Tuesday, December 23, 2008

From That Sweet Little Thing

If there is a thing which hinders me from being the perfect girlfriend every man is dying to have, it is the simple actuality that I don’t cook. I am no Little Miss Chef and as much as I try to be, I cannot. The cooking talent is not running in my veins.


Today, I helped my mom in preparing our food for Christmas Eve. It’s actually a surprise for her because she got lot of things to do and since it’s my vacation, I can do what she is supposed to do. I am planning that during the Christmas Eve, when other families are already eating, I’ll wake her up and show her what I did for the past few days. I know that right now, she maybe thinking about that particular evening and I will be very glad to surprisingly please her. I repeat, I just did prepare and not necessarily cook. I prepared Leche Flan and fruit salad as to make our Yuletide season sweet and very enticing. For the Leche Flan, I pre-heat the sugar in that ellipse silver container, put it in the fire and wait until it turns into a mouth-watering syrup. While I was waiting for it to be hazel brown in color, the telephone rang and because I was home alone, no one will answer the phone. I said “hello” and was kind of upset because I was disturbed from the middle of my doing something. It was from a dear classmate of mine when I was still in high school. She was asking how I’ve been and what I am doing. She told me that our other classmates haven’t heard from me for quite a while and they are so much wondering if I am doing well with my life. I was touched and I felt my conscience bugging me again because while I was thanking God for the person who invented the mute button, my friends are wondering if I am in a good condition. As far as I am concerned, I talked to her for about five minutes when I smelled something like coffee. I realized that I was preparing the Leche Flan’s syrup and promised my friend that I will call her back later, when things to do and accomplish run out of my list.


I found out that there was no coffee. It was the smell of the sugar in the stove. The sugar was over-cooked. It was then bitter and the sweetness was all gone (and please don’t ask me where it went. I don’t know it either). I realized something and that is the sweetness of a thing, when too much, fades away. I repeat, it’s the too much. It’s dangerous. I mean, when something is already sweet and you still set it on fire, being not contented at all and risking everything that you already have, you end up with nothing. Literally and idiomatically speaking, nothing, empty-handed, zero… like a vacant lot with wild weeds afraid to grow in there. It’s nothing because I threw it all away while having those certain realizations in me. I threw it all away because I cannot use it anymore. I’ll ruin the dessert if I push through in using it. I cannot fix that mess anymore. 'twas too late, I guess.


Nevertheless, I started all over again. After all, I have no choice.


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