My Ex-Mother-In-Law's Salad Dressing Recipe

I made that tonight. It is not exactly a recipe - just something she'd throw together. You know, as cooks do.

Hadn't made that in years. Had no desire to in years.

I got sick over Memorial Day weekend. Getting sick is always a good time for self-pity and reminiscence. The good old days of when someone would take care of you. Especially when you got sick.

I never grew up. I have to take care of me now. And it's hard.

At #WorkNo1, my fav personnel in admin just recently started stocking our mini fridge with juice boxes. At first, there were giggles. Diet-watchers were wary. Before long, everybody was digging in.

"It's like you're ten again!" Exclaimed Gerald*, one of the twentysomethings in our team. "When you didn't have bills to pay..."

Everybody chimed in. "All is good with the world again!" We'd take one sip from our juice box and relate in jest. But we all meant it.

Just as a high school friend has recently reposted in a meme: you spent your childhood longing to grow up, and then it is like, "It'd be fun, they said."

"My ex-mother-in-law would be proud," I told RJ tonight upon recreating the salad dressing from memory. "Except for the part where I broke her son's heart."

Inviting RJ for a tasting, I suggested, "Sort of a twisted Thousand Island, right?"

"A Kraft Russian," remarked RJ.

With which I'd had no experience, so I couldn't comment.

All the tang and all the versatility. Alive on my kitchen counter, twenty decades later. I'd never written anything down.

"Some things just stick," I told RJ. "The fact that she added BOTH mayo and olive oil freaked me out."

Oh, so much has changed. I was in awe that a seasoned cook could just whip up something with whatever she happened to have on hand - the ease, the innocence.

Everything was innocent then. The matriarch, my ex, myself. Because I was innocent.

Scrambling to feed my sickie self properly in a frenzy, my subconscious conjured up this matriarch, whose memory I'd buried along with many others, for the pain, for the memory of pain I had caused.

How I connected through food with folks who I wanted to be family, juxtaposed with how I long to connect that way with blood. We were almost there. Due to circumstances, it didn't happen, and probably never will. For that I am forlorn and sad. Always.

Here is the recipe that wasn't:

Mayo
Ketchup (tonight I improvised with a combo with Heinz chili sauce)
Lemon juice
Sugar
Mustard
Olive oil
Sriracha
Water

The fun part: put everything in a jar, screw the lid on. Shake like mad.

Adjust everything to taste and consistency. Even generic varieties will turn out tasty.

As I brought up with RJ tonight, Hulmes' America-born young nephew who would break bread with us at times back then would refuse to take his salad because we would only have this house-made dressing in lieu of ranch (the store-bought kind, of course).

He didn't know what he was missing. And neither did I.


*Not his real name

Faeire

Last week, my Android phone automatically updated its software. Without prompting for my explicit consent! I didn't recall it ever having done that before. I woke up to this strange icon on screen. "What is this?" I thought. "Do... not... compute!"

After an eternity of "packet x of y"s, when my phone finally was revived, EVERYTHING looked different. I am not fond of change. But, promised more stability, I learned to accept that change was inevitable.

Then I launched the Navigator app powered by Google Maps and BOOM! Who is this??!

It was the voice of a younger, more pleasant, more human female.

When I first started using the app for work, I was about a decade behind my peers probably. Old-school, I'd hung on to maps for dear life (even if they had turned digital), using my brain instead of relying on a machine telling me I was 500 feet away from my next turn.

I hated the voice of the Navigator then. She was older, stern and stoic. When Google Maps would insist that I had arrived at my destination, and I'd be in the middle of nowhere, it was her I'd get mad at. I have told her to shut up in the midst of angst and frustration.

And now she was gone forever. I felt like I had lost a friend without seeing the departure coming. We never said goodbye.

It gets lonely out there. Having a human-esque companion keeps one anchored. You know, much like Wilson to Chuck in Cast Away.

But who can deny the new, friendlier voice was an obvious upgrade? If she was hipper, I felt hipper.

Deep down, I don't feel hip. And boy, have I tried all my life. At work, where I consider everyone very hip, I have reverted to the kid who was trying to fit in at school, knowing full well that I didn't belong with the cool kids. It seems that the harder I try, the more I stick out like a sore thumb.

If only I could stop caring and stop trying. It's all very tiring.

One night, while driving with my trusty Nav, I made a naughty move, causing it to reroute.

All of sudden, it was the voice of that old witch guiding me through the next step. She's back! I was bewildered. She's not gone?

