Happy to be home

Three loaves of banana cake, four 8x8-inch square pans of brownies and three pans of thin-crust pizzas made from absolute scratch baked within just five days of each other, at very odd hours at that. Jet lag has turned me into a slave of the kitchen, once upon a time an area in the house I only utilized to partake of meals prepared by someone else. What do you know? I’m still discovering things about myself. The success of my banana cake and the gooey goodness – as my maybe-biased husband calls it – of my brownies had me convinced for a while I was not such a kitchen disaster after all, an illusion short-lived when the pizza dough I made, although thin, came out with a gummy texture – you know, pretty much like the iconic Juicy Fruit, just take out the juicy, fruity part. And don’t forget we’re talking pizza dough here. Alas, they say you are only as good as your last dish. I had the foresight, though, to get ready-made pizza dough. So, the yummy pizza sauce, followed to a T from a recipe I downloaded from the Web, did not go to waste.

I am happy to be home. The 12-day trip we took to San Francisco and San Diego was hectic but relaxing. How is it at all possible for two very different adjectives to simultaneously hold true for the same thing? I do not know. In many ways, a trip can be a study in contradictions. It can bully the norm by disguising itself as the norm. I, for one, when in a place away from home, try to take in as much as I can within the limited time frame, in the process unconsciously melting into the very same thing I was seeking relief from – a frenzied pace. How weird is that? Curiously enough, what I would easily write off as stressful at home actually portrays itself as soothing when taken in a fresh setting.

Another thing that amazes me, albeit in a very resigned and pleasant way, is how no matter the beauty of the place I am visiting, there is always still a certain magic that attaches itself to the thought of coming home. I am not talking about a sweeping elation that can easily be described in superlatives. Rather, I mean it more along the lines of a grounded, steady kind of joy that blankets the spirit, like beautiful words that jump out of a good book to warm the heart, or a hug from someone you know loves you unconditionally. The feeling soothes, like a balm for the soul.

It is like eating a home-cooked meal in your kitchen at home in the company of family and good friends, as opposed to enjoying the same meal, all dolled up in the swanky, chi-chi atmosphere of an exclusive, hard-to-get-reservations dining place. Yes, the latter does thrill and makes you thankful for life’s luxuries, but the former makes you grateful for life’s realities and the many blessings you have that truly matter.

I’m sure you know what I mean. Despite the comfort and straight-from-the design-books neatness of plush hotel rooms, there still is nothing like sinking into your own sheets, stained, mismatched and sometimes worn out as they may be. Never mind, too, if the original design of your room pre-child has become everything it was never supposed to be. Juliana stays with us in our room, sleeps on the same bed, so there are signs of her everywhere. Our sheets are often stained with colored markers. There are Spongebob, Barbie, and Dora stickers on the cabinet doors. Her toys are stored neatly, yes, but they are in every corner of the room and her strawberry shortcake-pink pillows stick out like a sore thumb against all our white linen. But nobody is complaining. This is what coming home is all about.

While we were away, my housegirls did a good job of keeping the house neat and clean. The rooms have this clean, familiar Lysol scent, and we especially appreciate the fact that they took the time to carefully plan the menu in the days following our arrival. They cooked only our favorites, all the food they felt we might have missed. Our helpers have been with us for years, and are such quiet blessings. Sometimes they blend seamlessly with the rest of the house, so constant is their presence but they are like family to us. They do have their quirks, their own ideas of where things should be kept, which plates to use for what dish, what colors match. I learn from them, and so do they learn from Richard and me. It is an everyday process of adapting new ways that work better, and unlearning old ways that do not.

For one, even if I keep on buying decent plastic containers to store food in the fridge, they have a penchant for saving and cleaning all those plastic gallons of ice cream, which they use to store everything from peanuts to bread and leftover food. It used to bother me before, especially that time when I was a virtual newlywed and I had the idea that everything should match. Not so much anymore now. Like I said, it is a quirk of theirs I can live with, that plus at least 10 other things that would make a very interesting story to tell in the future.

I have two girls who can bake from memory alone – breads, cakes, and native treats, like balanghoy and bodbod. Another one is so quick and smart I sometimes feel she is overqualified for the job. She can do a salon-worthy pedicure, and sew anything that has fallen apart. One time, she even very neatly repaired the beads of my stilettos that came loose. I only have to teach her something once and she does it impeccably all the time henceforth. Another one of them moves very slowly, but she finishes everything she is supposed to do anyway, neatly at that, so I really can’t complain. Plus, she has mastered the art of curling my hair, very useful when I am pressed for time or am too lazy to go to the salon. One of them is a romantic, forever texting and listening to love songs, reading Tagalog romance novels, but she cooks very well and, hey, they are entitled to a life of their own, their own dreams. Whatever makes them happy. Sometimes they drive Richard crazy when they move like turtles, but he has since learned to laugh it off and accept that that is just the way they sometimes are. There are good days and bad days, fast and slow ones, too. All said, they are real gems, in many different, wonderful and funny ways.

Time has a way of making you melt into routines. Jet lag has a way of jolting you out of them. I am once again a morning person, for how much longer I do not know. I just wish this would last longer than I expect it to. I am enjoying baking now, never mind if my attempts result in sometimes funny-tasting food. I have the unconditional support of my husband and daughter, plus the househelp, too. Yes, we bake together, so my success is as much theirs as it is mine. They clip out recipes for me to try, and the successful ones they post in my recipe book. I guess you could say that whatever appears on the pages of my very personal recipe book are recipes that have passed the taste test of those who are like family to me.

You grow into many things. I have chipped bowls in the kitchen cabinets, missing spoons and forks, faded placemats, spatulas with disfigured edges, and yes, ice cream containers that double as storage bins. Some of our outdoor furniture has been chewed on by the dogs. Every now and then, there is something that needs to be repaired, tightened, or repainted. Dotted everywhere around the house are Juliana’s personal effects, Richard’s sporting equipment and toys, my craft baskets. These things don’t always match the furniture or the design of the house. Unexpected guests have chanced upon them more than just a few times, but that is what makes a house a home. That does not bother me anymore. Home truly is where the heart is, where love is given and shared, where smiles happen and relationships are nurtured. It just goes round and round in circles making for that inward kind of joy that far outshines whatever money can buy.

Today, I asked my four-year-old Juliana how much she loves me. She sat on the floor with her legs stretched straight out and aligned her fingers on top of her toes. Laughing, I picked her up to give her a hug.

"Mommy, wait," she said with a smile bigger than usual. "Kasama pa my teeth."

Boy! Am I happy to be home.