peregrinateaisling

[peregrinateaisling]

Nom-Nom Aisling

I offer food for the soul, but then again, I guess food for the body is also a necessity huh?

Or maybe this is just an excuse to make other people envy of the food I eat. Whoops.

[peregrinateaisling]

Our lunch yesterday was truly eventful; and even though it was scalding hot, my Dad bought Lomi for all of us to eat.

We all decided to eat at our family’s Kubo. It was big enough for all of us to fit in anyways.

Mom and Tita started to puncture big holes onto the plastic holding the Lomi take-outs, the popping sound too clear to miss. After having poured the Lomi into our respective bowls, my cousin started to play with the Lomi’s plastic packaging; making little rushing sounds accompanied with pops and clicks as he started to crush it in his hands (now all covered in thick Lomi broth).

After receiving my bowl of hot piping lomi, I took the pleasure of observing it first –waiting for my Lola to initiate the prayer before the meal.

The broth appeared to be delectably rich and eggy, and after taking a quick sip with my spoon to taste it, it was also thick –which is the best part of a good lomi!

We then prayed before finally starting to dig in.

There were separate toppings for the Lomi, so I took some Chicharon and sprinkled them on top of my already loaded bowl; creating this mound of toppings. There were small meatballs with some toasted browning on the outer layer, the kikiam were deeply lathered with the thick lomi and this actually made me starve even more, whilst the meat chunks and atay were chopped in bite-sized pieces for easy consumption. I made haste and started mixing the toppings into my Lomi, making sure everything is well incorporated into the broth. I then added some white onions, along with calamansi and soy sauce to make my Lomi even more irresistible (and way more scrumptious).

The lomi noodles were exceptionally good, they had this chewiness that made them bounce in my mouth as I chewed and slurped away. The Cassava starch gave the lomi this fun thick consistency, whilst the liver or atay gave it this mineral-flavour; it’s like some type of iron taste that gave the lomi more distinctness. It was also fun eating with the Chicharon as it gave the Lomi more textural crunch –it’s a whole other culinary experience!

We all fell quiet and only a chorus of slurping noises was to be heard in our Kubo; each member of the family to their own rhythm, a majestic chorale of pure batangueno deliciousness. The smell of the eggy broth, meat, and other more toppings wafted through the Kubo which made me hum in contentment.

My uncle suddenly ran out of the Kubo which garnered him being called a weirdo by his girlfriend (I agree though).

After a few minutes we saw him stalk back with a clear jug in his hands. For some reason, the reddish brown liquid inside looked familiar to me.

“Nagrequest si Nona ng Root Beer, ‘eto oh gumawa ako!” My uncle called out to us in tagalog. I knew it! Me and my cousins cheered in response, while I heard my aunt say, “Kaunti lamang ang inyo ha, lagi nang puro matatamis!”

We gave her a thumbs up –all giddy from the root beer jug being placed atop our table by our uncle.

I love root beer! Well, that is if they are good quality or home made. I don’t really like those standard Root beers people buy at supermarkets.

Especially ‘Mug Root beer’ –they’re all too much for me.

‘Mug Root beer’ is more like this overly sickening carbonated sugar water rather than a woody-sweet drink; a heart-attack in a can I’d often say.

But my Uncle’s root beer is unlike this mainstream beverage; this, we have all discovered the first time he tried making root beer in the summer of 2020.

I took the root beer filled jug and poured some over my mug, the transfer making this loud glugging sound which made my baby cousin giggle.

Oh, the privilege of a child to laugh at life’s simplicities.

I stared at my mug –closely watching the small bubbles pop and crackle, listening to its effervescence. The dark reddish colour of the drink reminds me of the sequoias we saw back in Korea, all deep and rich and oh so woodsy.

Leaning closer to smell it, it had this warm aroma of sweetened hearth. Peculiar, but still mouth-watering nonetheless.

I asked my Dad for some ice cubes, plopping them into my drink; listening to them clink against the ceramic whilst observing in awe as the sudden drop elicited the liquid to swirl and cause waves of brown goodness to move to and fro in my mug.

I took a sip.

Then another.

And another.

..Maybe one more.

Woah, wait… I’m already halfway.

