TL;DR

Before I blather on, I will go straight to the point… a life changing event occurred a few weeks ago which led me to rethink my life and how I’ve lived it. And the reason, the trigger for all these, is no other than: BACON.

Bacon! Bacon. Bacon? I actually kept repeating ‘bacon’ in my head trying to figure out a way to begin this but two things came up: the actor, Kevin, and his edible surname, Bacon; and the possibility that if a Beyonce Convention were to exist, it will probably be called BaCon, actually, more like, BeyCon. Whatever, I’ve made my phonetic point. It would be interesting though to hear someone say, “I’m going to this year’s BeyCon. I’m gonna dress up like Beyonce during the Dangerously in Love era. La. Fooo. Waaay.”—I think I just mentally pouted and bobbed my head with an attitude while typing that.

Back to bacon. I had not eaten bacon since I was in middle school. I was the only person, that I know of, in this day and age, who hasn’t been enticed by the pleasurable aroma and taste of this breakfast staple.

I remember a conversation my cousins and I had about the habits of Filipino mothers which led to a discussion about frying eggs and bacon. They were actually surprised to know about my oddly unfavorable view on bacon. Their reactions, as expected, were, “I can’t believe you don’t eat bacon!” or “You are missing out on one of the greatest things in life!” Nevertheless, their appreciation for bacon wasn’t convincing enough and I still refused to eat bacon. Why? Let me share the portentous moment in my life which caused my distaste for bacon…

One morning, many many years ago, during the the Dawson’s Creek era, I woke up because the smell of honey was seeping through the cracks of my bedroom door. It was so pleasurably visceral it overcame my drowsiness. I hopped out of bed like a perky 5th grader you’d typically see in 90’s sitcoms while the jolly Blossom-like theme music played in the background. Nahhhh. With all due respect to Blossom and her hats, the truth is, I was a dark pre-teen heavily influenced by Matilda and The Force while channeling the apathetic attitudes of Daria Morgendorffer and Darlene Conner. Anyhoo hullabaloo, I hurried to the kitchen and was welcomed by the most domesticated portrait of a housewife: my mother making breakfast.

While maintaining my composure and my stoic reputation, I sauntered around the kitchen until my gaze fixated on the fried rice, the tocino and tapa (Filipino breakfast staples that radical vegans need not lay their conservative taste buds on. I have nothing against vegans, I was one, once.), the fried eggs, and the white bread toast on the kitchen island. It was so fucking beautiful! If Instagram existed in the 90’s, it was flat lay worthy for my memory. And the smell, holy hipster Jesus! If I were religious I’d pray to thank the gods of every religion. The aroma oozing out from the breakfast entrees was a harmonious ambrosial symphony, as if it’s the olfactory equivalent of the cheerful Spring movement in Vivaldi’s Four Seasons. The whiffs from each dish were gracefully swirling and coiling together into the air closely replicating the swirls in Van Gogh’s The Starry Night. Even the melodious crackling sound of oil and bacon in the frying pan added the appropriate score for that glorious moment. It. Was. Breathtaking.

My senses titillated my stomach. I was hungrier than a wolf. At that moment, I was like, ‘Screw everyone else in the planet!” I selfishly took a plate and greedily grabbed the most juicy-looking hot dog before someone else would take it. And to top my plate off, I was waiting to grab the best looking and, presumably, the best tasting bacon.

I walked over by the stove where my mom set up a serving plate covered in paper towels to drain excess oil. If I had done things differently, I should’ve just grabbed the damned bacon strips. But instead, I opted to watch my mother cook the rest of the bacon— being curious and finicky comes with a lot of consequences. The sight in the frying pan was disappointing and nauseating. The bacon strips were floating on a soup of oil. It’s like the earth: 70% water, 30% land—oil is water, bacon is land.

Grease started to sheet my mouth, like I’m salivating oil. The need for mouthwash to cleanse the phantom presence of oil became immediate. As dramatic and exaggerated as it may sound, I backed out while shaking my head, and decided, at that very moment, that I’m never ever eating bacon ever again like Taylor Swift is never ever ever ever getting back together with any of her exes.

And that’s my anecdote about why I stopped eating bacon. And, a little secret about Filipino mothers… they don’t throw used oil away! They save and reuse oil over and over until it runs out because they’re stingy AF. Our counter top, back in the day, had two jars of used oil: Oil used to fry fish is in a jar of its own, and the amalgam of all the other used oils are in another jar. Nas-freaking-ty, even Janet Jackson disapproves. But, in fairness to my mother, she has discontinued this wack-ass practice for a few years now. Although, I firmly believe, on that fateful day with bacon—with that copious amount of oil—I’m absolutely certain that my mom saved that excess bacon oil and reused it to fry the food we ate in the next few months.