As soon as I was back on the right track, though, the mother hen was once again replaced by the princess of today. In time I learned that the ghost of guidance past would reappear briefly only in the event of my defying a pre-ordained route.

I was relieved. In a way, it was death that I didn't have to deal with. "Her" guest appearances are rewards to my rebellion or trespasses. I don't know what to make of this phenomenon entirely, but it makes me feel less uncool about not being hip. Maybe.

Bundle

Thanks to RJ, I am enjoying fruit, yogurt and chocolate again. The yogurt part indirectly. I'm sure it's all symbolic of joie de vivre.

We buy bunches of grapes, and they ripen at different rates. I always pick out the wrinkly ones to eat since I know they tend to be sweeter than their taut-skinned counterparts.

I hope it is the same with our own aging. In time, we may not be much to look at on the outside, but the core does get better. Not everybody is gonna know or appreciate. It matters only that you know.

Luminous Viscosity

Today was MLK Day. I was expecting a day off work (very entitled of me). That didn't happen (we're on call) and logic didn't apply.

That set me off. Last week the unraveling with job #1 started. It'd been weeks in the making. I joked with RJ that, hey, the honeymoon had to end sometime, right?

That was indeed part of my borderline diagnosis: that black-and-white assessment with people. Either I put them on a pedestal or, once they've crossed me, I scorn. Often with no turning back.

This could explain why I have never stayed at one job for long. I always wind up disillusioned and dismayed. I cut people off before they hurt me some more. The three and half year stint at Merry Lore was a miracle.

Once again, feeling disrespected and disregarded was eating at me. I was just a hot pot about to boil over. I tried not to take it out on RJ, but suffice to say he was not unaffected.

Off to work I went, like a trooper, trying to stay positive. Or, should I say, "turn" positive. That bitter taste of resentment was not cool.

I discovered that many changes had occurred over the weekend with no advance notice. I do not like change. I tried to cope without looking like it was a great challenge.

This morning, while waiting for word on whether I was to report to work, I had major anxiety, again, regarding food, present and future, driven, always, of course, by fear of hunger. Having a semblance of control is crucial to my sanity.

I dreamt of making chicken adobo, arguably the national dish of The Philippines, with variations and versions of it across the Pacific. I missed my piggy friends (who happen to be Filipinas). It's one of those very tasty one-pot-wonders that are oh-so-simple to make. I mean it's practically a five-ingredient recipe. Yet, 1.5 decades after I've been introduced to it, I've never attempted. Until today.

I hadn't been sure if I'd have the will left in me after my shift. Yet, I shopped, I came home, I cooked. I was determined to have (real) food for the next three days, I guess. I surprised myself.

Again, the dish is a no-brainer. Minimal prepping and supervision. Hey, I'm blogging now while the sucker is simmering, aren't I? (And it's smelling mighty good around here now, might I add, like a real home.)

Food is never about food.

Tonight I just wanted to know I could take care of myself. And my hubby (or feel that I could). I just wanted to feel worthy aside from who I am at work. Work doesn't define me.

Happiness shouldn't be relying on an external source to validate you. Work hasn't been validating. So I turn to food. Still not very enlightened. But it's all I've got for now:

I don't have any children, I don't have a definite career path, I don't know where my life is going. But hey, I can cook.

Idyllic

16 months ago RJ and I moved into our condo from the house he was renting, where we spent most of our time together for two years. For the longest time, I couldn't love the condo. It was quite an adjustment.

Don't get me wrong. It's a great condo. Great view, comfortable square footage, brand new appliances. Hot water heats up virtually instantaneously, and the climate control is efficient and economical. All factors that arguably trump the house.

But there are things I miss about the house. The backyard, mostly, spending time out there with supreme privacy, watching RJ with his charcoal grill, Alley rolling around on her back on the green, "applying perfume" as I would call it. Some nights I miss having a heater that runs on gas. The rustic kitchen. Gas stove, real fire. The swing on the front lawn.

For Christ's sake, this was where I fell in love with RJ.

For months the condo did not feel like home. And boy, I tried. We tried. RJ the handy man has done numerous things to make living here convenient. But I never walked around the condo with a sense of wonder like I did at the house. The house was like a permanent fantasy vacation and I was a dream guest who never wanted to leave.

And now, post-sabbatical, what could compare? Of course the condo is drab.

At the house, I once took a self-portrait of my reflection on a hanging colander, M.C. Escher style. I thought it was brilliant.

Last night, I caught a glimpse of myself on the same colander. I surveyed the reflected environment. It was not boring. I just never looked.

It's all perspective.

