One in Every Ten

Zaccheus was trying to see who Jesus was, and was unable because of the crowd, for he was small in stature.

So he ran on ahead and climbed up into a sycamore tree in order to see Him, for He was about to pass through that way.

When Jesus came to the place, He looked up and said to him, "Zaccheus, hurry and come down, for today I must stay at your house."

And he hurried and came down and received Him gladly.

Luke 19:3-6

One of my greatest joys is this statistic: 1 in every 10. I have seen the Pope once in every 10 years, a total of three times. Not bad for someone who doesn’t live next door to the Vatican.

I was four years old when Pope John Paul II visited my city, the first and last time the Holy Father would do so. At that time, I had no idea what he meant to me, and what he meant to a country of more than 50 million Catholics. He was a young Pope then, only in his early 60s. The Popemobile was nothing more than a parade float that was decorated with flowers – the assassination attempt at the Vatican would happen the following May – and no bulletproof glass separated him and the people who called out for him, asking for his blessing.

He passed by my street.

And he stopped right in front of my house.

My heart still swells at the thought.

The Pope stopped in front of my house.

I saw him again when I was eighteen. I had walked miles to see him, although many others had traveled hundreds, even thousands of miles to do exactly the same. He talked to the young people, and millions (yes millions) were there to listen. He was no longer young, and there were rumors of illness. But that night, in the midst of the joy and the singing, he defiantly twirled his walking stick, jokingly telling the journalists that he would jab them with it if they came too close. That night, I happened to be at the right place at the right time. He was no more than three yards away when he passed by. I have never seen so much compassion in someone’s eyes.

After that, I was never the same again.

My heart still swells at the thought.

The man is gone now, and people now call him “the Great.”

Yesterday, I was eighteen again, except I made my pilgrimage by subway, instead of on foot. I waited for three hours without sitting but the wait was full of singing and music and joy. People say that Catholics are a dour lot, all hellfire and brimstone, and yet Fifth Avenue was filled with a happy anticipation.

A roar started coming up the avenue, and the colors of the Vatican flew over everyone’s heads. Finally, the man we had been waiting for had arrived. Benedict XVI waved a gentle wave to the crowd, as shouts of “Viva il Papa!” echoed over and over. Never would the Pope be a distant presence in Rome, but a real person doing real things in the hope of healing the hurts of the Church. People have christened him “the German Shepherd,” zealously guarding the Church that he loves.

Tonight, Shepherd One takes off from New York City.

My heart still swells at the thought.

Mormons at the Door

Yesterday was an absolute mess of a day for me. I hate having to listen to the moaning and groaning of my ickle students. Someone had the gall to say that I should give consideration to him/her because there were TOO MANY GOOD STUDENTS in the class and therefore he/she CANNOT COMPETE WITH THEM.

GOOD LORD. In every class, there will be A’s and there will be F’s. DEAL WITH IT.

Not meaning to disrespect the Lord, but He had a field day with me yesterday. I had not eaten since the previous night, and it was already almost five in the afternoon. I was tired. I was hungry. I was pissed. I needed to whip up dinner early, because I had made plans with my friends for the evening. I was in the middle of dicing my potatoes when the doorbell rang. For a moment, I thought it was one of the neighbors, because it seemed like there was a party in the hallway. I put the knife down and answered the door.

There were two Mormons at the door (should I call them Latter-Day Saints?). Now, I really have nothing against Mormons. I went to school with them. I‘ve worked with them. There might even be a few living in my building. I try to respect the beliefs of the people around me. When they (the Mormons) asked for the lady of the house (because apparently, they thought I was 15 years old), I said politely that I am Catholic, and therefore whatever religious teaching I will listen to should come from my Church.

Once one of the guys heard the word “Catholic,” he began to try to egg me on into a theological debate. How do I know if my faith is the correct faith? Did God tell me Himself? Did I choose to become a Catholic or did I just become one because I was baptized when I was a month old? I kept trying to close the conversation politely but he kept saying “Just answer one last question for me.” He even said “I know about the Catholic Church, I’m Mexican!” and “All versions of the Bible are the same!”

The good Lord was probably laughing up a storm.

Dude, the fact that you are Mexican does not make you versed in Catholic Doctrine. I told the two of them that they can’t offer me just ANY version of the Bible – the ones I use have the Nihil obstat and Imprimatur from the hierarchy of the Church. All the same, I pretty much kept my tongue in check, even though I wanted to tell them that it was gonna take more than just two Mormons to shake two and a half years of University-level Theology, four years of weekly Catholic Doctrine classes, 27 years of Catholic school, 31 years in a loving, devout Catholic family, and knowing deep in my heart and in my mind that the Lord is in constant communion with the Catholic Church

However, at this point, head was pounding and my stomach was growling.