Fast forward to year 2015, the year NASA finally reached Pluto (This feat still blows my mind! And now, I’m wondering where in space Voyager 1 and Voyager 2 are.)…

So a couple of months ago, one of my friends visited the Outer Banks and brought doughnuts back to NoVA with her. She wanted us to try the doughnuts. I’m not ashamed to admit that I thrive on free food. I’m not a proud idiot who would refuse food when it’s being offered from the goodness of someone’s heart. Accepting my friend’s offer to try the doughnuts was a decision I will never regret because those doughnuts were mad good! Ooooh, child! The doughnuts were too damn delicious I wanted to improve my life to deserve them.

I got over the doughnuts’ mindblowing awesomeness after a few days. Eventually, life went on. My only plan at that time was to wait and make a quick OBX getaway— primarily, to go to Duck Island and buy myself a box of doughnuts from Duck Donuts.

Then, a few weeks ago, I googled it. I googled Duck Donuts— why it never occurred to me to Google it the moment I tasted those doughnuts, I have no idea. But Google led me to a fortuitous discovery. It’s not just in Duck Island! I don’t have to go to an island to buy doughnuts! There’s a franchise just 30 minutes away from my house!

I planned my trip to my local Duck Donuts immediately. My dull inner monologue was, “This Saturday, I am determined to wake up early and drive to Fairfax so I can buy those doughnuts!”

Doughnuts became my motivation to get out of my bed and to put something on my empty weekend schedule. My life and times, SMH.

When Saturday came, in a surprising turn of events, I stuck with my plan. I couldn’t believe it but I stuck with my plan. Me, the perennial I’d-rather-stay-in-bed-and-reread-Harry-Potter-or-Kafka-on-the-Shore-or-Love-in-the-Time-of-Cholera-for-the-nth-time loser, freaking stuck with my plan!

I was up before 7 A.M.! Mainly because I’m annoyingly specific and picky, I only get my doughnuts in the morning. I marginally prefer to only buy freshly-made doughnuts. I have no desire for stale afternoon doughnuts sitting out in the open for hours.

When I arrived at Duck Donuts, there was a short line. I was off to a good start! It doesn’t take a genius to notice that the doughnuts were freshly-made and that the frosting and toppings were customized to anyone’s liking. But I was a newbie and opted to ask for an assorted dozen.

I wasn’t too excited while waiting for my doughnuts because franchises, sometimes, can’t live up to the main source. At that time, my thought process was more like, “This is cool, now I can eat doughnuts in the afternoon.” I didn’t wait that long before they called my number. The kid who prepared my doughnuts showed me the dozen and asked if the doughnuts were good enough for my standards. I nodded, took the box, and left. And that was the spark that lit the fire. It was how it all began. The pivotal moment when my life as a non-bacon eating weirdo changed for the better.

If you’re familiar with the comforting hug a wine gives you after your initial sip, that feeling was uncannily similar when I held my palm underneath that box and felt the warmth of the freshly made doughnuts. I experienced that comforting hug and reassurance that all the choices I’ve made leading to that moment were worth making. I know, I talk about my food decisions like some kind of grand and dramatic realization in a coming-of-age novel. *facepalms*

When I was driving home, the aroma of the doughnuts were too darn much to handle. They were begging to be eaten! But I don’t like eating in my car and I hate having sticky fingers so eating a doughnut while driving without soap and water in close proximity is a definite no. But, the smell of the freshly-made doughnuts was too hard to resist. I felt like I was one of those cartoon characters being prodded then lifted off the ground by the anthropomorphic vapors oozing out of a freshly-baked pie sitting on a window sill, making me float around in ecstasy… so doughnut stop me now, ’cause I’m having a good time, having a good time! Oh, Freddie Mercury!

My quandary between personal hygiene versus doughnuts came soon to an end. The doughnuts got the best of me. So, on the first red light, I ended up opening the box with a napkin because I refuse to get my fingers getting sticky for the rest of the drive. I opted to get the least messy doughnut, which was the Cinnamon Bun doughnut—I didn’t know it was called Cinnamon Bun that time but now that I’ve been back to that place six million times, I can finally take pride in calling myself a Duck Donuts regular.

