The plan was this: Tamark, a professional makeup artist based in Dumaguete City, suggested spending one afternoon using Wimpykitty as a model for a photo shoot.
Here are the results.
Makeup artist: Mark Duran.
Model: Lori Nocete, aka Wimpykitty
Photos taken by: Feyoh
Jelly Memories
In the Philippines, the guava (Psidium guajava) takes flak from those who want an excuse for not excelling in academia. It has been a running joke through generations of Filipinos that if one wasn't able to complete the elementary level or to get past secondary school, the fruit was to blame. Even in college, the joke still stands that if one has below average marks in certain subjects, it was because one has been busy with "pamayabas" (guava-picking).
Native to South America and some areas in the Caribbean, these shrubs may have been imported from South America to the Philippine shores during the days when country was still under Spanish control. The tree from which the ripe pale yellow fruits, with a deep pink or orange flesh, is a low shrub from which some mothers have torn twigs off as handy sticks for whacking the bottoms of errant offspring (this was of course in those days when corporal punishment reigned supreme in the child-rearing department). When the fruit, round nubs at first, grew to about the size of a baby's fist and ripened, and the heady sweet aroma pervaded the air, children headed for the trees they pass by on the way home from school and congregate there like a flock of birds resting on tall trees on a stopover before heading back north from their winter migration.
I rarely see a guava tree these days, least of all a guava tree heavily laden with fragrant fruit, standing by a roadside and patiently waiting for school children who would be sure to get enchanted with the fragrant golden orbs. Because of the scarcity a thing so familiar during my childhood (I know, I am getting old), when I do happen across guavas in the local market, it is like being in the presence of ghosts of the past; the fragrance of the ripe fruit invokes the spirit of carefree childhood summer days when school was out and all there ever was to do was play, play, and play. Maybe this was what caused some children to stay out of school: to prolong the experience of pure bliss.
An excursion to the market one day turned me into the hoarder of about five kilos of the native guava – those that had a strong tart flavor and sweet heady aroma that are missing in those genetically modified oversized mutant variety sold by ladies wearing straw hats outside school gates. A more enlightened soul would have called others from her age group – a.k.a. friends – to share the bounty and reminisce together about old times as each sank their teeth on the golden fruit. But I was selfish and decided to keep the guavas for myself. I scurried to the kitchen, put on a big pot on the stove, and channeled the spirit of my grandmamma to aid me in making guava jelly. Kidding on that. I actually looked up recipes in several cookbooks – they were my great grandmamma’s – and took the one with the simplest instructions in it.
First, the guavas had to be washed and then sliced into quarters. It must be stressed here that the fruit should be very ripe, but not overripe. Please do away with rotten fruits. Drop the quartered ripe guavas into a pot then fill the pot with water until the fruit are fully submerged. At this stage, some would suggest bringing the water to a roiling boil using high heat. On the contrary, it is best to raise the heat to let the water boil and then to turn the heat to medium, bringing the water to a slow, sensuous simmer. A half hour of this without stirring would help yield a more flavorful jelly later on. It is also a practice on self control, because most of us have a tendency to grab a ladle and constantly stir what’s cooking in the pot. Take a deep breath, put that ladle down, turn your back to the stove and amuse yourself with the view from the kitchen window. This way, the guavas, goaded by the steady temperature, will release their flavorful oils better.
Finally, the half hour is up. Turn off the stove fire and let the liquid stand for at least twenty minutes. Meanwhile, prepare a strainer by taking a clean cloth (some would use a jelly bag, with its convenient stand, or a quadruple layer of cheesecloth on a colander) spread over the mouth of a bowl deep enough that the bottom part of the cloth would not graze the estimated surface of the strained liquid. Better if someone is there to help you with the next step because it requires you to slowly pour the liquid onto the clean cloth. Allow the last of the liquid to drip right onto the bowl. If using the cloth, you might want to gather the edges and secure it with kitchen twine and tie it somewhere over the bowl you are using to gather the liquid because the dripping could take the entire night, and you wouldn’t want to be standing there the whole time, holding the cloth and wondering if the toil of making guava would be all worth it. And while you’re at it, resist the temptation of squeezing the bag. I should have had a disclaimer to warn you that this is a multi-stage task requiring utmost commitment.
At last, the next morning arrives, and you are again ready for another round of jelly making. Now, transfer the strained liquid to a pot over a stove. Keep the flame high and bring the liquid to a boil. When the liquid has been reduced, lower the heat. For every cup of liquid in the pot, add a cup of white sugar. Bring to a boil then immediately lower heat to medium. Then, add another two cups of sugar and 1 tablespoon calamansi juice. Let simmer. Stir every once in a while. After about 25 minutes of this, test for doneness by taking a teaspoon of the jelly and dropping in a bowl of water. If it forms a soft glop, remove from heat and transfer into a sterilized glass jar. Let cool. The jelly may be kept in the refrigerator for several weeks.
There. An essence of carefree days has been captured in liquid form.
Get some pandesal or crackers and butter to go with your jelly. Reminisce as you take the first bite.
