Seven Year Countdown

It was in Medellin, Colombia that my dear friend, Beatriz Pizano, amidst women at least a decade younger than her told us “Once you hit 40, you simply stop caring about the way you look.” She said it with her usual confident air as she downed the rest of her aguardiente. It was like she was saying “Go on. Take your youth, bitches. I’m too busy being looked at with adoration to bother looking in the mirror to check my own cleavage.”

At the age of 33, my Jesus year, I am looking forward to this abandonment of vanity and the willingness to embrace the curves, the dents and the lines. I admit to feeling the pull already towards nonchalance about my own decay.

I wasn’t always this accepting of my own body. Here are some humorous moments in the gallery of bodily disaster:

*I admit that I, along with a very small percentage of very stupid people in North America and possibly the world, bought Dr. Ho’s Ab Trimmer. I am not sure what it was about this pithy man in his tank top that swayed me. This, my friends, was not an Ab Trimmer. This was simply self punishment. The idea was, if I really, truly wanted to have the skinny body needed to continue my career as an actor, I would have to increase my workout time throughout the week. But since I was working as a temp during the day and exercising both morning and night, I needed to somehow...I dunno...workout...while working? Yeah. So I bought Dr. Ho’s torture belt, strapped it on, and thought I would be just like those people in his commercials who were mowing lawns, birthing babies and tap dancing – all while trimming their Molson Muscle. Not so. Instead, I would attempt to answer incoming calls at the office while suffering electric shocks to my abdomen. The phone calls often sounded like this:
“Good Morning (ZZZZZ!) How may I (ZZZZZ!) direct your (ZZZZZ!) call? (ZZZZZ!) No, no. Nothing is (ZZZZZ!) wrong sir (ZZZZZ!) Please (ZZZZZ!) let me (ZZZZZ!) put you on (ZZZZZ!) hold (ZZZZZ!) so that I don’t (ZZZZZ!) vomit onto my own lap.”

*I admit that just two summers ago I did the Master Cleanse. Now, just to be clear, I did not do it for weight loss. I did it hoping to find some clarity during an emotionally stupid time. In brief the idea is to not eat anything but two large bottles of water, maple syrup, cayenne pepper and lemon juice for ten excruciatingly awful days. This was no walk in the park for this granddaughter of a pig farmer. By day eight, I was standing amongst about 2000 Filipinos for the Filipinos Making Waves festival before performing with Santa Guerilla. I saw a family of four happily eating some Filipino BBQ and it was like triple X porn. It was grade A sexy. I watched lecherously as this innocent family tore apart charbroiled pieces of pork fat, licked their fingers, then downed it with Coca-Cola. Yes. Yes. I love cola and Filipino BBQ. Fuck. Yes. I went home that night feeling like that one bald dude in the group sex scene in any porn. You know the one. He’s the guy who doesn’t get any action because he’s supposed to be just “watching.” The only thing I ended up gaining after this venture were my boobs. Thank god. I thought I lost them during those ten days. I almost threw a party for them, they were so lovely.

Nowadays, I love snow pants. I enjoy wearing my pajamas underneath said snow pants without my neighbours knowing each time I walk the dogs. I wear scrubs at work, which means, my only fashion choice each day is which undies won’t show through my white pants. I enjoy laughing as Hollywood walks the red carpet to show off their plunging neck lines, while wearing said pajamas.
This doesn’t mean I don’t enjoy high heel time every now and then. I do love purchasing new lip gloss and I do over accessorize on occasion. But now, I do it with a chill and confidence I never had in my 20s. Can’t wait until after 40.

"I cut off the bottom of the steak...and I fed it to my family."

My dad is a bit of a softy. The best storyteller I have ever known, he often gets so caught up in his own recalling of the past that tears begin to well up in his eyes.

One particular story crumbled him into a balling mess. It's one he has told me often since I was a child. Only, as I have grown older, the elements of honour, truthfulness and sacrifice have unfolded and blossomed in my wiser heart. This family history is, of course, the spine of my play Eating with Lola. It is the nail on which my entire one-woman show hangs upon and spirit which moves me from scene to scene.