Without letting a speck of cinnamon sugar fall off the napkin and in my car, I carefully took the doughnut and finally took the anticipated bite. I heedlessly ignored the fact that the light will turn green at any second. And, there I was, in my car, chewing on one bite of that Cinnamon Bun doughnut in pure unadulterated bliss.

It wasn’t my intention at all to get the Maple Bacon doughnut. I had no desire to clog my arteries. I mean, fried dough cake, maple syrup frosting and my aversion towards bacon?! It didn’t really sound that appetizing to me. Besides, Michelle Obama and her arms are my role models. If the First Lady wants a healthy America, I also want a healthy America! So I’m like, “I’ll pass.” But, I also had to consider that it’s also Duck Donuts’ signature and best-selling doughnut and I’m indecisive yet adventurous and curious. I thought, maybe, I can bend my rules and make an exception this time. After all, it’s not a full pledged bacon on the doughnut anyway; they’re bacon bits and that’s acceptable. My logic does not make sense, I know. After debating the pros and cons, I succumbed to an unprecedented weakness and ended up cutting a piece of the Maple Bacon doughnut.

I had no expectations. I just want to get over it and prove to myself that the Maple Bacon doughnut is just another unhealthy fare America has to offer. But when my taste buds latched onto the masticated doughnut… holy shit! My life flashed before my eyes! It was better than that blissful happiness in my car when I ate that Cinnamon Bun doughnut. The Maple Bacon was fucking nirvana! I had no idea that the events after I put that piece of doughnut in my mouth will lead to what I am today and what I will be tomorrow, and maybe, whatever I might become for the rest of my life.

The fusion between the saltiness of the bacon, the luscious cake, and the sweet zing of the maple frosting is mouthwateringly divine—the angels we have heard on high got nothing on how high I got with that Maple Bacon doughnut. I devoured that doughnut without regrets, completely forgiving my clueless mother for ruining bacon in my youth. And in the past weeks, I’ve been consuming doughnuts, especially Maple Bacon, like my life and happiness depended on it— actually, it does!

So here I am, in my 20’s, rediscovering a lost part of my adolescence because I refused to eat bacon. The process is gradual. But I’ve completely surrendered my pride and have yielded to the beckoning of bacon (Baconing: 1. Going to a Beyonce Convention. 2. Surrendering to the call of delicious bacon.).

Since this life-changing decision about bacon occurred, aside from the bacon bits on the Maple Bacon doughnut, I’ve already consumed a baked bacon strip, and I have ordered a BLT sandwich the other day. I have to admit though, I can’t fully commit to my mother’s or any Filipino mother’s fried bacon just yet but there is hope in the near future, greasily shining through.

What a catchy title for a first post, so original and utterly clever— I’m rolling my eyes all around the equator for my uncreative sarcasm.

In a figurative yet almost literal sense— the different cortices of my brain aren’t made out of food— the phrase ‘Food for Thought’ is truly the story of my perpetually hungry existence. Whether it was nature or nurture’s vast contribution to my cognitive and, also, my gastronomic development, my brain habitually and incessantly muses about food, and my stomach constantly rumbles to be fed. WTF doesn’t always mean, ‘What the fuck?!’, in my colloquial dictionary; majority of the time, I use WTF to ask, ‘Where’s the food?’.

Food will always be an important aspect of my life—obviously for survival, alongside air and water. There would be times when I’d spend at least half an hour pondering about what to eat and where to eat. I feel like my silent and lackadaisical facade created this impression on people that I’m a profound individual, when in reality my neurons cannot even transmit worldly wisdom or progressive ideas because food, and eating, predominantly consumes my thought processes.

When my best friend and I were in college, and before she subjected herself to that thing called marriage, we would stroll around Georgetown and eat at our favorite spot up in Wisconsin Avenue. She’s Hindu so she doesn’t eat beef. Preferentially, she doesn’t eat pork and has a distaste for seafood except for fried calamari which she could feast on if she were stuck on an island. She likes pasta, chicken is manageable, and because the world is gradually becoming a better place, she has finally developed a fondness for alcohol. My best friend is one of the pickiest eaters that I’ve ever encountered in this planet. She comes in second to my other friend who hates cheese and seafood but would eat anything with rice—mind you, we were on a diner one evening and she was intently looking and reading the descriptions on the menu as she searched for an entree that included at least a grain of rice.