Now that I am working two jobs, some days are incredibly hectic. I went from running out of ways to kill time to bemoaning not catching a break to take a shit cuz I'm always out there in transit. Some self-pity set in. I did not like that.

Earlier today I found out that I was not needed for the dinner shift tonight. I was overjoyed. Oh, the much needed rest! I had practically gone 8 straight days of always being on the go.

And then the anxiety hit: I must do something productive with this extra time! So much I'm behind on: reading, house chores, projects, financial maintenance...

Ideas ran amuck in my head. "Only so many hours!" I tweeted.

The best thing about my day is coming home to RJ. I've told him that time and again.

Today I was extra happy to come home. I verbally listed a few things I could be doing later in the evening.

"Home sweet home!" I exclaimed, beaming.

A moment later, I realized: I really meant it. This is home. And I am glad.

It took two jobs for me to find having a roof over my head a beautiful thing. Having a moment to breathe is a beautiful thing. Breathing... is a beautiful thing.

Oh, Homo Sapiens

Last night I made a quick stop at a mini mart for milk. As I walked in, I greeted the shopkeeper, who didn't respond in any way. I proceeded to check out the place even though I had only one item on my list (and would wind up getting more than one thing, as usual).

The slightly dim place was big for the inventory it was holding. The shelves looked sadly far from well stocked. A couple of freezers were empty with a sign that read, "Ask for frozen food".

When I was getting ready to pay, another customer entered the store who also happened to be an Asian female. Quite cute, too, might I add. She greeted the man of the house with the same smile and upbeatness as I had, and again he was stoic.

"Okay," I thought. "It wasn't me."

Finishing up the transaction, the shopkeeper reached for a black plastic bag intended for my loot. I informed him I did not need a bag, holding out a hand à la "Stop! In the name of love..."

The man's facial expression never changed. Maybe he didn't hear me. Maybe he didn't care. I didn't hold it against him.

I went for my goods to lift them off the counter, thinking that it must be lonely to watch this store in such a hidden away strip mall in a quiet neighborhood. I smiled again as I thanked the shopkeeper.

Just then, the man flashed a BIG GRIN.

I couldn't believe it. That really made my night.

As I've always believed: be kind, be appreciative, be considerate. Add to the positivity of the universe. Don't expect anything back.

Incidentally, I suppose being green is all of those things. Glad to be part of that force.

Exponential

I have never been happier in my life.

These are strong words. And I mean them.

For the longest time, I felt lost, without a sense of purpose. I've read up on happiness and the "secrets" to it. Bottom line: you have to be content. Happy for No Reason by Marci Shimoff just about sums it up. But, easier said than done.

I'm old enough to know that you can't rely on an exterior source for happiness. It has to come from within. You have to like you. You have to like life.

Just started working two jobs recently. At the ripe age of 41, I'm finally figuring out what I enjoy doing, what gives me fulfillment. When I was younger, I missed the memo. I thought that work had to suck. That is just the way it is. I spent many work hours in self-pity, dread and misery. Let's face it, when you spend half your waking hours doing something, and you don't care for it, it's a living hell.

I have now had the good fortune of finding a semblance of a path, and finding myself surrounded by good people equally passionate about what they do. I still don't know where the path leads, but it's a very bright start.

RJ, while always supportive and very happy to see me happy, is a little shaken up with all the changes in our daily routine and the fact that we're spending less time together. I hate change myself. For someone who's reluctant and afraid to change, I'm doing surprisingly well. I feel that I didn't give myself enough credit before, the self-proclaimed ill-adjusted adult. As the cliché goes, I possess strength in me I wasn't aware of.

As aforementioned, one should not derive happiness from an external entity. But this joy I'm experiencing is amazing, something I would not have dared imagine or hope for. I am doing some honest, (semi-) hard work, and the reward created by the synergy of sorts just blows me away.

I feel all grown up, for the first time.

I've even felt more empowered on the homefront, more a hausfrau* than ever. Because I can.

I am so glad I took chances. I'm not exactly young anymore, but I'm not old yet, either. So, as the saying goes, "While you're not quite old yet!", I guess.

2012 has proven to be a great year of serendipity, transitions and metamorphosis. Courage is a beautiful thing.

Last night, in a sleepy, emotional state, RJ uttered at beddy bye time, "I don't want to lose you."

I was totally taken aback. Why on earth would he think that?

Not when we know our cores. And I'm more in touch than ever. RJ was one milestone that got me to self-discovery in the first place. He was in the story all along.

2013 can only be more exciting. For once I'm enjoying the unknown, like I'm reading a book. A pretty good one at that.


*A term of endearment popularized by RJ which I simply adore