My father's mother, Rufina, was a prized cook. Her recipes were so renowned that she was hired by an American teacher in Manila -- one of the remaining Thomasites who were hired to teach English and American morals to the Filipinos -- to cook for the entire Jenkins family. Despite her ability to create gastronomic magic in the Jenkins' kitchen, her own family was starving in post-war Manila. She would sneak into the Jenkins' ice box, take out a piece of steak and cut it laterally so that her deed wasn't obvious. She would then take this tiny sliver of meat and serve it to her family.

This is the part in the story when my father would start the waterworks. Many years later, when my father married my mother, the Jenkins were invited to the wedding. My grandmother took Mrs. Jenkins aside and confessed to her about the food stolen during those difficult times. Mrs. Jenkins laughed and told my grandmother, "I always knew. That's why I always gave you extra money to buy food at the market. I always knew."

In honour of this moment of forgiveness and understanding, I give you Filipino beef steak. This is probably what my Lola made for her family with that tiny sliver of meat. It's so simple, I won't even bother giving you a recipe. It's just tenderized beef marinated overnight in equal parts of soy sauce, lemon juice, pepper, garlic and onions. You fry the pieces of meat until cooked well, then you wilt the onions with the remaining marinade. Served with steamed rice, all remaining sauce on your plate can be sopped up with a piece of banana.

To make things complete, the steak is served atop the Depression Era serving dish from my other Lola Pacing.

Happy Holidays.

Longanisa Nigiri Sushi

Counting down to the production of Eating with Lola at the Next Stage Festival in January, I shall share some of my Lola Pinang's recipes with my own twist. An expert at making gourmet food with ghetto resources, these recipes will be kind to your wallet, but brutal on your waistline. So get your cupboards open, loosen your belts, and get cooking.

In Eating with Lola, Lola tells the story of her husband who was tortured by the Japanese at Manila's Fort Santiago during World War II. The puppet that depicts the Japanese soldiers stationed at the fort is a pair of red scissors. This was completely intentional and reflective of the attitude most elderly Filipinos have towards the Japanese. Nursing wounds kept fresh by memories of rape, torture and death, thoughts of the Japanese Occupation of the Philippines are not often met with nostalgia. The scissors are red representing blood (not to mention the Japanese flag) and sharp, much like the soldiers' bayonets of the period.

This recipe, to me, is a culinary burying of the hatchet. A gastronomic peacemaking between the two nations. Nothing like eating to build bridges between cultures. Enjoy.

INGREDIENTS

1 cup cooked sushi rice
2 tablespoons datung puti white Filipino vinegar
2 longanisa sausages, boiled then fried until caramalized (I prefer Baguio sweet longanisa. Use your favourite), then chiffonade the sausages into long pieces.
1/4 diced tomato
3 tablespoons low sodium soy sauce
1 tablespoon lime or calamansi juice
lime or calamansi zest to garnish

mix warm sushi rice with 1/2 the vinegar and put aside to cool.

take a tablespoon full of rice and mold into a small oval. place onto plate.

along the length of it, place 1 cube of the diced tomato, 1 long chiffonade piece of the longanisa, and garnish with the zest.

in a bowl take the lime/calamansi juice, soy sauce and the rest of the vinegar and whisk together. Pour atop the sushi or use as a dipping sauce with wasabe.

yields 4 pieces.

Lola's Meatloaf

Counting down to the production of Eating with Lola at the Next Stage Festival in January, I shall share some of my Lola Pinang's recipes with my own twist.
An expert at making gourmet food with ghetto resources, these recipes will be kind to your wallet, but brutal on your waistline.

So get your cupboards open, loosen your belts, and get cooking.

Lola's Meatloaf

This recipe utilizes the typical food rations given to Filipinos by American army bases during World War II: canned meat and ketchup. Don't dismiss this as humble pie, though. It is worthy of any dinner party.