Anyway, on one of those days when my best friend and I satiated ourselves with an indulgent amount of carbs, we were looking for a place to eat another set of desserts—this was after we shared a heavenly slice of Tiramisu. So I started enumerating, in great detail, all the available dessert options within close proximity. My best friend, who has been unwaveringly supportive of my hunger, said, “You know what? Every time you talk about food, I see the sparkle in your eyes.”

My best friend is very well aware of my curious appetite and love for food. She’d compliment my cravings and would always point out every time she notices the “sparkle” in my eyes. The only concern I have was the use of the word, “sparkle”, to describe the dilation of my pupils and the widening of my eyes. The thought of sparkle being associated with any part of my body or even just the image of my scowling face with a sparkle Photoshopped over my fucking eyes had me shaking my damn food-filled head. I have nothing against the word, “sparkle,” I’d use it to describe words that are inherently sparkly. But it’s just one of those words that never sat well with me when referenced because of one reason: Mariah Carey. She starred in a film called Glitter. She sparkles in the poster, her hair sparkles, her skin sparkles, the background sparkles. Don’t get me wrong, I have nothing against Mariah’s musical legacy—Always be my Baby is one of the catchiest songs out there: doo doo doo oh, doo doo doo doo doo doo doh… and we’ll linger on... see, I just sang the song in my head. Anyway, I don’t sparkle, I don’t have any plans to sparkle, no part of my body sparkles—I’ve lived my life trying to avoid any interaction with anything that sparkles. The only “sparkling” thing that I occasionally deal with is when I ingest a bottle of Pellegrino, and it’s not really even sparkling because it’s actually carbonated, so let’s just leave this adverbial debate at that.

Anyway, back to my best friend and her compliments about my hunger. She would always tell me that my apathetic aura suddenly becomes vivacious when noteworthy food entered any conversation or discussion. Believe you me, I am nowhere near the ‘viv’ in vivacious. I cannot even imagine myself being openly enthusiastic about the sources of my excitement.

Contrary to other people’s beliefs that my emotions are non-existent, I do acknowledge their presence when I feel them. Maybe my DNA has an explanation on why I tend to be calm about everything. If someone would scream, “ZOMBIES!”, followed by a stampede of people running for survival, a highly probable reaction from me would be an incredulous look, a smirk and a declarative statement like, “Oh, look, there’s a zombie apocalypse.” Unless, of course, someone would scream, “FREE FOOD!”, then I might start walking briskly to the very generous source of the free food.

I think it’s safe to deduce that food brings out the best in me. I am happier and much more pleasant every time my anticipation regarding my gastronomic ventures gains momentum. I try to wake up early so I could drive miles away to taste authentic delicacies and specialties that can only be found in a particular town. Food has fooled me to believe that I have creative potentials. Though I’m not as engrossing and effective like THE Tony Bourdain, my writing ambitions and my photographic aspirations are full of hope because of food—just look at this, I am writing frivolous sentences and paragraphs because of this passionate connection with an experience that I will physiologically shit out!

I have every reason to live a wonderful life because thoughts about food have been supplementing my motivation to reach my goals. In a way it gives my quotidian source of living some purpose so I can invest on experiences that will allow me to explore and discover interesting and diverse places where food is an essential part of their culture, lifestyle, and identity. To put it in basic terms: my main goal in life is to eat. Travel comes second, and gaining boundless knowledge comes third. Food even encourages me to rise from my bed, leave the confines of my room, and immerse my introverted self into social settings so I can satisfactorily gratify myself with edible pleasures waiting to be devoured by my eager appetite.

I consume food, and thoughts about food consume me.

I have the faintest idea of what I will be writing about after this. I might write about food. I might share some of my mundane experiences that will probably be only valuable to me. Admittedly, writing is cathartic. I’m more expressive when I write than when I’m in an actual conversation with a person. Being a Virgo and an INTJ that I proudly am, I consider myself very aware, realistic, and critical of my emotional sensibilities. But due to my innately reserved and undemonstrative nature, my feelings and emotions don’t reflect and translate to the behavioral expressions that people would normally expect to see. Thus, I’m considering this whole writing thing as another avenue for self-expression, maybe to even compensate for the visible lack of it.

In the mind of a person who always thinks about food, this blogging thing will be a taste test where I’ll be nibbling on bits in the beginning and taking fearless bites in the future. Hopefully, this “taste” will lead to authentic and pleasing options. But there will come a time when it will eventually cease to please my insatiable palate. When that happens, I will seek and move on to another appetizing fare.

Maybe I’m just craving for a little perspective. And in the words of Anton Ego, “some fresh, clear, well-seasoned perspective.”