Can y’all really blame me? The root beer my uncle made outshines Mug root beer in all ways possible. It has this honeyed sweetness in evidence, with a hint of vanilla, then there’s this rich caramel, the taste of brown sugar, and a nice oakiness to round out the flavour profile before a sudden trace of mild spiciness passes over the palate.

He offered me a scoop of vanilla ice cream to top my root beer but I declined –I like the bubbly long finish to this “raw” root beer; it has the right amount of fizziness, and makes for a satisfying sip. It goes down easy, not too thin and also not too overwhelmingly full-bodied –also, it doesn’t sting my throat!

Also, adding that ice cream scoop will make me thirsty for water. This then makes me stare at my cousin’s mug that looks more like a thick milkshake rather than a root beer –just staring at it makes my throat all dry, like I'm in the savannah.

Yeah, no thanks.

I plop my mug down and start eating my Lomi again. There's this saying in our city where it’s almost a crime to not finish Lomi when it’s still hot as the cassava starch in the lomi starts to thin out when it gets cold.

I don’t want to be called some type of ‘Lomi deviant’ so I started finishing my bowl accompanied with my family’s idle chatter in the background.

“Salamat po Lord!” I said after my last spoonful of lomi broth.

And, like what my Dad always says, “Busog na busog.”

[peregrinateaisling]

THOUGHTFUL AISLING

And often I get lost in my thoughts, more than I get lost in your eyes. Maybe it’s a sign that I value myself more, and it’s good. I’d rather be lost this way, even though I have to traverse a place so familiar yet also so foreign, my mind would be better than your false hopes and forced smiles.

[peregrinateaisling]

Thoughts on Poetry

Writing poetry is... a cathartic experience.

It is, it really is.

It doesn't have to be good, and you don't have to allow anyone else to read it; just the outpouring of emotion is enough.

Just being you.. is enough.

[peregrinateaisling]

FICTIONAL AISLING

Books and written works -accompanied with a cup of tea, a hot mug of cocoa, or a glass of coffee will send one’s soul to Elysium.

Good with company, better with a loved one.

Sterling; even when alone.

[peregrinateaisling]

Slowly

Maybe it's the atmosphere created by the golden streetlight and the low, swirling fog.

Maybe it's the thrill of pursuit and escape, that adrenaline high still hammering in her veins painting everything in a giddy glow.

Maybe it's the fact that she's been telling herself all this time that she's not really interested, and she still haven't made herself believe it.

Maybe it's because there is a part of her that is sick and tired of making the right decision.

Ulian‘s still breathless from running, and she is close enough to see the droplets of moisture glittering in their eyelashes.

Their lips part, probably to say something, and she grabs the back of their neck and pulls them towards her

It's a clumsy move that neither of them were really expecting; for a second their noses clash and she fears that this will be not just ill-considered, but embarrassing.

But then she readjusts, and their mouth is hot against hers, their lips tasting like cherries and cream, cliché but hey it works.

Their hands reach up to tangle in her hair, and she presses herself against them more fiercely.

In a moment she will have to figure out what all this means, if anything.

For now, though, she gives in to the luxury of not thinking, she gives in to the warmth enveloping her body.

She gives in.

And she falls, slowly.

[peregrinateaisling]

more than you love me so

It’s stuttering, it’s unbelievable

The admonition of love too precious for him to understand fully

It feels like a dream

Ironic since all he ever ‘dreams’ are nightmares

He holds her hand, trembling

Pressing the pad of his thumb right unto the very center

His mouth turns up in a tiny secretive smile as he feels the other’s pulse aflutter beneath delicate skin

“I will spend my days loving you.. more than you love me so”

[peregrinateaisling]

Interesting

He looked up at her, surprised. “my gosh,” he said, in the tone of a man who was relieved, “you are interesting.”

“Don’t say things like that,” she said, and it would have been deemed snappish if she wasn’t disappointed.

“Like what?” he set his elbows on the table.

“Like I’m a silver dollar on the bottom of your shoe where you expected gum,” she replied, rifling through her purse and not looking up. He smiled when she couldn’t see him, and then became apologetic when she could.

“I only meant to compliment you,” he said, almost taking off his hat.

“Not many people are interesting.”

“Sure they are,” she said, sighing through her argument.

“Everyone is interesting. You’re just not good at talking to them because you think you’re more interesting than they are.” --this comment had a chilly reception.

He sat back. “Well.”

