I have a lot of clubs.

Clubs. Associations. Organizations. Groups. I’ve got a lot of those. I’ve got storytelling orgs and groups, book clubs, eating groups, and speaking groups. Basically, I have a group for most of the things that I like doing.

That said, with the previous post, I’ve realized that what I most need at this time (mainly because I cannot devote myself to cooking and the pursuit of, because my life is basically full of a lot of things– including being President of a Speaking Club, and the process of getting married) is a cooking club.

We sorta had a thing like this a long time ago, when a friend (now fiance) used to invite friends over to cook. It’s a great idea. I miss it.

And while I’m not sure if I have the time, I’m willing the universe to manifest this for me. I want a cooking club that meets (once a month? is that okay) to cook stuff, experiment on things, geek out on food, that kind of deal.

So is this possible?

Thoughts? Anyone willing to join me?



I write this because a lot of things happened today.

There was an earthquake.

I watched a lot of award-winning chefs.

I also realized that I could die tomorrow, or in this instant.

Time flies very fast. (This one is courtesy of a 60th birthday party I attended today too)

And that I really want to cook again.

The last one was a bit of a curve ball. I have no idea where that idea came from, as these days, I’m pretty happy with occasionally cooking for myself, the fiance, or for the family during the holidays.

I have mostly resigned myself to writing about food.

I met one of my old culinary school classmates in a regional dinner in this Madrid Fusion Manila. She now was the executive chef of a big hotel in Batangas, and as we were talking and doing some catching-up, I had the big bad feeling of…regret.

Visuals of what could-have-beens flashed in my head, and I remembered how much potential I had as a cook. And hey, two of the people who taught me how to cook were on the Madrid Fusion stage, so really, I was ripe of some good ole fashioned self-reproach.

So the whole time today, I’m thinking and feeling two things—that some of the things I’m thinking are possible, OR all these new (and old barely resuscitated) dreams are too late.

Le sigh.

And this is not something that I should really be thinking now, I’m thinking. (Dang, I think too much!) I have a lot of things on my plate– getting married, moving houses, the summer season (which is always big for my business), my lack of waistline, my costume/outfit to the britney spears concert, the articles that I still have to write, and have I mentioned my lack of waistline already? Yep. Lotsa things on my plate.

So why am I thinking of this stupid thing?

I blame the earthquake.

But as firm believer that things happen for a reason, then maybe I’m supposed to get these thoughts, and my gut is supposed to clench every time that I do, or that my head wants to explode because I cannot deal with time running out.

Just breathe.

That advice was given to me by my fiance last week when I was having a faux-nervous breakdown. You know the type where you want to quit everything but you know you can’t cause no one is going to do it except you anyway? So you just cry, keep outwardly calm, but inside you’re like ‘Lord Jesus help meeeeh!’ and carry on. THAT kind of thing.

I blame the earthquake.
Nothing like the swaying of a building that you’re in and a forced evacuation to give you some some perspective.

The truth is, I’m still in that half-shit phase where I don’t know what to do, or if I should do anything and wait for the time that it’s right, or some shit like that, which usually doesn’t really work anyway, because at this point– I don’t know the shit I’m supposed to do anyway!

Or maybe I’ll just keep thinking about it. It’s holy week, and that’s a good thing to do during this time, right?

Reflect, genuflect, and just effing figure things out while not too eating much, and possibly exercising, because sacrifice.

So 4/9/2017, waddup?**

**article writing for this started at 4/8/2017







Midnight Ramblings in Manila

I just finished watching Midnight in Paris and it was wonderful.

Love. Paris. Dreams.

It kinda makes you go… Hmm… and think about who you are, who you’re with (if you’re with someone), or who you want (if you’re not with someone.) Love is something that I want to experience but I’m honestly bat shit scared of. Well, it comes from seeing first hand all its effects…of love.. or lust, or whatever stupidity it is that affects men, or us all ( just to be fair).

We are creatures capable of so much stupidity.

Do we really know how it is to love? I’m sure that we know how it is to try, and most often than not, we expect ourselves to be disappointed.

What am I saying? That perhaps love is an illusion. or love is a fantastical notion.Or maybe just out of reach from us normal human beings?  (If you’re in love and feel loved. Feel special NOW.)

I have become as cynical as the person I think I love. Cynicism is a “virtue” that should never have been invented. For without it, the world would be a better place, boredom would be dead, and then I’d still be a lot more naive, maybe happier. I’m not sure.

But then maybe… just maybe, Love is real. It does seem that way when I see people holding hands and walking. Some people have tried holding my hand. I turn into stone.

What is it that you would get out of love? Why is it that when some people fall  in love they leach onto someone and drain the life out of them? or how do some manage to seemingly take nothing like a gesture or a sentence and turn it into life’s greatest adventure?

Adventures are a dime a dozen to those in love. As much as it tires them ,it seems, they keep coming back for more. But  then what is “more” than just a quantity that never really tires anyway? We are as much fallacies of our own making, as we are mistaken impressions of other people. We endlessly try our best to exist in a time that is fleeting. Yes, we take it upon ourselves (or at least try) to be “here” as much as we can, in what time we have– how little or big that might be.

Big Time>Small Time?

But then Time as per the book I’m reading is different for everyone. It is a second. It stops. It’s a day. It’s forever. I am of the belief that time is but a construct of what we are. We are of the future, stuck in the past, not moving at present, in the process of being unstuck, we are moving fast, slow.. or not in time. ever.

And so we question– what is time to a person in love? Is it fast? slow ? or is it a neoprint taken one dreary afternoon in 2002?

We ask more. Is it better to just go for it and leap? or to go slow? Will it even make a difference? Does the song that goes ..we had the right love at the wrong time.. –even really make sense? Or was it just something to make us all feel better about ourselves?

For the one that got away.

The one that ran as fast as they could away from you. The one that you thought would wait. The one that died. The one that you knew loved you but were an asshole to. The one that you gave your all to. The one you got pregnant. The one who found someone prettier. The one that found someone way less good looking than you.  The one that did this. The one that did that. But ultimately, it was the one  that you thought you loved that left.

And maybe it was a good thing.

But you ponder when it’s dark , you’re alone and just watched a movie on love– could any of the ones that got away be— THE one? That’s going to bother anyone and everyone. If THE one that got away was THE one, then why bother again? ever?

But then, how would I even know who is THE one?

THE one that seems most likely to be missing, or perhaps trapped in a parallel dimension trying endlessly to find me? THE one that will be holding my hand with the same tight grip today and onwards to forever? THE one that makes me the most crazy angry? or is it THE one that will kiss me on the cheek and then I’d know everything will be alright?

I’d like to believe that I’d fall in love with THE one.

My naivety(and my collection of romance pocketbooks) is showing. Forgive me. The words just seem to run. And it feels sometimes that  I’ve been running all my life. I’d believed half of it was away from .. something and half of it was toward… something.

Both somethings are surely crazy, maybe one more so than the other.

So what is the point?

I ramble on on how love could be real. Or not. And i wrestle with my romantic idealism while I deal with reality and do my best to control the cynicism from spreading.

But really, on Love?  I still have absolutely no idea.


Note: Not edited and I really don’t feel like it tonight. If there are mistakes in punctuation or whatever, I’m really sorry– this was written mostly not looking at the screen and just letting my hands do the typing.I kinda miss rambling. And watch the movie. 🙂