I can cook.
I know I can.
I may not be an excellent cook or even a very good one but I can turn out a fairly good meal.
Ask me to slice, dice, mince, chop, marinate, toss, fry, steam or whatever it is the recipe requires, I can probably do it.
At age nine, when my sister was born, I learned the art of sauteing to help out my mom in the kitchen. At age 10, I was already venturing into more adventurous stuff. I would watch my mom while she cooked and, she, in turn, would explain to me the steps needed in churning out a fine dish. Later on, I (sometimes with my cousin, Mike), would watch my lola, a Kampamgangan and a mighty good cook, do wonders in the kitchen.
I can cook Pinoy fare, some Chinese and Thai and manage fine with pasta and Italian dishes. Baking was once a passion that I intend to go back to once I get to replacing the oven. I also like to experiment, watch cooking shows and devour cookbooks online and collect the real thing.
So why am I offering all my credentials in the kitchen front? Well.... mainly because my feelings were hurt. Sort of.
Here's what happened. My eight-year-old son and I were walking to the tricycle station and were talking about what he had eaten when he went over to his friend's house.
"You ate singang for lunch?" I asked Mr.-Doesn't-Want-To-Touch-Anything-That's-Not-Fried. I was truly amazed, "I thought you didn't like sinigang. You never eat it when I cook it at home."
"Masarap, 'Nay e," the little traitor answered.
"Oh," I replied softly, at first, but my eyes already flashing with the next question, "So what else did you have?
"Beefsteak," he replied.
"But you don't eat beef!" I protested.
"Ahmm...there's something about the way Rie's lola cooks," said Judas.
"Ha? How?" asked I, trying to focus my eyes as they seemed to be blurring with water.
"Maybe it's because she's Kapampangan..." he answered.
"But we're Kapampangan, too!" I hollered at my poor boy, who hastily shut up. End of discussion.
Ever since that enlightening conversation, I've not been the same. I still love to cook but when I do, I look carefully at Naki whenever he takes his first bite.
"Good?" I'd ask from the sidelines.
"I think it needs a little salt," the litle pipsqueak dared tell me.
"Ikaw na lang ang magluto!" I told him.
He got up, gave me a big smile and hugged me.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
My son is nearing 18 and "my cooking" has become a form of teasing between us.
I see him eating a big serving of dinner and I corner him, "Sarap ba, anak?" I cajole, with a big smile on my face. "Ako nagluto nyan."
"Hinde," he turns to me and shakes his head vehemently.
"Hindi masarap, 'Nay," he adds, "kaya nga marami kinain ko."
He he he. That's fine by me. This pobreng chef is mighty pleased.