Ingredients:

2 lbs ground pork. Hands off the low fat stuff. You need lots of drippings for the gravy.
4 eggs
10 strips of smoked bacon
1 can of SPAM or pate
1 teaspoon of salt and pepper
3 teaspoons of soy sauce
1/2 cup of ketchup
1/2 a cup of corn starch mixture

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees

Hard boil 3 out of the 4 eggs.

While the eggs are boiling, line a narrow casserole dish with foil.

Place 5 of the bacon strips along the bottom of the dish, width-wise.

In a bowl, hand-mix the last egg, the ground pork, the canned meat of your choice (remember that Lola -- both in the play and in real life-- would have found anything in the cupboard), salt and pepper and 1 teaspoon of the soy sauce, together until well blended.

Spread 1/3 the mixture on top of the first layer of bacon.

Take the hard boiled eggs and place them lengthwise atop the pork.

Take the rest of the pork mixture and place on top of the eggs.

Place the remaining strips of bacon on top of the loaf, width-wise.

Using the foil, start to mould a loaf. Once the loaf is formed, bound the foil together and place the loaf in its casserole dish into the oven and bake for 1hour until meat is cooked.

You will notice a crapload of drippings. Do not feel guilty for eating this. A pig isn't good for anything until it's dead and tomorrow you can walk it off. For now, you must love yourself enough to eat this.

Pore the drippings into a saucepan. Put it on medium heat. Let it simmer.

Add the ketchup and the remaining soy sauce. Whisk well.

Add the cornstarch/water mixture to create a gravy. Whisk well.

Slice the cooked meatloaf in 1 inch slices and serve with steamed rice and the gravy.

Eat with a fork and spoon.

Lola Unplugged

Some good news: Eating with Lola will be showcased at the Next Stage Festival in January 2011.

Bad news: I can not, I must not, go onstage with a puppet I bought in a store.

Don't get me wrong, though. I do love Lola 1.0 very much. You might not think so considering how I've sewn her mouth shut, sliced the back of her neck and stuffed her into a wire basket en route to rehearsals at fu-GEN.

Now, armed with some tips from my director, Ann Powell of the Puppetmongers and an assortment of knick-knacks from Walmart crafts section, I am ready to produce Lola 2.0.

Some changes:

*As per Theatre Passe Muraille's AD, Andy McKim's suggestion, I chose eyes that weren't too wide and starry. I've opted for ones that are beady to make you question how well Lola can see.




*She now has a severe under bite. I always pictured her like this in my head. This will change the way she speaks now. Since she suffers from a stroke in the play, this may be due to facial paralysis.

*As per Ann Powell's suggestion, I have taken all stuffing out of her arms so that she can be more flexible. She just has beads as weights in her palms and a joint in her elbow.

Let's see how she works.

Thanks to my partner, Pavey, for helping me with the sewing ideas and cheering me (the anti-Martha Stewart) on. Phew!

Pancakes, the Miracle Worker

No really. My dog, Pancakes, is a miracle worker.

He may have peed on your bra. Yes, he may have been the canine who fertilized your flowers. He might be the reason why the last half of your pot roast is missing. But you will love him.

You may in fact think that his overt friendliness is yours alone. That he loves you most. You might mention to others how Pancakes jumps up next to you, places his palms on your lap and looks into your eyes the minute you share the same space. You may even tell Pancakes, “Okay, enough, boy. Time to show your affection elsewhere. I can’t be the only human around,” when in fact you wish deep down inside that you are the best thing on two legs this dog will ever love.

This simply isn’t so. Take someone fresh out of Kingston Penn, give him a plate of bacon and you can watch this pooch deny you were ever alive. That is, until you get your own plate of bacon.

He is a testament to the beauty of saving abused animals. Born in a litter of pure bred American Cocker Spaniels, he was bought by a family who quickly kicked, starved and humiliated the pedigree right out of him. That’s why he’s gorgeous but knows little more than to give a high five, sit, and fetch.

What he does not have in show, he makes up for in his ability to heal and love.