Then finally, the guy got into the topic of original sin (it was still the Mexican guy speaking…the blond Caucasian guy was just standing in the background, carrying the sack of Bibles). He said “How can you have original sin when you are a little kid? You are born perfect…in the image and likeness of God!”

THAT was when I COMPLETELY LOST IT.

HOW PRESUMPTUOUS OF YOU TO SAY THAT YOU WERE BORN PERFECT! How presumptuous of you to say that with your free will, you will ALWAYS make the right choice!

Go ahead. I’m still listening.

GET UP AND SEE THE SARCASM IN MY EYES.

I’m sorry to say that I practically threw them out of my face, but it was just the perfect ending to a bad day that was just beginning. I knew that I had let my temper get the better of me…I could have just tried to turn around the situation and get them to listen to what the Catholic Church teaches.

Like I said, I had no food since the night before.

I look back at yesterday, and I realize that God still has a sense of humor. After all, He made me leave the knife.

So it shall be written: Charlton Heston 1924-2008

I must have watched The Ten Commandments more than 20 times. I had first seen it when I was around 9 or 10 years old, and I have probably watched it every Holy Week since. Charlton Heston was such a huge part of my childhood: in addition to The Ten Commandments, I have seen Ben-Hur, The Agony and the Ecstasy, and The Greatest Story Ever Told and these probably influenced my taste for large-scale epic movies (no, Gladiator is not one of them). My parents are such huge fans that they recognized his voice even when he was not onscreen (not to mention his trademark knock-kneed gait). Even now, when I watch that chariot race, or the parting of the Red Sea, or the confrontations between Moses and Pharoah (played by the also larger-than-life Yul Brynner), I just shake my head and say to myself that people don't make movies like they used to.

Casting on another sock...

I treated myself to a small amount of yarn over the spring break and am currently working on another pair of socks for myself *frantically looks for a pic of the first pair, doesn't find one.* God knows how long it's going to take me this time, as I have to split my waiting-for-my-laundry time between this and reading Gogol. The rate I'm going, it's definitely cheaper to buy socks, particularly from Filene's.

Like the other pair I made, these are knitted from the toe up, using a basic pattern that I found on the Internet. However, I added a herringbone stitch pattern that I found on another pattern. After finally working out the number of stitches I needed (most sock patterns are usually too big for my feet) using Excel (dorky, I know), I got to work and am happily halfway through the foot, at least by this morning.

An attempt at Pasta Alfredo (Angel Hair)

I've been having a strange craving for pasta lately, ever since my cousin served up a simple but flavorful bowl of pasta the last time I visited her apartment (she sautéed a bit of pesto, tomatoes, baby portabellos and fresh torn basil leaves, and mixed it into cooked spaghetti). The thing is, I dislike having to cook something that only tastes great right after it is cooked. Graduate students like being able to cook and freeze for an entire week, and you can't freeze pasta.

But I'm on vacation right now, so I get to relax. I made this very simple dish in probably less than half an hour (I wouldn't really know, coz I don't look at the clock while I'm cooking, but Jeopardy was still on when I finished). Thanks to Frannie for the shrimp, because even if I overcooked them, they were still great.

A rough version of the recipe:

1. In a large pot, boil water for the angel hair. Angel hair cooks in a snap, so you want the water boiling when the sauce is about done. Add about a heaping tablespoon of coarse salt into the water to flavor the pasta.

2. Saute 2 shallots in about 5 or 6 tablespoons of butter until soft and translucent.

3. Add the cooked shrimp, saute for about half a minute, then add about half a cup of white wine (I had leftover chardonnay in the fridge). Let it reduce for a couple of minutes.

4. Add a cup of heavy cream (yes, I know, nakamamatay). Heat through, then turn the heat down to simmer. Season to taste with a bit of salt (not too much if you used salted butter) and freshly cracked black pepper.

5. Put about half the contents of a box of angel hair pasta into the pot of boiling water. This has to be watched carefully...you want to take out the pasta before it is fully cooked, so that you can continue cooking in the sauce. After about no more than 50 seconds in boiling water, take the pasta out and put it into the sauce. Mix well, so that the pasta is thoroughly coated in the sauce. You'll also find that the pasta will absorb some of the liquid in the sauce.