The coffee on the table steamed between them, and people milled around the couple, unaware of the low-stakes battle.

“I say,” he said, trying not to cross his arms, “You seem to have a firm opinion on me, based on a couple of sentences you’ve heard me say.”

“And you seem to have an opinion of me, for the same reason,” she shot back.

To this he could make no reply. a moment later, he pursued another argument.

“Tell me,” he said, voice as coarse as wool, “Are you this rude to strangers in my country, or only towards me?”

A breeze glimmered between her hair, distracting him from her smile when she said, “Only towards blonde assholes like you”

"Interesting."

"I will be taking my leave."

"Wait! Kidding, kidding." "So Dame, do you… hm." she folds her arms, which looks more than slightly ridiculous given that they are currently hanging upside down from the couch.

"Do I what? also, stop calling me that.. it's Damian" his lips twitch, and he picks a few more notes on the guitar, a sequence he's trying to… well, not get right, exactly. He can play whatever he wants. he's just trying to decide what he wants. Lorey gave him some lyrics the other day, and they're good. he wants to do them justice with the right melody.

"I can't decide if this is a rude question." her brows furrow.

"Oh come on, dear, you know I'm impossible to offend."

"Lies."

"Heh."

"Okay, so… the tattoos. why?" the initial 'pffbt' of his lips is almost obnoxiously loud, and quickly metamorphoses into a proper laugh, full and melodious.

"You thought that was rude?" the incredulity is thick in his tone. She harrumphs at him, her hair flopping free of where her head rests against the front edge of the couch, to brush the floor.

"Excuse you. I don't know these things."

He sobers a little, but he's still smiling.

"They look cool don't they?" they sit up, fluffing their hair and grinning at him.

"Makes you a big jerk, that's what."

He winks. "Right in one, love."

"Annoying bastard."

"You love this bastard."

"No."

"Yes."

"Well, unfortunately."

[peregrinateaisling]

Dead Woman Walking

What lived and died between us continues to haunt me still.

Thou art a dead woman walking –appearing constantly by my windowsill. I see you and feel you whenever I reminisce about the times where I wore thick rimmed-glasses, when I order matcha lattes in coffee shops, when I stare at semi-realism artworks, when I listen to Conan Gray on Sunday mornings, and when I skim through my photo gallery.

Writing and yearning cannot bring a dead woman back to life –especially into mine. But it does allow me to come to terms with the fact that what is gone is gone, and how life is unforgiving to those who dwell upon the past.

Sometimes I delude myself that I am alright, that this gaping hole in my heart you carried with you does not affect me. 16 was supposed to be sweet, but the taste of your memories are far more bitter than any coffee I have consumed; it's a sepia amongst my bright sea of past recollections.

Even if thou have resigned thineself to become a weapon against me, I’d always want to cut myself unto thee.

I’ll simply smile if you find pleasure in seeing me bleed –happy I’ve made your cheeks become a color similar to ripe apples once more, and maybe for the last time. I know you’d never find any satisfaction over seeing people bleed, but it remains a gospel truth that I will bleed for you and that I still… do.

Then my body stills once more over that fact that you’re dead.

Until now, I write letters to your grave. I conjure passages extolling the virtues of love, pain, and sanity, and I compare you to the lighthouse serving as a beacon beyond the churning restless sea. The passages and poems came quickly, and I’d have written at least a few dozen before the sun came to set. They were quiet pleads for an explanation, for a reason as to why you’ve left me to traverse this earth without leaving anything that can comfort me behind –not even your scent over borrowed jackets, not even a strand of hair, not even a goodbye.

Only your shadows come to and fro, and I believe they wish to see me crumble over the mere thought of you.

At present, I can only wish that you have reached heaven, and how even for a little moment –you long for me as much as I long for thee. ‘Tis a consummation, my final goodbye to a friend, a sister, the other half of my soul.

Paalam, minamahal.

[peregrinateaisling]

To be and to want -to change and to remain

Tomorrow -and even the days, months, and years hereafter- I may not be the same. I am constantly in love; my senses are wide awake to every sweetness and bitterness that life has to offer. I drown in the inevitability and unpredictability of time and I fall –I fall hard and let it shape me into who I am and want to be; liberated, open-minded, diverse, creative, artistic, assertive, ambitious, profound, eccentric, and revolutionary.