2012, Chin Versus Wok, Kitchen Klutz, The Home Alone Project 
1 Comment Finally, Carbonara
Where do I begin? The past few weeks have been so hectic and trying I can count in one hand the number of days I got to sleep more than five hours. I kid not. I have been equal parts busy, distracted, lonely, and—since there’s no avoiding the inevitable—nutty. The only good thing to have come out of all this craziness is that I finally learned to cook. Though I’m nowhere near gourmet level yet—in fact, not even close—I no longer subsist solely on canned goods. I am happy and proud to announce that we can now add two more processed food variety to the mix: sausage and pasta.
Today, I made carbonara. I got 200mg of spaghetti and a McCormick bag of carbonara sauce. I hadn’t read the instructions at the back while on a grocery, which called for parmesan cheese and bacon strips. So, I made do with leftover meatloaf and skipped the cheese.
The verdict?
Not too bad for somebody whose only experience with pasta is adding hot water to the noodle cup. I’m pleased, too, that I made only two boo-boos: one, adding too much fresh milk to the carbonara sauce — the recipe called for 250ml of fresh milk; I didn’t have a measuring cup so I poured in two cups; two, I ended up pouring boiling water on my right hand.
All things considered, I’d say I’m doing okay living on my own. Sure, I miss the convenience of having maids and I absolutely loathe not having pretty clothes when, where, and how I need them. But what I do not have materially, I am making up for in experience. I’ll be 30 in two months; how ridiculous is it that until this morning, I have neither cooked pasta nor ripped open a pack of flavoring?
There is a downside to this newfound liking for the kitchen, however. Where before I always make a beeline for the fresh milk, junk food, and fresh fruit sections of the grocery, I now trawl aisles, poking at packagings, reading labels, asking attendants what certain things are for—garnish, an odd-looking fish, a jar of pulpy tomatoes and olives, and puttering with the chinaware, admiring corkily shaped tableware.
If my mother could see me now, she would surely laugh. No, scratch that—no use dragging the dead into the living’s muck. If my father could see me now, he would laugh. And laugh some more. And laugh just a bit more. The last time he saw me cook—or, to be honest, try, I was a senior in high school holding up the lid of a pot in front of my face while, with one hand, I try to turn one of the chicken drumsticks sputtering about in the pan. That picture has been very hard to live down, by the way. Even to this day, roughly 13 years after, my sisters tease me about being the only person in the world who cowers before fried chicken. One of these days, I’ll go to Bohol and cook for the whole family. They’ll be bowled over by the absolute genius of my cooking, and they’ll throw themselves at my feet, contrite for having ribbed me about my non-domesticity all these years.
Hey, a girl can dream.