My son graduated from holding onto and walking along the length of available furniture and learned to walk with an adult behind him holding his hands.  One day shortly after his first birthday, his nanny let go, and he continued waddling… with his both his hands still held up as if someone was still guiding him.  He looked like a sea bird taking off for two months.  

Forward to a month later; the Little Spud is better with balance, pacing, and speed.  These sandals were what he wore during his first steps, and are still his favorite footwear.  His feet are getting bigger, though.

Pencil on paper.

By the grace of genetics courtesy of my mother’s family, I have very dry skin.  This was very apparent when my husband, DSTS, first held my hand; he went, “Whoa,” turned my palm up, and remarked, “That’s a lot of lines.”  Indeed, in addition to the the life line, the heart line… the money line?  I don’t know what lines they are, exactly… I had a lot of lighter lines criss-crossing and cross-hatching with each other all over the palms.  He recommended a favorite brand of hand lotion.

The time we were dating, my right hand had more lines than my left.  DSTS has very few lines on his palms; “just the main lines,” he said.  I asked if my many lines are saying that I’ll lead a crazy life.  He said he’s not sure, but maybe it just means I’d have a lot of options and I’d have a hard time deciding what to do.  He had a whimsical thought in which he’s supposing the left hand contained complete lines determining a person’s life in its entirety, but that the right hand changes according to how a person decides every time he or she comes to a fork in the road.

Today, my right hand has fewer lines than my left.  If my husband’s fanciful thinking is true, then I’ve eliminated many forks in the past eight years, and in so doing, many options that were available before when I was younger are no longer there.  In a way, I think that’s the big difference; when we’re older, we need to be strong and think clearly about the best to do for ourselves and the people who matter to us.

Pencil on sketch pad paper.

My mother-in-law cooked a special chicken soup today.  On a normal day, I’d take my time and savor every spoonful.  Too bad for me that my sense of smell have gone a bit mad these days.

My grandmother, when she was still with us, would occasionally cook this soup, known to many ethnic Chinese originally from Fujian as si but (pronounced “see-boot”) in their native dialect.  In Mandarin, this is si wu (pronounced “sih-woo”).  Si (四) means “four”; wu  or but (物) can generally refer to “living things” — however in this context we could say the literal translation is “four plants”.  

Si but broth is basically chicken stock, with four Chinese herbs — the ginseng, peony buds… and two others that, unfortunately, I have no idea how to translate in English.  One looks like white chips of a root or a bark.  The other looks like chunks of darker-colored root.  Or bark.  The last herb renders the broth in a nice, dark, golden brown color.  I asked the elders what the herbs are good for; they said they’re good for everyone, but most especially “benefit women”.   The chicken could be any chicken, though many traditionalists prefer the black-fleshed, white-feathered variety called the Bantam Silkie.  They claim this chicken produce the best flavor.  A caveat to newbies, though… the greyish meat of the cooked Silkie is quite an eyeful when you’re not used to it, and might affect your appetite for the worse.  It tastes like chicken, sure… but many Filipino friends likened the experience, or just seeing the dark chicken meat being eaten, to the century egg — to some, that’s practically Fear Factor material.  Whenever I’d think to serve this dish to guests just to offer something exotic, I always get white meat instead.  

Truth is, I remember the herbs with the chicken stock tasting vile when I was younger.  The herbs could be overpowering to a child, I suppose.  My grandmother and the aunts would coax me to finish my bowlful every time.  As I grew older, however, I learned to appreciate the flavors.  I guess it’s an acquired taste.

Fountain pen, ink, waterbrush, watercolor on paper.

Manila is a fine place to live in… if only there were enough parking spaces.  We live in the Tondo area, and our landlord owns a lot of cars, hogging all the parking space in the building.  The tenants park outside, on the street.  We have a shortage of parking spaces, parking space rules, and laws on owning cars which ideally should help regulate things related to owning cars, like traffic in the city, available parking spaces and parking space rules.  

Here is a neighbor’s car parked on the sidewalk in front of his apartment.

 Fountain pen, ink, waterbrush, watercolor on plain drawing paper.

One doodle a day.  Must stick to program.  Famous last words.

Brush marker and watercolor on Moleskine sketch.