Domestic Disasters

I find my memories of my first few months here in Prague quite amusing. I got my mother's obsessive-compulsive nature especially when it comes to cleanliness but she never had the chance to prepare me how to be a domestic goddess without having a single strand of my hair out of place (She died when I was 15.) so the outcome was, I had my share of domestic disasters for several weeks after I arrived in Prague and assumed the role of a wife.

The washing machine in our first rented flat became useless as I didn't know how to use it. A was equally as clueless as I was. We couldn't find its manual so I had to wash clothes by hands. Thankfully the huge bathtub provided a convenient place to do it except that my feet had to be soaked all the time I was doing the laundry. No amount of lotioning can rehydrate them after each session in the tub.

Next to doing the laundry, the dilemma of where to hang the dripping clothes came in. There was probably a way of letting them drip in the bathroom but I wasn't using my head then. I devised a plan of wringing the clothes so well though common sense told me not to do it. Common sense neglected, I wringed them up. I then covered the living room floor with a gazillion plastic bags before covering them with a gazillion copies of old newspaper and hanged the worn out-looking clothes on a rack above them. The clothes dripped anyway, of course. The next day my stupidity came crashing down on me with a vengeance when what supposed to be a sturdy parquet beneath the plastic bags and newspapers curled up like mini waves after the water seeped into it. When A saw it, he went ranting and raging at how much we might have to pay for the floor to be redone......Okay, I tend to exaggerate, hehe.

The worst performances of my life happened in the kitchen. Several times I stood infront of a stove with a growing sense of panic. How to use it, which knob to turn, which way to turn?.... extremely easy stuff which a three-year old can probably figure out but which left me close to tears. How to use the stove was just the tip of an iceberg, the ultimate question was, how to cook? A was of no help. The only thing he can cook is porridge, which I love, by the way. But porridge is just porridge, it has no soul to keep your body going for long. As for me, eggs were my only specialty-- hardboiled, scrambled, sunny side up-- you name it, I can cook them anyway you like. We ended up alternating eggs with sausages, salami and ham between trips to several fast food restaurants. After weeks of eating killer foods I suddenly declared to myself and to A " I'm having enough of this!"

My first attempt of cooking an adobo was a complete disaster. The meat turned black, apparently from too much soy sauce. A ate it but I think he was gagging behind my back. Then came my very pale-looking pork and beans. I was traumatized at how much damage the soy sauce brought on my adobo that's why I deprived my pork and beans with even a single drop of it. It turned out edible but if I'd cook it again I'm sure I would be reminded of those days when I was chanting this question in my head ---why oh why did I leave my life in Cebu?

It took me a year to gain confidence in holding any cooking utensil. I still have my awkward moments now in the kitchen but I don't get paralyzed by the mere sight of a stove anymore. I comforted myself in this mantra before that not all women were born to chop onions and grate cheese and I was one of them. Then I realized I wont lose anything by learning how to chop, grate, slice, drain, and everything else that concerns cooking. Now my greatest challenge is to include "bake" among the growing list of things to do and accomplish.

Wish me luck. I will need a lot of it.