This I understood the minute I became his second mama. When my partner, Laura, introduced me to this kind soul, I had never had a dog before due to dangerous allergies. For some reason, or by the grace of god, I wasn’t allergic to Pancakes. So I cared for him, and I continue to care for him, not taking for granted anything that comes with dog ownership. I also have the pleasure of loving this dog with an adult wisdom and artist’s eyes.

This is when I began to observe a peculiar pattern.

Each time I took the little guy out, someone, somewhere would stop in their tracks to pet him. And I don’t mean a “Look at this wittle puppy! You’re cute! Yes you are” kind of petting. I mean, mournful, bittersweet moments on the sidewalk.

“Can I pet your dog?” said an elderly woman on the bus one day. I had never heard this before as I had never had a dog. What do people do in this situation? Is it as inappropriate a statement as “Can I pet your bosom?” I decided to let her shaky hands peruse the wavy fur.

“Is it a cocker spaniel?” I nodded yes and the woman’s eyes began to well up.

“I just put my 13 year old female cocker spaniel down,” she said as her simple petting turned into a full embrace of Pancakes. He let her as if to say, “There, there.”

Even though I had told her Pancakes is a boy, she kept saying through her tears, “You’re a good girl. Yes. You are a good, good little girl.” Again, Pancakes let her as if to say, “I will be whoever you want me to be. As long as you have bacon.”

This continued. One man saw Pancakes and remembered the dog he lost during his turbulent divorce. The kids were brats, so he didn’t mind losing them. But the dog. The dog...

One woman remembered the exact date of her cocker spaniel’s death when she was a child. She has never recovered. This was usual among all of our encounters: They remembered the date of their dog’s death, they remember the dog to be the “best motherfucking dog on earth. No other dog has ever compared.”

The most poignant of these stories has to be when Pancakes jumped into the lap of a middle aged man.

I could feel another story coming on as this guy, with his salt and pepper hair, began to pet Pancakes slowly, pensively.

“I had a dog like this when I was a kid,” he began. “I watched him die. He was on a dock and a fishing line strangled him in front of me.”

Laura and I were aghast. We thought he would, I don’t know...tell us about how his cocker blew out his birthday candles and left the cake covered in slobber. Or how his cocker licked his face when he had a fever. Jeez.

“That’s why I became a veterinarian. I decided that because I never saved him, I wanted to save dogs for the rest of my life.”

Cue nose blowing and tear duct dabbing.

Pancakes remained in this man's lap for a long time. And the dude didn't even have a plate of bacon.

Photo credit: Laura Pavey.

This image will be on the cover of his book entitled "Can I eat what you're eating? An American Cocker Tells All"

Sulong gets Schooled

While being interviewed in the sun at the Big Carrot Juice Bar, I realized this is one of many times academics have gotten in touch with me.

This time, it was the lovely Ryerson grad student, Parvin Vahdat, whose thesis involves the role of media and art in policy building around Live-In Caregivers. While sipping juice we discussed audience reactions to Future Folk and how I thought the play could move audience members towards changing their views on migrant work.

The first time academics caught onto our work was through George Brown College's Labour Fair, where we performed a 10 minute excerpt of Future Folk. Word spread like wild fire from then on when Shasha Nakai asked if she could film the presentation for the Ryerson student documentary, Baby Not Mine. It went on to win the Best Documentary at the Canadian Student Documentary awards.

More recently, Wilfred Laurier University Professor of English Eleanor Ty presented her paper on the Past As Affect in my play Singkil at the fu-GEN Asian Canadian theatre conference earlier this month.

Since then, as well as the presentation of my one-woman puppet show, Eating with Lola, I have been blessed with the interest of even more academics who would like to see the work in their schools.

I mention all of this because I am realizing the power of education in the distribution of our work as theatre artists. Of course I knew it somewhat before. But only now am I realizing that the interest of academics in theatre helps the work live beyond the curtain call and helps the message connect with people long after our fleeting runs.

Images: Above, Eleanor Ty at the fu-GEN Asian Canadian Theatre Conference; Below, Parvin Vahdat during our interview.