Above (L-R): Te Chuy's floral arrangement. She used flowers found around the house; A shot of my mother's cottage; A bubbling cauldron of potatoes and meat; Lumpia shanghai waiting their turn in the pan.
Below (L-R): Te Chuy cooking biko; Sakura asked for her picture to be taken; Golden lumpia, cooked and ready for the hungry.
The sun shone bright on Sunday morning. This date is special, as it's my brother Phrasie's birthday. Although he is already gone, our family holds his memory close to our hearts. Imalech and I went down from our tropical jungle home and visited Phrasie's grave at Dumaguete Memorial Park. We stayed for a while and chatted with the grave's keeper. Then, we drove back to the mountain to prepare for the day's planned menu.
We shared a meal with a few of our neighbors and young friends, who very generously helped me prepare the food for all of us. The day ended with biker friends coming over and watching Imalech do his jumps on the dirt ramps.
We walked back home from the dirt ramps under the silver light of the half moon.
It’s been raining like there’s going to be Part 2 of Noah and the Great Flood. Boulders have dislodged from their beds because of the incessant rain that loosened the soil, and the big rocks chose to settle in the middle of roads that wind their way down from my jungle home. Roads have turned into quagmire pits, and visibility is almost nill because of the constant fog.
The standing record for best time on the open category for downhill mountain biking in the Camp Lookout, Valencia, Negros Oriental track is held by Joey Barba, who is the gold medal winner in the 2007 Southeast Asian Games downhill mountain bike competition. He ravaged through the 5-kilometer winding track that had technical obstacles of bushes, lanzones orchards, exposed tree roots, coconuts, cow manure, mud, barbed-wire fences, polythelene hoses the size of tree trunks, and dirt ramps in just three minutes and five seconds.
The rides will be using the same track today, and Tata plans on riding too (he won in the last Sandurot 2007 downhill mtb executive category champion cup at a time of 3 minutes and thirty-three seconds).
Safe ride, you guys!
i promised to post a background story as to why we have a child living with us.
however, mulling through the events of four years ago, i decided to save the bits and pieces for a book i'll be writing soon; still, i'm sharing some of the details here.
for reasons only known to her, sakura's mother (sylvia) decided to live with her new boyfriend after her first one, who is sakura's dad, left and was never heard from ever again, when she was still three months pregnant with sakura.
sylvia now has an eleven-month-old baby boy with her new boyfriend. she did try to keep sakura with her in the house where she lives with her new family but it didn't work out well for our little one because the old folks, who are sylvia's boyfriend's grandparents, do not appreciate having to care for a child who is not of their own flesh and blood. sylvia noticed how her daughter is not receiving the care that sakura really deserved, because sylvia was tied down to the needs of her new baby and of her boyfriend as well. needless to say, sakura was often neglected as long as she stayed where her mother is staying.
i know that it was a very painful decision for a mother to give her child to other people to care for but that's what sylvia did. as long as she stayed in the house of her boyfriend, as long as she has another baby to fend for, and as long as she does not have a job, she is powerless to raise her daughter in the best possible way. she entrusted sakura's upbringing to imalech and myself, probably hoping that we could give the care that the child really needed but that she cannot give.
each day, i pray that imalech and i would not fail. for sakura's sake.
I have a day off from work because it's Labor Day. Imalech and I have long ago talked of going somewhere with the little one, and today just felt like a good time to go to Silliman University's Marine Laboratory.
After breakfast found the three of us making our way down from our mountains to the city beside the sea.
The Marine Laboratory of Silliman University houses a decent collection of bones from whales and huge fish beached on different shores in the surrounding islands near Negros Oriental. The lab also showcases a giant clam rearing facility; salt-water aquariums; a grouper tank, which is home to a trio of huge groupers and several companion fishes; and what seems to be a taxidermy display of marine animals --- dead, stuffed, and mounted. The lab is also known to be the home of several Philippine crocodiles, and in my college years, the lab also facilitates the breeding and raising of these endemic species of reptiles.
After the trip to the Marine Lab, we took the long way home, passing across a new bridge in an isolated part of the city, up hilly terrain, where the road for most of the way was unpaved with exposed boulders and mudholes, and coming out through Pulangbato in Valencia.
Here's an affordable, nontoxic recipe for playdough, which could provide hours of fun for kids.
Start by putting 4 cups of flour in a large bowl.
Make a well in the center and add 1 cup of water, 1/4 cup of rock salt, and 1 tablespoon vegetable oil.
Mix by using both hands, adding water as needed by sprinkling small amounts each time, until all ingredients are well blended.
Divide the dough into four parts.
For each part, sprinkle a few drops of food coloring of choice (use the powdered type mixed in a teaspoon of water, which is more affordable that the ready-made liquid type) and knead well until the color is well incorporated in the dough.
The playdough is now ready for use.
The dough will keep indefinitely if, after use, this is placed in plastic wrap and kept in the refrigerator.
Today, I am out of facial cleanser. The household is also out of bath soap and shampoo. Hair conditioner has congealed on the sides of the tub, and there's no way for me to get the goo out in the soonest time possible. Meantime, anybody who uses the bathroom has to slip-slide on the gooey floor in order navigate their way to the bowl. And all the loo paper have been turned to a soggy big mess under the bathroom sink. The only thing that escaped the mass annihilation of toiletries is the tube of toothpaste.
