that he was. Jill felt the same way.



We thought of calling Manang Amy to ask her to help us but it was 4 in the morning.



We left the bathroom, sat on Jill's carpet and continued to cry.



"You do it."

"Di ko kaya."

"Di ko din kaya."



But I knew I had to set my fear aside. Smoke, who was probably terrified and confused, needed to get out of that cage. And Ash needed to be put to rest.



I walked back to the bathroom still crying. I knelt by the cage, took a deep breath and opened the cage door. There was a part of me that was hoping Ash would move when the cage door opened. That he'd still be alive.



But he was dead.



I took another deep breath and reached out for him. It was like picking up a stuffed animal. It was like he was never alive. I put him in a box. His gray ears stuck out of it. I put the lid on the box and turned to Smoke who looked sad, really sad.



I wanted to make sure he was okay. I wanted to make sure he wasn't on the verge of dying too.



Smoke hopped over to me when he heard me open his bag of food. He was so hungry he started climbing all over the bag. To our relief, he started eating. And eating. And that was a very good sign.



Smoke returned to his cage for the night, looking sad. I knew he was missing Ash.



The next day, Smoke seemed fine. His poop was looking better too. But he was sad. So incredibly sad. We let him out of the cage and stayed in one corner of the bathroom. We gave him toys, he ignored us. We gave him food, he ignored us.



Manang Amy dug a hole by Jill's mango tree. The four of us – Manang Amy, Jill, Jinna and I – held a quick bunny funeral.



Jinna showed me a flower she had picked from the garden. She carried Ash's box downstairs, placed it in the hole and put the flower on top of the box before Manang Amy started shoveling dirt to cover it.



"Jinna, lead the prayer." we said.



She smiled sheepishly. "Umm… di ako ready."



"Sige na, pray ka lang," we said to her.



And she started praying.



"Bless us, Oh Lord, and these thy gifts which we are about to receive from thy bounty, through Christ, Our Lord. Amen."



The prayer before meals. At a bunny funeral.



I couldn't help it. I started laughing. And I couldn't stop. Tears streamed down my face, tears for Ash, but I also couldn't stop laughing. Jill couldn't stop laughing either.



It was a crazy funeral, short, funny, sad – just like our quick roller coaster ride with our beloved Ash.



Jill posted on Twitter last night: "I hope all bunnies go to heaven."



I know Ash is in bunny heaven. And I hope he's watching over Smoke because he's still extremely sad.



Thankfully, he liked the stuffed rabbit we left by his side. At least he still has a bunny to cuddle with. And he's started eating again – carrots did the trick.



At this point, I am willing to do anything to make Smoke happy again – cartwheels, card tricks, I'd freaking eat fire.



Because God help us, we are going to keep this rabbit alive.

Searching for Sylvia

Today, my beloved book store failed me.



Last night, I updated my Facebook album of "Books I've Read In 2011″ and realized two things:



1. I've read 66 books this year – 65, actually, because I read Dash and Lily's Book of Dares twice. And that means I haven't been meeting my goal to read at least ten books a month.



2. I read like I'm a 13-year-old girl. The books I've read so far this year are an embarrassing mix of young adult favorites, chick lit, non-fiction, a few memoirs, crime and Justin Bieber.



And those realizations led to more realizations:



1. Fuck, I'm 30 years old. I cannot be reading like a 13-year-old.



2. Holy shit, no. I'm not 30, I'm almost 31. That's even more embarrassing.



3. While I have a huge pile of books waiting to be read, they're of the same variety – my trail mix of juvenile fun and sexy trash. And that leads us to number…



4. I need to buy new books.



5. I need to buy books because Sylvia Plath was 30 when she put her head in the oven and left behind Pulitzer-worthy poetry and here I am, same age as she was when she said goodbye, wasting my time, choosing to swim in marshmallow fluff.



6. I knew what I needed to do. I needed to find Sylvia Plath.



I own several of her books but I have no idea where they are. I've never finished any of them, her sadness always scared me. But I think I'm ready now.



And so today, I went to the book store. I dumped my laptop and bag into a cart and proceeded to check every inch of their shelves for signs of Sylvia.



There were none.



I checked everywhere. Biographies, memoirs, poetry, literature, award-winning literature, fiction, non-fiction. I found nothing. I checked children's books, dictionaries, travel books, self-help, graphic novels, effing cook books. No Sylvia.



Not happy to be defeated and not willing to walk away empty-handed, I decided to find other books to read instead.



I walked out of the book store with The Complete Stories of Franz Kafka and The Portable Dorothy Parker.



They're not Sylvia but Frank and Dorothy will have to do while I continue my search for Sylvia.

Pop pop pop

The trouble with having access to excellent microwave popcorn is it ruins your movie popcorn experience.



The barbecue-flavored cinema popcorn you used to love now tastes like cardboard. Stale cardboard. Because how can that compare to the awesomeness of Blast O Butter?



So goodbye, cardboard popcorn. Hello, chocolate-covered almonds.



I gave a talk about my book at a school last week and one of the students asked, "What kind of movies do you like watching?"



Every kind, I said, my friends and I watch practically every movie released. Actually, I said it more crudely than that. "Lahat ng movie pinapatulan namin." Hi, I'm Pam and I'm a movie slut.



But my intentions are pure. I want to help keep the movie industry alive. Yes, just like I want to keep the publishing industry alive by buying more books than I can read. And as my pile of unread books keeps growing and growing, I tell myself I will get around to reading all of them eventually.



I am currently reading a book that is moving so slow. I am halfway done and I feel like nothing's happening. I am tempted to just drop it but I'm trying to give it another chance. I very rarely stop reading a book even when I think it's bad. It just feels like cruel abandonment.



I have a feeling I will be able to watch a lot of movies and read a lot of books this month. Because I am just days away from what shall be known as 18 days of loneliness.



It will be tough but I will suck it up.



Because that's what you do. You suck it up, you watch movies and you swim in books.