6. Remove from heat and serve immediately, with grated Parmesan on top.

I’m shipping up to Boston! (Woah-oh-oh!)

March 6, 2008 – I'm a sailor peg! And I lost my leg! Climbin up the topsails I lost my leg! I’m shipping up to Boston! (Woah-oh-oh!)

In spite of my relatively lengthy residence in the US, I’m really sorry to say that everything I know about Boston (Bahston) comes from Martin Scorsese and the Dropkick Murphys.

So when the opportunity to go to a conference in Boston presented itself, I jumped at the chance to go (I would do a little jig too, if I could). As the Chinatown bus was creeping up to New England, I was daydreaming of Celtic punk-rock, bagpipes and maybe my own Irish-American bad boy (well, technically, Leo Di Caprio is German-Italian, and that works too).

So, camera in hand, I started out to capture the edgy Gaelic grit that was Boston.

Wait a minute. Why does this place look like Washington D.C.?

This is a shot of Quincy Market.

Here is Roomie with Kevin Hagan White, who was mayor of Boston during the 1970s and was the one who revitalized the Faneuil Hall area of the city. He is currently suffering from Alzheimer's disease.

Shots from the waterfront.

I think Paul Revere might be a little mad at me.

In all fairness, Roomie and I were tourists, and therefore had no intention of going down narrow side-streets and dark alleyways (and yes, there seem to be a lot of alleys in this city).

When I first planned this trip at the end of January, I asked Roomie if she wanted to make reservations at Blue Ginger. Blue Ginger is owned by Asian-fusion chef Ming Tsai, whose shows I followed on the Lifestyle network when I was still living in Manila. Roomie, needless to say, is a huge fan (see Roomie's post when she finally has the time to put it up). I had learned from previous experience that making dinner reservations at restaurants owned by Food Network Chefs can be a bit difficult to do on an impulse, and we really wanted to make sure we could eat there. Anyway, we didn’t really think that Ming would be around...

But he was, and I spotted him across the restaurant sometime during the appetizer course. Roomie, of course, had to ask our server if we could meet him, and Todd promised to put us on a list (but of course there is a list!) of guests who wanted to meet him. I could hear him two tables away talking to a couple of patrons, but I was basically distracted by the delicious rack of lamb with lemongrass and coconut milk sauce (it was ginormous! Roomie and I could have split it had we not restrained ourselves from eating in the afternoon).

It was in between the main course and dessert that I heard the familiar voice from the East meets West episodes I had seen back home. “Hi, I’m Ming,” he greeted while affably extending his hand.

I’m sure Roomie will give you all the details (and she has better pictures as well, once she put them up) once she gets the hyperventilating gets out of the way. I was glad to find that he was very chatty and down to earth. He made wonderful recommendations for dessert, and the coconut doughnuts with the pineapple curd and lime (I believe it was lime) sorbet blew my mind away.

Even better than le sucre, which had been first in my heart for the last two years.

All in all, the trip was well worth going up to Wellesley and getting stuck in suburbia while a huge rainstorm kicked up in Massachusetts. We got on that commuter train exhausted, and, thankfully, stuffed.

The next morning, I decided to chill (especially in the aftermath of spring forward). No shopping, no picture-taking, no walking around. An easy Sunday morning until Noel picked us up to have lunch at Cambridge with Tristan.

Now while I don’t have any pictures of Cambridge or Harvard, I liked the students-during-the-weekend vibe of the area. In fact, Tristan was so relaxed that I'm beginning to doubt that he was doing any actual studying there (joke only Tris)!

All good things come to an end, and it was finally time to drive back to the Bx. After the four-hour drive back (complete with off-key cover versions of U2, the Eagles and Bon Jovi), we decided to end the night in Chinatown with a good dose of roast duck. I'd like to apologize to Matt Damon as I've run out of time.

When it rains, it pours...

Today is one of those days when you go from one high to another. In between working on my paper, I stole a few moments to bond with my new best friend:

It's not very high-tech, and surely not high-end. But I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship (provided I don't lose this like I did the other one). The picture below is of a Thai elephant keychain (about an inch high and wide) that I took using the super macro feature of the camera. Pretty cool, huh.

While I was in school today, I learned that my dissertation proposal won me a financial award. While I am not a millionaire, the award will keep me fed and housed for the next school year (and ensure that Roomie will continue to have a Roomie).

Thank you, Lord, for good days like these.