The time has come for me to acknowledge that there is really a child in the house. A four-year old preschooler with a beguiling smile, a sweet disposition, and a cuddly personality that could melt your heart in an instant. A child who is the very picture of innocence as she sits quietly in front of the TV, watching Spongebob Squarepants on DVD. Angelic, innocent... until your back is turned, and the mayhem begins.
Months ago, she was just content with observing what the grownups do. She asked questions, and we gave simple answers so she can grasp the significance of our day-to-day activities.
That was ago. This time, tired of the toys that she usually played with, she's begun checking things out around the house for herself.
Now, we are stowing things in hard-to-reach places, keeping breakables under lock and key, as well as in the process of rearranging the entire house to make it more child friendly. Cutting implements have to be placed out of sight and out of reach. These days, I often catch myself prising broken pottery or rusty cutlery from teeny hands, and my word of the day is "Don't."
Then, she has discovered her inner chemist, and yesterday, she began a major experiment with all the liquids she could find in the bathroom, much to our distress (the 250ml shampoo was meant to last for a month, and the bar of soap was for two weeks, the facial cleanser could have gone for six months under my sparing use).
Sorry folks, we didn't expect that there's going to be a child in the lives of my partner and myself at this moment. It just happened so suddenly that we barely had time to prepare for her (more on how Sakura came to be with us in a later post ). Basically, we're still like frantic new parents, and we are still learning as we go about this child-rearing bit.
We have installed baskets to hang stuff out of reach. The house now resembles a handicrafts shop, with all the baskets and other stuff hung overhead on the rafters and on nails. It's our way of coping with the growing curiosity of the little one.
Meantime, all those plans of turning the house into an artistic enclave would have to be put on hold for maybe two years or so.
i love butterflies. as an ancient symbol for one's soul, butterflies, in my eyes, become all the more beautiful. they represent the evanescence of one's life, since the lifespan of these creatures is only less than a year. but even in the short span of their lives, they manage to exude beauty and contribute something to nature (much like the ideal way to spend one's life while still on earth).
these winged ones rank second in my favorite critters list (frogs still rank first).
butterflies grace the air with their color and beauty, and they help plants by being agents of pollination.
it is known that butterflies congregate where the flowers that they feed on are in abundance.
The most memorable experiences have lightnings and thunderstorms taking center stage. Since my family's house sits on the shoulder of the highest peak in the province, which is about more than six thousand feet above sea level, we often get more amount of rainfall than the rest of the areas in the lowlands. And when a tropical cyclone does occur, the wind buffets the peaks at speeds that sometimes reach mach 3 levels, and we, with the thatched roofs and bamboo-slat walls, just close our eyes and pray really hard that no gust would carry off our huts.
If the weather had been warm or blazing right before the rains, we could expect that there would be a light show as thunder and lightning chase each other overhead. During times like this, it's really better to be indoors.
I now really believe that a very good way to know if a storm will break near where you are is to count the seconds that elapse between a lightning's flash and the boom of the following thunder. Divide this by five, and you get the idea how close (or how far), in miles, the storm is. In our mountains, if the count is down to 15 seconds, we just huddle inside the house and listen as the storm gets closer and closer.
Now, I do not believe that lightning would not hit the same place twice. My friend's house has almost always been hit each time there is a thunderstorm. One could see the trail that the lightning took from their front porch, on the side wall of their house, where it cracked some moulding, and on to their old chicken coop. There were singe marks --- testament to where the lightning hit each and every time.
According to wikipedia, lightning heats nearby air to about 10,000 degrees Celsius nearly instantly, which is almost twice the temperature on the sun's surface. No wonder trees in the vicinity die if a lightning struck too close. And the thunder heard when lightning strikes is actually a shockwave.
Lightning has already struck more or less 150 meters from our house --- three times in the past four years. The first year, the shockwave managed to dislodge chunks of the bathroom wall while I was in there taking a bath. In the second year, the lightning happily put the power out as it hit the power line servicing our residence. The latest bolt of Zeus had my partner and me shivering with fright as it struck too close for comfort while we were deep in slumber. It shook the house foundation and, with the usual aplomb, also put the power out.
What power this force of nature has! I could actually hear the billion bolts sizzle as a lightning bolt appears from the sky. No wonder the ancient people really thought that this was a tool that only someone Divine, someone so powerful, could wield.
It is presently the height of the summer season in my country. However, because of the intertropical convergence zone that falls where my country sits in this side of the globe, we suddenly had rains last night. And, as I've said earlier, this condition is perfect for thunderstorms.
Last night as Imalech, Sakura, and myself were already in bed, the storm built momentum; the light show was on, and, as I was happily dreaming, I became dimly aware of a flash, then the sizzling that sounded like bacon being fried for breakfast immediately followed. The house shook, the dogs whined, and Sakura cried in her sleep. The three of us buried our heads under the pillows and didn't really drift off again until the storm has subsided.
In the morning, the skies were still gray, but the weather has cooled enough. There will be no more light shows tonight (fingers crossed).
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